Two Walls and a Roof (4 page)

The conce
rt would take place in the kitchen with all the people sitting in their chairs forming a half circle facing the stairs. A curtain would be set up under the stairs and this area then became our stage. Mattie and I didn’t get on at all, and he would be gouging me and pushing me from the back before the curtain ever went up. Brid Anne was older and seemed to have no fears of the concert
, and neither did Gerry:
both of them were a lot nicer to me too.

My last memory of those concerts was unforgettable. The curtain went up and Brid Anne introduced the show and called on Gerry to say a poem or something like that. Then Mattie had to do his bit
,
but I can’t remember what he did. Then the finale was always my part and a big show was made of the ‘special guest’. “ John Cahill from Cork
will now sing Doonaree”
I peeped through the curtain and saw Nannie beaming with pomp and pride in her John as my name is being called out.  Then I was shoved out from behind the curtain by Mattie, and I fell over a chair.  After pulling myself together I began to sing. “Oh to be in Doonaree where the ……” I could n
ot remember the next line. T
otal silence fell
on the room; s
tage fright had hit m
e. Mattie sniggered from behind
and I raged inside, then I tried again with Brid Anne trying to prompt me.

“ Oh to be ….. “ T
his time I got a bit further along
,
based on her prompting.  Nannie was glaring at me and had put on that dark face which I knew meant a good hiding was on the way at the very least, but it could mean death was a possibility also. Again
,
total stage fright hit me and I froze a second time.   Mattie shouts out from behind, “Up Tip, Tip for the All Ire
land”, a
nd even though not a sporting type myself, that slur on Cork was too much for me
and
I lost control
. F
iguring that I was going to ge
t killed anyways by the Nan, I
ran round the chair and began punching him in the head and kicking him like a mad man. He fought back and uproar was all the go. We fell on the ground and he was trying to bite me. I kneed him in the ‘mi
ckey’ and he roared out in pain;
all this happened in seconds. We were soon dragged apart. Nannie ordered me to say sorry and I refused, bang, a clatter across the head changed my mind. “Say sorry I tell you now, and shake hands with your cousin”. As we were both in trouble
,
we reluctantly shook hands
,
but he tried to stick me with his finger nail as we shook. Later that night Nannie threatened me with never taking me there again, and as I did love the place
,
especially the stories, I felt bad all night long and couldn’t sleep. Of course we did go back and Mattie and I made it up, but there were no more concerts after that night.

My brother Kyrle was born about a year or so after me,
and I guess he became my parent
s
’
first child
,
or at least that’s how I felt about it always. Kyrle had beautiful hair as a child and mine was a dead loss, getting worse the more the Nan tried to fix it, and it’s the same to this day. She resorted to using what I called her ‘crocodiles’. These were definitely antiques I would say from some time of torture in the Middle Ages. They were shaped like half moons that opened out into jaws which had jagged
,
razor
-
sharp teeth. I assume the way they worked was the jaws grabbed the hair and the teeth held it in place, and ultimately a smile or

a ‘wave’ would form;
waves were all the go then. Kyrle had curls and apparently looked great and my hair was flat and straight with a ‘cow
’
s lick’.  But Nannie determined that now, I was going to have waves too.

The normal way these crocodiles were used, when not for to
rture, was that the person
put them on some time before bed, then removed them before sleep. Not so with the Nan though. She felt sure she would get better results if I had them in all night long, and to make sure they stayed in, she would almost stick the bloody things into my scalp. She definitely had two of them, but more likely she had four. For God only knows how long, she tortured me with these implements of pain. Every night I would be yelling, “No Nan, not the crocodiles again tonight
.
” The cries fell on deaf ears though, and then I had not alone to contend wit
h the scratching from the fleas
and the blankets, but I also had the tearing at my head as well. Aside from that, all seemed good to me then. I was becoming her idol and could do no wrong.
Her comparing me to Kyrle also began about then, and of course I was way, way better in her eyes.
Mother never bought into this crap and just felt the Nan was the Nan. Time rolled along.

Nannie was a great one for the walking and she and my mother would drag us off for long walks in the country for no apparent reason. We would be starved when we trudged along but it made no difference. We had a saying that the 'hungry grass will get us yet’, and I was very often actually weak with the hunger, and Kyrle too.  I don't know what was expected of these walks as I felt I'd rather be hungry at home, rather than face a long journey with my belly rattling.  Nannie had no sympathy and would say, "Trot along there now and be good boys, sure twill make men of ye yet". We used to pick mushrooms for food on some of these occasions, and to this day I hate them because of those memories. I suppose she and the mother would be wondering where our next meal would come from, and a few mushrooms was a start at least. If we went for the blackberries she told us “Stop that, they’ll fill ye with worms”, its no wonder I love jam because I craved sugar, and we rarely had any, and instinctively I must have felt it was in the berries.

After walking miles they would soon sit down on a wall or on the grass and start fixing the world, especially my dad’s world. Despite his failings Nannie never really gave out too much about my father, she had a soft spot for him I think, as he was always struggling and she saw an affinity with him in this also. She would say “Ahh sure he’s useless, quite useless I tell you, but then he’s a Cahill what do you expect from that lot” In later years I found it hard to reconcile her words, because Nannie was the one who had made the match between my father and mother. As usual though, mother just agreed with her for a quiet life.

My Nannies arguments with Michael were legendary and sometimes violent.  She would steal his money and fags. She did this for the mother while he slept, and in the morning there would be a big row about the theft. Nannie had a poker face and would swear blind that she knew nothing of his 'fags' or his money either. When this failed she would go on the attack and tell Michael to clear out of her house and to get a real job.

She used to ‘steam open’ his letters to read any personal mail and to see if his 'writing' payment had arrived.  This was a terrible thing to do and even though I was young, I felt it inherently wrong to read other peoples mail.   This steaming of mail was a black side of her, which I felt dishonored the woman's amazing integrity, which she undoubtedly had in all other ways. Poor Michael had no chance at a love life either as a result of her steaming. If by some fluke he managed to get a girl to write to him, Nannie could almost surely sense it, and she would immediately put the kettle on. As she read the letter, I can still see her muttering away to herself’ “Sure I’ll give her love, that bitch, that confounded bitch, sure she’s only a tramp, not good enough, no no..not good enough at all” and yet another letter went into the fire. Michael never got married, he just couldn’t because of Nannie constantly sabotaging his women. He lived to support her all of his life until he finally died from a stroke at a very young age. I think just like Eunice, Michael was never properly appreciated by my Nan. She always felt I did more for her which was untrue because, Eunice took care of her, and Michael fed her, life often treats worst those who deserve better
.

My sister Lill came next into our world and all I remember of her early childhood
was that she was always asking U
ncle Michael for a penny for a pop.
He was always great for the nicknames and he called her Nell Pop, Kyrle was known as the Gaggyman and I was the Chicken or Gengen. Lill was a small chubby little girl and she always seemed to have a far away look as if she was searching for something, or so it seemed to me as a child.
Because we lived in different houses
,
my other memories of her are dim
,
and those I do have are of her smiling a lot but looking hungry too.  Later on of course, she became the butt of many tricks me and Kyrle would play on her as she was always a gullible victim and believed all we told her.

I would say about nineteen sixty one or two, times seemed to have gotten very much tougher for us all. I think the reading by candle
light took its toll on my eyesight and I’m sure it was the same for both Lill and Kyrle, as by then, we were all having trouble seeing the blackboard at school. Mother had to get us examined, and in those days you had to go to Cork to get an eye examination. My mother and Nannie seemed to me to be carrying the whole brunt of all the bad times together, and any kind of new financial expense would be really bad news for the two of them. My memories of my father then are that he almost always seemed to be in bed either drunk or sleeping. It was as if he just was not there at all, and he had no spirit to fight or help his wife and family in any way.

To get to Cork we would have to go by bus and cross the city to the Eye Ear and Throat Hospital
on the Western R
oad. The fare and some food were the big problem. Both Nannie and mother were at their wits
’
end and no way could they see how this could be done
,
especially getting the bus fare. As we seemed to be getting worse in the eyes, and desperation set in, my mother took the only resort open to her. She would join the really really poor of Buttevant and go to the Government office for help, better known as visiting ‘The Poor Man’. This was as demeaning as it gets for proud people
,
especially the likes of Nannie
, so of course she wouldn’t go herself;
she would send my mother instead.

My best guess is that mother was in h
er early thirties then, a good -l
ooking, soft
-
s
poken, and once upon a time fun-
loving
,
happy girl, now walking down the town to beg for a hand out. It pains me so much today to know she had to do this
,
but worse was ahead for her.

In the dark and dingy old room, a few people worse off than herself sat waiting on hard chairs. Her name was taken by some clerk
,
and sitting down
,
she chatted quietly to the others who were waiting in line to be called. ‘Next’ was the dreaded word.

From inside an inner office a harsh and unfriendly voice boomed out, questioning some misfortunate girl in angry and loud words, removing her last vestige of pride by repeating her plight so loud
that all outside could hear. “
And you
’
r
e
telling me you
’
r
e
having a baby.
Huh, you are so, be God, …and I’m expected to feed it too is that it…and the others as well, be God, and he sends you no money from England…am I to believe that am I
? G
et out of me sight will you, I’m not made of money, …Next .”

She ca
me out in tears, brushing past
the newest victim on the way in. One of the women, a Mrs O’Bri
e
n, decided she could not take it any
more, and said to the mother
,
“Belenda I
’
ll be off now and come back tomorrow when he’s in a better mood”. Mrs Gilliam went in and took his booming and ranting, and got what she wanted, and as she came out she whispered to mother
,
“He
’
s not so bad today Belenda, you’ll be alright
.
”

“Next…. O’Brien
….O’Brien,”
There was only
silence as she had left. “Cahill so
. C
ome on, I haven’t all day, and be quiet out there will ye
.
” Mother entered and stood respectfully at the desk. “ Sit down will you, what do you want
?
” She told him that she had three small children who needed to go to Cork to have their eyes tested, and could she have money for the bus fare and a bit for food for the journey. Without looking up he scribbled a note
,
and throwing it across the desk says
,
“That’ll get ye there
. T
he State doesn’t pay for those who don’t work”, a clear dig at the father
’
s idleness.

She took her paper, glad of the fare at least, and headed back to Nannie
’
s. Most likely the Nan borrowed the money for food from Peggy Corbett who was a true saint if ever there was one, and next day we are on the bus. What an adventure. Our first time on a bus, and imagine my delight at getting on it outside of our own door. This was great. The bus to Cork always stopped directly outside mother’s house. There was no shelter at all for the patrons and our shoot leaked as well, so you could be soaked while waiting.  Many a time mother had given total strangers a cup of tea to ward off the cold or the rain. Now it was our turn to board the bus. Little did we know what she faced that terrible day. It drove along the winding roads of Cork and we just delighted in every twist and turn. I saw the Blackwater River in Mallow, the town, and even a train racing the bus. All three of us seemed so happy
,
and even mother seemed to brighten her sp
irits as we got closer to Cork,
our ohh
’
s and ahh
’
s, and “look look” becoming
more and more excited as the miles went by.

The fine mist that fell across the city did nothing to dampen our total amaze
ment at the tall buildings,
the great shops full of go
ods, Woolworths and the ‘huge’ R
iver Lee. Mother wore a scarf to ward off the rain and I’m sure we had coats
,
and that’s all I know. The journey out to the hospital was about a mile or so, but it was filled with new scenes for every step we took, and it seemed to fly as we trudged along in the rain. Lill held mother
’
s hand as we walked
,
and Kyrle and I trailed along behind stopping and gawking into the windows until mother would shout back at us to
,
“Come on quick will ye, or we’ll be late for the doctor”.

At the hospital
,
all I can remember is the old dark waiting area which seemed like a long dingy corridor. I was the first to be called into the even darker doctor’
s office and there, an old, cold-
faced man asked me to look through what seemed like binoculars and make a butterfly go into a net. I suppose I also read a chart
,
though I’m not sure of it. This man seemed to be totally disinterested in me and never once smiled. “Next…..” It was Kyrle’s turn and then the same for Lill. All the while mother sat patiently
a
waiting the results and our glasses, promising us a trip to Woolworths later. When those results came, they were shocking indeed. He coldly told her not to be bothered too much about the glasses, or returning there again, because within six months it was likely that all three of us would be blind…..and further, not to waste his time in the future. If this was the Ireland of freedom, we were far better off under the
British. Mother left in a daze. A
s
we began walking back into the city, she was distracted with grief
and
burst
into tears somewhere along the W
estern
R
oad
. T
o this day I hate that part of our city. Not one, but all of us were going into the darkness, and so soon too. As she sobbed openly, none of us knew why, or what had happened
.
I clearly remember that Lill clutched on to her as Kyrle and I stood wondering what was wrong.

Such is the measure of my mother
’s optimism
that instead of giving up like our father would have done, she determined that she would give each of us a memory so great, so grand, so awesome, that we would be able to conjure up this picture even in the darkness of blindness. She would show us a huge ship and the sheer size of it would stick in our minds. The emigrant ship Innisfallon was moored in Cork Harbour and this would be our picture. We trailed along in the mist, and after what seemed like forever
,
we got to the
ship. It really was huge: black-
bodied, grey and white. I saw the windows of rooms, portholes, and men working along its decks. The gangplank rested on the quayside and I wondered what Huck Finn would have thought of this ship. Was it as big as the paddle steamers on the Mississippi, and was it ever goi
ng to the sail that great river?
I also saw a cone attached to a mooring rope, and spent a long time trying to figure out its purpose. Mother tried to describe the ship and the oceans with her limited knowledge
,
but her heart was not in it and she sat with a far away look in her eyes.

We played on the coils of rope, the crates, and the open quayside. Lill sat with mother on one of the small crates and she seemed to be able to comfort my mother when she cried on and off. Soon a man came by and saw us and mother
’
s upset state. I think she must have told him her troubles.  This stranger consoled her, probably thinking suicide was on her mind, though it was not
,
and after he left she seemed a little relieved. By then the hunger was getting the better of us all, so we headed back to Patrick Street and the shops.

I believe there was a small café located right on the co
rner of the river on Patrick’s B
ridge
.
I
ts name escapes me now
. W
e traipsed in there, tired, excited, and hungry,
but
not so our mother though. It
’
s as clear as day to me still, as I see how my mother just stared at the small menu for a long time. I remember that we all had chips, and I suppose an egg with bread and butter. Mother had a little pot of tea, just that and nothing else. That was our first bit of food since breakfast and she still did not eat. It struck me as very odd too that she was not eating, and the far away look in her eyes had returned. Like all good mothers, she gave the food to her flock and went hungry herself, all the while being lost in the thoughts of her terrible news. I
,
being the eldest and about twelve
,
sensed that things were very wrong somehow. I know too that we eventually went to Woolworth
s
after pestering her continually, but I don’t think we bought a single thing the
re. Home on the bus in the dark
and into Nannie
’
s we all went. We sat around the table eating bread and jam while they talked.

The closeness of their heads and the low murmuring
confirmed
,
to me at least, that there was a serious problem with the day. Nannie would every so often exclaim out loud, “Have sense will you Belenda, he’s wrong, he’s totally wrong I tell you, God help us all”.  Her way of dealing with this problem was to get angry at the news
,
and I think I
have
actually inherited that trait fro
m her today. Soon they all left
and I went to bed, still reading with my candle.

Somehow we all got glasses, though Kyrle threw his away early on, and thank God none of us ever went blind. On the contrary, some forty two years later, Kyrle, while working
as a vision supervisor during the millennium celebrations
for Ireland
’s national t
elevision service, RTE
,
had t
he great honour of transmitting
the first pictures of the dawn of the new era from Newgrange. When the first rays of the new sun shone straight into that Megalythic tomb, the pictures that millions of people were seeing all over the world were the ones created by my brother Kyrle. He was
seeing those images first, then
beautifying them before they went out to the rest of the world. To Kyrle it was just another job. To me it was an occasion of immense pride, knowing my brother was doing this work.  Watching too
that same day was Lill, then a s
pecialist
n
urse and top of her profession in the Isle of Man. She too took great pride in her brother’s achievement
,
and mother no doubt waited for the credits to roll and his name to appear. When it did appear, she knew her so
-
called ‘blind’ son  had made that unique broadcast
happen, and surely she thought that cold-
faced o
ld eye doctor got it very wrong.
I know I did.