OCCASIONALLY OUR FATHER’S BUSINESS took him to Dublin for a couple of days. For such trips he would travel by train. On one of these trips he took Brian and me to the railway station in a taxi. On the return journey we decided that it would be opportune, in his absence, to launch a boat that I had made. My interest in boats and indeed in having one of my own arose from watching the boats that carried turf on the Grand Canal. Nobody in their senses, other than myself, would recognize the ‘boat’ I had assembled. In reality it was only the framework of an old, discarded pram that had pieces of wood nailed to it. Undaunted, we carried the ‘boat’ to a deep pool in the corner of a field. We lowered it carefully onto the water, an exercise that was far from easy as there were steep banks with the water a couple of feet below. The ‘boat’ remained on the surface of the water for about five seconds, then it sank slowly to the bottom. Had it floated for a few minutes it is almost certain that one or other of us would have gone on board – and at the time neither of us could swim.
Summer evenings in Tullamore were often devoted to croquet. We all played – our father, Gearóid, Brian, Róisín, Fergus and I – on the spacious lawn at the front of the house. Our father had bought the croquet set, a good hickory one, at an auction. Anyone who has played the game will know that there is a lot more to it than driving the ball through a series of iron hoops. It is superior to pitch and putt because the rules allow you, indeed encourage you, to upset your opponents and deflect them from achieving their objectives.
Should you succeed in making a cannon on another ball, one which is perhaps positioned to go through a hoop, you earn an extra shot. Before taking this extra shot you are allowed to reposition your own ball in the most advantageous position, providing it remains in contact with the other player’s ball. The outcome, if you play this properly, will ensure that your ball goes where you wish, perhaps through a hoop, and simultaneously your opponent’s ball is driven off the pitch or maybe off the lawn altogether if your shot is sufficiently strong. This will ensure that your opponent will not be able to go through a hoop as he intended but may need two shots to get back into place again.
I relate all this detail because it impinges on an incident in one of our many games. Although it is fifty years since it happened, one particular game is as vivid in my memory as if it were only yesterday. Brian cannoned our father’s ball just as he was positioned to go through the last hoop and win. When he was fixing his ball behind father’s ball to drive him off course I could feel a certain tension. ‘Well, he won’t give me too hard a blow’ or ‘He won’t drive me too far off course’ – these may have been father’s sentiments, and while no word was spoken I am certain that Brian felt it just as I did. Brian swung the mallet and struck such a ferocious blow that father’s ball was driven across the lawn and out of sight into nearby shrubbery. He must have put all his strength into that blow as he was only eleven at the time. That was his answer to any hopes for softness or favours. He was revealing a strong independent tendency in his nature that was to be recognized later in his writing and in other ways too.
The orchard at the side of the house in Tullamore was full of apple trees – ‘eating-apple’ trees. The harvest produced so many that we could neither eat them all nor sell them. The odd person who came looking for apples was given all he could carry.
Beside the orchard was the big farmyard behind the house with its stables and outhouses. Some of these buildings were pressed into service, as we had a lot of hens, nine or ten ducks and a single turkey. One great loss for children growing up is to be deprived of seeing one of nature’s most emotive sights – the clucking hen and her newly hatched chicks. An insight into animal behaviour, particularly motherhood, is full of wonder and tenderness. In displaying these characteristics the hen surpasses all others in the animal kingdom. Our Lord, when he made his lament over Jerusalem (Luke 13), acknowledged it: ‘How often have I longed to gather your children, as a hen gathers her brood under her wing and you would not.’ When the hen sits to gather her chicks she spreads out her feathers, increasing her size threefold. Then all the children go inside, as if bidden by some instruction. Shortly afterwards there will always be one or two chicks that put their heads out, one in the hen’s breast, another high on the hen’s back – like a person looking out of an upstairs window before going to bed!
We had many kinds of hen in Tullamore – black, white and red. The red ones were big and if they were not already part of the holding when we arrived, we may have acquired them from a neighbouring farm. They were probably of the Rhode Island Red breed originally but there was some cross-breeding with gaming birds in them. This was evident in the ferocity of the fights between the cocks. They would fight until exhausted and covered in blood. If separated, they would simply start again in another corner of the farmyard. Nor were they slow to engage in combat with humans! If you stooped down and flicked your hand near the beak of one of these cocks you would get a quick reaction – the feathers of his hackles rising. He would start cackling angrily and busy himself picking little grains from the ground to put you off your guard; next thing he would launch an aerial attack with a burst of red wings and claws, striking blows around your head. Retreat from this onslaught was always the wisest course.
One year we set duck eggs under a clucking hen. Soon after the ducklings were hatched we made a little pond near the pump in the yard. Imagine the scene when the little ducklings were naturally attracted to the water and began swimming and diving. The concern and consternation of the poor mother hen would bring a smile to the dourest face as she ran around the pond bidding her chicks to come out of the water. Needless to say, the ducklings paid no heed to her pleadings.
When the ducks had grown up they preferred to go a long way down the fields to a nearby stream. They came home in the evening stretched out in single file, with the drake at the head of the line. One could hear this homeward-bound party cackling loudly long before it came into sight.
There was a fat donkey with a gentle, kindly face attached to the farm – it probably belonged to the Odlums. Our immediate reaction on seeing it was that we could have great sport riding the donkey hither and thither. The kindly-faced donkey had other ideas. As soon as I mounted his back he set off at a half-trot towards the nearest wall. I would be a one-legged man today had I not jumped clear in time. We tried to secure his co-operation in other ways but he would always head for the nearest wall. He was left to graze in peace after that.
Another activity of ours during our time in Tullamore was ‘building’ houses. These shelters in the garden enabled us to be out of doors during showery weather. I had my house in my own private garden and Brian had his nearby. Our father had given each of us a little plot of the garden, hoping to arouse an interest in gardening, which was of special interest to him. My house was built against the garden wall and its walls were made of sacks. The ‘house’ was hardly big enough to accommodate me when I was sitting down inside it. I remember a day in 1921 when I was inside my house and English soldiers appeared in the garden. They were looking for men to cut and clear a big tree that was blocking the road in front of their lorries. One soldier, rifle at the ready, came down the garden to see if there was anyone about – I watched him come and go, but he didn’t see me!