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‘Don’t dip the bucket too deep,’ she’d instruct. ‘There’ll be too much water and it’ll be too heavy for you lot to lift it up. Just put it half way in.’
She’d let us do it ourselves as it always required a handful of us to make a few trips to fill up the big barrel. Usually it fell to Brian, Tara and myself as the older ones were with my father, working on the farm. But as the buckets grew heavier with each trip we’d set to squabbling, and by the time we got to the barrel we’d usually have spilt half the water on the ground.
That wasn’t our only job. We also had animals to tend to – some horses, a goat and a few dogs. My mother had a way with the animals; she was ever so gentle with them. Ginny the goat was a kid when my mother got her. Now she was a milking goat with just one horn as the other was snapped off during a fight with one of the dogs.
When my mother needed milk, she’d just walk up to Ginny and say: ‘Come on now, Gin Gin. Come to Mammy.’ And Ginny would come straight to her.
‘Stand nice and still now,’ my mother spoke gently, and Ginny would obey.
Then my mother would sit herself down on a stool, plant a bucket under her and support one of Ginny’s back legs.
She milked and talked at the same time, praising Ginny like mad: ‘Thank you, Gin. That’s a grand bucket of milk there!’
My two favourite horses was a piebald we called Polly, who pulled the cart, and a big mare we simply called Big Mare. They were very gentle creatures. We played under the horse’s bellies and in between their legs and they never once hurt us. The greyhound and the Alsatian were used for breeding and their puppies sold off for the extra cash, but Floss, a black and white sheepdog, was my father’s favourite and his constant companion. He went everywhere with Daddy.
As our mother was always busy, we were left to our own devices for the rest of the day. We kept ourselves occupied playing with the animals or on the grounds. My mother would call on us occasionally from inside the cottage, checking we hadn’t strayed too far.
In the evenings us younger ones got to spend time with Claire and Bridget. They were so loving and motherly to us that Tara and me jealously fought for their attention, trying to outdo each other to be closest to them.
‘Bridget, can I do your hair to see if there are any nits?’ I’d ask.
Bridget would lie down and put her head on top of my lap.
I’d part her hair carefully with my fingers and move her head around and then exclaim: ‘Bridget, don’t move! I found a load of nits! Don’t worry, I killed them all for you!’
Then I’d click my two thumbnails and push down on her head making a sound like I was squashing the nits.
‘Did you hear that, Bridget?’
‘Yes, baby, kill them all.’
I’d be at it for ages, all the while Bridget praising me like mad, knowing perfectly well that she didn’t have any nits, and I got the attention that I wanted.
We had no electricity in the cottage so our only light was from candles and the open fire in the parlour, where we’d gather and sit out the evening listening to our father’s stories or his playing on the harmonica or accordion. He could play any tune even though he never learned how to read music. He’d have us dancing and singing along with a medley of old Irish folk songs, his feet tapping the floor, always in tempo. And he’d tell great stories too – sending us into howling fits of laughter. But always, always my favourite was the story of how they met.
My father was a tall, strapping, handsome man with jet black hair, swept back on his head like a film star. He always looked smart, dressed in suits and shirts, working away from home a lot in different villages or towns. He was a jack of all trades, trying his hand at anything from building to roadwork, farming and breeding horses.
Before he lost touch with his family, my grandmother, Daddy’s mammy, would come to see us and tell us stories about my father as a lad.
‘He was the Madman of Borneo, your daddy,’ she’d cackle. ‘They called him that because he was wild as anything. A real live wire. He would often be heard coming into town, shouting his head off, standing up on the horse and cart with the reins in his hands, his shirt sleeves rolled up, galloping as hard as he could, grinning, laughing, pure brazen without a care in the world. Everyone had to jump out of his way or risk being flattened to the ground!’
At the weekends, my father took Bridget and Claire to the village pub where they were paid to perform as a trio. For my sisters, it was the highlight of their week and they’d dress themselves up to the nines, putting on make-up and doing their hair.
‘We want to come! We want to come!’ Tara and I would beg my father.
‘No, babas, you’re too young. I’ll take you when you’re a bit older,’ he’d console us.
I was always so envious, watching my sisters dolling themselves up, getting ready for the night out. The two of them, so beautiful, always attracted the attention of the boys in the village, who bought them drinks all night long. My father loved it too, knocking back Guinness and whiskey and chatting away to all the locals. My mother waited up all night for him to come back and always used to tell us he could talk the ears off anyone.
Since our only means of transport was the horse and cart, if we wanted to get anywhere we’d have to walk. It was three miles along a narrow winding road to the village, which had a grocery shop, church, garage and three pubs.
If we had a bit of money the four of us – Brian, Tara, myself and Colin – would walk into the village to buy our favourite sweets: Bull’s Eyes and Silvermints. We knew all the routes so we’d take shortcuts through the fields and woods, often straying to climb up a tree to get a better view of the birds or some nestling chicks. Then we’d head to the hay barn, which was along the way, and have a wonderful time climbing the stacks of hay, pushing and throwing each other off. We found it hilarious. We’d get winded and bruised sometimes but we’d get up and get on with it.
When we got tired of the hay barn, we’d walk on to the village, always keeping an eye on anything we could turn into play.
Having had our sweets, we’d pop in and out of the pubs. We loved chatting with the old folks and the locals, people we knew, the ones that called us ‘Donal’s kids’. They would often get us a packet of crisps or a bottle of lemonade. We made sure we headed home before it got too dark to see where we were going but more importantly we wanted to avoid ‘the headless horseman by the big tree’. We’d been repeatedly warned of this ghost by the elders and weren’t that keen to see it in the flesh!
My mother had just finished giving us a bath one day after we came home soaking and muddy from a downpour.
‘Empty out the bath and stay out of my sight,’ she commanded as she raced towards the kitchen to prepare the dinner.
We were draining the bath water when we saw the school bus pull up and stop at the end of the narrow road. I saw Aidan and Liam walking up the hill together and Claire and Bridget lagging behind. The boys greeted us with a tap on the head as they walked in the door but Bridget dragged in behind them, not looking at all happy.
Bridget had big green eyes and her hair flowed in big waves down her back. The sun highlighted the different shades of auburn that ran through her hair. My mother called her Sophia Loren because she had beautiful high cheek-bones. She was so gentle and kind we all adored her. Bridget scooped me in her arms and gave me a big hug. But as she put me down her eyes crinkled and she sighed.
‘What’s wrong, Bridget?’ I asked, concerned.
‘Nothing, baby, just got a bit of a sore head,’ Bridget replied as her hands reached up to massage her temples. She didn’t look at all well. ‘I think I’m going go to bed and sleep it off and hope the headache will go away,’ she added.
That night we all ate dinner together as usual, tea and bread with half a boiled egg each, except Bridget didn’t join us because she was still asleep. We weren’t long into the meal when we heard a loud bang from the bedroom. We all jumped, startled, and my father raced towards the loud noise, with a few of us tagging along out of curiosity. There was a terrible stench and we could see smoke seeping through from under the bedroom door. Daddy quickly opened the door and thick smoke bellowed out – the room was on fire!
‘Get away! Get out of here! All of you – get out of the house!’ my father shouted frantically as he rushed in, pulling Bridget out of the bedroom.
‘Aidan, Liam – get the water and blankets!’ he yelled again, panic now rising in his voice.
The rest of us gathered outside the cottage, sheer terror in everyone’s faces, all our eyes transfixed on the door as we waited anxiously for our father, Aidan and Liam to come out.
It seemed like a lifetime when eventually they emerged from the house, blackened, dirtied and pure exhausted from their efforts tackling the fire. My father was still shaking. Somehow they had managed to keep the fire under control and confined to one bedroom.
We found out later Bridget had switched on the transistor radio before she went to bed and placed the candle on top of the radio. The candle had melted down into the radio and caused it to explode, starting a fire which quickly spread from the curtains to the clothing strewn all over the bedroom. The room was blackened by the smoke and it smelled so foul nobody could sleep there.
Now we were crammed into the two remaining rooms, and the scuffling between us kids was getting more frequent. My father could have easily fixed up the room as he was quite handy but he suffered with nerves and paranoia. To him, the fire was a bad omen.
So one morning, just as we were tucking into our breakfast, Daddy came striding in with a huge grin on his face.
‘Hey, lads, you won’t believe what I’ve got!’ he announced. ‘We’ll all be moving soon. You lot gonna love this. I’ve found us a grand new home and if you’ll quieten down I’ll show it to you.’
We all looked at each other, puzzled.
‘You better not be joking around now, Donal,’ Mammy warned him.
He smiled and gave her a wink: ‘How about we go outside and have a look then?’
‘You can’t leave a whole house outside!’ Brian scoffed and we all fell about giggling. The thought was so hilarious. A new house! Outside?
Our father led the way out of the cottage and, to our amazement, parked outside the cottage were two brightly coloured wagons with two horses pulling on one wagon and Big Mare pulling the other one. They were shaped like barrels and had been hand-painted with all the colours of the rainbow. They looked so pretty.
‘There’ll be plenty of room – that thing is 13 foot long and there’s two double bunk beds where we can all sleep,’ Daddy said confidently as we all ran around, touching and exploring our new homes.
In each wagon there was a small wood-burning stove with a little chimney poking out the roof and a tiny cupboard to store pots and pans. Daddy lifted Brian onto one of the horses and he was so thrilled, he tried to buck and shove the horse to make it move.
Tara and me laughed and screamed as we chased each other in and out of the wagons.
‘I’ll have my family and my home with me when I go to work,’ our father said proudly.
Only Claire seemed apprehensive.
‘I don’t want people to be calling us gypsies or tinkers. I’d be too embarrassed,’ she objected. A teenager already, Claire had long blonde hair and was small and petite. She liked the nicer things in life and she cared what people thought of her.
‘Ah, don’t be worrying about that,’ Daddy replied, putting a reassuring arm around her small shoulder. ‘If anyone has anything to say, I’ll kick the shite out of them!’
Chapter 2
Life on the Road (#u609982a6-788d-5dd7-b273-1f9e8879f02c)
‘Come on, children, let’s get a move on,’ my father yelled. ‘We want to get there before it gets too late. On the wagon now!’
Finally, the day came for us to move out of the cottage and onto the open road. We packed and transferred all our belongings into the wagons, which didn’t take long as we didn’t have that much.
I took a long last look at the cottage – I was sad to leave it behind but at the same time I was stirred up by the excitement of our new life and all the adventures to come.
It was the start of our life on the road!
My father moved around the wagons and cart, checking that everything was in place, giving it a final inspection, tucking and pulling, making sure that the horses were safely strapped in before he was ready to hit the road.
He lifted Colin up into the wagon. Brian, Tara and myself climbed in, then he hauled himself up at the front, reaching for the reins. My mother was already there, and next to her was Floss, seated in prime position between my parents.
‘Giddy up,’ my father called and he tapped Big Mare’s backside with a stick. Big Mare moved forward and we began our journey.
We made ourselves comfortable, trying hard to contain our giddy spirits while looking out of the small window behind the wagon at the sights that passed us by.
The day was already brightening up and I could feel the warmth of the sun on my face. It was a glorious, gorgeous August day – just the right time to set off on an adventure!
My father was at the helm of the first wagon with Ginny tied up behind us. Claire and Bridget were on board the second wagon with our brother Aidan taking the reins. Our brother Liam took charge of the cart with all the other horses tied to the back. We travelled slowly in a convoy along narrow winding back roads through the countryside and small villages. After a few hours, my father pulled into a lay-by where there was a water pump. He fed and watered the horses before starting a small campfire to boil the kettle for our tea while my mother made up some bread and jam.
Then we scrambled back to our places and started up again. But the hours now dragged by, and Brian, Tara and myself were all restless. We’d had enough of sitting down at the back of the wagon. So Brian poked his head up to talk to my father: ‘Daddy, we want to stay out and walk. We’re bored in here. There’s nothing to do.’
Brian was always the bold one – he could get away with it because Daddy was very fond of him.
‘Stay out then!’ my father snapped back. ‘I’m sick of the feckin’ lot of you making a racket back there. You lot stay off the road and keep into the side of the ditches. You better keep up with the feckin’ wagons, you pack of blaggards!’
So we jumped down and ran around behind the convoy, playing along, trying hard not to lag behind too far but at times we were so engrossed that Daddy had to stop for us to catch up.
‘What did I tell you kids? I’ll kick the shite out of you lot!’ Daddy warned whenever we got close to the wagons.
When we were tired of playing, chasing and keeping up with the wagon, we ran up to my father’s side so he could lean over to pull us up into the wagon one by one. My mother, sensing my father was losing his patience with us, put her finger on her lips: ‘Shush! Quieten down now, children. Your father doesn’t like all that racket going on. He’ll get really mad. Go and lie down on the beds.’
We were so tired from all the running around that we didn’t even argue. I lay down on the bottom bunk bed, listening to the sound of the horses’ hooves clip-clopping as they hit the tarmac, echoing like a lullaby, and the swaying of the wagon was so soothing and serene that before long I fell asleep.
I woke to a different feeling. We had stopped and I stretched out my arms and legs before poking my head out the wagon. Daddy had pulled us off the road to a spot near the river with a bit of woodland for shelter and firewood. It was now late in the day and the warm orange glow of the dipping sun filtered through the branches in a patchwork of light. Daddy set the wagons close together and untied the horses from the shafts. Aidan and Liam helped take them to the river for a drink before letting them loose to graze in a nearby field. They tied a rope around the horses’ back legs so that the horses wouldn’t wander off too far for my father to get them when he needed to. Claire and Bridget came and helped us down from the wagon.
‘Come, we’ll go get the water and the wood so we can get the fire going and get some food into us,’ said Claire as she handed me a pail.
We collected firewood, tied them into bundles then carried them on our backs to the campsite, which was near the farm where my father was due to be working the next day.
My father got the fire going while my mother prepared a vegetable stew. By tea-time it would be pitch black but for the glow from our campfire. I felt peaceful and safe in the woods with all my family by my side. But after filling my belly with warm, soupy vegetables I could barely keep my eyes open. Exhaustion soon got the better of us all and we clambered into the bunks for the night, all of us young ones curled up together on the one bed.
In the morning our mother shook us gently awake and I was filled with excitement once again at the thought of being in a new place, far away from the cottage. We each had a slice of bread and cup of tea before heading up to the beet field to join a group of other farm hands waiting for the farmer to arrive with the sack of tools so we could start work.
Brian, Tara, Colin and myself stayed at the fringes of the field as my parents and older brothers and sisters spread out to work in rows. We watched closely as my mother showed us how to thin the beet, trimming the excess leaves off the stalks from each plant. It didn’t look difficult so we started helping out, just tearing the leaves off with our fingers. Of course it wasn’t long before we got bored and started messing around so Daddy told us to go play somewhere else.
‘Just don’t be causing no trouble,’ Mammy called after us as we cantered off towards the campsite.
‘We won’t,’ we yelled back, keen to get as far away as possible.
Now, with our family in the field all day, we were free to do whatever took our fancy, and it was Ginny the goat who bore the brunt of our exploits at first. We tortured the life out of that poor creature. We’d get under her, pulling at her teats, squirting her milk into our mouths for a drink and then all over each other. Brian had this notion of riding on top of Ginny like a horse. Brian got on her back, one hand grasping her beard and the other holding on to her horn. Alarmed, Ginny legged it, bucking as hard as she could as she felt his weight on her back while we ran behind, laughing our hearts out at the sight of Brian riding on top of the goat. He held on tight, trying to stay on for as long as he could.
‘Go on there now, Gin! Go on!’ Brian shouted. He was in fits of laughter as he rode Ginny, with a stick flailing in his hand, shoving and pushing Ginny to move faster and faster. But Ginny had other ideas. She headed straight for the ditch full of nettles and bucked him off, head first. The sight of Brian emerging, muddied, stung all over and with his blond head covered in twigs and leaves was the funniest thing we’d ever seen.
Now Ginny ran away from us whenever she saw us coming and it was getting more and more difficult to fetch her. But Brian refused to give up. One day he came up with this idea of putting on my mother’s headscarf and coat.
He wrapped the colourful scarf round his head and the long brown coat hung off him as he called out in my mother’s voice: ‘Come on now, Gin Gin. Come now to Mammy!’
Brian looked so comical with the coat hanging off him and the silly headscarf, we never thought for a minute that Ginny would oblige, but she did! We were surprised but pure delighted as Brian had fooled her and we got to join in the fun. As soon as he managed to hold on to her horn, he was up riding off like a cowboy again. Off and away they went and the rest of us followed behind until Ginny bucked him off again to the same painful ending.
One day my mother came back from milking Ginny. She was rather disappointed at the amount that she’d got from our goat lately and asked if any of us had been at her. Innocently, we recounted how we’d been tugging at Ginny’s teats for her milk and how Brian was riding on top of Ginny and all the chasing we’d done – the full scenario in fine detail. We thought she would find it as funny as we all had. But she was so horrified and appalled that she gave Brian a good hiding, telling him that he could have broken Ginny’s back.
‘Leave Ginny in peace!’ she warned us. ‘Stop tormenting the goat. How would you like it if someone was at you all the time?’
She was incensed at what we’d done.
It didn’t matter. We started exploring further and further from the campsite, miles away, and we only came back when it was time for our dinner. The four of us would wander off into fields, rooting about the hedges, woodlands and everything else that we stumbled upon. When we came across an old ruin or barn, we’d spend hours playing in it. Occasionally, as we wandered across the fields, we’d catch a whiff of the awful stench from the feral goats as they came down from the mountain and we’d run away, screaming, laughing and holding our noses against the unbearable stink.
Sometimes, when we were by the river, we caught frogs and raced them. Our older brothers had shown us how to find hollow reeds to use as straws. We’d stick the straws into the frogs’ behinds and blow into them until the frogs inflated, their fat bodies all puffed up as their little legs stuck out at the corners. Then we’d all get in a line and pull the straws out from the frogs’ behinds at the same time and away they’d shoot, up into the air, as they deflated. The frog that flew the furthest won.
After each race we’d scramble about trying to retrieve our frogs, but as we went to pick them up again they’d often make a horrible squawking sound.
‘Oh, don’t touch that one!’ Tara would warn. ‘He’s putting a curse on you.’
So I’d find myself another frog and we’d start the race again.
Aidan and Liam loved building rafts. And once built, they’d tie a rope to the raft while we little ones sat on it and we’d ride through some fast-flowing water while our older brothers ran alongside the bank, holding the other end of the rope. Our older brothers also used to bring us to the rock quarry where they tied us up with ropes and we scaled up and down the sides. The drop was tremendous. We’d have died if the rope snapped. Sometimes we’d play by the railway lines, throwing stones to try to break the white cups on the electricity wire as we walked the line. There were plenty of occasions when the Garda came to pick us up and bring us back to our parents.
My father would erupt at my mother: ‘Look at the lot of your feckin’ bastards. Always causing trouble!’
He promised the officers that he’d give us a good hiding but he never did. We played dangerously, fearlessly, never realising the harm we could come to. We were wild, free and happy. There were never any toys to occupy us, no kisses and cuddles at the end of the day, but it didn’t matter. We were uncomplaining and self-assured – we’d been raised to look after ourselves and that’s exactly what we did.
For the most part Brian was our leader. Since he was the eldest of our group we usually played the games he wanted and explored the places he found curious. And what Brian loved most was birds. He was wild about them and we were forever following him up trees, looking at the birds, their nests, the eggs when they hatched and all the little nestlings when they were born. We’d walk miles into the woodland looking for crows. Brian was always high up the trees checking out the crow’s nests in the highest branches. He was determined to have his own bird so we’d try to catch water hens, but without success. They’d glide through the water so fast that they’d be on the other side of the bank before we could even get close. So Brian started making cardboard traps instead. He’d tie a string to the crow’s feet when he caught one and let it fly off just as far as the string would let it go. The crow would flap vigorously mid-flight, but, unable to move forward, it would struggle before falling towards the ground.
