Christmas is that time of year when our exiles, who have laboured long and hard in foreign fields, allow their minds to slowly drift to thoughts of home. All over the world this Christmas, people are dreaming of the place where they were born, and feeling a desperate longing to return.
And so it was that, fifty years to the day since first he left, he found himself standing once more on the platform at a deserted Abbeyfeale Railway Station. And as he looked around at the dilapidated waiting room, the rotting signal box and the overgrown tracks, he thought of all the thousands of people who had passed through this station down through the generations. The tearful departures, the joyous arrivals, the craic the banter and the bustle . Lads heading for the Listowel Races. Fellows arriving home from the beet factories in Allscot and Peterborough. Ladies in all their finery on a day trip to the big shops in Limerick. Hurling supporters decked in green, setting out for Croke Park to cheer on Mick Mackey and his men.
“Begobs” he said to himself “but there do be some great changes in fifty years. We mightn`t have had an arse in our trousers or a penny in our pockets, back then – but we still had the railway!”
Turning away somewhat dejectedly , he decided that he might take a leisurely stroll through the old town to see what other `improvements` had been made in his absence.
The first thing he noticed was the excellently-appointed Abbeyfeale Utd clubhouse and the adjacent soccer pitch, so level and so grand that you could almost play marbles on it. And – joy of joys – they even had proper goal posts with a crossbar and a net and everything! His own brief soccer career had been confined to kicking a ball around The Inch Field when the G.A.A. lads weren`t looking. They used coats to mark out the goals and, as the match progressed, these were moved stealthily closer together to provide a smaller target and making it virtually impossible for the opposition to score.
On Wednesday evenings, when the wind was blowing in the right direction, he could pick up Athlone on the old steam radio, and listen to the dulcet tones of Philip Greene describing yet another great night in Europe for Shamrock Rovers as they played Red Star Belgrade in a game that was marred only by a blind, partisan, English referee and six breakaway and blatantly-offside goals….”And still the gallant Hoops press bravely forward…..” enthused the irrepressible Philip.
Across the road from the soccer pitch, he examined with interest the modern Cattle Mart with it`s spacious pens and ample parking facilities. He remembered the weekly calf markets. The roads in to Abbeyfeale would be jam-packed with horses and ponies and donkeys all drawing carts with their rails up and filled with bawling calves. Cattle buyers would arrive down from the North of Ireland and their strange accents could be heard all the way down along Main Street and into The Square .”Will youse not take a wee pound note for yon white-head?” one of them would ask. “I will to be sure,” would be the reply, “but if you want to buy the rest of him it`ll cost you another fiver – so it will!”
The demand for calves was poor and prices were bad. Farmers began to come in to town earlier on Monday morning so that they could sell before the buyers had reached their quota. The buyers started to arrive earlier. The farmers again followed suite. Soon the market was in full swing on Sunday evening. Then it moved to Sunday afternoon.
The straw that finally broke the camel`s back (or, in this case, the calf `s back) arrived during the twelve o`clock Mass one Sunday morning.A little man from across the river caused something of a commotion when he strode up the centre aisle of the old church with the peaked cap turned askew on his head, and wearing a pair of turned-down wellington boots and with a piece of a bran sack thrown over his shoulders (it was a desperately cold day) and secured tightly at the waist with a length of foxy hemp. And, if that wasn`t bad enough, trotting along gaily behind him with head held proudly aloft and giving the occasional bleat, was a bouncing three week old polly heifer calf with matching bran sack tied to his back with the same foxy hemp! As a fashion statement, it was bold and imaginative – but it was also a recipe for disaster.
The Parish Priest went berserk! He came thundering down off the alter, uttering profanities not usually associated with a man of the cloth, and ran the unfortunate man and his bleating beast out the door with all the vengeance of Our Lord evicting the moneylenders from the temple. You may be sure that put an end to the Sunday morning calf markets!
Smiling at the memory, our exile rambled on up to the Community Centre- Teach na Feile – built on the site of the old boys` national school. Here, Master Hanley had reigned supreme.
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school.
A stern, severe but very fair man, Master Hanley taught his pupils the rudiments of reading and writing and arithmetic. He also went outside the school curriculum and instilled in them an appreciation of nature, explaing the changing seasons, the migration of the birds and the care and the growth of various plants and flowers.
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
He was very fond of the mental arithmetic. “Now boys,” he would say. “work this one out for me. A woman comes in to town to buy five mackerel for the dinner. The Fishmonger says that they are one and eleven pence for a dozen. How much, boys, to the nearest farthing, does she pay for five?” Heads would bend over slates and dust would mushroom up to the ceiling as the pupils scribbled furiously with their bits of chalk. One and eleven divided by twelve – put down two and carry one -no – put down one and carry two – the main oul bitch! – wouldn`t she buy an extra one and make it the half dozen – or buy a bit of streaky bacon and not be tormenting us with her five mackerel – put down three and carry two – multiply by five and subtract the answer – divide that by three – now I`m back where I started.
A hand shoots up at the back of the class. “Sir! Sir!”
“What is it, boy?”
“Sir, was it five mackerel or five herring you said, Sir?”
He continued on up the street and strolled out to the Kerry Bridge to view the magnificent G.A.A pitch, complete with new stand, dressing rooms and training gym. A credit to the local club and to the town and the envy of every other club in the county. And now they were county champions as well! He recalled his own brief flirtation with matters Gaelic. He was, in truth, a reluctant exponent of the big ball code. He would be dragged, kicking and screaming, down to The Inch and installed in goals whenever New Street played The Square. “Stand there,” the big full-back would order him, “and if anything goes in – we will kick seven kinds of shite out of you!”
Bloody street leagues! Killed if you played – and killed if you didn`t. His torment finally and mercifully ended when he was spotted drinking and cavorting and making a bit of an eejit of himself at a Rugby Social in Tralee. The dreaded `Ban` was still in force and he was quietly and politely asked to relinquish his membership and go off about his business. This, he did with some alacrity.
Wandering back over the Kerry Bridge he stood and surveyed the new boys` school which was built in the site of the old church. He wished they wouldn`t keep moving things around. It was all very confusing. Even the coursing, he believed, was gone from Banard The next thing, they`d be looking to move Father Casey. And the parking in The Square. That`d soon go as well.
He strolled on up to Joy`s Corner and was delighted to find that this familiar landmark, at least, had not changed much down the years. However, a huge advertising board on the gable end caught his attention. It depicted a scantilly clad young lady with most generous proportions exhorting all and sundry to “Drink Bacardi Breezers” \
“Begobs,” he thought, admiringly, “We never had anything like that in my day.” although whether he was referring to the Bacardi Breezers or to the scantilly -clad young lady with the generous proportions, was not immediately clear.
He continued his rambles up Main Street, admiring the many fine shop fronts with their Christmas displays. He stopped at St Ita`s Hall and thought that the place looked better now than it did fifty odd years ago when they used to go dancing there. In those days, you had to know your dancing. There was none of this standing around like an imbecile , shaking your hands and legs and wiggling your behind as if suffering from palsy and fleas at the same time. A gentleman would walk over to a lady, nonchalant like, and inquire as to whether she would do him the great honour of accompanying him on to the dance floor. If the lady acquiesced , the gentleman would then escort her on to said dance floor. He would place an arm gently but firmly around her waist, making sure to keep the requisite distance between them. When the music started, he would lead off and she would follow. Conversation was allowed but familiarity was not encouraged for fear it might breed contempt. At the end of the dance, the gentleman would escort the lady back to her seat and thank her, politely. That is, of course, unless he`d `pulled`. (e.g. managed to procure `the convey`) In which case, like as not, the two of them would grab their coats and head off to the back of the handball alley!
He had a theory as to why there were so many middle-aged bachelors in the locality at the time. Many of them had just never learned to dance properly. They went to the dances and stood around like love-hungry sheep, unable to ask a girl to dance because they didn`t know how. And how else were they to meet girls? They could go to a match-maker, but that would cost money. And if the goods were found unsuitable, there was no refund; no comeback; no sale or return.
You couldn`t very well march up to a girl in the hall and say straight out; “How`rue!” Any chance of the convey?” Girls liked to be courted; to be feted; to be wooed; to be romanced. You had to saunter up to them nice and cool like, and say; “How`rue. Would `ou like to dance?” And then, when you got them out on the dance floor, grab a tight hoult of them, look intently into their eyes, give them your wildest and meanest James Dean look and ask loudly, so that everyone could hear; “Will we go out to the back of the handball alley for a bit?” I`m telling you, she would be putty in your hands. You can`t bate the bit of foreplay – so you can`t!
It was a ruse that he had practiced to perfction all his dancing life although, strangely enough, he himself had never married. Indeed, as far as he could remember, he had never even been to the back of the handball alley.
He looked across the road and saw that the Abbey Cinema had also closed it`s doors for the last time. He used to enjoy a good film. Westerns were his favourite. Roy Rodgers and Trigger. The Lone Ranger and Tonto Gene Autrey – The Singing Cowboy. The films used to be delivered up from Limerick by train. There would often be as many as eight reels to each film. The reels would be carefully stored in numbered cans and projected on to the large screen in sequence. Sometimes, the young bucks of the town would intercept the film and switch cans, so that the picture might start off with a one-legged man who miraculously grew a second leg before it was over. Or, you might see the cavalry frantically reversing backwards across the screen, being hotly pursued by hordes of yelling red skins also galloping backwards and apparently shooting themselves with their own arrows. It was riveting stuff!
He turned and made his way back down Main Street. The Christmas lights had been switched on. Christmas trees and plastic Santas adorned the shop fronts. Christmas carols wafted out from loudspeakers. Goodwill abounded everywhere. It was a magical time. He paused to soak up the atmosphere.
“Begobs,” he said to himself, “but this old town has come along way in the fifty years since I left. They have it better here now than they ever had. You wouldn`t find it`s likes anywhere; not in London, Paris, Rome, Sydney or even New York itself!”
He had never been to any of these places, of course, as he only lived back the road a bit, in Athea.But, as he mounted his bicycle and headed for Buckley`s Cross, he made himself a promise;
” Do you know something,” he said, “but I must try to come in to Abbeyfale more often – so I must!”