CHAPTER SEVEN

THE WINNING BEGINS

The school choir was entered for the Father Matthew Feis in 1950, our confirmation year. It was exciting to be backstage, just watching the contestants in the various disciplines practising. While we were in the wings, waiting our turn to go on stage, one young lad was so wrapped up in rehearsing his violin solo he actually walked onto the stage. The judges laughed and the audience applauded. Realising at that moment where he was, he made a quick exit, his face red as a beetroot. We sang our piece and listened intently as the judge’s spokesman gave their assessment. We were the last choir of the day and remained on stage to hear his comments. When he mentioned that we were a little bit quick in cutting off the end of sentences, I thought, “Well, that’s that.”

But then he followed up with the comment, “Apart from that, the interpretation was perfect and so the first prize goes to… St. Finbarr’s Boys Choir.” We screamed with delight and jumped around the stage like buck rabbits. It was exactly fifty years since my grandfather had won his gold medal. This was a special day for me, in more ways than one. Father Burke found it difficult to contain himself. He even shed tears. We were feted by all and sundry at school and in Cabra West generally. He arranged to take us all out to Howth Harbour for the day and have a slap-up lunch. We sang on the bus going out, we sang on the harbour wall while we were there, and we sang all the way home again. My father was extremely proud of the win and boasted to family and friends alike. This, of course singled me out for further criticism among certain of my siblings. The label now was “Big Head.” But one of the great moments of my life then was when my aunt Molly presented me with my grandfather’s tuning fork. It is something I still treasure today.

The slagging at home got even worse when later that same year, I won a plaque at school for my knowledge on the Mass. A thousand boys attended the school. We were crammed in sixty to a class. The competition was open to all. It was split into two sections. The first part was an essay on a religious subject. I can’t remember what the subject was. I think it had to do with the death of Jesus on the cross. The idea was that the winner from each class would then compete in an oral competition that was to be held on stage in the school hall. Bernard Moore, a friend of mine, won the essay in our class hands down. Bernard was brilliant at essay writing and should have gone on to be a journalist. On the day of the contest however, he was out of school with a heavy cold. The master asked the class whom they thought should represent them and they chose me. The contestants gathered on stage at twelve and one by one, people were eliminated until there was just two left… myself and another boy.

We battled on to one o’clock with both of us neck and neck. If one missed an answer, the other did likewise. When the other answered a question the opponent matched it. Dinnertime had arrived and people were getting restless, so it was decided by the judges to toss a coin for first prize. I won and to the resounding cheers of my classmates, I carried my plaque home. Back at school in the afternoon, the master asked why I had chosen the plaque and not the prayer book that had been on view. The winner was allowed first choice of the prizes. “Because the plaque had been specially blessed by Pope Pious XII,” I answered. He was highly impressed and made sure that Father Burke was informed of the success of one of his choirboys. He needn’t have worried; Father Burke was there in the hall to see for himself. The following week Bernard’s father visited our teacher, claiming that the first prize rightfully belonged to his son. He was quite put out when he was told by the master to take a hike.

This was to be a landmark year for me and I was beginning to realise that I was as good as the next fellow. My confidence was growing steadily, although it would be a while yet before I could look a person in the eye and challenge what they had to say.

The mother of Billy Ellis, a friend who lived in number twenty-three on our road, asked me if I would be interested in joining the St. John Ambulance Brigade. I said I would and a week later, Billy and myself, accompanied by his mother, presented ourselves at the headquarters of the City of Dublin Ambulance Division in Great Strand Street. We were welcomed with open arms and had our details entered in the book. After a few weeks Billy dropped out. So I asked Jimmy Johnston my friend and next door neighbour, and Alec Jackson, a friend who lived opposite my house if they would care to join. They came the very next meeting night and signed on. We served together for the next six years.

After our training, we were examined in our knowledge and proficiency and awarded our Junior Certificate in First Aid. And after buying our uniforms, we then carried out duties in company of a senior man, at Croke Park Gaelic Football Grounds every Sunday afternoon that matches were played. I also did duty at the Spring Show in the Royal Dublin Society ground in Ballsbridge. My Divisional Officer complimented me on my discretion when treating a lady who had fallen and had cut both of her knees. I was the only person on the stand when she arrived to seek treatment. I invited her to sit on a chair at the back of the stand, and asked her to remove her stockings. As she took the chair, I turned my back and stood in front of her, shielding her from anyone who might be walking in the aisle. She was so impressed with this that she went and sought out my senior officer and gave a glowing report of my actions. Well, my mother always referred to me as a gentleman. The credit is hers… she raised me.

Being in uniform and taking orders was never a problem. My father had always insisted that we children address all adults as either “Sir” or “Mam.” He ran the house like a barracks. There was a notice on the bathroom wall saying, “Cleanliness is next to Godliness; now clean the bath after you.” If I wanted sixpence to go to the Plaza Cinema on Saturday, I had to wash down all the paintwork in the house. I also had to clean the toilet and he inspected my work before I was paid. The “Brigade” members were lovely people, all of whom were serving at their own expense with one ideal… treating those who were injured or sick. There was quite a representation from the “Protestant Community.”

Perhaps the best known of these were the “Overend” sisters. They were what my mother-in-law would refer to as, “The remains of auld Decency.” They drove a Silver Ghost Rolls Royce and were a privilege to know. There was a strong British influence in the Brigade also, and I remember that we were invited to view a film at Headquarters of the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth 2nd in 1952. I have to admit that I attended. But it was more out of fascination with the magnificent uniforms than anything else. I still feel the same today and like to watch the “Trooping of the Colour,” etc.

My knowledge of anatomy and the circulation of the blood were helped considerably by my proficiency in Latin, and the method of teaching that I was experiencing at school. If the reader doubts my recall of the very early years of my life, let me assure you that what I have written is an accurate account. As an example, I quote here the opening page of the First Aid Manual that I learned at the age of twelve…

”A knowledge of first aid enables trained persons to render such immediate assistance in cases of accident and/or sudden illness as will help in Preserving Life, Promoting Recovery and Preventing Aggravation of the injury or condition until such time as Medical Aid is available.”

I can still name the bones and the arteries of the body in Latin, and also remember the circulation of the blood. With the smallest amount of encouragement, I would have completed my secondary education and who knows what would’ve happened after that. A medical doctor delivered a lecture on the contents of the abdomen when I was doing my Senior Certificate Course. I would have been just sixteen years of age then. Before he began, he asked if anyone in the audience knew any of the organs he was about to speak on. I raised my hand and he looked at my young face with a degree of scepticism and asked me which one I was familiar with. “All of them,” I replied.

“Well go ahead and name them,” he smiled.

“Stomach, Pancreas, Spleen, Kidneys, Liver, Large and Small Intestines, and the Bladder,” I replied.

He was incredulous and couldn’t speak for a moment or two. When he regained his composure, he congratulated me and admitted that he would have had difficulty in recalling all of them himself. All of this worked wonders on my shyness and I began to become more confident. The blushing had also all but disappeared.

On one occasion, I was about to leave home to carry out a duty when my mother asked if I had time to go to the shops for her. “Of course I had,” I told her and headed off to the butchers to get the meat she wanted for the dinner.

As I entered the shop, a guy around my own age looked at my short trousers and sneered, “Cover yer knees, yer over seven,”

“Cover yer face, yer a livin’ disgrace,” I immediately retorted. The butcher behind the counter and a woman customer burst into laughter, and she complimented me on my uniform and my wit.

At age fourteen, I entered a first aid competition and won a trophy that had never been won by a cadet since its inception in 1946. There was great jubilation in the division. I had my photo taken for publication by one of the officers who was a photographer with the Irish Press. I arrived home with the silver cup, to the great delight of my parents. The cup was a perpetual trophy and I also had a gold and silver medal to keep. I still have it and the plaque I won at school. There is one thing that I shall ever be grateful for and it came with the training that I received. It is the ability to remain calm in crisis situations and to become the “Master of Inactivity” when dealing with people involved in accidents. For example… get people to boil water and make tea, etc., to keep them occupied while you deal with the real crisis. There was a song going around at that time entitled, “Why does everybody call me big head,” and certain of my brothers and sisters would sing this to me.

This knocked my confidence back somewhat, and I kept quiet at home, trying not to draw attention to myself. When one of my uncles who produced variety shows tried to get me to perform on stage, I refused. This came about when the schoolmaster was out sick one day and the class was divided out among other teachers. I was sent to “Hitler’s” room and he asked if any of us was in the famous school choir. I held up my hand. “Right,” he said, “let’s hear you sing.” I sang a popular song of the time called “Liberty Belle.” The class applauded and we were then told to keep quiet for the rest of the day.

One of his pupils was a lad called Maloney, whose father used to collect slop for pig-feed and whose family performed regularly on the school hall in shows produced by my uncle. His mother played the fiddle while she danced an Irish Jig and his three sisters sang in harmony and sounded just like the “Andrews Sisters,” an American group that was popular at that time. He came over to me afterwards and told me that he thought my voice was good and would I not think of performing on stage. I would have loved to, but I was being hounded at home and I didn’t want to be the focus of any further jeering, etc. I was already getting a hard time from some of my family because I had played the part of a girl in a show at the school, not long before. I loved acting and musicals were my favourite. So I refused, but he spoke to the producer, not knowing at that time that he was related to me. My uncle then appeared at our house one evening and my father sent for me. The choir was also performing during the interval at the current show that depicted the life of St. Francis Xaviour. So I stood there in front of my father and him. “I was watching you during the interval of the show and you weren’t singing,” he said,

“I was, Sir,” I answered, looking at the floor.

“No, you weren’t,” he said, “Sure, you can’t sing.”

“You’re right, Sir,” I said, blushing like a beacon and biting my lip.

“Ah! Go on, sing something for us,” he said.

I refused and was told by my father that I was useless and to get out. That put paid to any notions I might have had to follow a career on the stage. If only they had known the damage they were inflicting, I’m sure that they would’ve seen things differently. I guess it’s difficult to be positive when you’ve been downtrodden all your life anyway. Yet, some parents were encouraging their children, like Dickie Rock and Bill Cullen, the author of Penny Apples and Golden Apples fame. To me, that is the difference between us. They went on to be successful, doing what they loved to do best.

I went on to do a job that I didn’t particularly like, but managed to be successful at. Do I sound bitter? Well… I’m not and I never have been. It was just such a waste, I feel, as I look back. Why this should be, puzzles me even today, because my father used to talk with pride about his father’s contribution to the music of the day. My whole family were terrific singers and not at all bad looking, if I might say. But the encouragement wasn’t there and the Irish music scene was denied talent that would have given some of the performers of today a run for their money.

It was around this time that I witnessed my father in action. He ran the darts and rings club in the local public house. It was situated on Fassaugh Avenue, a short walk from where we lived. He brought my mother with him and having bought her a drink, he left her in the lounge while he went into the bar to get a competition under way. When he went back to the lounge, my mother wasn’t there. A friend informed him that one of our neighbours had passed some insulting remark to my mother. She got upset and went home. I was there when he arrived back at our house and asked her what the guy had said. She didn’t want to tell him, but he insisted. I followed him down the road and stood at the guy’s gate while my father knocked on his hall door. It opened and I saw my father’s arm shoot forward and connect with the fellow’s chin. That’s the only punch that was thrown. The guy was out cold. Just then the paper seller from across the road who had seen what happened, ran over, and vaulted the railings into the other guy’s front garden. His intention was to attack my father. He was met with one of those punches I had just seen my father deliver to the guy who was lying in his hallway. The second fellow went down like a sack of potatoes. Again the message went out, loud and clear: “Don’t mess with the Sheridans.”