Whistle and Flute

I was nine (I think) when Santa brought a tin whistle each for me and my two brothers, a black, Clarke tin whistle in the key of C.



This whistle was made of genuine tin, painted black; with a wooden mouth piece, it had a flute-like tone, but was not good for high notes. It was the original penny whistle invented by Robert Clarke and manufactured in Manchester from 1840. (Whistles, generically, are the most ancient instruments, bar simple percussion, and date back to the early  stone age).

We had not asked for whistles. As usual on Christmas morning, we were roused from sleep at five o'clock in the morning. The three of us were members of St Peter's Church choir, and we sang at the dawn mass, i.e., at six o'clock in the morning.

Before my time, St Peter's used to have Midnight Mass on Christmas morning, but the flood of intoxicated men coming for Midnight Mass on the way home from the pub had persuaded the Vincention Priests to opt for the dawn mass instead.

Parish History: St. Peter’s Church has been under the care of the Vincentian Community since 1838. It became a parish in 1974, and part of the Team Ministry of Cabra, Cabra West and Phibsborough in 2009. Navan Road joined in 2013.

I think this year of 1952 was a year when the whole family rose for the early morning mass, parents, three boys and two younger sisters. (In other years the sisters were too young to rouse that early, and the boys were on their own). We were allowed to peek into the Sitting Room to check that Santa had come, but were not allowed to touch the toys until later. (There was a fireplace in both the Dining Room and the Sitting Room. Santa came down the Sitting Room chimney, to avoid burning his backside in the Dining Room fireplace, where there was a live fire).

Rising so early, I was strangely elated. This elation continued throughout the choir performance.

Later on in life, I was to gather that this early morning elation was probably part of a migraine. Classical migraines are caused by inadequate oxygen supply in the brain, and have about four separate stages:  (1) Positive Aura, (elation and paresthesia) as the brain responds to an unexpected demand (2) Negative Aura (anaesthesia and disruption of cognitive function such as sight and speech) as the brain runs out of fuel (3) Hemispherical Headache, as the blood vessels swell up in an attempt to supply more blood and (4) Resolution, as water is released from the tissues, and blood supply is normalised.

During the early stages of a classical migraine, water passes from the blood vessels to the surrounding tissues, by osmosis, because of the fact that there is too much water (and not enough fuel) in the blood. (In osmosis, water passes through a membrane, like skin or artery wall, from the less-salty side to the more-salty side). Later on, that wonderful organ, the liver, manages to pump salt back into the blood vessels. Salt in the blood then causes osmosis to work in the other direction, and water is pulled back into the blood from the tissues, is passed to the kidney, and then expelled in a mighty flow of urine and a return to cognitive normality. (Sometimes the expulsion of water can be more violently done, i.e., by vomiting. Brother Gallagher, my form master in first year of secondary school, three years after the current events, suggested to my parents that I was subject to "sick stomach," which supposedly explained my headaches and associated symptoms including vomiting).

My early morning elation this Christmas morning, if it was part of a migraine, was probably caused by missing a period of deep sleep by rising too early. All was well; I would be back in bed before the negative aura would have set in. So, in my state of elation, Christmas morning choir was a magical experience.

Originally, four years before then, when Roger, at seven years of age, joined the choir, Father Hastings was in charge, and the choir had a large repertoire of traditional Christmas carols, like
I Saw Three Ships:


and
Ding Dong Merrily on High:


Father Hastings had passed on; Father Vincent Allen had taken charge of the choir and arranged the appointment of a professional musical director, Paddy Somerville. The new era took a more classical direction, and grander, four-part, scores.

Father Hasting's quaint, old, carol books, hand-written and reproduced by a forgotten technology, were still around, but printed scores were now more in vogue. I had a nostalgic desire for the old songs I vaguely remembered Roger singing.

Father Hastings' 1940s duplication machine was  probably turned by hand crank, rather than the electronic version in the following 1960s presentation of this forgotten technology:



The principle carol at our Midnight Mass now (actually from an Anglican rather than a Catholic origin) was "See Amid the Winter Snow," in four parts, with a wonderful chorus of:
Hail! Thou ever-blessed morn!
Hail, redemption's happy dawn!
Sing through all Jerusalem,
Sing through all Jeruslaem 
Sing; sing; 
Christ is born: 
Christ is born in Bethlehem.


There was a new boy in the choir this year, about my age, Robert Barrett, son of the owner of the toy shop on Mary Street. He was not from the immediate vicinity of St Peter's Church, like the rest of us, but came to the choir through his parents' acquaintance with Father Allen. Robert asked me what I was getting for Christmas, and I said I was expecting a Stencil Set. (This would be a box containing colouring pens, watercolour paints, paper and stencils). Robert was amazed that I was expecting no more than this. There apparently was no limit to the abundance that he was expecting himself. I resolved, in my own peculiar way, to show him how satisfying a stencil set would be.

After singing at six o'clock Mass, we went back to bed for an hour or two, before rising, refreshed, to enjoy a quick go at our toys, and breakfast of corn-flakes, rashers and sausages, with an apple and orange for afters. (Porridge we had every normal day, but Christmas was special). Then the three boys headed back to church to sing at Mid-day Mass. First, the choir assembled in a school-room for a quick rehearsal, then on to the Church for 12 o'clock. Before heading back to the choir, I took out a sheet of coloured paper from my stencil set, speckled pink and orange in colour, and onto it I stencilled a butterfly pattern with yellow and red, making an amazing picture. I rolled this up, and, at choir practice, showed my masterpiece to Robert. He was amazed. "Did you paint that?" he exclaimed.

Red Butterfly on a pink and orange background (reproduced from memory; the original stencilled lines were straighter than my current shaky hand, but the overall effect was similar, I think).

After Midday Mass, the three boys returned home, as mother was putting the Christmas Dinner on the table. Goose was our Christmas dish, in accordance with country tradition, since both my parents were from the country. The goose was actually sent up to us from our country cousins, (in return for  clothes and haymaking assistance going in the other direction). While I enjoyed the goose, I was a little jealous of my neighbours, since all the other boys had Turkey for Christmas Dinner, which I had never tasted.

For desert, we had Plumb Pudding with whipped cream! Only delicious!

The three boys, of course, had great fun blowing our whistles on Christmas Day, not very musically but quite noisily. After the novelty had worn off, Roger and Jerry paid little attention to the instrument. They were both extroverts and more inclined to be out playing and socialising with their peers than isolating themselves with a musical instrument. I was the introvert. I liked drawing, painting, knitting, pen-knife carving, fret-work, draft playing, and writing; and enjoyed my own company.

Soon Mrs Breen, next door, was to remark, "You always know when Francie is at home, because you will hear the whistle blowing."

"Whistle and Flute," is Cockney Slang for "Sunday Suit," Except that Londoners don't say "Whistle," they say "Weasel," as I have learned from Anthony McGowan, who was reared in the Goldhawk Pub in Shepherd's Bush. About a mile and a half from the Goldhawk, there is another pub called "The Eagle."

Eagle Pub, City Road, London

Around 1850, a Music-hall song was made up in which the Eagle featured, as well as the "Weasel." "Pop" is Cockney slang for "Pawn Shop," and the song goes:

Half a pound of tuppenny rice,
Half a pound of treacle.
That's the way the money goes;
Pop goes the Weasel.
Up and down the village street;
In and out at Eagle;
That's the way the money goes;
Pop goes the Weasel.
Around 1850, you could buy a pound of rice in London for two pence, and half a pound would keep a working-class family fed for a week, together with a tin of treacle to flavour it. Short of money, the dad's suit would be pawned. In other words: "Pop goes the Weasel and Flute," or, simply, "Pop goes the Weasel." On Friday, the dad would get his wages and redeem the suit from the pawn-shop for church on Sunday. However, soon he was back in the Eagle spending his money on drink. "In and out at Eagle!" that's the way the money goes, so, soon the suit is pawned again. The tune is probably an old dance tune; the words being added around 1850 and much documented in the subsequent decades.

Of course, since then the tune has changed from being a music-hall song to being a nursery rhyme, with much corruption of the original words, and American versions came hot on the heals of the English.

I was not much good at playing by ear; and it was very hard work trying to figure out notes from sheet music, so I used to make up my own tunes most of the time. The Clarke's whistle had a flute-like, wooden, sound. It was good on the lower notes, but not so hot on the upper scale; so my tunes tended to stick to the lower notes. One of my  tunes, I put words to as follows:

There's a man with a can,
With an old billy can;
And he's spent all his life
On the road.
Now that man with the can,
With the old billy can;
He's a tramp from his birth
I am told.
There were a few more verses; but it was not just a song: it explored a career option. A tramp did not need secondary schooling or a degree. He was free from the trouble and strife of siblings and parents. He could go where he liked; hunt for rabbits and small birds; pick sticks off the hedges and make a fire to cook his bits and pieces. He didn't need fancy clothes, but just enough rags to keep himself warm at night. He had no boss or landlord or electricity bill, and the whole world was his oyster. If he had a suit, he could keep it in a "left luggage" lock-up place and only take it out when he wanted to turn up someplace special.

There were a few itinerants who came around our way. One was the Ballyhoogey Man, a pedlar who travelled round from door to door with a suit-case of small items for sale, bars of soap, tins of polish and shoe and clothes brushes. My dad said he came from Ballyhoogey in County Cork. One day, when he called, mom was too busy in the kitchen and told me to take money off the mantel-piece and buy something from the Ballyhoogey Man, a tin of polish or something. I asked him how much was a tin of Mansion House polish. When he told me the price, I was surprised. I had been to the shop, you see, for my mom, so I knew the shop price, but the Ballyhoogey Man's price was much  higher. I didn't take the polish, but bought a shoe-brush instead. Then I reported back to mom, but she said the price didn't matter: it was just to support the poor man. Poor man! He could make a fortune (perhaps).

Another itinerant who came around was a travelling musician who came of an evening about once a year. He would stand under the green lamp-post and play a dance tune on his fiddle. Then he would knock on the doors and accept donations. I thought if I was him I would play more than one tune, and  give the people a chance to come out and listen. As it was, he was barely started when he was collecting and gone.

There were others who came round from house to house begging. Some of these were genuine tinkers who could tell your fortune or fix your tin pots and pans (a trade that was nearly gone), but most were professional beggars who were quite wealthy, but pretended to be poor.

A real tramp was like none of these. He simply hiked around the country minding his own business, and only asking for assistance when he needed it. A tin whistle would be a good tool in that profession, because you could play the whistle by the side of the street and accept donations in return for providing entertainment. Thus, you would avoid the shame of begging. Not that begging was shameful in itself, it was just the shame of someone like my neighbour, Mrs Mac Broin, looking at you disparagingly.

Mother did not think this was a good career option, and was wont to  point out how cold and wet it is in Ireland. Perhaps I could go and be a tramp in Australia or some other place where it is warm and dry.

I liked to recite poetry at that time. I had an excellent poem in English by Padraig Colum, the Old Woman of the Roads, which dealt with this career option. This woman's great desire was to be able to leave the life of the road

"O to have a little house;
To own the hearth and stool and all,
The heaped-up sods upon the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall .."



My poem in Irish was

"O áit go háit ba bhreá mo shiúl ...
Is ba bheo mo chroí i lár mo chléibh"
(From place to place I loved to walk,
and my heart was alive inside my breast.)
We had concerts in front of the sliding doors that separated the dining room from the sitting room. Whoever was performing would stand in front of the door and do his song or his recitation, and the others would sit on the floor facing him. Beside my siblings, one other came in and took part in the concerts. This was Mary Brady. Ostensibly, she was my sister Mary's friend, but she was really fond of Jerry. She would sing, beautifully, "The Wild Colonial Boy" and "Jerusalem."

After Christmas, the weather became very cold and dry. All the boys watched hopefully for snow, but the weather remained dry, day after day. In those days, coal-men came with horse-drawn carts, and carried the coal in sacks in through the houses to the back yards. The keyhole kids steeped a coal sack in a bucket of water filled at the kitchen sink. Then we attempted to make a slide by dragging the soaken sack along the road. This left a wet track on the ground, which we hoped would freeze to ice. Sometimes it worked fairly well. We did this in the afternoon after three o'clock, when the sun was sinking and the frost was setting in. Mostly, after a dry night, again, there was little remains of our slide in the morning.

Then, one morning, we found the ground covered in a light smattering of snow. There was too little snow in the keyhole to make a slide, but down the steps, in the Tramway Cottages, there was enough snow and  frost to make a gigantic slide. All the kids from the surrounding roads assembled in the Tramway Cottages.

From Google Maps


In those days, there were no fridges or freezers, or, indeed, larders, and shopping was done every day. Our instructions, going out to play, were not to go past the silver lamp-post. In this way, when messages were needed, the ma could call a kid from the road and send him to the shops. This day, however, all the keyhole kids had ignored the instruction and assembled around the magnificent slide in the Tramway Cottages. There were no kids in the keyhole. Mrs Killeen, pregnant as she was, saw no option but to head for the shops (on Connaught Street Bridge) herself. To get to the shops, she had to traverse across the magnificent slide. Heavily pregnant, she slipped on the slide and fell onto her backside. We all thought this was the funniest thing ever, and had a great laugh.

A probable consequence was that mother was taken to the Rotunda and the baby  came a little early.

When she came home, all members of the family  had to give time rocking the cradle, or, rather, the pram, which doubled as a cradle. Mother had two rather poor lullabys that she sang as she rocked:

Go to sleep my baby;
Close your weary eyes.
Wipe the tear, my baby dear
From your eye;

and, from Bing Crosby:

Toora loora looral, Toor a Loora Lie
Toora loora loora; hush now don't you cry.
Toora loora looral; Toora Loora Lie;
Toora Loora loora; That's an Irish Lullaby.

I made up my own lullaby for baby Margaret, with the aid of the tin whistle:

The Dreary Night is drawing near;
So, go to sleep my baby dear.
Come, wipe the tear drop from your eye,
And go to sleep without a sigh.
Tra la, La la, La la, Lala Lala, La La.
O Baby Dear, why do you weep;
Why do you not go off to sleep;
Then happinesss and joy'd be yours
For all the dreary, dark night hours.
Tra la, La la, La la, Lala Lala, La La.

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