From Dublin Memory Book
I was eight and a half years’ old when, in September 1951, I
started in Big Boys’ School, the senior-boys’ section of St Peter’s National
School, Phibsborough.
If you were a stranger visiting the Big Boys’ School, you
would have a hard time finding it. Yes, you would see the imposing Victorian,
yellow-and-red-brick building, but neither of the two visible entrances would
lead you to the Boys’ School.
St Peter's School, Phibsborough |
The entrance you can barely see in this picture, on the extreme
left end of the building, led to the Infant School. The one on the far end led
to the Big Girls School. Should you enter by either of these doors, you would
be unable to access the Big Boys’ School, for you would find that the internal
door to the Big Boys’ Stairs would be locked. It was only opened for special
purposes, for example to allow Mrs Walsh and her assistants to bring milk and sandwiches
from the kitchen to the Boys’ School.
The Boys’ School occupied the entire upper floor of both
wings of the school: the main, north-south, wing, visible in the picture above,
and the hidden, east-west, wing, behind the main building.
In my day, to enter the Boys’ School, you had to pass
through a scary narrow lane, between the school building and the adjoining row
of houses. Actually, boys liked lanes, preferring them to roads.
Laneway leading to Boys' Entrance |
The lane (now closed off by a gate) led to the rear of the
building, where you would find a back-yard-style wooden door leading to the Big
Boys’ schoolyard, a rather cramped area when full of four hundred or more
pupils – but more spacious than the narrow girls’ yard in front of the
building, i.e., between the building and the railings in the above pictures.
In those days parents did not bring the children to school:
they made their own way, on foot. When we were discharged from school, after
classes, I usually made my way home by laneway rather than by Road, specifically
by a lane that lay in between Norfolk Road and Cabra Park.
Norfolk Lane |
This lane led from St Peter’s Road (where the school was
sited) to the Keyhole (or cul-de-sac) at the top of Norfolk Road, where I lived.
It was also a “short-cut” for kids going to Cabra, because there was a
pedestrian exit from the Keyhole to Connaught Parade and, from there, one could
pass over the railway bridge on Connaught Street, on to Cabra. (When we said
“short-cut” we did not necessarily mean a shorter route, but a more adventurous
route).
Near the top of this lane, in fact the last doorway on the
left hand side, you would pass the customers’ entrance to the Turf Depot, run
by Dublin Corporation, a fascinating world much frequented by me and the other
boys of the Keyhole, as “helpers,” not entirely with parental approval, during those
magic years between the ages of eight and twelve.
There, turf (peat) was issued (in exchange for vouchers) to rough
entrepreneurs with prams or more ample wooden hand-carts, for delivery to
Social Welfare recipients. A few years after this, the whole enterprise would
collapse when a Social Welfare Inspector, hearing of their little enterprise, would
stop the unemployment-benefit of these rough entrepreneurs. This clamp-down
(along with changing times) made the whole turf-depot uneconomical, for turf-delivery
was never going to be a viable enterprise in itself, just a supplement on the
dole. The depot was soon closed and replaced by a scheme where fuel-vouchers
could be redeemed at any retail outlet. This episode would be another clear
warning to the unemployed of Phibsborough and Cabra never to attempt to earn
money. However, back in 1951, when I was starting in Big Boys’ School, the
turf-depot was in full swing, and this world was only opening up to me.
At the top of this same lane, coming home from school one
day, I found a pile of clothes, dumped. As I approached the pile, it became
apparent that they were my clothes, and those of my siblings. Questioning my
mother, I discovered that a “poor” woman had come to our door asking for
clothes for her raggy children. So, mammy had gone to the hot press and taken a
selection of our things and given them to her. None of our things was good
enough for the woman, however, and so she dumped the lot in the lane. The woman
was not really collecting clothes for her own family. She was one of the many
professional beggars who scoured the area, and was only interested in clothes
that were good enough to be re-sold on the second-hand-clothes market.
Proceeding up this lane another day, after school, with a
group of Cabra kids, one lad burst into a tirade of intemperate language,
attacking the “rich” people of Norfolk Road who owned their own houses.
(Norfolk Road houses, modest as they were, were privately owned, but most of
Cabra was public housing). Years later, I put the sentiment into verse:
O, comrades, listen to what I say:
I’ve got a message for you today:
Ireland will never be truly free,
‘Til we eliminate the bourgeoisie.
I was usually very quick to express my opinion, but on this
occasion I stayed mum. It did not occur to my outspoken friend that one of his
raggy mates was a “rich” kid. The irony was that this fellow always had money
in his pocket for sweets, whereas my “rich” pockets were always empty. My
parents had to feed a family of five (and ultimately eight) children on a rather
small, police-man’s, wage. After income tax, mortgage repayments, house-rates,
and ground rent, there was barely enough to put food on the table. In those
days, Income Tax on ordinary workers was burdensome because Agricultural
Exports, our leading industry, were subsidised. Rates on houses were
burdensome, because the entire Health Service was funded from Rates. The ground
rent on the Keyhole houses, built in the 1930s, was £20 per annum, much larger
than ground rent on older houses in the city.
This Cabra kid’s parents were on differential rent, which
means they only paid the amount of rent they could afford; they had no mortgage
to pay, received free fuel from the Turf Depot, had house-repairs done for them
by the Corporation, and had free medical service, and so were probably better
off in terms of airgead-sa-phóca.
Lack of free medical service impacted on me. At the time I
started Big Boys’ School, I was suffering from chronic rhinitis (runny and
blocked nose), which affected me at least as long as there was an R in the
month (and bouts of hay fever when there was not). My parents could not afford
to be running to the doctor every week for minor complaints like that.
A short time before starting Big Boys’ School, trying to
clear a blocked nose, I had burst a blood vessel, giving me a nose-bleed.
Mother told me that in future I should not blow to clear my nose, but, instead,
hold my breath. This actually worked like magic. Hold your breath for thirty
seconds (or heart-beats) and a blocked nose will clear. Repeat for an even
clearer nose. The scientific explanation is that Carbon Dioxide, generally
regarded as the waste product of breathing, is actually needed by the body; but
when a person hyperventilates (i.e., breathes too fast), his store of Carbon
Dioxide is depleted, causing the nostrils to clog up. Holding one’s breath builds up the Carbon
Dioxide and frees the nose!
Perhaps I got into the habit of hyperventilating from being
in the middle position in bed, between my two brothers. No doubt, in this
position, I would hyperventilate as a means of keeping cool, like a panting
dog. There were three bedrooms in our house. My parents and two sisters were in
one, my two brothers and I in another and a lodger in the third. Keeping a
lodger was necessary to help pay the mortgage.
Another famous laneway adjoining St Peter’s School, – down beside
the Girls’ entrance, gave access to the seating area of Dalymount Park, home ground
of Bohemians Football Club. It also led to Neville’s Shop, which Mrs Neville
had opened at the bottom of her back garden, where we did a lot of our grocery
shopping.
One day, when mammy was shopping in Neville’s, she found she
was served by Doctor Neville, (relieving his brother, Paddy, who usually served).
When he asked about the family, mother mentioned my runny nose. Doctor Neville
suggested she give me the cream off the top of the milk. Mother tried this; and
it worked. However, when my siblings protested, we reverted to egalitarian
sharing of the cream, and my rhinitis returned. Eventually, mother took me to the
GP, Doctor Brown, who put me on Scott’s Emulsion to clear the condition, and
Cod Liver Oil for maintenance. This regime worked, and from then on the entire
Killeen family was on Cod Liver Oil.
My rhinitis was nothing compared to the chronic condition of
some of the children in the school, who had constant “greeners,” hanging from
their nostrils. Since butter was expensive, many of the families used margarine
instead. Their diet was sorely lacking in Vitamins, and they suffered the
consequences, in health and in school-work. Butter and cod liver oil contributed
to the Killeens’ good school performance.
There were to be fifty four boys in my class, and most of
them were in good, robust, rhinitis-free, health.
There was an hour’s break for lunch, which we called dinner,
in the middle of the day, i.e., between 1 pm and 2 pm. For me, home was a
five-minute walk from school. Since there was a mother in every home in those
days, dinner was on the table as we arrived home. We were in plenty of time to
listen to “The Kennedys of Castleross,”
a radio soap-opera that was broadcast at 1.15 pm on two of the five week-days.
After this, we stayed quiet during the News at 1.30, and then headed back to
the school.
One day, a lot of my class-mates arrived very early back
after dinner. We decided to go up to Cabra Park (a housing estate near the
school) to play a game of Cowboys and Indians, and thought we would have plenty
of time. The Cavalry searched for the Indians around the lanes of Cabra Park,
and, eventually, the two forces came face to face. The idea was that there
would then be a mill between the two forces, but, in actuality, there was a
stand-off. Then it was decided to resolve the matter by single combat. As the
minutes ticked by, back in the school, teacher, Mossy O’Connor, was facing a
half-empty classroom with some concern. When the entire cavalry and tribe of
Indians marched in, all received a suitable caning.
I once knew the names of everyone in the class, of course,
but now, when I peruse this photo of the class in our Confirmation suits, I can
identify just about a dozen; and some of those only tentatively.
Confirmation was the Sacrament that made us strong and
perfect Christians. Of course, it only
worked if one put it into action. It was no longer sufficient to avoid
stealing, lying and violence; you also had to manifest these good qualities to
others. So, when offered a fruit of the “Free Counter” in the school yard,
instead of just saying “No thanks,” being now a soldier of Christ, I went on to
explain that I did not consider it proper to receive stolen goods. I was
overheard by a streetwise classmate who exclaimed, “Hey, Killeen, you actually
believe all that stuff!” He called a few buddies over, and then, with this
selected audience, taunted me about professing to be an upright citizen and
Christian. Of course, I had brought this torment on myself. I should have
followed my father’s maxim, “Pass things by,” (in other words “Do not poke your
nose into other people’s business”).
Boys assembled in the yard before proceeding to classes. Each
class had a separate point in the schoolyard at which to queue before being led
into class by its teacher.
Down to the left of my class photo were the toilets, an
addendum to the East-West wing. These consisted of a smelly concrete channel, open
to the weather, behind an outside front wall, into which the boys urinated, and
which was sometimes disinfected with Jeyes Fluid. Behind this urinal-channel
was a set of toilet chambers, usually in a disgusting condition.
So disgusting were the toilet bowls that I never actually
used them in all my four years in the Boys’ school, preferring to take my load
home, which was only a few hundred yards from the school. On one occasion, when
I was ill, I was allowed to use the Masters’ toilet, which was indoors,
sparklingly clean, and equipped with paper, but smelt of stale tobacco. There
never was toilet paper in the boys’ toilets, and we had a school-yard rhyme:
“In this hall there is no paper,
But, on the floor, you’ll find a scraper.
If the scraper can’t be found,
Just wipe your arse along the
ground.”
Of course, we did not use toilet paper at home either,
except when we had visitors. Instead, yesterday’s newspaper was cut into
“squares,” which were used for the purpose. If you wanted to use the school
toilets, you should equip yourself first with newspaper cuttings.
We had a joke about a boy who was sent to buy toilet paper
when his family was about to have visitors. The shopkeeper, said, “You can have
a pack of two rolls for five pence, or a pack of six rolls for a shilling.” The
boy was flummoxed: he asked, “Which is best?” And the shopkeeper said, “Well,
on the whole it’s all the same.”
Most of our jokes were about Paddy the Irishman. He was
marooned on a dessert island with Paddy the Englishman and Paddy the Scotchman.
The only thing on the island was a dusty old lamp. Paddy the Irishman went to
wipe the dust off the lamp, when a genie appeared, saying, “Paddy, you can have
three wishes.” Paddy the Irishman said, “I will let my two companions have a
wish each, and then I will take the third wish.” “That’s OK with me, said the
genie.” So, Paddy the Scotchman said, “I miss the sound of the bagpipes; I wish
I were back home in Lanarkshire.” Then Paddy the Englishman said, “I miss the
sound of the traffic; I wish I were back home in London,” and Paddy the
Irishman said, “I miss my two companions, Paddy the Scotchman and Paddy the
Englishman; I wish they were back here with me.”
Outside the toilet, there was a single brass tap protruding
from the wall, over an outdoor sink, which provided water for the five hundred.
You can guess that we did not wash hands very often after urinating.
This brass tap was to feature in one of my innovations in my
last years in the school. One day, while the teacher was out of the room, my
pal shot a paper pellet out of his “sling,” (really a rubber-band catapult,
hung between thumb and index-finger), which hit another student in the eye. The
victim made a big whinge and teacher had him escorted to the Mater Hospital. It
was found that no damage had been done, but the teachers decided to ban slings
in the school, which were all the rage at the time.
Now, my problem was that I believed that my pals would obey
the ban, but that the other side would not. I suspected that the other side
would take advantage of our decommissioning to increase the level of their
onslaught on us. So, I mulled over the possibility of a new scenario. I decided
to introduce water-bombs to the school. These were unknown in Phibsborough, but
my big brother, Roger, who had by now moved on to Secondary School, had been
introduced to them in O’Connell’s CBS.
If I were successful in my plan, I would completely change
the schoolyard culture from slings to water-bombs.
Since I lacked courage myself, I decided to induce someone
else to start using the water bombs. I called one of the other side, who had
obvious leadership qualities, and said, “Hey; let me show you something.”
I showed him how to fold a double copy-book-page to form a
paper grenade, and how to fill the grenade from the tap. Then I lobbed the
grenade at an innocent passer-by. Fortunately, my lob was accurate, and I gave
the victim a good splash.
My apprentice bomb-maker was delighted. He launched into a
water-bombing crusade, and soon water-bombs became the new rage in the
schoolyard, and slings were forgotten. This was a very good outcome, but the
teachers took a different view. They decided to ban water-bombs.
A Committee of two teachers was set up to go around all the
classes, interrogating the whole school. They came into our class, swishing
their bamboo canes, and demanded that the boy who had introduced water-bombs to
the school stand up. I stayed mum, and the committee of teachers moved on to
the next class.
At the next break, I approached the guy I had tutored and
said, “I want to thank you for that.”
He said, “For what?”
I said, “For not spilling the beans on how I brought in the
water-bombs.”
“You must be joking!” he said.
He had actually forgotten that I had shown him. Basking in
the fame of being the innovator, he had come to believe that he himself had
invented and introduced water-bombs.
I digress. Let me return to my first day in Big Boys’
School.
There were two doors into the school buildings from the
Boys’ schoolyard: one at the top of a terrifying external iron stairs onto the
main building; the second on ground level, leading to an internal stairwell in
the secondary wing.
It was up the frightening iron stairs (originally intended
as a fire-escape) that I and the other new Big Boys were shepherded. Once
inside the door, we were directed down to the far end of the long corridor,
into a very large room, which was soon pretty well filled by over a hundred
boys.
Three tall teachers and one smaller, skinnier, man faced us
in that room. The teachers were swishing bamboo canes to impress us with their
authority.
The head teacher, Mr Lacy, soon quietened the crowd and
explained to us, in no uncertain terms, that we would find Big School much
different from the Junior School. There were no lady teachers in Senior School
to mollycoddle us, nor was there to be any occasion for lounging or frolicking.
There would be no marla (modelling-clay), no arts and crafts, no roly-poly,
only hard work and lessons. And bamboo canes would be used to maintain order
and to make sure lessons were learned.
Then Mr Lacy introduced the smaller man. This was Mr Lyons,
the School Attendance Officer.
Mr Lyons said he would be visiting the school at regular
intervals and inspecting the Roll Books. If he found that any students were
mitching from school, he would have them arrested by the Gárdaí and brought to
Artane Industrial School, where they would be kept under lock and key until
they were fourteen years old, and where, not only would they have to do their
lessons, but they would also have to do industrial work to pay for their
upkeep.
Mr Lyons’ talk was no idle threat. We were soon to learn
from senior boys, in the school yard, of their former class-mates who had been
dragged away by the guards, roaring and screaming, and who could now, fully
tamed, be seen playing in the Artane Boys Band on Sundays in Croke Park. We
also heard that parents who were unable to control their children often “sent”
them to Artane.
Nowadays, they think it horrible to make children do
physical work. My father, however, reared on a small farm, believed in physical
work as essential training for boys. So, in addition to our household chores at
home, my brothers and I were brought to Glasnevin regularly to help on his
vegetable plot, (one of Dublin Corporation Allotments situated in the area
where the Claremont and Clareville housing estates are now). Dad took two of us
on his bicycle to the plot, one on the crossbar and the other on the carrier
behind the saddle, until we were old enough to cycle ourselves, which was very
soon after each started Big Boys’ School. (Of course, all this work was good
fun, and he also took us to the park to play football and teach us hurling.
Plots on Saturdays, park on Sundays!)
As regards Corporal Punishment, my father thought this was a
necessary tool of child-rearing. He believed the motto of his age, “Spare the
rod and spoil the child,” and used a leather strap to keep discipline at home.
Mr Lyons took his leave, and Mr O’Connor was given the
floor.
It was explained to us that Mr O’Connor was going to call
out names of about half the boys in the room. Those whose names were called
were, then, to follow Mr O’Connor to another room, while the rest were to
remain in this room (with Mr Piggott). Somebody whispered that Piggy would be
best, because O’Connor was a demon with the cane. I was surprised that any one
of us would have such knowledge, and it was a kind of little epiphany for me to
realise that there are others, in any environment, who will be more informed
than me as to what is happening.
Over 50 names were called out, including mine. We fifty-or-so
then followed Mr O’Connor to his class-room, which was on the short corridor,
after the principal’s telephone-box-sized office, and obliquely overlooked
Dalymount Park.
Classmates recall Mr O’Connor allowing us to watch, from the
class-room windows, an international soccer match, with a Communist country,
that had been banned by Archbishop John Charles McQuaid. I remember
occasionally having opportunity of viewing a match from the windows, but never
found them interesting from that distance or oblique angle, or at all, and I
never struggled for a position at a window.
Dalymount Park was usually made available to the school for
its annual sports day. When not available, we used Birmingham’s Farm, off
Connaught Street, which has since become Mount Bernard Park.
At the sports, I once almost won the sack race, but fell
just a yard short of the finish. Another year I did win the three-legged race
with my companion Rooney Galvin. We each got a jar of brylcreem for our prize.
When we entered Mr O’Connor’s class-room that first day, Mossy,
(as we soon dared call Mr O’Connor, but not to his face), ordered us to stand
around the walls of the room, behind the rows of desks.
Mr O’Connor then called out names again, one by one, placing
us in our assigned desks, each desk being a two-seater. When we were all
seated, he explained that we were arranged in streams, the boys who had been rated
brightest to our left, the ones who would have to work hardest to the right,
and the in-betweeners in between.
Next task was to give us all our new names, for we were
entered in the Roll Book under the Irish form of our name.
I became Proinnsias Ó Cillín (instead of Francis Killeen). Much
later in life, children playing in the street were to miss-pronounce
“Proinnsias” as “Krunchie,” which I have adopted as a pen-name.
Mossy O’Connor had placed me at the bottom end of the first rank,
beside the person I sat beside in Junior School, i.e., Paddy Monahan. Paddy was
a jolly fellow, but not an ideal desk companion, for he was full of fun, and
sometimes made it difficult to pay attention to teacher.
In the previous year he had made up a war game, where two
persons marked out the movement of their armies on paper. It might have worked
as a computer game, if there were such a thing as a computer, but it was not
satisfactory as a paper game. When you played that game with Paddy, it was so contrived
that Paddy had to win. So I wrote a little poem about it, (my first ever poem),
that Paddy did not like at all. The poem goes:
I’ll tell you a story
About Paddy Baloney
Who sits beside me in school.
He’s very barmy;
He’s got an army
Drawn on paper with pencil and rule.
If you sit down beside him,
You’ll have to fight him,
With you own pencilled army, of
course.
The game is a fiddle;
You must march down the middle,
So Paddy can outflank your force.
If you protest,
I do not jest,
Paddy will insist it’s the rule.
Whatever the weather,
Paddy’s the winner.
And his foe is always the fool.
I can tell you that the poem took a big effort (and a heightened
mental state), and that I spent an entire week-end writing it out. I brought my
creation into school on Monday morning and attempted to read it out to Paddy. I
thought he would be amused, but he said, “That’s rubbish.” Disappointed, I
threw the poem into the waste paper basket.
It is not very remarkable that I should attempt to compose a
poem at seven-and-a-half, for, as I have found through parenting, children of that
age, or even a bit younger, often burst into a poetry-writing phase. What is
remarkable is that I had so competently mastered the physical skill of writing.
This was under the tutelage of my teacher in Junior School, Mrs Finucane,
Marian Finucane’s mother, who walked around the class supervising our writing
and tapping, with her ruler, the knuckles of any child who was holding the
pencil incorrectly.
One of the surprises for me that first day in Big Boys’
School was that my next door neighbour, Dessie Breen, was also in my class.
Dessie was almost a year older than me and had started Big Boys School the
previous year. His parents held him back, because they thought he was too young
for his previous class.
The three bigger Breen boys and the three Killeen boys, with
a few others, used to gather in a make-shift den at the bottom of Breen’s
garden. There we would play cards, conkers, jack-stones and marbles, sing
songs, and discuss politics and life. All our songs were borrowed, so some-one
suggested we should make up our own. Dessie composed a song and presented it at
one of our gatherings. We were not too impressed, and the song was not adopted.
(I said it sounded makey-up). It is actually very hard to compose an anthem
that does not sound corny, and most Eurovision entries and many pop-songs also
sound makey-up.
A general election took place in England at this time, and
Winston Churchill came back as Prime Minister (October 1951). My father used to
read the paper out loud at meal-times, and now quoted speculation that
Churchill might try to “take back the ports.” If so, the Norfolk Boys (with
exaggerated idea of our own military ability) were willing to play our part in
national resistance. One day we resolved, (for fun and games rather than with
serious military intent), to change the name of our little society from
“Norfolk Boys Association,” to “Norfolk Boys Army.” Roger Killeen was appointed
Commander-in-chief (subject to the Council of War consisting of the entire
membership) and we waged a successful war against the boys of the Tramway
Cottages.
One of our songs was Kevin Barry:
“… British soldiers tortured Barry,
Just because he would not tell
The names of his companions
And other things they wished to know
…”
I raised the question in the den as to what we would do if,
in the event of a national resistance, we were captured and questioned. Dessie
said he would tell lies to the interrogators.
I disagreed, as, in my view, the only effective strategy would be to say
nothing at all.
Churchill’s threat passed, and, in the heel of the hunt,
despite our boyhood enthusiasm for national defence, only one of the Keyhole
boys, Paddy Breen, when old enough, was ever to join the volunteer defence force,
the FCA (Fórsa Cosanta Áitiúil).
Several of us were, however, already in the Order of Malta,
a voluntary first-aid organisation, usually referred to as the “Knights of
Malta.” We attended classes where we learned first-aid, and went from house to
house collecting weekly subscriptions to fund our uniforms. When we got our
uniforms, we took part in parades all over Dublin.
I did very well at pretend first-aid sessions, but not so
well in the real world. I disliked being on hazard for sickness and injury, and
I disliked being in uniform, with everybody gawking at me. Attending men’s
football matches in uniform, I felt bullied by the injured men, who refused to
lie down for treatment, but grabbed my water-bottle or dettol for
self-medication, and jumped back into the field of fray without waiting for wound-cleaning
and banding. One evening I partnered an adult member of the Knights in the New
Electric Cinema, on Talbot Street, where there often was a fracas, sometimes
with knives (but nothing happened on my night). My father refused to let me
volunteer for that duty again. (He only let me go on my first stint because I
had already given my word).
We remained in the Knights of Malta for several years. One
of the rewards of exemplary service was selection to assist in a pilgrimage to
Lourdes. In 1954, my brother Jerry was selected, and I was chosen to go in
1955. I didn’t like the idea of parading around in uniform in torch-lit
processions, or of dipping in ice-cold water, or wheeling sick people around,
or all the medals and holy pictures, or funny French food; so I made my excuses
and stayed at home.
Let’s get back to Mossy O’Connor’s classroom, on my first
day in Big Boys’ School. Dessie Breen started this new school year at the top place
in the class-room. During the next few years, as Mossy applied his own
assessment to the streaming, I was gradually to move up from the bottom to the
top of the first rank, and soon enough would be sitting beside Dessie. Then
Dessie was to drop back a desk or two.
Paddy Spain was one of the boys in the seat in front of me
on day one. I remember this, because of a remark he made that his father decried
Compulsory Irish. In response, I retorted, “What about compulsory English,
Compulsory Maths, Compulsory Religious Doctrine, and so on?” for, as far as we
kids were concerned, all subjects were compulsory.
This exchange underlines a difference in attitude
(reflecting parental views) over one of the emerging contentious issues of the
day: how the national desire to enhance our cultural, as well as economic,
independence from England, by promoting the Irish Language, placed an onerous
educational burden on individuals and, perhaps, used resources that could be
put to more practical objectives.
Earlier that year, there had been a General Election in
Ireland. After Mass, one Sunday, a political rally was held outside St. Peter’s
Church.
I remember an intense, young candidate, Declan Costello of
Fine Gael, standing on the platform and declaring, “’Bread and Butter’ is all
that Matters.” (Actually what he said was “’Bread and Butter’ is what matters,”
but I prefer to remember the first version). It is peculiar that this sticks in
my memory. I joined a bunch of kids marching up Saint Peter’s Road singing,
“Starvation once again;
Starvation once again;
No bread, no butter,
No tea, no sugar;
Starvation once again.”
I suppose “’Bread and Butter’ is what matters” is a
paraphrase for “It’s the economy, stupid.” Despite this being the issue of the
day, the economy continued in decline, with massive emigration.
For me, and for children of teachers, civil servants and
bank officials, the prospects of employment in Ireland were reasonably good,
for our home environment ensured we could aspire for similar positions
ourselves. Some other classmates had reasonable prospects: Dessie Breen’s dad
was a member of a printer’s union, which preserved jobs for family members; Paddy
Spain’s dad could bring him into the family business (furniture-making and
upholstery); Paddy Reilly had reasonable expectations of following his dad into
Guinness’, and there were, no doubt, other examples of this kind.
For many of the boys in the class, however, the prospect of
employment in Ireland was grim, and they knew it. The country was in depression
and decline. Their fathers were unemployed or worked in “dead-end” or casual
jobs. Industrial wages, which were already low after “the economic war” of the
1930s, had actually fallen during the recent World War. It is not surprising
that there was a general atmosphere of disaffection and cynicism.
When Dublin Corporation made vegetable plots available,
during the war years, in Glasnevin, they were not taken up by the unemployed,
but rather by Civil Servants, Guards and Teachers, using their spare time. The
unemployed and insecure workers regarded voluntary effort as denying work to
the unemployed, as well as putting their dole, and associated benefits, at
risk, (as the turf-delivery men were to find out).
One day, Mossy asked “all those whose father is out of work”
to stand up. On that day, my father happened to be in hospital to have varicose
veins removed, so I stood up, along with, I suppose, about a third of the
class. Mossy looked at me and said, “Sit down, Killeen.”
Those who stood up were to get a small bottle of milk (1/3
of a pint) and a sandwich every day. This scheme varied from year to year. Mostly,
it was open to all the students, but, at other times, cutbacks limited it to
children of the unemployed. On Mondays
and Wednesdays we had cheese sambos, Tuesdays and Thursdays brawn, and Fridays
a currant bun.
An attitudinal study of my classmates would find that the
majority were generous, cooperative, fair-minded and sharing, but that there was
a substantial minority who were mean, clique-ish and acquisitive. While the
first group was reared to ask “what can I do,” the second was focused on: “what
can I get?”
“Finders Keepers, Losers Seekers,” was a motto applied as
well as enunciated. Many classmates considered it legitimate to keep items
found. Nor had an item to be irretrievably lost – it only needed to be left
lying around without supervision. So, if you wanted to keep your possessions,
you had to mind them.
Some of the boys boasted of using the “Free Counter,” meaning
lifting things from shops like Woolworth’s, without paying. Surplus goods thus
acquired were often swapped and bartered in class and in the schoolyard.
Many of the kids had money to buy chips. When I asked at
home to have real (chip-shop) chips for dinner, my father asked: “How much does
a single of chips cost?” I replied what the price was, and he said, “You could
get a stone of potatoes in Neville’s shop for that. Chips are clearly a waste
of money. You can have fried potatoes instead, which are just as good.” Fried
potatoes were a re-hash of boiled potatoes, sliced and then fried on the pan.
Tasty as they were, they were not chips!
Given the cultural differences in my class-room, it is not
surprising that my best friend was to be a boy from a similar background to my
own – Rooney Galvin, one of four brothers, whose parents were from the country
and whose father, a teacher, had fought in the War of Independence and, like my
father, had taken on a vegetable plot in Glasnevin. The Galvin brothers were
friends with the Killeen brothers, and often visited each other’s houses.
Mossy O’Connor, the teacher, from rural Ireland himself (County
Kerry), shared an outlook like my parents. He gave up his spare time to organise
the school’s football and hurling teams, as well as serving voluntarily on the
committee of the Primary Schools League.
Besides being a strong supporter of Gaelic games and the Irish Language and
culture, I remember him as favouring Clann
na Poblachta economic policies, such as Afforestation and Import Substitution.
(My father, however, was cynical about protectionism, which he thought was unconscionably
exploited by businessmen who charged excessive prices for poor-quality goods). By
the time I left Primary School, I had come to believe that it would be wiser
for the government to develop Ireland as a hub of trade; I was before my time.
Mossy’s enthusiasm and even his constant use of the bamboo cane were to fail to
evoke positive nationalism in his pupils, in the cynical climate of the fifties.
He did, however, evoke enthusiasm for football and hurling.
The first day that Mossy took the class to the Phoenix Park
to play football, he hired a coach. This was so that we would know in future
where to go, in the park. On all subsequent occasions, we had to make our own
way. The playing fields in the Phoenix Park are about three miles from the
school. There was no public “active open space,” in which to play football, in
Phibsborough or Cabra. Of course, we played football, hurling, cricket, and,
occasionally, rounders, on the road, all to street rules.
In the schoolyard one day, my brother Roger, three years
older than me, introduced me to the school’s champion footballer. We were due
to play in the semi-final against Ringsend, a team with a very tough
reputation. I asked the champion if we stood a chance. He said, “We’ll beat the
shit out of them.”
I thought Mossy’s use of the cane was fair and reasonable.
One particular boy got caned every day, but this was because he was incorrigible
in disobeying a simple instruction. He always drew the margin on his copy book
freehand, instead of using a Ruler, as instructed. He could have avoided the
caning simply by using some straight object to draw his margin.
The lash of a cane gave a sharp pain, but this was external
and short-lasting, not like a migraine or a toothache, and hurt a lot less than
a disparaging remark.
Mossy had a number of techniques for waking up a somnolent
class. One was to open the windows wide and let a great blast of cold air into
the room. Another was to march the entire class down the stairs into the yard
to do physical exercises. A third was to order us out of our desks, to stand
around the walls of the room, whereupon he would throw a question at each one
in turn, with cane in hand to strike the hand of anyone who gave a wrong
answer.
I, of course, never really deserved a caning myself, unlike
my classmates, but was pleased to receive the occasional lash of the cane, so
as not to be differentiated from the others.
How should you respond to a caning? I shared the view of my
classmates that a worthy boy would not flinch or whinge when caned. He would
stand erect and show no pain or emotion. Teachers, however, wanted the punished
child to show some form of remorse. So, on one occasion when I showed
indifference to a light punishment, Mossy responded by giving me six of the
best on each hand. I can understand the teacher’s attitude. While we thought
that a show of indifference was an act of courage, teachers saw it as
impudence.
I do not recall Mossy ever punishing anybody for playing
foreign games (as happened in Christian Brothers’ schools). However, I have met
an ex-pupil, of a later class, who says he and a pal were punished by Mossy for
taking part in the Cabra Soccer Streets’ League (but, technically, for using
the school name without authority). By this man’s account, Mossy referred the two
soccer-players to Mr Nevin for a severe caning. Mr Nevin, known as “Killer,”
was able to apply the cane more forcefully than anyone else.
Soccer was more suitable than Gaelic football for street
play (since the ball could be kept low), so, outside of school, it was more
popular. This was the choice of the choirboys and the Knights of Malta (whose
membership overlapped), on their outings.
While the Breens, next door, were in the Scouts, the
Killeens were choir boys. (I wanted to join the scouts, but was not allowed. I
gather that my father, who trusted priests and teachers, was not so sure of
scout masters). We usually had choir practice on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 7.30
pm. Paddy Somerville, Jerry’s school-teacher, the choir-master, had the key of
the boys’ stairs, so we entered by the Infants’ or Girls’ door, and proceeded
up the internal stone stairs to Paddy Somerville’s class-room. Father Vincent
Allen was chaplain of the choir, as well as being manager of the school, and he
had control of the key.
Mass in those days was in Latin, and I had the pleasure of
taking part in choir performances of some very beautiful songs: motets by
Palestrina and Mozart, as well as Benedictine Plain Chant. My favourite motet
was Regina Coeli, by Antonio Lotti, sung
on Easter Sunday at 12 mid-day to a packed church. All during lent, the great organ had been
silent. On Easter Sunday, as the congregation entered the church, the choir
assembled silently in the gallery, about 12 men and 50 boys. No whispering, but
treading softly, softly, as we took up our positions. The opening note was
generated quietly by tuning fork and passed around. The conductor raised his
two hands, holding the attention of all, and then suddenly the silence was
broken by the explosive sound of the choir at full voice, supported by the
organ at full volume; and the words, “Regina Coeli, Laetare Allelulia” (“Queen
of Heaven, Rejoice, Alleluia”) burst out thunderously. Nobody has ever equalled
our version. The song can be heard on YouTube by searching “Antonio Lotti
Regina Coeli;” however, never as strong and surprising as ours!
St Peter’s Church Choir was probably the second best church
choir in Dublin. The Palestrina Choir,
attached to the Pro-Cathedral, was reckoned to be the best. They poached members
from the other choirs around the city. My brother, Roger, was a beautiful
soprano, as was his mate Robert Higgs, and both of these were recruited into
the Palestrina Choir, to the
detriment of St Peter’s. Bobby had leukaemia, and was to die in his teens.
As well as singing at Christmas and Easter, and some other
Feast Days, we sang at Benediction after 12 o’clock Mass every Sunday (except
during the school’s Summer holidays). After lunch we would meet the choir-boys
again in the Phoenix Park for a game of football. The game was Soccer, except
that a team was not limited to eleven players, but consisted of as many as
turned up divided into two teams.
One day in the Phoenix Park, I was shot.
Some boys from Cabra West were having fun throwing their
weight around. One of them had an air-gun, and it was with this that I was
shot. Fortunately, he was some distance away; and the pellet, which hit me in
the fleshy base of the thumb, while it gave me a sharp pain, did not have
enough force to do much damage. Did we stand up to the Cabra Kids and fight
back? No, we fled the scene; there were only a handful of us there that day.
The full list of teachers in the Big Boys’ School, to the
best of my memory, at the time, was: Mr Piggott, Mr Sullivan, Mr Somerville,
(my brother, Jerry’s, teacher), Mr Nevin and Mr Lacy, in the long corridor; and
Mr O’Shea, Mr O’Brien, (my brother, Roger’s, teacher), Mr Woods and Mr
O’Connor, in the short corridor, nine teachers in all. There must have been two
classes at each standard, making eight classes, and, in addition, Mr Woods took
the pupils who stayed on after sixth standard to wait for their 14th
birthday, when they would no longer be obliged by law to go to school.
Not all teachers were zealots like Mossy O’Connor. He alone
looked after all the hurling and football, giving up his free time. This meant
he did not have time for lucrative side-lines that other teachers took up. He
remained single, so had more free time for ball games than the married
teachers. Other teachers were often less energetic in the class-room, bringing
less passion into the work, some never even using the cane at all. The end
result was that all of Mossy’s boys passed the Primary Examination, while there
were multiple failures in some other classes. I would rather have the
disciplinarian and succeed than the soft teacher and fail.
Many of the songs I play and sing to this day (for example,
in Clareville Centre at lunch-hour on Thursdays), are songs I learned in Mossy
O’Connor’s class.
If each of nine teachers had a class of 50 boys, there must
have been about 450 boys in the school. How did we all fit in the little school
yard? We were let out to the toilets one class at a time, to prevent a rush on
the facilities. In general, assembling for school, we milled around the school
yard until the bell rang, and did not consider it cramped or small at the time.
At the end of our first day in Big School, we were severely
warned against running on the corridor or tussling on the stairs. When the
school-bell rang, one class would be released at a time, to avoid accidents on
the stairs.
The classes on the long corridor were obliged to use the
terrifying iron stairs, but, fortunately, our class, being on the short
corridor, was to use the internal, stone stairs.
On the stairs, I got the fright of my life. Andrew Eager
(not his real name), a sturdy boy, much heavier than me, began to push me
around and impose himself on me. I had read enough comics to know that if you
submitted to a bully, your life would be hell, and it would be very hard to get
out of it. I drew the awful conclusion that I had to take decisive action here
and now to stop this potential bullying at the very beginning.
From my experience of nose-bleeds, I believed that the nose
is a vulnerable part. As Andy pushed and poked me, I focused on his nose, and
when he pulled back a little bit from me, giving me room, I swung my right fist
with every ounce of strength I could muster. I landed a whopper right smack on
the side of his nose, which instantly spouted blood.
As Andy stumbled back in shock and surprise, I calmly stepped
down the stairs, out into the schoolyard, across the yard to the gate, up the
lane and home.
I guess now the reason Andy had a go at me was that he was extremely
stressed after the first day’s treatment in senior school, and chose me as a
random vulnerable target on which to release his pent-up anger.
When I arrived home, my mother cried: “O Francie, you have
been fighting! Look at the state of you.”
I said: “You should see the state of the other fellow!”
- Francie Born
- Precursor
- Jack is on the Moor
- In The Womb
- My Mystery Woman
- The Pottie and the Boogeyman
- My Darling May
- Conversations with Mother
- Seánie
- Starting School
- The Sodality Film
- Whistle and Flute
- How Marian Finucane nearly blighted my childhood
- Big Boys' School
- Home
- McCormack's
- On Our Knees
- Genesis of a Song
- Why Bray the Broth?
- Sockface
- Norfolk Boys Army
- Last of Lusmagh
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