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THE ROAD FROM HARBOUR HILL
A Journey of Dreams
By JIM HAYES iUniverse LLC
Copyright © 2014 Jim Hayes
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4917-1623-6
CHAPTER 1
Early Beginnings
"BREAK! BREAK! BREAK!" Georgie Davis cried. "Where Georgie?" I asked. "Are you sure, Georgie?" "BREAK! BREAK!" he insisted. My questions were ignored, but Georgie's words were carried by word of mouth. "Come on lads. There's a break at Lynch's Quay." The boys ran in a gallop towards the quay. Others from the Pier Head Slip joined them. Little hearts were thumping. Rods were cast, and each boy stood shoulder to shoulder at the quayside. There was silence. Only Georgie sensed what was about to happen. He was a small, pale-faced, delicate boy who stood tall in the fishing season. Georgie knew when the mackerel would strike before anyone else. That earned him status. He had already calmed our fears in July when he confronted the crabs, and now he raised our hopes in August.
Our eyes searched the water eagerly. The shore had become black with sprats. The tense, quick movement of the tiny sprats alerted us to the silent movement of the underwater shoals of mackerel that lurked below the surface. The quicksilver glow of renegade sprats that broke the top of the water made them easy targets. Sprats were the food of mackerel. The tide was coming in, and the green-striped shoals of mackerel moved silently towards their prey. We were ready.
Each boy took his position along the foreshore of the town. Reels, rods, red spinners and sinkers were bought from Jasper Wilson at Westbourne Place. Some rods were home-made. Bamboos grew freely at the back of the island or in Fota near Belvelly Bridge. Six hooks and feathers were attached to the line on the rod. The lines were cast. There was no more standing room on Lynch's Quay. The silence was broken. Suddenly, below and above the waterline, the mackerel onslaught began.
A storm of choppy waves broke the calmness of the waters. The scene was chaotic. The frenzied mackerel wiggled in the air, and dived into the defenceless sprat. Some mackerel beached themselves on the slipway. Others were netted by hand. Our excitement grew to fever pitch. The hooks and feathers had served their purpose. Buckets and bags filled quickly. Mackerel were threaded through the gills with butcher's twine and tied together. Horse mackerel were slapped against the wall to take the fight out of them. Catches were compared. We brought as much as we could carry. Only our mothers gave us the praise we so keenly desired.
How different it had been in July. Then, we gathered in English's Butcher Shop opposite Lynch's Quay. Willie English knew what we wanted. He unravelled a large length of string from his ball of twine that he used for tying Sunday roasts. He handed each of us a length of string and a hand-sized clump of red meat. We ran excitedly to the slipway across the road. The meat was attached to the bottom of the string, and lowered into the water. We waited impatiently for the crabs to take hold of the bait. We slowly hauled up our prize, and landed the crabs on the slip.
Our excitement soon turned to fear. The monster crabs surrounded us. Their spindly, spider-like legs were larger than we expected. We backed towards the wall to avoid their aggressive claws. Only Georgie Davis knew what to do. Our fear diminished as he grabbed the tortoise-like shell of the crab, and turned it over. "Sure, you could open the pouch of his tummy, and put a penny in it," he said. Our tensions eased. We had conquered our fears. Most of the large red crabs were returned to the water. The excitement was in the catching and not in the eating. But now, the mackerel season was upon us.
Cobh was alive with activity. Mackerel were breaking from Whitepoint to the Holy Ground. Dozens of breaks could be seen between Spike Island and Haulbowline. The shoreline was black with sprats. Jasper Wilson did a roaring trade in shiny, red and silver spinners. Lines formed at Dick Nick's on the East Beach for penny or tuppenny wafers. Every pier and camber from the railway station to the promenade, through to the Holy Ground, was occupied by young boys during the mackerel season in the month of August. My head was held high as I walked up Harbour Hill with my catch in hand. My short pants was stained from fish scales. My mother, Josie, tried to share my joy as I presented her with the stiff, smelly, oily catch. She knew only too well that she had to clean and gut them. No neighbour wanted what she didn't need. The smell of mackerel lingered in the house for nearly a month. The season seemed to end as soon as it had begun. Crabbing and mackerel fishing will always be my early memories of my young boyhood days in Cobh.
My recollections begin at an early age. I held my mother's hand as we walked together from Harbour Hill, around Ring's Corner, passing Lynch's Quay, and entering Darcy's Shop at the centre of the Beach. Mr Darcy and his brother, in full-length white coats, greeted my mother as they served her the various food items for the day from behind their long shop counter. The shop was busy and people were about their business. Suddenly, a fellow shopper alerted my mother. "Your little boy seems to be in some difficulty, Josie," she said. There were some gasps from other shoppers. A small crowd had gathered in the centre of the shop. Josie turned around. Between the legs of the onlookers, she saw my fully-stretched, small frame in a collapsed state on the floor. All eyes were now on Josie. I was motionless. She came to my side and knelt beside me. "Wake up, Jimmy," she said. There was no response. She caught the eyes of the onlookers, and looked back to me. "What a lovely nose you have, Jimmy, and what lovely curly hair," she whispered. "Look at little Jimmy, fast asleep, and his big, blue eyes are closed," she said playfully to the onlookers. With her comments, I jumped to my feet. Only she knew that I was fooling about. I burst out laughing as we left the shop and made our way home. I had startled everyone except my mother. She later returned mousetraps which were on display outside Aeneas Lane's shop. I had somehow managed to conceal them under my jumper.
My schooling commenced at the convent school adjacent to the national school at the Top of the Hill. Boys and girls were taught together for about two years. After that, boys began their proper education at the "Nash". I can still feel the grasp of my mother's hand as she led me for the first time through the convent school gate on the Hill. Her protective and cheerful smile gave me confidence. My memories of this period relate more to other children than to me. Orphan girls were distinguished from the rest of the children by the nuns who paraded them in the classroom in plain, grey smocks. They were unfairly made to stand out from the other children. The poorer boys in the "Nash" were recipients of a free breakfast roll in the morning and a penny dinner for lunch. Some of the other boys did not understand why we were not included. I skipped school once without permission. My freedom was short lived. I was discovered by the fearful Guard Cahill. He crept up behind me as I was fishing at the Camber. He marched me home to face my mother. She was less anxious than the Guard, and the incident was soon forgotten.
My two years in the "Nash" are more memorable for the antics of the teachers than what I learned from them. Mr Sullivan taught us geography. He was a very tall, thin, stern-faced man with a deep voice. He never smiled, and we were all fearful of him. Mr "Spud" Murphy taught arithmetic. Our "tables" were drummed into us by memory. He was a small, elderly man who was remembered by me mainly for the state of his nose. "Spud" Murphy routinely removed his handkerchief from his pocket several times during the day. With both hands, he held the hanky fully open, and stretched it before his face in front of the class. At least five mucus stains were evident on the wet, greyish hanky. He then grasped the hanky at its centre, and placed it over his dripping red nostrils. He blew hard and emitted a loud, duck-quacking sound. He held the handkerchief high again in front of us as he examined the newly-acquired, wet stain in some detail. He then slowly folded the handkerchief twice, and replaced it in his pocket. His final action was to place two pinches of snuff in each of his nostrils. We witnessed this daily routine with some disgust. It probably contributed to my aversion to blowing my own nose as a young boy. These very early school years were largely uneventful, and had little impact on my young life.
I was a happy boy, and only once felt threatened on my way home from school. I had rounded the windswept corner of St Colman's Cathedral in my short pants and with my school sack on my back. As I skipped down the granite steps of the cathedral on the approach to Harbour Hill, I was stopped by two, tall, older boys. They threatened to take my sack and punch me. The colour ran out of my face, and I froze on the spot. They finally walked on, and left me sitting on the step. I wrapped my arms around my bare legs in a foetal position, and tried to recover my composure. Suddenly, my bowels released a brown mucus liquid which flowed slowly down my legs. I quickly made my way home. Josie knew I was distressed when she opened the door. Tears flowed as I explained what had happened. She comforted me with a cuddle and a kiss. After a change of clothing and a cup of tea, I was back to my young five-year-old self. There were other confrontations in my life, but none as memorable as the first one.
I had my first party in Harbour Hill. Joy Alsop arrived late, and I awaited her gift. It was a fountain pen in a case. For some reason, I have never forgotten this present. Maybe it was my first pen! I played on Lynch's Quay as a child. I still see many of the children's faces, including Raymond Martin's and Danny Dineen's. A large, iron-bar fence at the entrance to Lynch's Quay was sharply pointed at its top edges. Next to the fence stood an old, triangular, wooden crane on which we played. One day, a local boy, nicknamed "Snowball," attempted to climb the fence, but he impaled himself on the jagged edge. The scene was frightening as the blood gushed from his wound. He was soon rescued by someone and was taken away to hospital.
On another occasion, in the late summer of 1949, a large, overcrowded boat pulled up at Lynch's Quay. I was seven years of age. On board were hundreds of adults and children of all ages. They looked frail, and were badly clothed. They spoke a foreign language. Many years were to pass before I learned the real significance of what I had witnessed. The boat named "Victory" was the last of the so-called "Little Viking Boats" that had set sail from Sweden in 1948 and 1949 en route to Canada. The boats were initially built to accommodate fifty passengers. Their passengers were Baltic refugees from Estonia, Latvia and Poland who were accepted as displaced persons by Sweden during and after the Second World War. They refused to return to their own countries which were then under the control of the Soviet Union. Most of them came together to buy the ship and set sail for Canada. None of them was documented, and nor did they have visas to enter Canada. When they departed Gothenburg, they were chased by a Swedish gun boat which fired a warning shot over their bow. The boat refused to stop, and headed for the open sea. At the same time, the Canadian government had threatened to expel any illegal immigrants and return them to their country of origin.
The Viking boat, "Victory", was detained in Cork for minor repairs on its way to Canada. 372 illegal, displaced persons were aboard. Temporary military camps were erected for them in Rockgrove, Little Island in east Cork. Refugees were humanely segregated into nationality groups. Gifts were given to them from the people of Cork. Canadian and Irish government officials worked together to rectify the plight of the refugees. Sean McCarthy, the Lord Mayor of Cork City, interceded on behalf of the refugees. About thirteen of them had enough funds to enable them to fly to Canada via Shannon. Thirty others joined a Cunard Liner, and entered Canada legally by the end of the year. As most of them were part owners of "Victory," it was then unanimously agreed in early1950 to sell the ship locally to raise money for the passage to Canada. The "Victory" never sailed across the Atlantic. The ship was judged unseaworthy to make an Atlantic crossing. Visas were finally granted to the remaining refugees. Rockgrove camp finally closed after six months when the majority of the refugees landed safely and legally in Canada. I had been a seven-year-old witness to one of the last human flights to freedom from post war-torn Europe.
It was at this time also that I witnessed the trauma of the departing Irish. I was too young to understand what I saw. The images of the people have faded from my mind, but the memory of the trauma has remained with me. I remember old people and young people in black clothes embracing each other. I observed them from about thirty yards away as I leaned against the low, beach-fronted, polished granite wall with my young friends opposite the railway station. I heard the cries and the wailing, as they tearfully released each other's arms. The tender awaited them at the Deep Water Quay as they boarded the gangway. The heartbroken, elderly parents who were left standing at the quayside knew they would never see their children again.
It was 1948, and I was six years of age. I was too young to understand that the young people were emigrating to America. In those years, a departure of this nature was a finality. Very few ever returned, and their elderly parents were lost to them forever. Throughout the late 1940s and into the 1950s, many thousands of Irish emigrants departed Cobh for America. Over fifty thousand departed Irish shores in 1950 alone. This pattern of emigration is repeating itself sixty years later, as the young depart for Australia and Canada.
The contribution of liner traffic to the economy of Cobh was substantial. Any household that had a spare bed accommodated "Yanks" or emigrants as paying guests, before they departed by tender the following day to join the large liners anchored at the mouth of Cork Harbour. My mother benefited from this business. She once told me how she accommodated a very obese, middle-aged, American woman in her bath, as her apartment was already full. Josie charmed her into believing that the well-cushioned bath was more comfortable than any bed. I can still see Josie chuckling as she told me this story.
Cobh was a very busy town when the emigrant ships were in port. Large, thin, brown envelopes were carried openly under the arms of most of the emigrants. The chest x-rays would prove to the customs officials on the American side that the new arrival was free of any chest diseases. The war was now over, but Jimmy, my father, was still at sea. He was travelling around the world on merchant ships, and his homecomings were always special occasions. Josie always dressed up for him, and never appeared before him without lipstick. He brought me a hand-carved, wooden crocodile, dated 1946, from Mozambique in Africa. We were usually together for some of the summer months as a family. Jimmy and Josie rented a charming, small cottage in Cuskinny near Cobh, where I spent happy days as a child paddling in the sea.
The years between 1948 and 1950 have stayed in my memory throughout my life. I often played on Harbour Hill where I lived. One day, as I played ball on the road, Darcy's messenger bike approached. My ball bounced across the road, and I followed it. The messenger bike with its large, square, wooden bread basket mounted on the front of the bike, was unable to stop. I felt the impact of the iron wheel against my chin. I fell to the ground, and was immediately concussed. I was lifted onto a small bed in our sitting room. Josie used this bed from time to time because of a painful leg injury which she had received as a child. I recall my mother's disposition during my trauma. She was calm and comforting, and allayed all my fears.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from THE ROAD FROM HARBOUR HILL by JIM HAYES. Copyright © 2014 Jim Hayes. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse LLC.
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