Читать книгу The Murmuring Waves - John P. Healy - Страница 8

Michael John was born in Galway city to John Healy and Bridget Egan, the only boy of five siblings, and so from childhood, was always someone special within the family. After finishing school he started working as a clerk in the offices of the company then known as Irish Shell and BP in November 1932. After some years working there, in 1939 he was transferred and became the store keeper of the company depot in Westport which supplied fuel to the surrounding area.

My parents, Bridget Duffy and Michael John were married in Westport, Co Mayo in 1940. They had three sons, John Paschal, Michael Alphonsus, and Gerard Joseph. When I was born in 1941 my parents still lived in a house situated on the beautiful tree-lined North Mall, which was rented by my mother’s family and where my father was lodging. There he met the woman who was to become his future wife. The ground floor of the house was rented by the bus company as an office. I, a little chubby fellow, with the typical large head and big brown eyes of the Irish male became a kind of mascot to Gerry the regular bus driver on the daily route from Westport to Achill. I can just imagine this well-cared for baby being thrown up into the air and then into the arms of the burly, cheerful Gerry, well known by all who regularly travelled the route.

The town of Westport, based on an original design, is located on Ireland’s west coast. It is a delightful community situated on an Atlantic Ocean inlet called Clew Bay in County Mayo. The stonewalled Carrowbeg River flows through the town, and there are some picturesque stone bridges that cross over the river at intervals.

Later my parents moved to a larger apartment on Shop Street, this time the apartment was located over a drapery shop, known as Joyce’s. The slightly perfumed smell of the freshly woven fabrics often penetrated the floorboards of the apartment. The entrance to the apartment was through an alley-way which divided the building from a neighboring hardware shop. This alley-way, which was totally dark at night time, inevitably became the source of jokes and scary stories. If it was not the courting couples caught in the act, it was the strange ghostly sounds and visions that caused those entering the apartment to run quickly to the front door. The laughs and comments of visiting friends and relations pretended to explain or laugh away the inexplicable invisible world shrouded in darkness. In my childhood years the boogieman was omnipresent and even if ghosts didn’t exist, they seemed to haunt us frequently, especially in the dark.

Those early childhood years, lived among the stories and news surrounding the ongoing world war, produced in me, even if mostly unaware, the sensations of being part of a cruel violent world beyond the confines of my home. Ireland being a neutral country was not directly affected, except on occasions of mistaken bombing by the German air force mistaking the island of Ireland for that of Great Britain. The north east of the country still being part of the United Kingdom was, of course, a legitimate target. To avoid that error, large stones painted white and spelling the word Eire were placed at intervals along the coastline of the island free state.

The popular songs of the time introduced me and my small protected world to the realities of life and of the war being waged in Europe from 1939 to 1945. I learned from “Humpty Dumpty” and his great fall that in fact falling was part of growing up and its consequences, even if that wasn’t the original meaning given to the rhyme. In fact Humpty Dumpty is usually represented as an anthropomorphic egg. The “Ten Green Bottles hanging on the Wall”, from which each in turn accidently fell, taught me in an enjoyable and rhythmic fashion the basics of simple arithmetic calculations. On the other hand “Ba Ba Blacksheep Have you any Wool”, introduced me to simple distributive justice and the need to share nature’s bountiful riches. This latter was a mid 18th century English nursery rhyme with a simple melody: Baa, baa, black sheep have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full; One for the master, and one for the dame, and one for the little boy who lives down the lane.

During wartime and its immediate aftermath the popular songs of Vera Lynn and others became household melodies. The single vinyl disks being the only still available, I listened to the radio and learned to sing “Irene, Good Night, Irene”, “We’ll Meet Again” or “White Cliffs of Dover”, introducing me innocently to the war time adult world and its intricacies. Of course the voice of Irish born John McCormack, operatic tenor based mostly in the United States was a household attraction on the old gramophones and the radio. He was better known perhaps for his concerts and recordings of old Irish songs and was in the category of his contemporary Italians Carusso and Gigli.

Food scarcity and its often poor quality became part of life, without us children understanding the economics and politics behind it. It was often my task to go to P.J. Kelly’s on Bridge Street with the ration book to bring home the small quantities of sugar, butter and flour allowed. Life was very simple and living standards were modest, but I had no reason to question it.

Being the eldest of three siblings I had certain duties as well as perks and I suppose my parents were still learning, so to speak. My life-long desire for chocolate probably had its origin in an early mistake my inexperienced father made. He occasionally brought me chocolate when returning from work in the evening, and it developed into a kind of habit which has delighted me ever since. It came to a stage that when my father arrived home my first question was ‘hochy in pocky’ which was my childish language for ‘have you chocolate in the pocket’? This led to an incident which became a somewhat traumatic moment for me.

One evening having gratefully received my piece of chocolate still in its silver wrapping I went in front of the stove to throw away the paper but ended up throwing the piece of chocolate into the fire instead of the paper. Clearly my coordination had not yet developed its potential. I can only imagine the expression of disbelief and disappointment on my face in that moment, as the flames rose to devour my delicious piece of chocolate. The image of that moment has never left me, but my liking for chocolate remains firm, even if my preference in later years has been towards the darker kind with a larger quantity of cacao.

When the water pipes froze in the severe winter and snow of 1947, I recall going to the Railway Hotel on the Mall to collect some water from one of the few sources available in the town at that moment. I’m sure the amount I was able to carry at 6 years of age must have been very limited, but I was playing my part in the emergency. I didn’t know the knack of carrying the bucket on my head like the African women, which I was to witness years later. Not alone does it leave your hands free for carrying other items, more water in this case, but seems to permit the development of straight shoulders and firm stance which my father was to insist on so much when I was growing up. “Keep your shoulders up and back straight” was the regular admonition from him as we took our Sunday walks.

The thrill of shoveling away the snow from the front entrance and building a large snowman in the back yard made up for all the other inconveniences. With the assistance of Eamonn, an older cousin living with us then, my brothers and I happily took to the unaccustomed task of building the large white figure with the carrot nose and pipelike piece of wood sticking out from his mouth. We provided him with an old hat to give him a sense of manly importance. How long would he last after all our efforts, was the burning question. However, that year was to prove exceptional and even in a diminished form he lasted several days.

Throughout those cold wintry childhood years, chilblains on my fingers became part of every winter season and had to be endured despite their itchy, swollen redness and pain. This seemed to be an annual recurrence despite having to unwilling swallow with squeezed eyes a daily spoonful of the repulsive traditional cod liver oil. This was necessary to protect me and my siblings and boost our immune system during the cold winters, so we were told in more simple language. Later, the same oil became available in capsules, which made the swallowing more palatable. Homemade remedies such as Carrageen or Irish sea moss were part of every household in those days to help ease the typical winter symptoms.

In those times there was no worldwide concern about possible climate change and human responsibility for causing it, but the occasional and varying severe winters and very warm summers of those latitudes were accepted as normal. Walking carefully across the street in summertime to avoid the melting tar sticking to the soles of our shoes was seen as a normal consequence following the severe winter which permitted us build the large snowman. It seemed to be that you couldn’t have one without the other.

Our simple childhood life and play mostly occurred on the quiet streets of the town or in the Paddock on the Newport Road where in Spring and Summer the daisies and yellow buttercups abounded and colored the horizon. My imagination was nourished, taking me to other still unknown horizons and colors as I lay on my back scanning the cloudy blue sky. The intermittent varying light and shade allowed me mentally swim in this meadow of delight. Our Sunday walks in the Demesne, the grounds of Westport House, entered through large distinctive green colored wrought iron gates opened up a magical world of trees, the slow-winding river and open landscape. The holy mountain of Croagh Patrick in the background created that sacred space in which I could abandon myself happily to catching the falling autumn leaves. There, as a happy family group we would sit under the large chestnut tree and gather the mature chestnuts in season. These were later hardened by the fire at home and used for a game we called conquers. That was as close as we got to Starwars!

The danger of being hit by any vehicle in this idyllic town was remote but not without possibility, as I discovered one sunny Sunday evening. While playing with friends on the bridge leading to the Newport Road, and after hiding from my father whom I had just seen going into the church for evening devotions, I ran across from one side of the bridge to the other without looking. A racing cyclist coming in the Newport Rd. happened to be passing over the bridge and I ran into him ending up with both of us sprawled on the tarmac but fortunately without any important consequence. The cyclist of course was very concerned, but my foolishness obliged me to recover quickly and carry on as if nothing had happened. I could not reveal the incident to my parents later that evening. After all, if I was there at that time why hadn’t I accompanied my father to the church as would have been expected of me? So whatever minor ailment, scratches or bruises I may have suffered, needed to be conveniently camouflaged.

Another of our escapades was to climb to the top of a street known appropriately as High Street with an old bicycle tire or wheel and run down the pathway to see who would reach the bottom of the hill first. Every so often there were steps to facilitate the pedestrians and this added a little more spice to the race. In the absence of any kind of motorized propulsion this was our ultimate flight of fancy with speed. Inevitably, we might occasionally bump into some unfortunate person leaving one of the shops, an unexpected danger in the then quiet streets of Westport.

Having finished my infant pre-schooling at the Mercy nuns school I then completed my first grade in the local Christian Brothers school, an exclusively boys’ school as was then customary.

One of the highlights of this transitional stage was the preparation for first communion and confession. It was an exciting moment and while greatly looked forward to, it was also somewhat frightening given the admonitions that were considered appropriate at the time. The fear instilled by the secret nature of first confession and then the warning not to touch the host with your teeth, was all very real. I survived the ordeal of course, as did all the other kids, I presume. That day was one of the most important in my early childhood and dressing appropriately was part of the excitement. I was dressed, as witnessed by the photo, in a long white trousers, dark jacket and white shirt without a tie. The corresponding little feast reunited us all afterwards in the school. We also received gifts of money from our near relatives or friends to add to our little coffers or piggybanks. Saving our shillings and pence was part of our lives as children in a world still accustomed to deprivations.

The photo, which I still have, of my little dressed-up person, taken duly at McLoughlin’s Photo Studio on Shop Street, bears witness to the occasion. As it turned out, my parents for some reason had delayed having the official photo taken. This was not to my satisfaction so, it being close to my home, I made my way there myself the following day all dressed up. I demanded that the appropriate photo be taken without delay, and I can only wonder, what must have been the surprise on the face of the photographer. No doubt, it would have merited another photo. As was to be expected I was asked to sit down and wait while the good man consulted with my parents to explain my impetuous demands. We were neighbors but somebody was going to have to pay! For me, the important thing was that the photo was taken and the occasion duly recorded.

In those simpler times with rather limited future prospects, it was common to be asked at an early age what you wished to be when you grew up. While for most of us kids, becoming a truck driver or fireman seemed to be the limit of our imaginations but it was not the case for everyone. One particular classmate, who happened to be the nephew of a bishop, when asked what he would like to be, responded without hesitation, a pope!

What could be more exciting to us kids than to have the circus come to town. The arrival was met with expectation and wonder, as the accompanying trucks housing the unfortunate animals made their way slowly through town to the assigned location. On one of those occasions, with the circus now installed in the outskirts of town, I decided to go there, unknown to my parents, outside of function time. I considered it was the opportunity to find out what it was all about and thereby satisfy my childhood curiosity. The thrills accompanying the swinging acrobats, the exotic animals performing their tricks, the ever present clowns with their funny painted faces, it was all a world of mystery to this young town boy. The nearest thing to exotic animals that I would have known in those days was the hares and the rabbits running through the fields, with the latter still an important culinary dish for many.

There was an unlocked gateway to the park and I decided to venture in. Suddenly a large German shepherd dog, that was tied-up under one of the caravans, jumped at me and caught me by the sleeve of my coat. Even within the context of my exaggerated innocence I was definitely out of bounds. Very quickly my loud screams brought out one of the circus people from the caravan to see what was happening. I might well have imagined myself on the wrong side of the fence within the circus arena being devoured by some fierce wild animal to the horror and gasps of the audience. All I do know is that I froze still amid my abundant tears while the man managed to release me from the dog’s grip.

Happily there was no damage done apart from the mark of the dog’s teeth on my forearm and some minor damage to the sleeve of my coat. Needless to say I quickly made my way home following a severe scolding from the circus man and after having learned a useful lesson, or so I thought. Many years later, when no childhood innocence could be claimed as an excuse, I ventured into the grounds of the language institute in Cochabamba, Bolivia in the early hours of the morning, without bearing in mind the likely presence of some large watchdogs.

Around that time when I was six or seven years of age, one fine summer’s afternoon, my father, who liked walking as well as cycling, took me walking to Kilmeena, where my mother’s family came from. The distance is not great, about five kilometers, but my little legs weren’t aware of such minor details. I can only remember begging him at different stages to allow me rest on one of the yellow and black painted walls that were found on the several dangerous bends as a warning to motorists. As we approached the many bends my own mind was bent on soon reaching the end of our journey. The winding road permitted me that illusion that, perhaps, around the next bend our destination would be in sight. With great relief we finally rounded that open downhill curve that gave way to the final straight stretch of road leading to the small country road, not paved in those days, and the house where we would be met with a chair and a welcoming drink.

It reminds me of what used to occur when later climbing Croagh Patrick with the other thousands of pilgrims. This was usually undertaken in those times on the night before the last Sunday of July called Reek Sunday. It still being dark it was usual to enquire from those coming back down the mountain, if we were near the peak, which was always out of sight to those climbing because of the steep final section. It was the common ruse of those now coming down to encourage those of us struggling up the mountain by saying, you are near now just around the next bend, which of course was not true, but it gave one some encouragement with the hope that the climb was nearing its end.

Happily, we didn’t have to walk home again that still bright summer evening, as one of my mother’s uncles, kindly offered to have us brought back to Westport on his pony and trap. For some reason I have never forgotten that walk, but I can only suppose that the weariness of my little legs left a mark on my memory, not only on my feet. I can’t recall if my mother scolded my father for having put me through such an ordeal at a tender age. But then my father was a firm believer in discipline and in preparing for life’s afflictions.