“Are
you up here in Dublin looking for a permanent job?” “Of course,
Mr. Campion” “Then why is that?” “I wanted to broaden my
horizons and see a bit of the world, so to speak, as Shercock is a
very small place.” “I see.” responded Mr. Campion “In my
experience you sons of country publicans usually end up going back to
the family trade, leaving us Dublin employers in the lurch” he
said, with a quizzical look directed at me. I knew that the success
of the interview was resting on a knife edge and that he was
surmising in his head whether he should employ me or not. With that
there was a polite knock on the sitting room door. Mr. Campion
admitted a tall, well dressed gentleman, carrying a leather portfolio
case, with a familial greeting and handshake. “Good to see you Bob,
how have you been keeping? How`s the family? How`s trade been
recently?” enquired the man, who turned out to be a travelling
sales representative for Jameson whiskey. “Everybody’s well,
thanks George and trade is ticking over nicely. I’m interviewing
this young man for a bar vacancy, a son of Francie MacEntee from
Shercock, Co. Cavan who’s on your patch, isn’t that so?” Bob
enquired. “I have known this young man’s father for twenty years
or more, a well-established family in the Cavan licensed pub trade.”
affirmed the Jameson’s representative. “Noel, would you be so
kind as to step outside, close the door behind you and wait in the
hallway until I go back out for you in a few minutes?” “Off
course, that’s no problem whatsoever” I said in my politest
voice. I will never be privy to what was discussed in Bob’s sitting
room but at a guess it centred around the good character of my
family, as I got the job. In June of 1970,
I
headed off to Dublin with a good barman’s reference from my
publican father, outlining that I had always worked in the family
business and making no mention of my secondary school education. My
ambition was to earn some decent money and to meet girls, no further
ambition beyond that. I was able to register straight away with the
Barmen’s Union obtained a Senior Barman’s card with no difficulty
whatsoever. This ensured that I could earn top wages straight away.
Campion`s in Ballgriffen, North County Dublin operated a pub, lounge
and basic grocery, together with a very well maintained eighteen hole
pitch and putt course out the back of the premises. My uniform was a
long white starched apron, white shirt and black bow tie. Midday
trade was mostly centred around serving Ploughmen’s Lunches to
passing businessmen and building labourers. Once my emergency tax was
refunded, I was able to purchase a brand new push bike which enabled
me to cycle the five miles back to my digs near Whitehall church for
my late afternoon shift break.
The
summer flew by in a flash and I was comfortably ensconced as a barman
when my mother reminded me that I had to start looking for a
permanent job. Very little movement was coming from my end, so my
parents ended up in making up my mind for me. A letter addressed to
me from the Institute of Chartered Accountants in Ireland instructed
me to attend for interview at the offices of Swain Brown and Co.,
DÒlier Street, Dublin the following week. Life as an articled clerk
lay before me at the princely weekly wage of £5. Indentured slavery
it turned out to be, as it did not even cover my weekly rent.
Mr.
Campion of course felt both let down and vindicated in his original
suspicion of my motives and I had to make up a cock and bull story
about having to return home, due to my father’s sudden serious
illness. In truth, I felt very bad about letting him down and I had
no enthusiasm in leaving his employ whatsoever. Accountancy work was
tough going and I also had to attend the College of Commerce in
Rathmines for four nights study a week. The head of our accountancy
firm was also the managing director of the Adelphi and Carlton Dublin
cinemas. The Adelphi had recently been rebuilt with multiple screens,
Dolby surround sound systems, and plush seating, including Pull-man
seating for five star luxury. The Carlton, with 2,000 seats, was the
largest cinema in Ireland and regularly featured live music acts,
including the Beatles. Part of my duties was to audit the weekly film
takings for both cinemas, as 60% or 70% of the gross takings were
returned to the film distributors in London, such as EMI, Warner
Brothers and MGM. The cinema made most of its own profits from
inflated prices of popcorn, sweets and fizzy drinks.
I
made sure that my work in the Adelphi was finished in time for the
first afternoon screening on Fridays. The front of house staff,
particularly the commissioners, faithfully kept an eye out in case my
boss caught me mooching off from work but, in truth, I think he was
fully aware of what was going on. On Friday nights, especially as I
regularly had no money, I used to make my way up to the Carlton
manager’s office for a chat and to take advantage of his
hospitality, including whiskey produced from his desk drawer. With
his permission, I then proceeded to watch the late night film shows,
Hammer House of Horror movies being a regular feature.
The
Dublin jackeens were
often time more entertaining than the actual film, with cries
of Jaysus,
will ye look at the fangs on yer man, hèel bleeding suck yer wan
dry. It
was simple, innocent fun. We had to conduct Audits of our client
businesses through-out the country, on an Annual basis. This was the
only time of the year that I had extra money in my pockets, as our
Clients paid both our travelling and living expenses. In common with
those before me, I tried to pad my expenses, so that I would have a
little surplus cash. I was referred to as the
bag carrier which
included ticking and totting long ledger figures, counting and
verifying stock, by either checking the levels in pub spirit bottles,
or climbing over and counting bags of fertiliser, in Agriculture
Co-Operatives storage depots.
Flat
accommodation was shared with my brother Sean and his friend,Tex,
both students at University College Dublin (UCD). Subsidisation was
provided by my parents and it was my brother’s responsibility to
keep me on a short leash, by doling out money to me for lunches, bus
fares and such like. Our two room flat on Grosvenor Square, off
Leinster Road, Rathmines had only a three bar electric fire for
heating which gobbled up money at the meter. A shopping trip to the
Army and Navy surplus store, off Capel Street, provided two full
length RAF greatcoats for my brother and me, used when pillion riding
his Honda 175 motorcycle - bought new with the proceeds of his summer construction work with our uncle Jim in Chicago - and as an extra bed blanket on freezing winter nights.
I used to travel home, 60 miles away, with him on the back of his
bike at weekends for resupply. Our landlord lived next door, a big
thick civic guard from Kerry. We had to share a common bathroom with
other flats and one Saturday morning I decided to treat myself to a
bath. The actual bath was covered with layers of brown scum, built up
gradually over the years. I went next door and thought that I would
shame the landlady into cleaning it. No chance, she just handed me
out some rubber gloves and a packet of Vim cleaning power. I scrubbed
away on my knees for what seemed an eternity and in the end, I just
gave up and had a shower, as usual.
In
the flat, we existed on either baked beans on toast, tinned spaghetti
on toast or scrambled eggs on toast. I got to know most of the city
centre Chinese restaurants, as they served up cut price lunches,
probably the heated up left overs from the night before. Both my
brother Sean and our flat mate Tex were University College
Dublin (UCD) students: electrical engineering and journalism. Sean
was involved with a group called the "Civil Chems", a group
of students who ran Thursday night dances in The Television Club, a
dance hall at the top of Harcourt Street, reputed to be owned by
Eamon Andrews. It also had a recording studio on the premises. My
delegated job was to visit flatland around the Rathmines, Rathgar,
Ranelagh and South Circular Road areas on my bike with concession
passes: entitling people to be admitted at reduced prices to the
dance before a certain time. My reward was just a free past for
myself. More slave wages but I didn’t really mind, as brother was
in charge of the purse. The Television Club bands were classier than
those hear in the National and Ierene Dance halls on Parnell Square,
such as The Indians, The Miami, Brendan Boyer and Dickie Rock. The
women were classier as well.
Sloopy`s,
a new night club, was opening in Fleet Street, close to our office
and some free passes were dropped in with us, as a promotional
incentive. Being stony broke; I pounced upon one and ended up that
Friday night meeting a flaming redhead, named Brenda, from
Palmerston, who was employed across the road by the Electricity
Supply Board (ESB), Fleet Street office. I always had a secret
passion for redheads and we got on like a house on fire. Brenda had a
charming freckled face that lit up when she smiled. Her lips were
fully shaped, luscious and sensuous and I longed to kiss her
passionately. Her crescent shaped eyes framed her beautiful hazel
green eyes which intrigued me. She was an eclectic dresser with her
own sense of style, broadly in the gypsy fashion – long, emerald
green swirling skirt, laced cream top and brown riding boots. Her
flowing red curled hair was held back by a dancers head scarf. As a
result of a definite mutual attraction, a romance soon developed
between us. Such venues as Zhivago, the Ace of Clubs and the
Revolution were soon added to our favoured circuit of
nightclubs.
Sloopy`s
was more suited as a mid week venue that attracted a crowd in their
20`s. It consisted of several different floors with DJs playing
different music on each floor. Strobe lights of violet, red and
yellow colours mixed with creeping floor fog, generated by smoke
machines. Curved imitation leather couches lined dark alcove corners
that facilitated smooching couples. The Ace of Clubs and the
Revolution Club were both located off Parnell Square. They
occasionally featured up and coming live bands, followed by DJs
playing albums into the early hours. They were down seedy lanes and
not places to hang around for ones own good. They were mostly weekend
venues and the men were particularly inebriated, coming in after pub
closures, so they could be a bit rough at times. Zhivago Night Club,
located off Baggot Street, was a more sophisticated venue, mostly
haunted my middle aged married married on the prowl. It had an
upmarket wine bar, with upmarket prices to match. Females were very
elegantly dressed and definitely on the prowl for an eligible match.
Music was more middle of the road and suited to long smooching sets.
Lots of private booths facilitated “conversation” and
“proposals”. Dinner jacketed bouncers put up with no messing or
nonsense, often barring troublesome offenders.
There
was one occasion on which I was able to treat Brenda to a proper
night out, as I had purchased two Abbey Theatre tickets to a Sean
O’Casey play, “The Plough and the Stars.” We had arranged to
meet at 7.45 pm. outside the Theatre. I had not been forewarned
that there was an impromptu after work drinks session to mark a
colleagues going away occasion. The few pints flowed, due to the
boss’s rare generosity and went easily to my head. I got on my bike
and wobbled unsteadily to Rathmines, running into parked cars on the
way. I was tired and thought that forty winks would freshen me up for
the romantic evening ahead. I woke up seeing stars, darkest night
with a sharp sting in my jaw. It was 9.30 pm. and Brenda was standing
over me, her temper glowing in the dark, she was livid. I was
mortified: what an awful waste of such a rare treat for us both. To
my absolute relief, my flat mate Tex., had gone home for Christmas
UCD break to his parents in Navan and had forgotten a bottle of
Poitin that he had hidden at the side of the press in the
kitchen. With aplomb, I set to making hot toddies for us both with
Poitin, boiling water and Mi. Wadi. Squash. We were both as merry as
tinkers in no time and normal relationships had been resumed between
us.
However,
in time Brenda, while sympathetic to my pecuniary plight, must have
been fed up that I was always short of readies. Moaning about my
being constantly broke and feeling sorry for myself was no answer, as
far as she was concerned. “Will you get off your backside and do
something if you are so unhappy about your job, you’re an adult and
can make your own decisions, you’re mammy doesn’t have to be
making them for you?” “OK, if you are so smart, what do you
suggest?” I threw back at her. “Well, now that you come to
mention it, the ESB are recruiting clerical officers at the moment
and you would breeze through the process, if you got your act
together” “Right, you’re on”. Taking up the immediate
challenge. “What the hell have I to lose?” said I. The Aptitude
Test and Interview went smoothly, as Brenda had a friend in ESB human
resources and she helped to school me through the interview process.
Breaking my Article Clerk contract presented no real obstacle for me,
although my folks at home were not initially best pleased.
An
ESB colleague, Kevin from Kilkee, Co. Clare, introduced me to the
pastime and pleasure of sea angling pursuits. We used to bring all
our angling tackle out to Dun Laoghaire and Bray on the 48A public
bus. Catches, such as conger eel, mackerel and plaice, provided
regular sport for us. Kevin brought me down to his parents home,
located on the Silver Strand, overlooking Kilkee Bay, where we fished
for and caught ten foot conger eels off the Pollock holes, located
along the rocks. They were so vicious, we had to kill them with
hurling sticks when caught. We were lucky to get on friendly terms with the light house keepers, at the end of Dun Laoghaire pier and they often invited us indoor to share a warming cup of tea when the weather turned nasty. Kevin`s uncle lived in Bray and loaned us a rowing boat when the mackerel were swarming in the harbour. Just a ripple across the water would make me seasick, a condition not improved by Kevin`s mention of greasy bacon sandwiches. While my ESB wages were very good ,
unfortunately, the work was mind numbingly tedious and job satisfaction
was absolute zero. Without any mental stimulation or job satisfaction, I was
back to a dead end once more. Coupled with my lack of enthusiasm for
the job, I got into a damaging pattern of running up a series of
Friday absences, after late Thursday nights outs with Kevin on the
town. This accumulation of black marks resulted in my being invited
to resign, before in effect I was fired, thus preserving a reasonable
work reference.
Keeping
my down at heel situation hidden from my parents, I once more turned
to the bar trade for
work.
A refurbished pub in the north inner city were looking for staff and
I was given a trial job. It was run by a father and two sons. All
went well until I was asked to collect all the beer slops and put
them in a muslin covered enamel bucket for overnight storage. The
next morning I was instructed to unscrew the nut from a false beer
barrel and pour in the slops. This barrel was linked to a dummy
Guinness tap and when it was busy at night, I had to use a quarter
glass from that source and three quarter contents from the real
Guinness tap. "I hear that you won’t do your job, as
instructed by my son. Is that right Noel?" enquired the pub
owner. "I was brought up by decent people, I will not facilitate
this deceit" I responded bravely, although my heart was in my
mouth. A stand-off between us then ensued. "I note that your
Social Welfare cards carry ESB impress stamps. How can that be if you
claim to be a full time barman?" He had caught me out. "If
you ever breath a word about this incident to anyone, then I will
report you to the Barman’s Union and you will be struck off their
books straight away. Remember Its your word against mine, after
all”.
Once
again I got my cards and I found myself out on the street without a
job or prospects. I had been sharing a one room bedsitter in
Belvedere Place, off Mount joy Square with a male night telephonist,
named John. He was an unusual man to say the least, aged about forty.
He was in the habit of applying pale face powder before going out to
work. However, odd as he was, he was very decent to me, especially
when I got behind in my rent. At one stage I even resorted to
breaking the lock on the public phone in the hallway, opposite our
door, in order to buy some groceries. I was scraping bottom at this
stage, there was no doubt. The shop across the road were also very
good to me, allowing me to carry some tick on their books which I
always honoured.
Relationships
between Brenda and me were as good as ever, but I have to admit it
was a bit one sided, as she was seeking a long term commitment, while
I was only a callow immature youth, not long out of the nest and
still a fledgling. Plans for a camping holiday had been made by us
some months previously, travelling via the Larne/Stranraer Ferry and
then hitch hiking between Glasgow and Edinburgh. My conscience
dictated that I should let Brenda know before the trip that it would
be our last time together, as I was going to break up with her. Oh
boy, that was the very worst thing to do, talk about being stupid. Of
course the holiday turned out to be a nightmare, talk about getting
the cold back side. Flaming redheads can just as easily become ice
maidens, if given enough motivation. Just to add insult to injury, I
ran out of money and had to borrow from her and it took me some time
after our return to pay her back, so this prolonged the
agony.
Waking
up late in the day in my flat, I answered insistent door knocking,
only to find my two flustered parents standing on the door step. They
were on their way back through Dublin from a trip to family friends
in England. “Do you know what day this is, Noel?” asked my
obviously flustered mother. “No, not really, why – should I” I
responded, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes. “For God’s sake,
you have an interview with the bank in about four hours’ time”
she exclaimed in a higher vocal register. I just looked at her with a
blank face, as the import of what said had said was still seeping
into my recumbent brain. I had forgotten all about the job
application sent away months ago. “Have you a proper suit, fresh
white shirt, shoes – a proper ensemble suitable for the interview?”
enquired my mother. Again, I just stared at her with an open mouth.
My dishevelled appearance must have been more elegant than any
sentence that I could scramble out. “Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph”
she cried “Your father and I have not the money on us to sort you
out. Francie what can we do?” “Well maybe Aidan McChesney down in
Arnott`s menswear might be able to help us out” said my father
helpfully. My mother had shopped in Arnott`s, on Henry Street, for
years and Aidan was from our home town and was in charge of the
menswear department. “No problem, Mrs. MacEntee, I’m delighted to
be of assistance, just whatever amount of money you like, you can pay
me back any-time” said Aidan, to the eternal gratitude of our
family. A quick short back and sides followed, so suitably suited and
booted, I made it to 8 Burlington Road, in good time for the job
interview. “You’re on your own now, son, we’ve got you this
far, the rest is now up to you. Good luck.” said my father, giving
me a manly hug and a slap on the back.
With
his words of advice still ringing in my ears, my Guardian Angel must
have steered me successfully through the interview, as I was shortly
called for the Aptitude Test which turned out to be a breeze. So that
is how my forty year banking career got off to a precarious
beginning. So, on the 18th September 1972, I climbed the front steps
and approached the impressive bronze inlaid double doors of the head
office of the Provincial Bank of Ireland (now Allied Irish Banks), 5
College Street, Dublin, opposite Trinity College side railings, to
take up my appointed banking position. For new entrants, the actual
appointment location of their position was at the sole discretion of
the bank. I could have been sent to Cork or Donegal, no appeal being
allowed. As it turned out my first three permanent jobs in Dublin
were all located within a five hundred yard radius of each other. By
this time, I was well settled in Dublin, so I was as pleased as punch
to be still working in the familiar city centre.
The
tall metal, polished glass and brass gilded inner double doors opened
into an impressive banking hall. Marbled columns, ceilings that rose
into the gods, capped with two impressive mythical maidens kneeling
and holding up a highly decorated, ornate clock. Scrolling deep
grained mahogany counters, lined each side of the mosaic tiled floor.
A uniformed porter brought me into Mr Widger, the deputy manager’s
office, who in turn brought me along a deeply carpeted corridor, to
the inner sanctum of Mr Eric Craven, the distinguished looking senior
branch manager, seated majestically behind an elegant leather tooled
desk. “You are most welcome, Mr MacEntee, congratulations and best
wishes on what we hope will be a long and mutually beneficial career
with the bank.” “Thank you sir, I am delighted with my
appointment and I look forward to becoming a member of your banking
staff.” “I understand that you have some previous accounting and
clerical experience, so this should help you fit in quickly with our
team. Of course you will be expertly guided and given both hands-on
and centralised training. “Yes sir, thank you sir”. “You may
call me either Manager or Mr Craven”. “Of course sir Manager”.
“Just one other point of mention before you go Mr MacEntee, I wish
to compliment you on your sartorial elegance but note that sandals
have no part of a bank official’s proper ensemble” “Of course
yes sir, I will purchase a new pair of shoes at lunch break, sir”
“Very good, you can go now out with our Mr Widger and he will
show you around.” “Thank you sir, I mean Manager Mr Craven”.
Stumbling and mumbling to myself, I found my personage standing on
the other side of a closed door in the long corridor, with a bright
red face, looking down at my socks peeping out from my infamous
sandals. “Don’t worry Noel, we all feel awkward on our first day,
come along with me and I will give you the five cent tour and
introduce you around.” Mr Widger said, to my great relief. So I
followed him around sheepishly, as I was introduced to various heads
of departments and my new working colleagues. Best of all, he brought
me down stairs to the staff canteen where I was treated to a slap up
breakfast. Over time, the canteen staff were to make a pet of me and
prepare my favourite food, even if it were not on the menu.
My
first duty was to brand the previous day’s paid cheques on
customers accounts, through a machine that punched each cheque with
tiny pinpricks showing today’s date and the word “PAID”. The
most important part of this duty was to make sure that the machine
date was changed on a daily basis. Once this had been done, I filed
the appropriate paid cheques in each customer’s filing cabinet
which would, in time, be matched up with their individual bank
statements and dispatched to them by post. Not exactly earth
shattering or mentally stimulating work but it was as good a place to
start as any, I suppose. True to my word, at lunchtime, and with
limited funds, I purchased a pair of shoes down Talbot Street. For
some reason, I ended up buying a pair of platform shoes. It must have
been the inner rebel within me. I ended up regretting my choice, as I
could hardly walk in them afterwards.
With
my poor track record of getting up in time for work, my parents
insisted that I went into “digs”. A suitable family, the Dixon’s,
were found for me at the Sandymount end of Tritonville Road, close to
the number 3 bus route. In common with most working class housewives,
Mrs Dixon was adept at producing dinners from low cost ingredients.
For instance: stuffed heart, skinned skate, Dublin coddle were all
meals that I could not digest, being a person with a picky nature. My
room mate was a veterinarian student from the country who had an
appetite like a horse and regularly picked both his own and my plate
clean. He swiftly became Mrs Dixon’s favourite. Life soon settled
into a regular pattern. Work and digs for five days, then home to
Shercock on Friday evenings, via Tom Roe’s Shercock Sillan
coaches, parked beside the National Ballroom, at the top of Parnell
Square. The return journey on Monday mornings at 6.30 am., would
usually find me asleep in the luggage compartment, at the rear of a
minibus, until I was dropped off in Dublin at 8.30 am, outside
“Sherry’s Café” in Abbey Street, where I had my breakfast,
prior to reporting for work.
I
had worked at a bar/hotel beside the CIE (National Bus), Broad stone
depot, on Dublin’s north side, prior to taking up my new banking
position. A dispute with the manager, resulted in him holding on to
the National Insurance cards for nearly nine months. My father
eventually had to confront him and threatened him with the Police,
before he released the cards. This had the knock on effect of all my
nine months back dated insurance stamps being deducted by the bank in
one lot from my salary, leaving me with nothing to live on for that
month. I was at my wits end: what could I do? I discussed my
predicament with my father and, as chance would have it, he went to
school with the owner of Rice’s pub on the corner of St. Stephens
Green, opposite the Gaiety Theatre. He gave me a letter of
introduction to Raymond Rice and I ended up in getting bar work for
two evenings a week, to my everlasting relief. I was a total innocent
and was totally unaware that it was frequented by a gay clientele.
However the tips were great, as I was a floor waiter, although there
were accompanied by a few indecent suggestions from time to time,
together with some chat up lines, inspired by my shoulder length
blond hair. One arduous admirer followed me to the last Ringsend
garage bus at 12 midnight but I managed to elude him. The job lasted
until the Universities students went home on Summer break, at which
time I was once more or less solvent. If the bank had discovered that
I was double jobbing, I would have been in trouble, as I was still on
probation and it was against their rules of employment.
Bank
staff had free access to sports facilities shared with Aer Lingus and
Bank of Ireland staff in Knockrabo, Goatstown, a suburb of south
Dublin. It comprised soccer and rugby pitches, tennis courts and an
old rambling house with a pub, snooker room and function room. I
remember some great evenings having sing-songs and bumping up on down
on long leather seats loudly singing out the words to Garry Glitter`s
glam rock song “Will you kiss me, yeah, will you write my name up
on your wall. Yeah”.
Weekends
were spent running the family pub at home, something I enjoyed but I
felt tied down and unable to enjoy my weekends as I would have
desired. Saturday nights were particularly busy in the pub but this
made getting to dances in the nearest town of Carrickmacross, Co.
Monaghan very difficult indeed, as I was not allowed to drive my
fathers car. I must have been bemoaning my plight out loud in the bar
one evening to two of our mature female customers who were moved to
sympathise with my plight. “Can you drive, Noel?” asked Miss
Fisher, a single woman who worked in our local chicken “factory”.
“Of course” I responded confidently, based on driving my sisters
Austin 1100 up and down our large yard, without her approval. “Well
my Morris Minor is parked outside the house and you are welcome to
borrow it, if you promise to be careful and not to drink and drive”
“Absolutely, I don’t drink (which I didn’t) and you can trust
me, I won’t let you down.” I just could not believe my good
fortune.
So
a regular Saturday pattern followed: In the afternoon, I would call
up to the house that she shared, had a brief chat with the two
ladies, quietly left a quarter bottle of gin and tonics on the
kitchen table and pocketed her car keys. We had petrol pumps, so I
fuelled the car up and parked it away from the pub., ready for the
off, directly after the pub closure. That Saturday night, I drove off
to a dance at the Nuremore Hotel, Carrickmacross and “shifted” a
girl from Nobber, Co. Meath and then drove her home. I do not know
how I made it back home to Shercock safely that night, due to driving
through thick fog, poor headlights and a lack of driving experience
in adverse weather conditions – I just hugged the white line and
the cats eyes. The thought of my having no driving licence, no
insurance, no car tax or being stopped by the Police never once
entered my head. My angel guardian must have been looking out for me
over all this period, as I drove Miss Fisher’s car for months
without incident. Eventually my father caught me out but then agreed
to put me on his own insurance policy, seeing that I had proved my
worth as a careful driver, if somewhat careless about such minor
details as insurances and licences.
After
twelve months working in College Street branch, my bank bosses
decided to transfer me to one of their Drogheda branches. I did not,
nor could not, object, but it turns out I was fed with with living in
digs and looked forward to the freedom of sharing a flat. I ended up
sharing a flat with three other bank officials and we made dinner for
ourselves there each lunch hour. A great social life soon ensued: I
played on the wing for a rugby club based at Butlin`s Mosney
holiday camp’s sport grounds, played squash in The Crescent
community centre, took up amateur acting with a local troupe and
played snooker in a private club beside the bank. My new girl friend,
Ann, had a wonderful circle of friends and I soon became an accepted
member of this fun loving group. Weekends camping on Achill Island,
trips to Ballybunion and the Galway races became part of our
itinerary. We fuelled ourselves with free Vesta curries, as one of
the lads worked in the factory where they were made, thus freeing up
drinking money.
I
had little interests in playing sports during my years at Ballyfin,
Co. Laois boarding school but I took to playing 3rds rugby with
Devlin rugby club with great enthusiasm. Our club consisted mostly of
north Dublin farmers, workers from McDonnell’s The Margarine
factory in Drogheda which manufactured Flora Margarine, teachers,
bank officials and clerical workers from Drogheda. Butlin`s Mosney
holiday camp pitches were sand based and playable all winter. We were
a great crowd of convivial rugger buggers and we all lived for the
weekend home and, especially, away matches with north Leinster teams.
The posh Dublin clubs, such as Wesley, looked down their noses on us
as country yokels and only ever offered us tea and sandwiches,
miserable sods. No matter what happened on the pitch, we were always
the best of friends afterwards, after scraping off the muck, we were
treated to free pints and a slap-up belly busting feed, then back
home by team bus, in the early morning hours, singing bawdy rugby
ditties with croaky male voices.
My
other newly found passion was play acting with St. Brigid's Drama
Group, consisting mostly of teachers. We put on two plays annually
and I had the thrill of playing Gar Private in Brian Friel`s
Philadelphia Here I Come, along with Hugh Leonard`s DA and Ten Little
Indians, to very good reviews. I turned into a complete Thespian,
with all the associated pretensions. One of my work assistant
managers, Paul, convinced us to take part in his deluded production
of The Crying Room for the annual Bankers Drama Festival held at The
John Players Theatre, South Circular Road, Dublin. It was based on
the controversial Papal proclamation Humane Vitae concerning
contraception and human reproduction. Paul was acting as a priest
giving a homily on a pulpit to the audience while the rest of us were
a motley crew,supposed to be gathering in the crying room of a
church. We had no proper set, our performances were totally
amateurish, unconvincing and just overall brutal. The festival
adjudicator just slagged us off the stage and we went home with our
ears burning, never to ever re-appear. We had an active regional bank
sports and social group. I learnt to swim for the first time in
Gormanston College, Co. Meath’s swimming pool, part of the
facilities that we had free access to on Wednesday Summer evenings.
Sing-songs followed in a local country pub and bank management were
generous about putting their hands in their pockets.
I
tried out for the North Leinster AIB Rugby team, by our playing
against Navan Rugby club and had a good game until the last fives
minutes: catching a high ball close to our line and calling out
“MARK” for a free kick when I was hit on both sides by two
bruising Navan forwards. I went one way and my right leg went the
other way. I screamed out with pain. Carried into the dressing rooms,
my knee swelled up like a balloon and the pain throbbed like crazy. I
had come with my friend Greg who was determined to stay on for the
craic. He helped me to dress and propped up my leg on a low bar stool
while feeding me neat brandies for pain relief and to keep me from
complaining too much. Much later that night, Greg drove us back to
Drogheda in his Mini, spinning it around corners and nearly crashing
the car many times. By some miracle we made it home safely and Greg
dropped me off outside Ann’s flat. I hobbled up four flights of
stairs and received a sympathetic reception from Ann, even though it
was nearly 2 am. She took me up to Casualty early the next morning
and my leg was x rayed and put into plaster from the hip to the
ankle. Later than evening, Ann decided that she would cook us a
special curry, as a treat. Her table was all laid out with a linen
tablecloth, good cutlery and a nice chilled bottle of Black Tower
German white wine. Unfortunately, Ann was using desert rice, not the
proper long grain variety, and she could not get the boiled rice
particles to separate – it was just a ball of mush. Poor girl, we
just laughed but she was mortified nonetheless.
About
six weeks later, my plaster cast was removed in the hospital. The
Consultant arranged for me to see him in his private consulting rooms
for a follow up check-up. Little was I to know at that time, but this
esteemed professional was in fact a sexual pervert and the first I
knew of it, was when he molested me by dropping his hand down the
front of my underpants. Needless to say, I never went back to see him
and I now have arthritis in my knee as a reminder. Many years later
this man was “outed” but the Hospital Nun’s rewarded him with a
fine pension, he transferred all his assets to his wife and he was
never convicted of any crime. Back in those days if you mentioned the
incident to anyone, they would most likely say either: its only in
your own imagination or: you must be queer yourself and you lead him
on.
Our
Manager at that time, was a Mr Lynch, originally from Cork. A lovely
man, he suffered from poor health, was a heavy drinker and basically
very unhappy with his posting to Drogheda. He was a fanatical hurling
fan and the only one with whom he could passionately debate hurling
was with Henry Dudley, a bank official rugby prop forward from
Tipperary. We juniors used to accompany them to the Horse and Hounds
pub on Narrow West Street for after work drinks. I will always
remember our Manager’s standing order instructions to the barman:
“A fresh one in front of me and always another one up the spout”.
When he got into the rhythm of drinking, he did not wish his flow to
be interrupted. This was a cardinal sin in his book. Henry was just
about able to keep pace with him, as we juniors just fell to once
side after the speed of two or three pints after we left the two men
to their reminiscences of Munster hurling.
Around
that time I had moved into a basement flat with my colleague Leonard.
I seemed to fall into a depression, triggered I’m sure by my
father’s premature death at aged 60. A series of sick leave
absences from work ensued, resulting in an assistant manager, Dave,
physically pulling me out of bed one morning when I should have been
at work. "Get up you lazy fucker, your for the high jump today,
our Manager is waiting in his office to see you". My mind was in
a whirl "Am I going to get the sack ?" I panicked "What
am I to say, as an excuse that will be believed, I’m in serious
trouble, that’s for sure? ". After a semblance of dressing and
leaping into the engine revving car, my brain was in overdrive.
Standing shame faced in front of my Manager, he asked, looking at to
my abysmal personnel file "Well Mr. MacEntee, before I make any
comment, what have you to say for yourself on this occasion ?"
With tears running down my unwashed face, I stuttered "I have
been on new medication recently and all I want to do is sleep all the
time", I knew by the look of disbelief on his face that he was
not falling for my line but, in fairness to him, he was prepared to
give me one final chance."You are to go and see your Doctor
immediately and get your medication changed. Then, you have until
this coming weekend to move out of that flat and get into new digs,
as you are not responsible enough to get yourself out in the mornings
for work." I knew by his determined tone and direct stare into
my eyes, that I had no option but to comply with his directives. With
good fortune, I was able to obtain digs with a lovely family, named
Crinion, on the Marsh road, beside the Margarine factory. I soon
became included as part of their warm, loving family circle. They had
a handicapped son, Eugene, who was the centre of everyday family
life.
I
even went away on a horse drawn holiday in Kerry with their daughter
and two of their other sons. It was highlighted by my first and last
taste of Pot, having retched up my guts. I was singularly in charge
of the horse and gypsy caravan (the others walking behind) on a steep
incline, coming into the sea side village of Foynes, Co. Limerick,
when the horse began to gather up speed and I could not get him to
slow down. The gypsy caravan’s foot brake was useless and we ended
flying through Foynes village at full speed, with cars and a large
bus mounting the kerbs to get out of the way of my out of control
horse and gypsy caravan. It was a close run thing, as the horse never
came to a stop until we were half a mile on the other side of town. I
am glad to recall that I had no more close calls at work and, in
fact, I ended up being an enterprising and responsible employee, with
a much improved service record.
We
had a local Italian café owner, Mario, as a customer who had a
periodic requirement for “Queen’s Head” sterling currency from
time to time. Irish currency could be freely converted to sterling at
no cost, at that time in the 1970`s. Rumour had it, that sharp suited
Italian gentlemen would then collect and repatriate the funds for
Mario back to their Italian home village. As a Cashier, I facilitated
Mario and as he was always delighted with my good service, he
insisted on providing me with free fish and chips any time that I
called to see him on my way home. Many times when I was flat broke, I
came to appreciate his free meals. We had our favourite watering
holes, usually bank customers pubs, who would hold our post dated
cheques until the 25th of the month pay-day, both a good and a bad
habit, as our next month’s salary was open spent before we got it.
Luckily, there was unlimited overtime to be had at that time.
During
the three month bank strike of 1976, I drove my American Aunt Kay
around Ireland for a number of weeks. The weather was scorching and
remained glorious all Summer long. She, very generously, covered all
my expenses and while my colleagues worked in English frozen pea
processing plants or on building sites, I had the Life of Reilly.
Having given up my flat at the beginning of the strike, I found it
very hard to get a place to stay when I came back to work in
September. Having been previously friendly with a group of female
night telephonists, one of them – Vera, with a thick West of
Ireland accent – came to my rescue and provided me with a single
room in their house, located directly behind their main bathroom. It
was a very delicate arrangement. Vera had a notion of me but I never
really reciprocated, unfortunately. She used to ring me up at home,
to my parent’s house, at the weekend and struck up a friendship
with my mother, who pestered me as to why I was not going out with
such a nice girl.
We
had been working overtime for weeks at work without a break when a
crowd of us from work went on the batter one Friday evening.
Unfortunately, we had compulsory overtime the next day – Saturday.
I woke up as drunk as I went to bed and Vera poured me into a taxi
and told the driver where to drop me off. Everything was swimming in
front of my eyes, I was unfit for duty but had no other option,
except to be there. I was filming a record of customer cheques when a
colleague shoved a bar stool under my bottom, as I was unsteady on my
feet. On the pretence of going down to search for achieve records in
the basement boiler room, I disappeared for several hours. The heat
was lovely and quickly overcame me. I ended up curling up in a foetal
position within a large Kellogg box and dropping off to sleep. I
awoke with a sudden start to find Henry Dudley kicking the sides of
the box and roaring at me over the noise of the burner: “Get up you
lazy drunken fucker, you came in to work, not to sleep” I knew then
and there that the game was up, so I just signed out and went back to
my bed. Unfortunately, I had incurred the wrath of my assistant
manager whom we had nick named as “Hunt the Cunt”. He reported me
to our Head Office HR Manager and it resulted in my being transferred
to Dundalk branch. I was devastated, it was so unfair, after all I
had never claimed a penny for my lost Saturday. I had to leave my
friends and social life behind me. As it turned out, my romance with
Ann had been finished for some time, so I did not have that wrench at
least.
Dundalk
ended up as a ten year posting for me. I found the townspeople narrow
minded and insular looking. My social life never really took off and
I was really quite miserable. I shared a flat with two other bank
officials, overlooking the Fair Green. My Manager, an old fashioned
Royal Bank conservative type, was somewhat scandalised that I was
living in that part of town where the tinkers lived, as he said. It
suited me nonetheless, despite his disapproval. Each evening my
dinner consisted of either: smoked cod and chips, sweet and sour pork
or curried chicken, all accompanied with a large bottle of Club
orange. No wonder that I piled on the weight over time. The town was
nicknamed El Passo, due to the large number of republicans and
republican sympathisers living in various Estates around the town.
There hardly seemed to be a week went by when we were not forced to
close our doors, as another republican prisoner had passed away on
the Maze Block blanket protest. The town had a threatening air and
was festooned with black flags on electric poles.
What
started out as a routine task, one day turned into both a bizarre and
frightening incident. My bank had been the sponsor of agricultural
animal prizewinners in the annual Royal Dublin Society Spring Show. A
farmer in our area was one of the national winner for his prize
farrowing sow in the relevant pig judging class. I was asked to
accompany a local photographer to visit the farmer, present him (and
his sow !) with his winner’s trophy and get a photograph of
himself, myself and his large sow and litter for the local newspaper.
After we had a glass of whiskey in his sitting room while casually
chatting, my photographer received an urgent phone call on his early
model, brick size, mobile phone, "Quick, Noel, we have to go
now". So, leaving the startled looking farmer behind, we took
off on a high speed chase for the border between Co. Louth and Co.
Armagh (Northern Ireland). The photographer was on 24 hour call for
national press and television. He was tight lipped, eyes firmly fixed
on his driving and offered no explanation whatsoever as to what was
going on. I had enough sense to determine that something big was up
and to keep my mouth firmly shut. He had been alerted to the fact
that a body had been located along the roadside, on the line marking
the actual border between Ireland north and south.
After a crazy
dash, we arrived to find camera men, news reporters and photographers
casually talking and smoking along the side of the road. I could just about make out a man’s body, lying face down, obviously dumped, partially
hidden in a roadside culvert, with his hands and feet tied behind
with wire. I was shocked to see congealed blood at the base of his
skull, with brain parts exposed.Everyone was awaiting the
arrival of the police and security forces but it just seemed so blasé
and an everyday occurrence to the media people that were present at
this dreadful scene.
Talk among the bye standers centred around a strong rumour that he had obviously been executed by the IRA shooting the hapless victim to the back of his head. I later learnt that he had definitely been
identified of falling foul to the Armagh branch of the Provisional
IRA as an informer to the British Army and had been tortured and
executed by way of a `punishment shooting`, as a warning to others
`volunteers` that might otherwise be tempted to squeal to the authorities. What
started out as a pig photograph, ended up with the dramatic sight of
a humiliating picture of the sad ending of a human life, just like a
dead dog in a ditch.
At
6.20 pm. on Friday 19 December 1975, a car bomb exploded outside a
licensed premises known as ‘Kay’s Tavern’, or ‘Kay
Mulligan’s’. The pub was situated on the south side of Crowe
Street in the centre of Dundalk town. The building itself was
completely demolished by the explosion, and extensive damage was
caused to parked vehicles and neighbouring buildings. From the
evidence of eyewitnesses, and the position of the crater in the road
caused by the explosion, it appears that the car was parked close to
the kerb outside the entrance to Kay’s bar. It was facing towards
Roden Place. The explosion obliterated the back end of the vehicle,
leaving just the two front wheels with portions of the engine and
chassis. This suggests the bomb was located in the boot. At the time
of the explosion, Kay’s Tavern was relatively quiet, with just
seven customers being served by the proprietor’s son, John
McErlean. The proprietor herself, Mrs Kathleen McErlean, was upstairs
in her living quarters with daughters Catherine and Alice. Had the
pub been busier, the death toll would almost certainly have been
higher.
Later
that same evening, a gun and bomb attack was carried out at
Donnelly’s Bar, Silverbridge, Co. Armagh, in which three
people were killed. Police on both sides of the border believed the
two attacks were linked. The ensuing Garda investigation
into the Dundalk bombing was unable to find sufficient
evidence to charge anyone in relation to the attack.
Our
bank was just up the street from Kay`s Tavern and our staff often
drank there, after work. A colleague of mine`s father was driving by
at the time of the explosion and was caught by the after blast. He
never fully recovered from his injuries, suffering mostly by way of mental
breakdown and post traumatic stress.
As
it was, two people were killed: one a customer in the bar, the other
a man on the street outside the bar door. More than twenty others
were injured. The explosion was of considerable force. A passer-by
who was on the opposite side of the street, about twenty yards from
the explosion when it occurred, was propelled into the air: he landed
inside the railings of the Courthouse, some thirty yards away from
where he had been. Inside Kay’s Tavern itself, two men who had been
sitting on stools at the bar were propelled through the back wall of
the bar and into the toilets, which were in the back yard. Another
customer described the explosion as follows: “Just at that I was
thrown against a wall. I could feel what felt like waves hitting me.
The bar burst into flames immediately… I saw a heavily built man,
about 60 years. He was bleeding badly from the head. I grabbed him
and headed towards the back of the bar… I made my way to what I
thought was the entrance to the toilet. It turned out to be a dead
end… We were still close to the bar. Myself and this man turned to
go elsewhere and at that the bar exploded. I think this was the
spirits exploding. I eventually made my way out to a window at the
front of the building. I was taken by one of the firemen.”
The
two men who died as a result of the bombing were Hugh Watters, 60
years, married with grown-up children, and Jack Rooney, 62 years,
also married with grown-up children. Hugh Watters was a tailor, with
premises in nearby Francis Street. He was a regular customer at
Kay’s, calling in most evenings after work. He had no extreme
political leanings. A witness who entered the bar a few minutes
before the explosion recalled that he was sitting on his own at the
rear of the bar, and was `in his usual jolly form`. At 6.45 pm. his
body was pulled from the burning premises by a fireman and a Garda
officer. He was transported to Louth County Hospital, Dundalk, but
was pronounced dead on arrival. Jack Rooney was employed as a lorry
driver / refuse collector with Dundalk Urban District Council. He did
not hold any extreme political views. According to one of his
colleagues, they had finished work at about 4 pm. The team went for a
pre-Christmas drink in McEneaney’s bar in Jocelyn Street. Jack, the
witness and another man then took the lorry to the dump to empty it,
returning to the Council yard at around 5.15 pm. Jack and the witness
went into the Condel Bar, Roden Place. `Jack bought [another man] and
myself a drink, he did not have one himself. This was before he left.
I asked him to stay for another drink and he said that he had to walk
home, get cleaned up, that he was going to Benny Brady’s on that
night. Jack walked out the door at about 6.20 pm. or so, he was quite
sober. Jack had left the bar about a minute or less when I heard a
very loud explosion.` When Kathleen McErlean came out of her
premises following the explosion, she saw Jack Rooney lying on the
footpath outside the door of the bar, badly injured. He was removed
to the hospital shortly afterwards. Three days later, on 22 December,
he died as a result of his injuries.
It
would seem that no warnings were received prior to the bomb attack.
On the following day, some Belfast newspapers received telephone
calls claiming that the Red Hand Commandos had been responsible for
the Dundalk bombing and for an attack on Donnelly’s Bar,
Silverbridge, Co. Armagh on the same night.
During
that time of severe economic depression, I was charged with going out
to knock on doors, as a debt collector on behalf of the bank. I used
to visit sprawling council estates, such as Muirhevnamor, where I
could have been shot at any time, in hind sight, for my troubles. I was usually alone
but, luckily enough, on one particular day I had a colleague driving
me when I called to a house where I knew a debtor’s car was parked
outside his parent’s house. His mother came to the door and said he
wasn’t there. I disagreed, pointing out her son’s car was
outside. She disappeared back indoors. I heard a commotion going on
the inside hallway. Just with that I heard the sounds of a running
heavy boots and a burly man swearing at the top of his voice: “I’ll
effing kill you, If I get my hands on you, you bastard, for calling
my wife a liar. I It was me who borrowed my son’s car today.”
“Quick, start the car and open the door for me” I appealed in
panic to my colleague. To my relief, he was quick witted enough and
flung open the passenger door, as he drove off, allowing me to grab
the roof and swing my body safely inside. It was much too close a
shave. On fine days, I reserved a long trip for myself out to the
region of Omeath and Carlingford, along the coast line and treated
myself to a seafood platter and chowder on bank expenses. I was
always assured that at least two or more customers would have
repayment money built up, awaiting my call. So long as I returned to
the branch with positive results, everyone was happy.
One
incident will always live long in my memory. A very well presented
young married woman, with her child, called to see me at my branch
with the good news that she was going to discharge her husband’s
debt in full. She wrote out an Ulster bank personal cheque and asked
if I could give her back an extra £250 in cash. I was both delighted
and charmed and of course readily agreed to her request. Of course
her cheque bounced to high heaven and we were left with an extra debt
of £250 on our hands. I had foolishly fallen for her charm. Her scam
had been to open new accounts in all the town’s banks and building
societies, using a new cheque from each newly opened account, then
issue a cheque elsewhere, before the original cheque had cleared. She
had perfected the system but I was both mortified and very annoyed
for allowing myself to be duped. I contacted a local Police detective
and he arranged for us both to call down to see her at her home. She
invited us both inside. Of course she denied everything. The
detective was an old hand and refused to believe her, as she had
previous form. He took to searching her sitting room and soon
discovered a cache of bank books and cheque books hidden in her
zipped up settee cushions. It did not phase her in the least. She
ended up being prosecuted but, of course, we never got a penny back.
Just chalked it up to experience – it was a valuable lesson
learnt.
The Regional Technical College was founded on a 90 acre campus in 1970 and I was appointed as student officer there by my bank. My duties involved assessing students for loans and paying out the weekly European Social Fund grants to eligible students. By way of an odd quirk, involved our bank porter, Gerry, actually acting as Cashier and doling out the payments in cash to the qualifying recipients. He had a photographic memory and always twigged some smart students attempting to sign and collect payments for other students who were missing from college on the day. He gave them short shrift and sent them away with a flea in his ear. To his great credit, Gerry always balanced the bank`s books and had a blemish free record, neither being short or over in his end of day cash tally.
My
American cousin, Neil, from Chicago had come to Ireland in 1978 for a
four week visit. He had previously lived in Ireland and had attended
secondary school for 3 years, from aged 12. “He could break iron”,
as my mother used to say about Neil. A real firebrand, he was now a
successful sales representative with an American mid-west steel
industry. My uncle Kevin loaned Neil his brand new Ford Cortina, much
to my disbelief, but I was delighted to let him chauffeur me around
the South of Ireland hot spots, such as Killarney, Ballybunion,
Lahinch and Galway for a ten day holiday. After staying in Bed and
Breakfasts, Neil would be up out of his bed at Sunrise, gotten washed
and shaved and was ready to hit the road, in order to get serious
mileage under his belt, just as if he was hitting the American
highways and heading out to make contact with his widely spread
business customers. He could not appear to be able to switch off.
“Lets get the plasma juice (orange), some Java and hit the road,
Mac” was his irritating morning refrain, just as I was turning over
in my warm bed. Coming around a blind bend one day, we nearly ran
into a team of county council workmen who were applying chippings
over freshly laid tar. Neil was fuming, as the underside of our
uncle’s new car was now coated with a sticky residue of tar and
stones. To his credit, Neil located an empty garage service pit in
the next town, stripped to his waist and proceeded to peel back the
damage with solvent stripper. It took him all afternoon and was a
dirty, sweaty job.
We
ended up one evening looking for refreshment and entertainment in
JD`s famous singing pub on Ballybunion`s main street. A sole
guitarist, singer called The Loner Tony was doing his stuff. We
noticed two girls listening intently to his music and we chanced our
arm and invited ourselves to sit beside them. It turned out they were
from Dungannon, Co. Tyrone, had lovely lilting northern accents, and
were heading on to the Willie Clancy Memorial Festival in Milton
Malbay the following day. We offered Rita and Teresa a lift there and
arranged to meet them the following morning. For some reason, we
missed them, so we drove on to catch the Tarbert Ferry and found them
waiting there to embark. They thought Neil was a bit of a high
powered yank and possibly a bit of a chancer but over the next few
hours we got chatting and the girls seemed to relax and enjoy our
company, as we were enjoying theirs. We ended up in a pub with
brilliant traditional music on offer and we enjoyed the craic and the
pints over the evening. Around midnight we bumped into a solo Belfast
guy at the top end of the street, carrying a guitar, and asked him to
play us something, other than diddly eye music. “I’m keeping a
low profile” in a strong Belfast account, said our reluctant
troubadour. “Ah go on, give it a go, play what ever suits you” we
all chimed in chorus. Just with that he exploded into singing and
playing Chuck Berry’s “Sweet Little Sixteen” They're really
rockin' in Boston In Pittsburgh, Pa. Deep in the heart of Texas And
round the 'Frisco Bay All over St. Louis And down in New Orleans All
the cats wanna dance with Sweet Little Sixteen We could have been
lynched by the traditional fanatics and run out of town. What a
scream!
Myself
and Rita were getting on like a house and fire but Teresa was not so
keen on Neil. We all managed to get accommodation in a local B&B
and Rita and I took to courting in the moonlight and canoodling for
ages in my uncles car. We agreed to meet up in Donegal on the
following week and spend a few days together, as a friend of hers
could put us up for free in her holiday cottage. She was a lovely
girl but with deep catholic scruples, so there was no serious hanky
panky between
us. As it turned out, Neil and I were attending my local dance hall
in the Nuremore Hotel, Carrickmacross the following Saturday night.
The Indians show band were doing their thing to a packed crowd. I
asked a tall, dark haired pretty local girl, called Anne, out to
dance and we were out on the dance floor together for most of the
night. We ended up marrying each other the following year, had two
children together and lived as a family for 19 years in
Carrickmacross, Kells and Moville. But that is another story and I
now draw a line under my life as a single man at the age of 27.
The Television Club, Dublin.
Irish Summer, 1976.