DURING OUR COLLEGE DAYS we were likely to be in one of four houses: McManus’s in Stillorgan; Kenny’s (‘Rosemount’), opposite the back gate of Carysfort Training College; the house of the lawyer John P. Dunne, ‘Ben Inagh’ on the Rock Road; or Quigley’s in Williamstown.
‘Cúl Garbh’ was the name of McManus’s house in Stillorgan. Their father had spent a good part of his life in South Africa etching photographic printing blocks, a business which he transferred to Dublin on his return home. There were five sons: Seán, Kevin, Bernard, Richard and Peter. There were three daughters. Richard was the one we were especially close to – he was a well-rounded person, generous, intelligent and very tolerant. His talents extended to being a good counsellor on worldly matters and a good judge of literary work. I remember when ‘Crúiskeen Lawn’ was about to be launched he and Brian spent a couple of evenings closeted in deep discussion. I never met anyone who had so many friends and acquaintances, or who would stand so long in the street talking to them. You could pass him in the street and come by an hour later and he would be still there talking to the friend he had met. Richard and Brian shared a common characteristic – a tenacity that seemed to prevent either of them conceding anything in an argument. I often heard the two of them pursuing some argument for well over an hour, making fun of one another’s points, twisting and turning, changing to new ground when it was no longer possible to defend the old one. Eventually they would drive the rest of us to tell them to shut up or go to hell! I never heard Brian admitting that he was wrong in anything he had said.
Many of these arguments and the sorting out of world affairs took place in Keegan’s pub in Williamstown, which we patronized largely because it was a dozen yards from Quigley’s house at 1 Seafort Parade. At the time we did not know, and it would have been of interest to us if we had, that it was in Keegan’s that Michael Collins used to meet the men from the unit he had in Dún Laoghaire.
Quigley’s house proved to be a good centre for recreation. We played poker and chess there on Sunday mornings and it was there that we met Koltanowski and his wife.
East of Quigley’s house, the sea is only fifty yards away on the other side of the railway line. At full tide the water is deep enough to dive from a concrete platform that is there, but nobody swims there any more because of the pollution in Dublin Bay. Nearby there is a Martello tower – an ideal venue had we wanted to imitate Joyce, but we never succeeded in getting inside it.
‘Hunting’ flatfish was another of the activities associated with Quigley’s house. To engage in this sport you would equip yourself with a spear. This was done by cutting a piece of the wire which fenced the railway line and sharpening one end while forming a handle with the other. I regret to say that the railway company was never consulted or its permission sought for this larceny. Once equipped with a spear, fishing could begin.
At low tide along the east coast the tide goes out until it is only a blue line on the horizon. Although you would hardly notice them, there are shallow pools and the odd stream between the land and the faraway tide. Barefooted with trousers rolled up, you set off for one of these pools. Once in the pool with the water coming up your calf, you agitate the water with your feet. Suddenly you will see, perhaps only five yards away, a flatfish that had been resting on the sand take fright and scurry away. As soon as this happens, you agitate the sand under your feet to raise a cloud of sand in the water. Once the cloud has been raised, the fleeing fish returns, seeing it as an ideal hiding-place. The fish will come and lie in the sand at your feet where the cloud of sand is at its thickest. Often you will feel the presence of the fish as it tries to burrow under your feet. All you have to do to land your fish is to spear it, taking good care not to impale one of your own feet. Experience has shown that the flatfish always come back and seek refuge in the sand storm.
Early in the 1950s Richard McManus died aged only forty. His loss was sorely felt by Brian – the two were very close friends.
After taking his basic degree with honours, Brian did an MA. He did his thesis in Irish – ‘Irish Nature Poetry’ was the title. It runs to about 20,000 words not including the anthology. I have examined the thesis and it is clear that his aim was to get his degree so as to enhance his career prospects as he intended to apply for a post in the Civil Service. The Civil Service job materialized in 1935; in the meantime he stayed around the university.