A Farm Workers
Story
Inchigeela, Co. Cork.
In the 1930s, the late Seán O
Críodáin, beannacht De lena hanam, who was a
schoolmate of mine, sat and passed an examination
and was awarded a scholarship to Carysfort
Preparatory Training College in Dublin. His
first appointment was to a three- teacher school in
Rathpeacon, the most easterly townland in the parish
of Blarney, in the Diocese of Cloyne. In a few
years the principal retired and Sean was upgraded.
The school was comparatively new, built in 1932, on
a site purchased from a local farmer named Dick
Walsh, near the Mallow road.
Mr. Walsh
had a daughter married to a Mullane man at Rathduff,
halfway between Cork and Mallow. When a little
girl of theirs got to schoolgoing age it was a
goodly distance to Grenagh on one hand, or Burnfort
on the other. It is now 1945 and though the
war is over, there is still no petrol for private
cars. It was decided, or agreed, that the
child, Mary, came down to the grandparents, uncles
and aunts and attend Rathpeacon School. Sean became
friendly with the Walsh's and they with him.
Walsh senior had retired. The son had a
Milk Contract with a milkman named Bill Flynn at
Dillon's Cross on the North side of the City, four
miles away. In the 40's, we had long
warm summers and milk wouldn't hold or 'keep' for 24
hours. There was as yet no electricity and the
fridge was not invented. Consequently milk had
to be delivered twice a day, 8.30 in the morning and
4.30 in the afternoon. These deliveries
occupied much of the farmer's time. Sean Ó
Criodáin was asked if he knew any young fellow west
along who would be willing to come along and do the
needful. Sean contacted his brother Danny and
mentioned that perhaps one of the Mannings of
Teernaspideoga would be interested. Danny gave
me the letter to read. A good character was
given of the Walsh's, and I have no doubt but the
same was given of me to them. There was no
mention of their being extensive farmers. Of
course I jumped at the job. It would be cushy,
or so I thought. Little did I know what I was
letting myself in for.
In a few days a letter
arrived telling me to come along, and directions on
how to get there, and to bring my ration book.
Tea, sugar, butter and flour were still rationed.
I bought a bicycle from the late Jack Sweeney of
Tooreenlahard - he lived near me at the time.
I tied up my few belongings and headed on for
Coachford, Dripsey, Canon's Cross, Cloghroe, Tower,
Blarney, Monard Shovel Mills, which was in it's
heyday at the time, up the Boreendarg, on to the
Mallow Road and there was the School, and
Walsh's a few hundred yards further on. It was
the month of September. They had threshed the
week before. I arrived around mid-day.
Jim, my boss, introduced himself and Mary, a sturdy
lively girl who was to call me in the morning at 7
o'clock.
After a meal the afternoon was spent
tidying up the stallyard and washing and greasing
the milk-butt (as it was called) and the runners.
It was shaped much the same as the old farmer's
manure butt, but was a lighter structure and mounted
on springs. A nine inch-wide length of board
stretched across served as a seat. In a few
hours a brother Sean arrived home from Dunlops.
Later, another brother Dermot arrived from the O.K.
Garages, and yet again another brother Dick arrived
home from University, where he was doing medicine.
He qualified in 1948 and took up duty or practice in
Wakefield Hospital in Leeds. That wasn't all -
the next to appear was a posh lady off a bus.
Her name was Nellie, a Milliner in Mannix &
Culhane's in Washington Street.
Boy, was I
embarrassed and felt very much out of place.
All were strong hefty men and I discovered later
that they were on the local tug-of-war team.
The old man used boast that he had four sons to
shoulder his coffin to Grenagh Cemetary.
Strangely enough, three of them have long since gone
to their eternal reward.
With such a large
number in the household there was no way I could be
accommodated therein. I was given a bed in a
loft over a storehouse of various farm equipment - a
harrow, a scuffler, a seed machine, as well as
two-prong pikes, four prong pikes and shovels, but
no foodstuff. My room was approached by a step
ladder. I say "step", not rungs. As yet
there was no toilet facilities in either building.
A two-inch-square wooden chute, out through the wall
at the back, served as a urinal. It was
stuffed with some material to keep out the draught.
Rural Electrification had not come this way just
yet, but households were being canvassed before I
left. A candle and matches got me to bed, and
write a note home. I felt extremely
down-hearted and disappointed. However, the
bed was comfortable and I slept well.
Morning
came, Mary called, cows driven in, milking by hand,
pony rounded up and harnessed, a hurried breakfast
and off we went, Jim accompanying. Rathpeacon
is a high townland - well, at least it's not level
like the adjoining townlands - down Sweeney's Hill,
on to the Commons Road, over Blackpool Bridge, into
the Watercourse Road, Leitrim Street, Coburg Street,
McCurtain Street, up Summer Hill to St. Luke's,
where I was to collect the Examiner each morning,
and woe betide me if I should forget, up
Ballyhooley Road to Dillon's Cross and there was
O'Flynn's at No. 152 Sun Row. At this stage
now the delivery would be down to the one run per
day. I was introduced to O'Flynn, his wife,
two sons and two daughters, each having their own
areas, delivering milk in pints and quarts from door
to door. The Contract was for 16 gallons per
day, or as near as. If the supply showed
slackening off, an extra milking cow was purchased.
We emptied our churns, and on the way home Jim took
me to another O'Flynn's in Oliver Plunkett St.,
butchers, where I was to collect rashers and
sausages every Saturday. Eugene Sullivan,
Lios, worked here. Next on to Rice's Cash
Stores in Grand Parade where I was to collect the
week's groceries - this was a standing order.
Next, to Kingston's in Shandon Street where I was to
call occasionally for sheep's heads for greyhounds,
and lastly to McLernon's at Blackpool Bridge for
three pr. bread each day. There were no cars
or lorries or trucks on the streets, only all horses
and ponies. My pony would stay 'put' at my
stops provided I secured one wheel with a short
length of chain and a hook.
From the highest
point of the land on a clear day I could see Shehy,
like an upturned eggcup, some forty miles away in
the distance. The highland of Mashanaglish
outside Macroom hid the view of Douce and Doughill.
A view of the three peaks could be seen, again, on a
clear day from a point a few hundred yards past the
Fox and Hounds Pub on the road to Templemichael from
Dillon's Cross. Come Saturday night and my pay
was beside my tea-plate 1.5/-, 25 shillings,
and my card stamped. After a year the pay
increased to 1.8/-, and I had 1.11/-
when I left in 1947. There was no half-day or
day-off, or holiday. It would be many a long
day before a body would be a millionaire on that
kind of money of 25 shillings per week of seven
days.
Stretches of the Mallow Road and the Cork
to Dublin Railway could be seen from every part of
the land. When three buses went out in the
evening it was time to stop,
one bus for
Newmarket, one for Limerick and one for
Newcastlewest, and when a mail train arrived from
Dublin it would be 6 o'clock. Should it occur
that we wouldn't see the buses, we would hear the
Angelus Bells or the hooters from the Sunbeam and
Gouldings factories.
One morning, a year later
in 1946, I had delivered my milk and was returning
to the farm. I had traveled twenty yards, when, lo
and behold, a link in the ridgeband gave way and the
shafts dropped down, not to the ground, but as far
as the chains of the britchen allowed. The
pony, which was normally an easy going animal,
dashed off at an alarming rate, and no amount of
pulling or tugging would get her to slow down.
Off down Ballyhooly Road and Summerhill to the
Coliseum, three quarters of a mile, when I got on
the level I thought I could get her in check, but
no! Passersby stared at me, taking me to be a
ferocious driver. I can tell you it was no
laughing matter. "An té ná bhfuil láider, ní
foláir do beit glic". What did I do, but guide
her on to a tubular bus sign and got one shaft
inside it. That held her, but with the force
of the impact, I was pitched forward over the pony's
head on to the street. Luckily I wasn't hurt
but was in shock. It was my good fortune that
the harness had no spikes sticking up. Several
people came to my assistance with twine and straps.
The sign was bent over from the vertical to the
horizontal. I cannot remember if there was a
Garda on the scene. A week later Walsh got a
bill for 10/-. He wasn't very pleased. I
could have been killed.
Come 1947 and
rationing was discontinued and petrol was beginning
to flow once more. A method of farming that
Walsh and his neighbour had was to club together on
a Saturday when the brothers were off, and hire a
lorry to draw four, five or six loads from the
Corporation Dungyard. Refuse at that time was
mostly horse dung and household ashes. It was
filled and emptied with four prong pikes. This
was brought along and emptied near the heap of
farmyard manure, which was a feature on every farm
at the time. This heap was mostly straw and
was cut in berches with a hay knife. The
occasional bits of glass and broken bottles were to
be found in the Corporation manure. On a day
when Jim and self were forking over the manure, we
put the glass to one side on the ground, to be
collected later. Teatime came up, off with the
boots and in. When we had sat at the table the
old man went out and when he saw where we had left
the glass he came in in a fury and banged our two
heads together. It hurt me pretty well , and I
can tell you, as well as hurting physically, it hurt
my dignity. I had a good mind to smash my cup
into his face, but I held my peace. He never
apologised or said he was sorry. He was the
type of man who would do the same on the morrow, if
the occasion warranted. I could never care one
whit for him after that, and I left soon after.