Cassandra Voices

Author: Nick Feery ‘the Boy from Tore’

  • Lent

    The poor auld Bunty Mac was a great friend of mine back in the late 70s and early 80s. We being young men taken to the sup, what you might call drink. Bunty Mac was the Doc Holliday of Longford and well, I was the Wyatt Earp of Westmeath. The Bunty was a poker shark and every one knew he cheated, but no one could ever catch him out. Not even meself. It wasn’t quite like the film, but it wasn’t far off it, and we always came out on top, or on top more times than not. It funded the lifestyle we choose to live at that time.

    At the poker schools, we took large sums in winnings off the lads. I’d have the Bunty run out a door or window, any exit he could get through. Carrying the cash. That’s when the lads would get mad and start a row. No matter what, Bunty never looked back, because the wad of cash was more important than me. Sure manys the swinging match I had to face while the Bunty made his escape. It was the toss of a coin if you boxed the heads off a lad or two, or they boxed the head off of me. Sure, I didn’t care about them things. I saw it as part of the game.

    One time and we lodging in Harlesdon North London. Big Phil from Cork was our landlord, and a real gentleman he was. Came from money and wealth, and had grown up in a very different situation to the Bunty Mac and meself. But we were great friends in those days and Big Phil would love to come around for the chat and the craic.

    “Bejaysus Lads,” Big Phil would say, “Never a mad pair of hoors like yous pair did ever I see. But yous are great craic, the happy madness.” Poor auld big Phil talked us into giving up the drink for Lent, and he a religious man. Sure the Bunty looked over at me, and says he,

    “We have as much chance of climbing mount Everest in our bare feet, as give up the porter and poker for Lent.”

    It so happens in those days neira mobile phone or social media was come about.

    “What yous boys should do is find two nice girls to straighten yous out. Sure, I looked at the Bunty Mac and says I,

    “There as much chance of that, as climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, in a pair a high heels and suspenders.” After a lot of persuasion, he got us to write to the pen pal club and find ourselves two dacent women to straighten us out.

    As the weeks passed and we climbing the walls for a pint, their letters began to land on the mat. Two fine dacent young ladys began to correspond, and with pictures we got to see what they looked like. After a round of letter correspondence, we made the phone call, and arrangements be made for to meet a first date.

    The Bunty Mac had lied to impress herself, saying he was a business man from Piccadilly instead of a wild hoor from Harlesden, a working class spot. We met them the same night and mine was at Northwood station. His at Piccadilly.

    When she turned up I got the shock of my life, and she had aged 30 years since she sent me her picture three weeks before.

    “Be Jaysus says I. You’re auld enough to be me mammy. What happened to you in the three weeks since past?” She lit me a smile, and asked,

    “Am I still staying at yours?”

    “Be Jaysus, you’re not, Missus!” and I ran like a blue hoor.

    No sooner I be home, and who lands in the door but himself. On his lonesome. Surprised, says I, “Well where is herself, Bunty Mac?

    “Be God, Nicky Feery, You never guess what! A grand posh wan she was, and as she landed on the platform. And me stood there, grinning with a bunch of roses. Says I, to herself, ‘Well Hello Sweetheart, and welcome to Pickladdiki.’ The word came out all wrong. Be Jaysus, if she only walked by me. Her head in the air, like I wasn’t even there. An over she goes to the next platform. Boards a train back, from the direction she came.”

    “Sure,” says I, “I faired no better. T’was the auld mammy she sent, or by Jaysus, she aged shocking in the three weeks since.”

    So, that was the last time we gave up the porter for the duration of Lent.

  • Tea for Two

    Delighted, I hold in my hand, one of only three known photographs of meself as a young man. It was taken on my eighteenth birthday, back when I worked for local builder The Whimpy Dunne. The Whimpy was the finest craftsman I’ve ever been employed by, whether in Ireland, England or Europe, as I worked in all those places.

    The Whimpy was good to me, and it’s a lovely thing for me to know, that after all these years, we still speak highly of each other. I’ve only bumped into him a handful of times since. So receiving this photograph, from his son Adrian, not only made my week, but brought with it a flood of memories.

    Many young people have no idea of the great times we had back in the 1970s. It was a boom time in construction and drink was cheap as water. We drank oceans of drink and still had money to live on. We have, since those days, progressed beyond recognition thanks to technology. But the downside is that we’ve also become very different. Socially detached from each other.

    I left school in 1975 before turning fifteen years old. Tried every builder in the whole parish of Tyrrellspass and further afield to get a job. It’s only fair to say no one back then wanted to employ a youngster who drank like I did. It wasn’t the amount I drank, but the amount of trouble that went along with it. Like having my name read aloud from the alter by the parish priest at least once a month. The “horizontal craic” I used to call it because I didn’t give a shite about much.

    One summer’s day I was sat picking my nose upon the wall at the turnpike in Tyrrellspass. I just didn’t know what to do with myself. Didn’t want to go home. All they ever done there was run me down. Tell me how useless I was. And how I wasn’t worth rearing.

    Suddenly a big green Ford Zephyr car pulled up and it was The Whimpy Dunne himself. This man had forgotten more about building than all the others knew put together. I couldn’t believe my luck when he opened the door of the car and this he did say to me.

    “Young Feery, I hear that you are a great lad to work. Would you be interested in coming to work with me? If you do, the pickings will be richer than what your picking from your nose.”

    Of course I jumped at the chance when he told me he would pick me up the next morning. I ran the whole mile home to find my mother was asleep in the armchair. So ecstatic was I that I climbed up onto the roof to communicate with her in my favourite way.

    There I stood at the chimney stack, with my three foot length of plastic soil pipe, to wake her up when I roared down the chimney. “I HAVE A JOB NOW. WITH THE WHIMPY DUNNE. AND FUCK THE LOT OF YOUS NOW.” That’s just the way things were in my home. But I was determined to make the best of my first proper job. And I did.

    The Whimpy Dunne was the first man I ever met that never criticized me. All he done was encouraged me, saw my potential and taught me all I knew. I spent the best three and a half years of my working life working for him. We worked hard. Lived hard. But everything was done with great craic and humour. More than just respect and friendship, it felt like being part of a family.

    Because The Whimpy got all the best contracts, the work was always very interesting. Once we were building an extension to the castle in Tyrrellspass. One morning, at the start he came in with a big box of tea bags. “Jaysus!” The Whimpy said to me. “Nicky Feery these are some great yokes. Now all you have to do is boil the kettle, put a bag in the cup, and fill with hot water.” Up until this moment, everyone we knew used loose tea to make tea. And in a tea pot.

    As the weeks passed, after every cup of tea I made for the two of us, I’d sling the tea bag right out the window of the extension we were building. One day the local farmer, Pete F., was passing by and called in for a chat. That was a lovely thing before technology came about. We  took the time to interact, and get to know each other.

    As Pete was chatting to us he kept looking out the window at the huge pile of used tea bags that had blue mould now growing out of them. I could tell he had no idea what the mouldy tea bags were. Then The Whimpy had to go to the car for some tools, and Pete then whispered to me, “Nicky Feery! What’s them yokes growing in a pile outside the window?” To tease him, because I knew he didn’t have a clue what they were, I said, “I’ll give you three guesses, Pete.”

    He thought and he thought. Then he said, “Sex yokes. They’re sex yokes.”

    “No, Pete.” says I, “They”re not condoms.” He thought again.

    “Drugs. They’re auld drugs growing up out of the ground.”

    “No, Pete, they’re not drugs growing up out of the ground.”

    “Ah Nicky Feery. Tell to me, what are they?”

    “They’re tea bags, Pete. That’s what we make the tea with now.” That said, I took one out of the box and showed him.

    As he walked away, he took off his flat cap and scratched his head, saying to himself,

    “Well Holy Jaysus. Tea bags. Tea in a fucken bag. The world is going mad. Whatever will they come up with next?”

  • Better Butter

    ‘God bless all here’ as our ancestors used to say upon arrival at the home of a friend, neighbour, or stranger. Not just a blessing on all within that home, it meant he who entered possessed not the evil eye.

    In my great-grandparents’ time, curses, spells, and witchcraft were common practise. It was the 1870’s and women were careful with their milk and butter. They believed bad feelings caused concern for the precious household, products which brought valuable shillings back from the market.

    Essie Donoghue Feery was one of these extraordinary women. Her devoted husband, John ‘The Clock’ Feery was sentenced to two years in jail for severely injuring members of the stronger McCormack family, after they’d driven him, Essie and nine young children out of a cottage on land he’d worked hard for years. This left the Feerys homeless and penniless.

    The McCormack woman was of the evil eye, and had conspired with her husband and five sons to torment John off his land. He was a lone man, yet still he done them six men great harm before conceding defeat. Retreating a mile and a half back into the bog of Ring, he built a beautiful peat hut as a homestead for his wife and children.

    Feery is a name that describes the little people most gifted with a deathless courage. But back to this one woman Essie Donoghue Feery, of great faith, kindness, and compassion. Old Evil Eye McCormack saw her chance. John was in jail and Essie alone there with nine children. This was the way of it.

    The Evil Eye brought evil everywhere with her. Every few days calling to the peat hut with offers to help pretending to be in kindness and remorse for harms done. But Essie was no fool. She knew the Evil Eye meant no good. In milking Essie’s two cows the following day, the cows ceased to produce milk. On churning the butter, it failed to rise in the churn and became sour. This denied Essie much needed shillings from the market.

    Essie had been born and reared above, in the hills. Croghan was four miles away, but she called in to Old Lady Dunne, said to have far greater spells than Evil Eye McCormack. ‘What ails you, Essie Dear ?’ asked Old Lady Dunne. On hearing the story, Old Lady Dunne rose from her chair, and this she did say: ‘Musha, Musha, Essie Dear. I am an old lady but follow me. I’ve waited many years to curse the Evil Eye McCormack. Now do exactly as I tell you.’ She returned from her garden with herbs and then this she did say. ‘I am bid by God to only use the poison of plant to destroy evil and the goodness of plant to help the sick. Person, or animal.’ She began to chant and held up the herbs as if in offering.

    ‘Now Essie, half an hour before you know the evil eye to be coming, put a poker in the coals of the fire and throw a few of these herbs upon it. Just a few at a time, because too much and the smoke could leave you unconscious. Then when you see Evil Eye McCormack coming across the bog towards you, use the red hot poker to make a sign of the cross on the inside of your front door, and continue to put herbs upon the fire. Do as I bid you and this will be the last time Evil Eye McCormack ever bothers you. This done, I’ll summon the black fallen angel to drive her away.’

    It is said that once Essie made the sign of a cross on the door with that red hot poker, Evil Eye McCormack was heard roaring across the Bog of Ring and Derrycoffey. ‘My heart! My heart! Oh God, my heart is burning!’ No one saw her after that, but Essie’s cows and butter became better than ever.

    Fast forward to in our cottage in 1970, where I sat in the dark with the light of the big open turf fire blazing. About ten of us sat around Paddy O’ Reilly, who lived two cottages up from ours. He was my favourite storyteller about the Banshee. I saw the flames of that fire reflected in his eyes just at the moment he told us of the black banshee roaring in the Bog of Ring many years before. He said, so terrifying were her haunting cries heard across the bog, it drove several people into insanity. They’d never be the same again.

  • Himself and the Little People

    That summer of 1974 for the first time in my young life I felt proud of myself. For after one very hard week of sweat work, I stood admiring my big bank of black Tore bog turf drying in the hot sun. It was a great feeling and no one was mocking me now. Little Paddy, my uncles, cousins, and neighbours were delighted for me as I had one and one half lorry loads of good black turf, soon ready for sale. At £45 per lorry load I worked out I had £70 of turf for sale that was a lot of money for a fourteen-year-old boy in 1974.

    I stood admiring my own bank of turf and I really did wonder what little Paddy had said a week earlier. « Nicky, the little people have been very good to me, and they will be good to you. » He said it in such a factual way, that it remained in my mind. Little did I know what the following week held in store for me. This is a little bit of magic that was life growing up in the great land of Ireland. You saw magic working in the very middle of disaster.

    One week later, unusually, I was at home on the day my uncle John landed at our cottage on his bicycle. I saw the concern upon his face. Nicky lad, Tore bog is on fire and it is heading right towards your bank of turf. I’m sorry to tell you, but you will never manage to draw it all out to the road in time. Yoke up your ass and cart. Get down there and rescue what you can. Good luck to you, and Nicky, be careful.

    Ned the Ass galloped with meself in the cart the three miles to Tore bog like a bat out of hell. I could see the thick smoke rising on the horizon. My heart sank as I arrived at the bank of now dry turf and saw the flames and smoke of the bog fire, hundreds of metres away but approaching fast.

    Well if I thought I sweat cutting this bank of turf, the following four hours will remain with me for as long as I live. As hard as I was able to, I filled that cart with turf using a beet fork and drawing it fifty metres to the safety of the old gravel boreen. Ned the Ass and meself worked spontaneously. Gently coaxed, he was a fine strong and loyal friend to me. We worked like we were possessed till we had almost all of that turf out upon the gravel boreen, and the fire now but on top of us.

    What happened next has made little Paddy’s words very special to my heart, for I cannot explain what occurred. About the fifth or sixth last load to remove the bank slipped and the cart load of turf went into a small dry bog hole. It was about 60 degrees to Ned who was half on the bank and half in the bog hole with the cart. Terrified, I broke off a Sally stick and for the first time in my life I came down hard on the struggling ass’s back. I hit him as hard as I could, roaring at him, « Come up Ned ! Come up ! » I was desperately trying to save his life. He was trapped very badly. I realized he couldn’t make it back up with only the strength of his his two front legs, and the chains that held him into the cart had near half a tonne of pressure upon them. I had never known a more desperate situation and I felt totally lost. In my frustration I roared out, « Please God don’t allow Ned to die in front of my eyes! This is not his fault, it is mine ! Please help me! »

    The following twenty minutes is like a blur. As if my actions were taken over by a strength superior to my own, I jumped into the bog hole and dug out a hole in the soft peat. Enough to burrow my body through till the breach of my back was against the tailboard and I began to heave. I could feel vessels bursting in my head as I heaved, and heaved. I blacked out and I don’t remember a thing till I came around up on top of the bank. Ned was standing looking at me as much to say, « Phew, that was close. Come on let’s get out of here. » There was smoke everywhere.

    Till this day I cannot properly recount what occurred in those blistering moments. It was beyond myself. My back never fully got better, but it’s a small price to pay, because it would have tormented me my whole life if I had lost poor ole Ned. I hope in reading this story you may understand the magic of the old people and the land of Ireland.

  • Himself and the Bicycle

    Sure, he was only a little lad of 4ft 10ins. Little Paddy, I called him. He was eighty-two-years-old when I was twelve-years-old, but he was great craic.

    Little Paddy was a bogman. He lived in the bog of Derrycoffey. Think he was the last to live in that bog. I used to meet him all the time along the Tore road, wheeling a big black Raleigh bicycle.

    Well, that small of a man made the bicycle look huge. He wore a fedora hat and the smallest topcoat I ever saw upon a man. Never rode the bicycle. His legs were not long enough to reach the pedals. Oh God, no.

    The bicycle had two purposes. One, to balance him, and he full to the gills with porter. He loved a sup of porter and would walk the five miles from Derrycoffey bog to the village of Tyrrellspass, wheeling the bicycle there and back. Sober going into the village and mouldy drunk coming home.

    He would have two bags of shopping upon the handlebars of this bicycle. It be at a slant of about fifteen degrees, and himself be slanted about the same fifteen degrees into the bicycle. It was like a circus act and no way could he fall, no matter how drunk, the bicycle kept him up.

    I used to love seeing him coming along the quiet Tore road during the 1970s. No matter if I met him drunk or sober, it was the same every time. He would stop about twenty feet ahead of me upon the far side of the road and say nothing. Just stare.

    Then he would pull his topcoat to one side, and snarl. ‘Make your play, Mister. Draw for your gun.’ The shoot-out would begin, bang, bang, bang, with finger pistols. Me being a young lad, I always let little Paddy win. Because as I would fall to the road, riddled with imaginary bullets, little Paddy would keep firing. And every time he fired, I would do another roll, like another bullet passing through my corpse.

    It was great craic, and little Paddy be stood blowing gunsmoke from that finger gun he made. ‘Another one bites the dust,’ he would say. We done this religiously for several years.

    He was an amusing and entertaining little lad, living alone in a lonely bog. I cut turf for little Paddy one time, and I must admit I did feel sad for him, when I saw how he overcame his loneliness and isolation.

    He be going about the house, giving out to a dog that wasn’t there. He had no dog. Only the one he pretended to have. The same with the woman. Kept referring to “Herself, the Missus,” but he had no wife. He was an ol bachelor.

    The Missus was in fact a plain woman’s frock hanging from a nail behind the kitchen door, and a plain pair of women’s shoes beneath them. You could see by the dust and turf mould, they had been untouched in years.

    The Missus and the dog were his imagination’s way of beating the loneliness of his isolation. I never knew him once but to be full of sport and craic. I never knew him to be any other way but humble and happy, and always ready for the imaginary shoot-out with me.

    The first day I was cutting the turf for little Paddy, and at dinner time he said ‘We will go to the house for grub.’

    It was primitive. No gas nor electricity, just the turf fire to cook upon. On that hot summers day, he opened a drawer to the Welsh dresser in the kitchen and five or six big bluebottle flies flew out. ‘Will you have a lump of bacon, Young Nick?’ 

    ‘Ah God no, Paddy,’ says I.

    ‘Ah what ails you, Young Nick? You been working hard. Surely you will eat a lump of good mait (meat)?’

    ‘Ah God no, Paddy. I’m grand, thanks. Sure, didn’t I eat yesterday? And today I’m still full up from all I ate yesterday.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell him the mait full of bluebottles had sickened me to look at, let alone eat. Poor ole Paddy ate the mait himself. He knew little or nothing about hygiene, but what a great character of a man he was. He lived till his late 80s and yet I never knew him to be sick a day in his life.

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    Nick Feery is The Boy from Tore. He writes from memories of the times, as a boy in the 1970s, Nick walked and read the land and lakes of rural Tore in Ireland’s County Westmeath. Feery feels the past lives of his own ancestors and many others remain in that land, as they left it just so.