CHAPTER FOURTEEN

FALLING IN LOVE

As luck would have it, I found myself next to Linda in the lunch queue on the Monday that I returned to work. She enquired as to my well-being and looked genuinely concerned. I thanked her and confirmed that I was fully fit again. “By the way,” I said, “are you on for that Chinese Meal?”

“Yes,” she smiled and my heart leapt.

“I’ll ring you later,” I said. After lunch and back at my desk, I picked up the handset of the phone and dialled her extension. She answered after the first ring. “How are you fixed on Wednesday night?” I enquired.

“I’m busy Wednesday,” she said.

“Here it comes,” I thought… “The brush off.”

“But I’m free Thursday, if that would suit.”

“Great,” I said. “Tell you what, if you get a 16A from your house, it will leave you at the Ballast Office in Westmoreland Street and it’s just a short walk from there to McBirney’s Store on the Quay. Would eight o’clock suit you?”

Her answer was in the affirmative and I was delighted, if not a little guilty.

I arranged to have the night off from barracks and told my wife that I was attending a reunion, and so I wouldn’t be wearing my uniform. At about quarter past eight, I saw Linda arrive and stand outside the store. The lights were on in all of the display windows, so she was easy to spot. By the time I got out of my car, which was parked by the curb right outside and walked over to her, some scumbag was already trying to pick her up. “Is this guy bothering you?” I asked and he took off down the quays like a bat out of hell.

“Sorry you were bothered,” I said. “I didn’t realise what it was like around here.”

“That’s alright,” she said with that lovely smile, as I held the car door open for her. We had a wonderful evening. We talked about anything and everything.

“You know that I’m married?” I asked. That didn’t faze her and we carried on chatting. I couldn’t remember when I felt so relaxed and comfortable in anyone’s company in the way I did with her.

We met a couple of more times, and I knew that I had to finish things for both our sakes. She was seventeen and I was almost twenty-eight, and I was falling in love with her. Well, who wouldn’t, she was beautiful, and vivacious, and she smelled so fresh. Unlike my wife who had long since let herself go. I was obliged on one occasion recently, to insist that she have a bath, because of the odour that was emanating from her.

“We can’t go on like this,” I said. “It’s going to bring grief for both of us and the last thing I want is that.”

She agreed, after all she did have a boyfriend. So we parted as friends, promising to keep in touch whenever we got the chance. We managed to spend a few hours together when the company closed down for the Christmas Holidays. We finished work at mid-day and we spent the afternoon together. There was no exchange of gifts or anything like that, just a few drinks and a chat as usual.

The year 1966 arrived and I found myself missing her company over the holiday. When I got back to work in January, my boss called me in to his office and asked me if I would be willing to spend six weeks in our London Plant. “They’ve lost a manager and would like you to fill the gap until they find someone suitable.”

I agreed and arrangements were made for me to travel over to London at the end of the month. My wife was all in favour, thinking that it might lead to a permanent move. When I was shown to my desk by the General Manager London office, I found that the staff had left a welcoming present for me. It was neatly wrapped in Christmas Paper and bound with a silk ribbon. I opened it as the staff eyed me over the partitions that separated one area from another. There was a roar of laughter and loud applause as I smiled widely at what it contained. There on the desk in front of me had spilled a gross of Condoms. “Hey you guys,” I said “I’m staying longer than a weekend.” That brought a loud roar of approval.

We got along very well after that, and they arranged to take me to see the nightlife during the course of my stay. On one occasion, we went to a strip-club. They knew that nothing of that nature was allowed in Ireland, and were anxious to see how I would react. I sat right in the front row of the dingy little theatre with Taffi, a Welsh colleague, while the rest of the lads stood at the back. Taffi told me that he didn’t make friends easily. He was a hard drinker, and liked to keep to himself. “Don’t worry,” I told him. “I won’t be bothering you. If you want to be alone, I won’t pester you.” By the time the six weeks were up, we were the best of buddies. Suddenly there was a scuffle as Barry, one of our company, tackled a guy who was rubbing himself up against him. The bouncer quickly grabbed the pervert and threw him out and things settled down again. It’s surprising how quickly you get bored looking at the same thing over and over. But, so as not to disappoint the company, I told them how marvellous the whole experience was. We had a great laugh over a pint about Barry and his admirer.

On the morning of the 8th March, Taffe asked me where I’d been the night before. “In my bed, recovering from the debauchery I was up to with you guys,” I said smiling. “Why do you ask?”

He threw a newspaper on my desk. There on the front page was a picture of what was left of Nelson’s column under a banner headline. “Holy Moses,” I exclaimed, “they’ve gone and done it. There may be a phone call from Dublin for me during the course of the morning.”

“Why would that be?” asked Taffe.

“Oh… I’m in the army reserve and they might want me back in case of further trouble,” I said, not wanting to tell him too much.

“Bugger off,” he jibed, “you’re not that important.” There was nobody more surprised than he when within the hour, he picked up the phone and told me that there was a call from Dublin. He listened intently to my conversation with my CO, albeit one sided.

“I’m due a weekend off this weekend,” I said into the phone, “and I’ll be in barracks on Sunday if that suits, sir,” I said.

Before I knew it, Taffi had the word all around the office that I was some sort of special agent, else why would the Irish Army be looking for me to fly home as soon as possible. Suddenly I became a celebrity. “Give ‘em hell,” the lads shouted as I walked past.

When I arrived into barracks on the Sunday morning, I found the Brigade Commander waiting to speak to me. “Well… you were right after all,” he said in his lovely Kerry lilt. “The Gardai want you to stand in a dock and point the finger at the fellow who gave you the information. How do you feel about that?”

“If you order me to do it, I’ll obey your order, Sir,” I said. “But if you give me that order, then I suggest that you issue me with a weapon right now, because that’s how I’ll have to live the rest of my life.” He looked at me for what seemed minutes. In reality it could only have been seconds.

“You’re right,” he said. “We gave those f ’rs more than enough notice. They told us that there was no truth in what you heard. So they can f…off now.” He thanked me once again for what I’d done. It didn’t do anything to help how I felt about being a possible “Informer.” I discussed this with my own CO after the Brigade CO had left.

“Look,” he said, “if there’s truth in what you told him and by the looks of it there certainly seems to be, we can’t have another Civil War. That’s what will happen if they carry out the second part of their threat. So don’t you be concerned. All you’ve done is your duty.”

My wife wanted to know why I had to attend the barracks when all I had was the weekend to spend with my family. I didn’t want to worry her, so I passed it off by telling her that it had to do with my upcoming promotion to the officer ranks. She wasn’t happy about this and didn’t hesitate to emphasise her displeasure, citing my neglect of the children, especially as we had Martin Desmond, our new addition to the family. He was only a few months old by this time. I reminded her that I had been home since Friday evening, and that I had been with her and the children since then, and I would be with them for the remainder of the day. I wasn’t due to catch a plane back to London until Monday morning.

Back in the London office, my colleagues surrounded me, eager to know what had occurred in Dublin over the weekend. They were disappointed when I told them that I couldn’t discuss it. That led to all sorts of speculation and the word went around the plant that I was some sort of hero. People were looking at me admiringly. It became a little embarrassing, and I tried to quell any notions they might have had in that regard. I had more invitations than I could handle to go out for the evening. Things got even more intense when I announced that I had just received a letter from my commanding officer that I had had indeed passed the course, and would be commissioned within the next few weeks. I seemed to be in a permanent alcoholic haze as a result of the constant celebrating. One thing that will always be in my memory was that one of our customers gave me a ticket for the re-match for the Heavyweight Championship of the World between Henry Cooper and Cassias Clay (later known as Muhammad Ali). It was held in the Arsenal Football Club Grounds. Diana Dors, the film actress and Stanley Baker, one of my favourites walked passed me on their way into the grounds. What a night it proved to be. Unfortunately, Henry lost the bout. He put on a gallant performance, but his cheekbones were very sharp and I witnessed the spurt of blood from his cheek that finished the contest. To give Clay credit, I have never seen anything as fast as his fists before or since. He was a true champion, though I reckoned that Henry would’ve beaten him in their first match, if Clay’s second hadn’t slit his glove. This gave him enough time to recover from the punch that Cooper had landed on his chin, just at the end of the previous round.

One Saturday, when I was waiting in the resident’s lounge, the owner of the hotel came in, accompanied by a young couple who were about to have their wedding reception in the hotel. Having been told by my colleagues that I was an Irish Army Officer, he introduced me to intended groom. He was a lieutenant in the British Army, and assumed that I was on United Nations business. “You must come to our wedding,” he said. “It would be lovely to have you there. You could sing us a few good Irish songs,” he beamed. He gave me the date and I apologised that I had to be back in Dublin then. He was very disappointed, and asked me if I couldn’t rearrange things so I could be with them. What the owner of the hotel had told him, I’ll never know but he seemed terribly impressed and anxious that I should be at his wedding. Again I apologised, and told him that I had no choice in the matter.

“Phew!” I thought, “You managed to duck that one.” It would’ve been great fun at the wedding if I had attended and it had come to his knowledge that I was a Reservist and had nothing to do with the UN.

Back at work in Dublin, my boss was delighted with the reports that he received from London. “This won’t do your career any harm,” he said. “There are great things in store for you.”

Things were moving along apace. My CO called me to check that I would be in barracks on Thursday. I said that I would. He told me that the Brigade CO would be there and wanted to speak to me again. When I got there, I found that all of the members of the potential officer course were present. The Brigade CO was there to administer the Oath that officers needed to take before they are officially commissioned. After he did that, he asked me to stay behind, as he wanted to speak to me.

When we were alone, he told me that the Gardai had been back on to him and they were claiming that I was a member of the Provisional IRA. They also claimed that I was involved in the operation to blow up Nelson Pillar, and that I had gotten cold feet when the rest of the operation was mooted. He looked at me in that way that he had, and asked how I felt about their allegations. I looked him straight in the eye and asked him how he felt about them. He waited a few moments in that way he had that would unnerve some men. “I don’t believe them,” he said, with conviction. “If they try to approach you or if you even suspect that there’s a garda in your company that you don’t know about, you are to phone me, and I will have the Military Police arrest him. Will you be sure to do that?” he asked.

“I certainly will, Sir,” I said. I saluted and departed his company. I was so disgusted with the police, I vowed to myself that no matter what information came my way in future, I would keep it to myself, and I would not be cooperating with them. The rest of the guys were anxious to know why I had been held back. I explained very briefly what it was about, thinking that I was in good company and that it would be safe to mention some of what had gone before. To my utter disgust, they moved away from me as though I had an infectious disease. “I’ll know who to avoid should we find ourselves in a conflict in the future,” I thought. Nothing was ever mentioned again about what I had said. Not by them and not by me.

The next big occasion was the commissioning ceremony. It went very well and I have to admit to a certain feeling of pride, despite the fact that I had dropped eight places on the course as I mentioned above. This was due, not so much to the health problems at the time, as to the idiocy of one of the captains from the Military College.

The task that I was set on a tactical exercise involved my leading a point section of a point platoon. This, for the uninitiated, is the group of guys who are ahead of the main body, checking that it is safe for the rest to proceed along the route. We came under fire from a cottage that lay at the edge of a wood. There was a steep hill running down from the front of the cottage to a river. On the opposite bank, the ground rose steeply to a low hedge atop a ditch that masked the road that we were travelling along. Once the firing started, we went to ground, under cover of the ditch. I got the guys to back away until we were safely out of sight and under proper cover. “Right lads,” I said to the machine gunners, “Get set up and keep those buggers’ heads down.” They moved forward to the place that I had indicated and got the machine gun going. “The rest of you follow me on your bellies, along the ditch until we are past the far line of trees. That would put us out of sight of the enemy in the cottage.” I had told the machine gunners that we would make our way down the field under cover of the ditch where the line of trees was. We would then cross the river and carry on up the far field still using the cover of the trees. When we reached the wood, I would explode a smoke grenade just before we attacked from the rear. The machine gun would stop firing at that stage and allow us to get in and finish the enemy off, without being fired on by our own troops. I drew it out in my notebook for the examiner.

“That’s not the College solution,” he said.

“Would you mind telling what the College solution is, Captain?” I enquired.

“You were right to back off. You brought your machine gun into play and that’s fine. But instead of going forward, you should’ve moved further back to the line of trees at the other side of the field.”

“That’s okay,” I thought. The section could do exactly as I had done, except at the other end of the field in question. What came next shocked me.

“You take your section into the river,” and just when I thought he was going to tell me to cross to the far bank he said… “You wade down the river until you’re in front of the cottage. Climb out and charge the cottage.”

I began to laugh.

“What are you laughing at?” he said. “This isn’t funny.”

“You’re dead right it isn’t,” I said. “Is the College still teaching First World War tactics?” I asked.

“What do mean?” he said with a look of consternation that I should question the College Solution.

“Have you ever tried to run in wet boots uphill on grass, and do it under fire? Every one of us would’ve been dead before we had a chance to stand upright after climbing out of the water.” He was disgusted and submitted a report about me that was not complimentary, to say the least. My CO was highly annoyed with me when the Battalion CO told him that I had failed in my tactics. But when I drew it out for him, he changed his mind, using the usual expletives that he reserved for the regular force. See the diagram on the opposite page and judge for yourself.

I was to meet the “College Captain” at a later date with similar results. I was a second lieutenant at this stage, and I had been told that I was to be Orderly Officer on camp. (This is the officer who is responsible for the camp security for a twentyfour hour tour of duty). I reported to Battalion Headquarters and there he was, sitting behind the administration officer’s desk. He handed me a file containing my orders and told me to read it. When I’d finished, he asked if there were any questions I wanted to ask.

“Yes,” I replied.

“And what’s that?” he asked.

“It says that there’s a pistol in the safe located in the officer’s mess should it be required.”

“That’s right,” he said.

“Well, let’s suppose that I am at the far end of the camp when I’m set upon by a bunch of subversives. Do I ask them to hold off and play fair while I run all the way down to the other end of the camp to get the pistol out of the safe?”

“That’s not funny,” he said.

Déjà vu,” I thought. Here we go again.

“The reason the gun is in the safe is that you are not qualified to fire it.”

“Well, would it not be a good idea to take it and me to the range right now, and test me on it so that I would be entitled to carry it?”

“But the Reserve’s are not allowed to fire the pistol,” he said.

“Oh, don’t bother your backside,” I said, “I can do more damage with my hands anyway.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded.

“Attack me sometime and you’ll find out for yourself.” This sort of nonsense was typical of the attitude of the so-called professionals. They were paid extra money to train us, but I never once witnessed them earning it, except perhaps when I did my captain’s course in later years. The reserve army was only allowed to use weapons or equipment that they had as a last resort. This had nothing to do with whether we were capable or not; on the contrary, we generally performed better in all areas. Maybe this was due to the fact that we were interested in what we were doing, and wanted to perform to the best of our ability, just as we would be expected to do in our civilian jobs. But it is my firm belief that it was nothing more than jealousy. My CO described the regulars as, “Civil Servants in Uniform.” They were inefficient and lazy and were found wanting when the one opportunity in recent history arose to test their metal. But more about that later.

Before I knew it, the long awaited fiftieth anniversary of the 1916 Easter Rising was upon us. I had been kitted out with my new officer pattern uniform, just in time for the military parade that was to take place in honour of the men and women of that great period in our history. We had been rehearsing for weeks and there was a buzz of excitement in the barracks on the morning of the parade that was palpable. My company commander complimented me on my turnout and then told me to report to the battalion commander at Headquarters. I did as I was told and the battalion CO told me that I would be marching with Headquarters Company that day. He indicated the place that I was to occupy on the march.

“Is this not reserved for a more senior rank, Sir?” I asked him with a look of surprise on my face.

“Yes, usually,” he said, “but today you’ll take that spot. A threat has been received from the IRA that they are going to take the National Colours away from us today. You’re there because they’ll recognise you, and go after you first. That’ll give us time to draw our weapons and take care of things. Live ammunition has been issued to certain Officers and NCOs.”

“Do I get a weapon?” I asked.

“What good would it do you if you’re dead?” he replied.

“Is this the thanks I get for risking my life?” I asked.

“That’s a soldier’s life. You’ll be a hero,” he said smiling.

“Thanks a lot, Sir,” I replied, wondering why the IRA would recognise me. The implication in his statement was worrying, to say the least. If the IRA knew what I looked like, who the hell had given them my name or my picture?

The CO went off to visit the toilet before we set off. It was nearing the time for us to move to the point where we would join the main body of troops coming from the barracks in Rathmines. I was chatting to the other officers present when a commandant who had just come out of the mess marched up to me and told me to get into the back rank. I did as ordered and carried on my conversation with the other lads.

The CO arrived back and almost had a fit. “What are you doing there?” he demanded. “I told you where I wanted you to be on this parade.”

“The commandant ordered me to move,” I told him, nodding in the direction of the senior man.

“Let the lieutenant back there and you take his place,” he ordered the commandant.

“But I’m a senior officer,” he said.

“I don’t give a f… what you are; the lieutenant is to be in that place, so do as I’m telling you.” If looks could kill, I would have died right there and then. The other officers knew nothing of what was going on and looked puzzled. I wasn’t about to make them any the wiser, especially not the arrogant idiot (who was coincidently, a very senior Civil Servant,) that stood behind me fuming. As he was a commandant, the CO relented and let him march in the front rank, but on the right edge, not the left where I had been placed. Maybe the CO thought that he’d get a bullet too, should anything start that day.

The parade was magnificent. There was no attempt by any group to take the colours. The feeling of pride among the people at their army strutting their stuff was electric. I doubt if they would’ve tolerated any interference with us for whatever reason. As an added precaution, armed army officers in civilian clothes took up strategic positions throughout the crowd. If anything had happened, there would’ve been mayhem. But we were determined that no organisation, particularly an illegal one, would be allowed to interfere with us in any way. Heaven only knows what the consequences would’ve been had anything untoward happened. The civilian casualties as a result of panic would’ve been enormous. Perhaps the subversives took this into account and decided against taking the proposed action… who knows? Perhaps it was never on in the first place and was simply a rumour, like the alleged coup. I guess we’ll never know. What I do know is… that there was resurgence in National Pride among the people in general.

Rebel ballads were to be heard in every pub, and groups such as the Dubliners and the Wolfe Tones were at the peak of popularity. It saddened me that my parents weren’t at home to enjoy all of what was going on. My father would’ve loved to have been here for the celebrations. He would’ve been impressed with the interview of Commandant Tom Barry of the West Cork Brigade. When the interviewer asked Barry if he had any regrets about what he’d done to the Black and Tans, he left him and everybody else listening in no doubt that he would do it over again, if it were necessary.

It was a momentous year in many ways. I was commissioned into the Officer Ranks of the Reserve Defence Force. My commission was one of the last ones to have the signature of Eamonn De Valera, the only surviving Leader of the 1916 Rising. I believe that I was instrumental in averting the threat of another Civil War. I was put in charge of the company rifle shooting team, and we won the Battalion Shoot, against the odds. The company formally known as the “Pearse Battalion,” now “D” company 20th were odds on to win. They had been successful in past years and fully expected to repeat their success. The company was composed of graduates and undergraduates from the various third-level colleges. Many of their number joined when they were attending Clongowes Wood College, in County Kildare. It didn’t sit too well with them when a company that was mainly composed of working class Dublin Gurriers beat them.

My company commander overheard the battalion commander telling the commander of “D” Company not to be too concerned. “It was just a stroke of luck for them,” he said. “Sure they’re only a crowd of Cowboys.”

We were so incensed at this remark that we saw to it that they didn’t win a competition for the next ten years. We won the Battalion, Brigade and Command shoots, and came second in the All Army, during the course of the following years. To add insult to injury, our Light Machine Gun Team repeated our success and went one better… they won the All Army competition. The Sub-Machine Gun team also enjoyed considerable success. We became thoroughly unpopular and the opposition tried every trick in the book to beat us. On the day that the Bren-gun Team won and the Rifle Team came second, the battalion commander invited us all into the officer’s mess for a drink to celebrate. “What’ll you have?” he asked Private Fullam, one of my team.

“I’ll have a brandy, Sir,” he said.

“Will you have something with it?” the CO asked.

“Yes Sir, I’ll have another one,” answered Fullam. That was the last time the CO invited other ranks into “His” mess.

Despite the pressure that I was under from the bank manager, (he was at me again to sell the house,) I couldn’t help but have a broad smile on my face at work. I asked Linda if she would join me for dinner to celebrate. She agreed and as we dined she told me that a couple of the other guys at work were trying to get her to go out with them. I informed her that she was free to do as she thought best. I had no problem with the fact that she had a boyfriend and so what if others wanted to take her out. I didn’t think that I had any claim on her. She had refused the others she said, since she preferred my company. We began to meet at least once a week for the next while. I found her so pleasing to be with, that I had a wonderful relaxed feeling whenever we parted. It helped me to cope with the pressures I was under. During this time, I picked her up at her house so as to ensure that there wasn’t a repeat of the experience outside of McBirney’s Store. I got to know her parents. They were lovely people and I regretted the deception that I was perpetrating.

Before long however, the deception was exposed. One of the guys at work who was also married and who wanted to take Linda out happened to meet two of her aunts in a pub one evening. He was trying to pick one of them up, and they got into conversation. He told them that he worked in the printing trade, in answer to a question. They said that their niece had a boyfriend who worked in the trade. When they told him my name, he informed them that I was married and had a family. The next time I showed up at her house, her father asked me if what he had heard was true. I admitted that it was and apologised for any hurt that I might have caused him and her mother. When he told me how he came to know, I told him that the other guy was married also and that he had been pestering Linda to go out with him.

“I’ll take care of that Rat,” I told him.

“No, leave that to me,” he said. He made me promise not to see Linda again and I agreed. He then called her, and told her what we’d discussed, and told her not to see me again. I left the house feeling partly relieved that the worry of our relationship and all the deception was now at an end. In contrast to that, I was broken-hearted that I had lost my closest friend.

Before I could tackle the other guy about running his mouth off, he was beaten-up. He spent the next week in hospital. During that time, my wife received a phone call informing her of my clandestine meetings. Her reaction was to arrange for me to see a psychiatrist. She informed me that I either kept the appointment, or she would leave me. I agreed, provided that she saw the psychiatrist, also. There has to be something radically amiss with a woman who deposits used sanitary towels under her pillow, and down by the side of the bed, etc. That’s what had happened again only recently. I awoke one Saturday morning to discover that there a pungent smell in our bedroom. She had gone downstairs to make some tea. On investigation, I found the offending linen and almost got sick. “This could not go on,” I told her. “I don’t care what you say, there’s no excuse for behaving in that way.” She agreed to my demands, fully confident that the doctor would clear her, and have me committed.

The consultant from St. Patrick’s Hospital held a clinic in the Health Centre in Ballyfermot, not too far from Clondalkin where we lived. After we had chatted for about thirty minutes, he asked me why I had come to see him. I told him that my wife had decided that it was necessary.

“You’re saner than me,” he said. “Is your wife here with you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, send her in to me and wait outside, if you would. We’ll chat again when I’ve spoken to her.”

After he had interviewed her, she came out of his office and told me that he wanted to speak to me again. I sat myself down in front of his desk again. “Did you know that your wife is seriously schizophrenic?” he asked.

“I had absolutely no idea,” I told him.

“I want you to sign her in as soon as you can, tonight if possible.” he said. I was dumbfounded and he could see this from my reaction. “Perhaps you would prefer to hold off for a week and try to talk her into coming in voluntarily. If not, you should bring her back here next week and we’ll section her.”

On the way home in the car, she asked me what the doctor had said. I tried to put his comments to her as best I could.

“That’s what he told me about you,” she said. She flatly refused to see him again and I didn’t have the heart to section her. It would’ve been better all round if I had, as things turned out. During the next few months, she created chaos by telling my family what a whoremaster I was. She also contacted Linda’s parents and tried to make trouble for her. She phoned the bank manager, and told him how I was behaving. Then she also phoned my boss and tried to have him pay my wages directly to her.

She then got on to the parish priest and made an appointment for me to see him. “Hell hath no fury,” is certainly true. My wife was doing all that she could to cause me maximum damage.

“Your wife is a very cold person, if you don’t mind my saying,” he smiled with an, I understand your problem look on his face. When I agreed, he asked me about Linda. I told him that she was totally opposite. She was warm, and loving, and very understanding, I explained. “Well look, if she needs a bit of company, get her to ring me and I’ll see to her,” he said.

“Am I hearing this reprobate right?” I thought to myself. “He’s as bad as the two in work who thought that because she was seeing a married man, she was anyone’s. No way am I bringing her anywhere near you or your kind,” I thought.

I wasn’t the most popular guy around where they were concerned, anyway. Some time back, I had agreed to join the “Planned Giving” campaign that they had instituted in the parish. The parishioners were treated to a meal in one of the airplane hangars at Baldonnel Aircorps Camp. During the course of the meal, a professional fund-raiser delivered a very convincing speech. “The purpose of the campaign,” he said, “was to raise enough money to pay off a twelve thousand pounds debt on the church building that was now one hundred years old.” The parish priest also promised that a community centre for the youth and the aged of the parish would be built, as a matter of urgency. Despite my straightened circumstances, I agreed to get involved. However, when I received the statement of account at the end of the financial year, the debt on the church had not been cleared. Neither was there any sign of the community centre. They had used the funds to build two four-bed-roomed houses opposite the church, to accommodate one priest in each. When the priest’s representative called to my door to ask me to sign on again, he got very agitated when I challenged him about what I considered to be the misuse of funds. I also informed him that they were spending millions on a Cathedral in Galway, when there were people living within walking distance of it that couldn’t afford shoes. He almost had a fit, and asked me with a red bulging face if I was a communist.

Clerical Abuse.

Around that time also, one of my niece’s phoned me in a very distressed state and ask if she could call out to see me. I agreed and we made an appointment for that very evening. Her boyfriend accompanied her, and I fully expected to hear her say that she was pregnant and would I inform her parents. That wasn’t the case however, and what she had to say left me shocked and incensed. She was ill in bed for almost two weeks, and she was in a very weakened state, she told me. I can confirm this because I had called to visit her mother, my sister, a couple of weeks previously and she told me that her daughter was very ill, and both of her parents were very worried about her. Knowing that my sister and her husband were both working, I asked if anyone was looking after her daughter during the day. She told me that the priest from the parish youth club, which her daughter was a member of, was calling. She had given him a key to the hall door.

I never thought that there was anything wrong with this. Sure didn’t we all trust the priests? Now I had my niece sitting in front of me in one heck of a state, telling me that the priest had forced himself on her, and raped her. That was bad enough, but worse than that, (if anything could be worse,) he gave her a dose of the “Clap.”

“Have you told your Ma and Da?” I asked.

“No,” she answered, “I’m too ashamed and they won’t understand.”

“My first bit of advice is that you tell them as soon as possible. Or I can do it for you, if you wish. My next bit of advice is that you not tell anyone else about this, especially not another priest. If you do tell another priest, he will warn this guy off; they will move him elsewhere and somebody else will fall victim. Is he living in the parish house?”

“He stays there when he’s visiting the parish. He lives in London and only visits to conduct Retreats.”

“What connection has he with the youth club?” I asked.

“He’s the club chaplain,” she said.

“Is he in town at the moment” I asked.

“No, he’s gone back to London, but he’ll be back again soon.”

“Right… then let’s do it this way. When he gets back, make an appointment with him to come to the house. Let me know when you’ve done that and what time he’s due to arrive. You go for a walk and I’ll deal with him. He will never bother you again, I promise. Now remember, do not tell anyone about this.”

She agreed and went away feeling better in herself. Two weeks later, she was back. When I asked her if the arrangements were in place as previously discussed, she apologised and said no.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

“My boyfriend told his mother, who’s a friend of the parish priest, and she went to him and told him. So the visit has been cancelled and I don’t know if he’ll ever be back.” My disappointment showed and I would’ve grabbed the boyfriend by the throat if he had been there. But they had split up. He had dropped her on his mother’s advice. My niece was in a worse state now, because of his rejection. She felt dirty and ugly. I arranged for her to visit my GP, who was a friend of mine. He prescribed some tranquillisers but could do little else. Shortly afterwards, she was admitted to Grangegorman Mental Hospital and spent some weeks there. When I visited her, I discovered that she had taken the advice of the psychiatrist and informed her parents. They were devastated, but didn’t know what to do about it. I advised them to take a case against the priest. But they were too intimidated by the clergy in general to proceed.

Her mother accompanied my niece to the general hospital to have the venereal disease treated, and witnessed the reaction of the nun who was treating her. She had the look of disdain of one who was dealing with a prostitute. Not ever being one to stand up to the clergy, she found the courage to tell the nun that her daughter’s condition was due to one of her kind. For years, I tried in vain to get my sister to persuade my niece to take an action against the corrupt bastard who had left her in such a state. When she finally agreed, the man assigned to deal with clerical abuse in his particular order informed me that the offender had died.

“I hope he made his peace with God,” I said as I walked away in disgust. The reader should note that this was in the sixties… long before clerical abuse came to the notice of the public. It shattered my respect for the clergy and undermined my belief in religion to the extent that I no longer attended Mass.

Well, that’s not quite true. The battalion held a Mass in September each year, to commemorate the deceased of the various units. It was open to members and ex-members alike; and after the ceremonies, we returned to the barracks and had a drink to celebrate with the retired members. I attend this Mass out of respect for those who have served their country and those who continue to serve. This year, we gathered in the mess as usual. George Colley, a Fianna Fail TD always attended, being an ex-member himself. On this particular occasion he was Minister for Defence, and as usual he was enjoying the company of his colleagues. The mess was jammed solid and the Battalion CO pushed his way through the crowd to talk to the Adjutant, who was standing drinking a pint and smoking his pipe, close to where I stood. “I hear that some of the civvies here are not officers. Is that true?”

The Adjutant took a pull on his pipe, stretched to his full six-foot plus height, and looked over the heads of the crowd in the direction of the civilians who were gathered at the bar. “Mmmm, I think you’re right, Sir,” he said.

“Well, get them out of here and send them over to the NCO’s mess where they belong.”

The adj’ took another pull on his pipe. “Does that order apply to everyone without exception, Sir?”

“Yes, now get over there and get rid of them.”

“While I’m doing that, would you mind telling the Minister to leave, since he was only a corporal when he was in the unit.” All of us stood within hearing distance burst into laughter. The CO went away red faced and muttering.

The year 1966 drew to a close, and Linda and I got together as we had done the previous year-end. I know that I was breaking the promise I had made to her father, but I felt that I had to see her. We spent the afternoon in a pub in the Dublin Mountains, drinking and chatting. I told her how sorry I was that she had been in trouble because of our relationship. She assured me that there was no problem, and that I shouldn’t worry so much. We kissed for the first time as we parted, and my heart went on fire. I was falling deeply in love and I couldn’t help myself.

Amidst all of the turmoil, I was offered a new job. My boss had asked me to attend a “Trade Evening” in a South Dublin Hotel on his behalf. An American multi-national company conducted the evening. They manufactured printing plates and chemicals, among other products. When the representative conducting the evening heard that I was actually using their plates, he asked me if I would be interested in applying for a job with them. He told me that the company was looking for a Technical Sales Representative to cover Ireland. The money on offer was twice what I was being paid in my present job. They also supplied a top of the range car and expenses. Of course I was interested, and after writing down the details of to whom and where I should apply, I sent off an application the very next day. After several interviews, the final one in London, I was offered the job. What a way to start the New Year. I was over the moon.

When I told my boss, he told me that there was no way he could match the salary that I was being offered. Nor could he provide me with a car and expenses. He did say that there was something lined up for me within the company but he couldn’t tell me about it. I would have loved to have stayed on, but in the circumstances I had little choice. This new job would enable me to finally sort out my financial problems, among other things. “I shouldn’t have asked you to attend that trade evening,” he said. “But I wish you well and trust that everything will sort itself out in your private life.”

I thanked him and set about preparing to hand over the department to whoever might be appointed in my place.

Not everything was going to plan however, and I decided because of the pressure I was under from the bank manager, that I would have to sell the house and buy something more affordable in another area. So I placed an advertisement in a national newspaper and used a “Box Number” for privacy. Besides, I didn’t want to get involved with another estate agent, if I could avoid it. The evening that the ad appeared, I was working on the front lawn when a guy came toward me.

“You’ve got a house for sale,” he said.

“I have,” I said, wondering how he could know since I had no phone call from anyone enquiring about it. So where did he get the address, I wondered?

“I’m an estate agent and I have some people who are interested in buying houses on this estate,” he said.

“Where did you get your information from?” I asked.

“Don’t bother about that,” he said, “Do you want to sell your house or not?”

“If you have some people who are interested, then we can do business, but don’t try to mess me about.”

He didn’t have anyone, as it turned out, but he pleaded with me to let him represent me. I relented, thinking that it might be better to have someone of experience to do the job. He eventually brought along a client to view the house. He was a managing director of a large company who wanted to buy a house as a wedding present for his son. Nothing happened for quite a while after his visit. So I called into the office of the agent one afternoon, and he informed me that the man who viewed the house wanted to buy it.

“But,” he told me, “He doesn’t want to pay what you’re asking.”

“Then you can tell him to forget it,” I said.

A couple of more weeks went by and the agent contacted me and asked me to call into his office once more. “You’re a hard man to do business with, but the client says he’ll go ahead and buy.”

So I agreed to sell and asked him to contact my solicitor to arrange the purchase contract. I had no sooner done that, than another man appeared on the scene and offered me more money if I would sell to him. I told him that I had given my word, and I wasn’t prepared to break it. As things turned out, it would have been better if I had. The first guy just delayed things until I reached the point where I told the agent to tell the customer that I was cancelling the deal.

While I was away on business in Cork, the solicitor called my wife into his office and she signed the contract of sale without contacting me to seek permission. After doing that and arriving home, the hall-door bell rang. She opened and found it was the guy on whose behalf the house was being bought. He told her that the house was now his, and she had until nine o’clock that evening to clear out. She phoned me in a panic to tell me about this. I told her that she did not have my permission to sign, and that the solicitor was wrong to get her to do so. I cancelled my hotel booking, got into my car, and drove at breakneck speed to get home in time to meet the purchaser. I told my wife to go and visit a neighbour, and not to come back until I came for her.

When I opened the door to his ring, he almost fainted on the spot. “Come in,” I said, “I’d like a word with you.” He stepped into the hall and I closed the door, applying the latch at the same time so that he wouldn’t be able to open it easily. “You’ve terrified my wife, and upset my kids with your behaviour today. Now let me hear you repeat what you said to her earlier.”

His eyes were wide and his mouth open from the moment he saw me. “The house is mine and there’s nothing you can do about it,” he said.

“Here’s a present from me and my kids,” I said as I dug my fist into his solar plexus. He screamed like a stuck pig, as I continued to pound him below the belt, concentrating on his genitals. When I’d finished, I opened the door and threw him out into the garden. “Don’t mess with the Sheridans,” I told him.

I left the house, locked the door, and went to the neighbour’s house where my family were waiting for me. As I told my neighbour what had happened, I asked if we could wait with him for a while, since I expected that the guy would be back. After a short while, two cars stopped outside my door. He was driving one and the other contained four Gardai. They tried the bell and knocked on the door, and when they got no answer, they got back into their cars and waited a while, perhaps to see if I would open the door thinking that they’d gone, I don’t know. After a while, they got fed up and left.

Next morning around ten o’clock, I received a phone call from my solicitor telling me that the buyer’s solicitor had informed him that his client would be charging me with assault.

“Let him go ahead,” I said. “I look forward to having my day in court. You can explain to the judge how a deal can be completed with my wife’s signature, when the house is in my name. I also want to hear him explain his behaviour to the court, and I will enjoy seeing him show his bruises.” There was a pregnant silence at the other end of the phone as I hung up.

About an hour later, my solicitor was back on the line. “I’ve persuaded them to drop the charges,” he said.

“I didn’t ask you to do that. I told you I want my day in court.” He spent the next half-hour talking me out of that. It is now and was then, my firm belief that there was collusion between the estate agent, the buyer, and both of the solicitors to facilitate the managing director of a very large company. His son was not an innocent bystander in all of this, either. He proved to be as arrogant as his father. I would’ve pursued the affair through the courts, except I was worn out after my illness. But he learned not to mess with the Sheridans. Neither did I have the funds nor the experience of court proceedings. I insisted that I be given time to find other accommodations and got their agreement on that. I spoke to my wife about all of what happened, and told her that she shouldn’t have signed anything without getting their agreement to allow us time to move. She insisted that she was right in what she’d done.

To add to my woes, I had a call from my father to say that my mother was seriously ill and was in Oldham General Hospital. I told him I’d be over on Friday and went about making the arrangements. My mother looked reasonably well when I got there, and although she hadn’t been eating, she had a full lunch while I sat by her side.

“Are you happy being back in Oldham?” I asked her.

“Yes” she said and told me not to worry.

“I’m sorry that things didn’t work out in Dublin,” I said.

“That’s alright,” she said. But I could see from her face that she was still hurting from the experience. I left her promising that I’d be back in two weeks to see her again.

She gave me a look as I departed that said, “If I’m still here.”

I told my father that she had eaten her lunch while we chatted. He was delighted and we both felt that it was a sign that she was on the mend. The following week, I got a phone call at work telling me that my mother had died. It was the 21st February 1967, and it shattered me. All of the positive things that had happened in 1966 came to naught. To make matters worse, my wife continued to complain about her lot. There was no expression of sympathy about my mother from her or from her family. I was incensed, and decided that it was time to finish our relationship as soon as I got home after my mother’s funeral.

The new house that we’d looked at was on a new estate in Tallaght County, Dublin. It had three bedrooms and was at the end of a row of eight other houses. A friend of mine in the army reserve knew the builder, and he arranged with him to get us a house in a nice location with the extra space at the end of the terrace. (This friend was later to prove his worth when I needed help urgently on another occasion). I liked the house and it was certainly within my budget. My wife complained that it wasn’t to her liking, and I reminded her of the circumstances that brought this about. Besides, it was better than anything that she had been used to in Birmingham. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be completed for about three months, so I had to find somewhere to rent in the meantime. The agent on site was also a friend of my friend, and he put me in touch with a friend of his who rented out mobile homes. This was an example of a typical Irish way of “networking.” If you want anything done, you ask a friend if he/she knows someone who can help. It works very well and it’s a way of getting someone who’s reliable. I phoned the mobile-home owner and had a look at what he had to offer. It was fine, and I arranged to move in straight away. We didn’t have far to go, either. He had a site right in the village, about a mile from where we lived. This didn’t please my wife, and she complained bitterly. “What can I do?” I asked her. “The house will be ready in a few months, the weather is fine, and this can hardly be described as a hardship.” The kids thought it was a great adventure.

Soon after moving into the new house, she decided that she needed a holiday. So I booked her and the children on a return flight to Birmingham. Two weeks later, not having heard a word from her since she left, I sat at the airport waiting for them to arrive. They weren’t on the flight that I had booked. So, thinking there might’ve been some problem, I waited there until the last flight, but in vain. That was the last I saw of them. I phoned my sister Rosaleen, who lived in Birmingham, and asked her to call at my in-law’s house and ask my wife to contact me. She discovered that my father-in-law had died, and the rest of the family had moved to an unknown address. I eventually traced them and tried in vain to get my kids to talk to me. My wife had done a thorough job of poisoning their minds against me. We haven’t had any contact whatsoever to this day. Does it hurt? You bet your life it does!

The bank manager was delighted to have the debt off his books. “Stick with me and I’ll make you a very rich man,” he said. But I was in no mood for him or his platitudes, and told him to take a hike. At the same time, the estate agent sent me a bill that was outrageously high. I insisted on having an itemised account, and when I checked it out I discovered that he was charging me for block advertisements, when the details of my house only took up one line of the ad. I told my solicitor about this and he advised me to pay him what I thought was fair. I did this and my solicitor phoned to inform me that the estate agent had arrived in his office, threatening him with physical harm. He was obliged to call the Gardai and have him removed. The saga regarding the sale of my house was at an end, as far as I was concerned. I had other problems to deal with now.

I contacted Linda and asked if she would be willing to meet me. She agreed and I told her about recent happenings. I thanked her for her expression of sympathy regarding my mother’s death. She had phoned me on the internal phone at work when she heard the news. We just sat in my car and I poured out my heart to her. She was ten years my junior, but her mature attitude belied her tender years. “How serious is your relationship with your boyfriend?” I asked.

“Not serious at all,” she replied.

“Maybe I’ve no right to ask this, but would you think about getting serious with me?”

“No need for me to think about it, I’d be delighted to,” she smiled.

I explained that my marriage was over, but that I wanted to get my kids back if I could. She had no problem with this, and suggested that she would take care of them for me if I wished. She also had no problem with my travelling to England to try and track down the whereabouts of my children.

I checked the fees of a Private Detective Agency in Birmingham and found them exorbitant, so I decided that I would have to do the job of tracing myself. Knowing that one of my wife’s two sisters worked for Birmingham City Council, this was my first port of call. Her work colleagues informed me that she was attending a full-time course at college. They gave the address of the college and I made my way there. The lady in the registry listened to me sympathetically, as I explained the reason I wanted to contact her. She told me that she wasn’t allowed to give out the address of any student, but she would check with a superior if an exception could be made in this case. She had taken the details of my sister-in-law from the file and left the card on the counter as she went to make a phone call. Whether it was deliberate or not, I can’t say. I prefer to think that it was. I was able to read the address up-side down and etched it into my memory. She did tell me what room number she was in, and I made my way there. I knocked on the door and entered and asked the lecturer if I could speak with her, after first apologising for interrupting his class. I couldn’t see her among the room full of students and she didn’t acknowledge me. He asked me to leave, as there was no one of that name in his class. As I reached reception, again I was met by a security guard and escorted off the premises.

I wasn’t about to be put off that easily, and I asked my brother Gerry in whose house I was staying, if he would accompany me to the address that I’d acquired. We decided that it would be better to leave it to the following day, as the evening had drawn in and it was dark by now. The new address was on the opposite side of the city from where they used to live. I phoned the local police station, and told them what I was about to do, and advised them that I was not seeking to cause trouble of any sort. The desk sergeant thanked me and wished me luck. As my brother and I made our way down the road towards the address that I had, I saw my two sons standing at a bus stop. The older one recognised me, and shouted to his brother to run. They both took off like hares. But being very fit myself, I caught up with them quite quickly. They looked terrified and the older boy began to shout awful names at me at the top of his voice. I tried to calm things down, and told them that I only wanted to talk. No amount of appealing would persuade him to stop.

“You’d best leave things as they stand,” my brother advised. “Walk away and let them be. I’ve never heard anything like the poison he’s shouting at you. His mother has certainly made a good job of turning them against you.”

I reluctantly agreed and left them, hiding my tears as I went. I’ve tried unsuccessfully to make contact over the years, including using the services of the Salvation Army. My heart was broken and I was having great difficulty sleeping. So many years have gone by now, I often think that murderers get a lesser sentence than I got. I pray still that one day, one of them at least will make contact. I became very hard hearted, and swore that I would never marry again despite being head over heels in love with Linda.