Open Writing

Saturday, the day fixed for our visit to the bog at Glenties found Jim’s pony and cart rattling into our back yard at 8.30am. I happened to be outside at the time, collecting eggs from the nest of a hen that was “laying away”.

“Well caddie are you ready for the road”, was Jim’s greeting as he jumped down from the cart, “it looks like there’s going to be a good day in it; just the right weather for our job.''

As he spoke mother appeared at the door. “You’re right there, Jim. There’s a good sky in it. It was red last night and that’s always a good sign. But come away in there’s still thing in the teapot. You’ll have time for a drop before you set off and Willie, you’ve still to finish your porridge. I wondered why you were so eager to collect those eggs. You’d do anything to get away from the stirabout.”

Porridge in those days was the bane of my life so far as food was concerned. It was a staple at our breakfast table that I heartily detested. It invariably took ages for me to clear my bowl and my mother often remarked that I was the only person she knew who chewed porridge! The only day upon which an exception to this culinary torture was allowed was Sunday when rice was served as a most welcome change to everyone except my father who insisted on being served his usual ration of cooked oats, reasoning that “it sticks to the ribs and sets you up for the day.” To my mind this was not a valid enough incentive to justify the misery which was my lot on the other six days of the week.

By the time I returned to the kitchen Jim had taken a seat at the table and mother was setting a mug of tea before him while he buttered a slice of our home baked scone bread.

“Well, Jim”, said mother taking a seat at the opposite side of the table, “and how did the big night at Coulters go off?

The previous night there had been a party at a neighbouring farm to give Edwin Coulter a send off for his return to the United States after a visit with his family.

Jim buttered a slice of scone bread, added a liberal dollop of blackcurrant jam and swallowed a mouthful before replying. “It went off so well that I never got to my bed. I just got home in time to help the Da with the milking before I harnessed up the cart and got on the road. I didn’t take time for a bite of breakfast and it’s glad I am for this sup of tea and a slice of your good scone bread.''

“Well,” said mother, “what sort of music did you have? Was Rob Diver able to play the fiddle after his handling with the poachers?”

“Aye, that he was,” said Jim, “and a right good hand he made of it. There’s not many around these parts can fiddle like Rob. Sure he has the bate of them all, so he has.”

“And what about yourself? I suppose you were called on to play your wee accordion?”

“Right enough I did. I had a brave steady time of it playing the aul’ squeeze box so I did. I didn’t get much time for anything else. Not that I minded. I’m not a great one for the dancing. There were plenty of ones there anxious enough to get up on the floor. Big Jim never sat down the whole night and the two Fitzsimons sisters were in rare form too; leppin’ like hares in The Siege of Ennis. Bridget was making eyes at Ben Byrne but he was more interested in paying the odd visit to the turf shed where old Coulter has laid in a couple of dozen of stout for them that weren’t particular about drinking tea. It was dacent enough of him to let the stuff anywhere near the house for as you know he’s death against the drink. But I suppose he wanted to please all tastes when it was his young fellow’s party. But boys’o, wasn’t Bridget in a quare way after Jim Maxwell read her cup and told her she would be soon linking up with a fine handsome man who worked on the water. Ach, she was so sure that Ben and her would be a match!”

“More fool her for believing anything Maxwell would tell her,” said mother. “Sure thon boy would tell her the first thing that came into his head if he thought it would please her. Anyway, I'll warrant he was taking a hand out of her knowing that she was sweet on Rob.”

While this was going on I was quietly champing at the bit in the background. I had little or no interest in Jim’s party going. Today my priority was the outing with Jim in the pony cart and listening to time wasting talk concerning soirees was not at the front of my mind.

But mother was not finished with her inquisition. “And I suppose there were a few come-all-yes too, Jim.”

“Sure no party would be right if Bridie Malone and Percy McCarter didn’t give a taste of their pleasure. Bridie was in great form and sang three times and Percy gave us a couple of them poems of his. Their real prime so they are. Ah, sure all round it was a great night’s craic. Well now, that’s all right but it won’t get me or the nadger her any nearer to Glenties and our day’s work. After the grand weather we’ve had this last couple of weeks the turf should be well dried out and just right for carting home and thanks now for the sup of tay. That’ll keep me going ’til we call with Mrs. Dorian at the bog and I suppose this boy will want to stop as usual at Frosses to buy a Paris bun at Kelly’s to keep him going.”

At these words my spirits lifted and I was half way to the door by the time Jim rose from the table. I was already seated in the cart when Jim emerged, sprang on board and with a shake of the reins and a “get up Sparky,” set the pony off at a good pace.

“We’ll be stopping at Packie’s to throw off these spuds,” said Jim, indicating the sack of potatoes I had noted lying at the back of the cart. Packie, or to give him his proper name, Patrick Aloysius Quinn , was a wee old man who lived in a small cottage beside Cassidy’s crossroads. He had been soldier in his younger days and had served in the Boer War. When first I learned of Packie’s military past I was somewhat puzzled as to why it was necessary to send soldiers to fight with pigs. However, upon bringing up the subject with mother she explained that the people in question had no porcine attributes but were people just like ourselves and no doubt just as decent.

Upon leaving the army Packie had returned home to live with his aged parents and in due course inherited their cottage upon their demise. Until age dictated otherwise he supplemented his military pension by taking up the only employment available in our rural community namely, work with those farmers needing additional help at busy seasons of the year. He acquired a reputation of being a diligent worker who kept his own counsel or, as someone remarked, “he keeps his mouth to himself.”

After travelling a mile or so we reached Packie’s cottage, situated convenient to the road. We found the said Packie leaning over his half door, his Sherlock Holmes pipe firmly in his mouth and a well worn seaman’s peaked hat adorning his head. At this point I should explain that recently Miss Probus had commenced to carry some of Conan Doyle’s books in her travelling library and with me his fictional detective was fast becoming a serious rival to Zane Gray’s heroes!

Upon our drawing to a stop outside the cottage, Packie removed his pipe and addressed Jim who had jumped down and was lifting the potatoes from the cart. “Boys O, but I’m glad to see them murphies. My own won’t be ready for digging for another couple of weeks and I’m nearly clean out of the last ones you left.”

At that time Packie was the only person I had heard using the name “murphies” for potatoes. Our usual description of the tubers was “spuds” or “praties.”

“Well these should keep you going for a day or two, Packie.” was Jim’s rejoinder. “And if you need more before your own are ready, just give me a shout.”

“Arragh, Jim, you’re a real saint and sure you’ll get your reward in Heaven if not on this earth.”

“If it’s all the same to you Packie I’ll take it while I’m still above ground,” laughed Jim as he took his place in the cart and set Sparky on his way, giving Packie a departing wave of the hand. “That’s one dacent wee man. Many’s the time he gave the da and me a hand when we were pushed to get things done in the fields, and divil the thing he’d ask for his work. All he’d take was his grub, so it’s no great hardship to keep him in praties now and then.”

In those days an unsprung cart was not the most comfortable way to travel what with none of the minor roads having yet attained the luxury of tarmac. Nevertheless, however uncomfortable the mode of travel I was being borne away from the numerous chores mother invariably found for me on a Saturday and I considered a ride of a few bumpy miles a fair exchange. After a mile or so from Packie’s cottage we joined the main road and enjoyed a smooth ride on the tarmaced surface for about half a mile until we turned on to the unpavedroad to Frosses. “Well, caddie”, remarked Jim, “we’re back on the rocky road to nowhere.”

(To be continued)

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