BLACKBERRY PICKIN’ AND ALL THAT

Tick- tock, tick- tock, slowly the hands on the schoolroom clock crawled towards the half-hour. At last that welcome chime rang out, it was half-past three! Hurriedly, I slung my schoolbag over my shoulder, bounded out of the classroom, out the school gateway, up the Convent Hill and raced home. It was mid-September, and blackberry picking time had come again. For weeks, we had eagerly watched the berries change from green to red, and now, finally, to a luscious purple. They were ready for picking!

This was Bagenalstown of the early nineteen-fifties; a time of plenty for the favoured few; a time of scrimping and ‘making do’ for many; and a time of poverty for others. Amidst all the hardship, the people were resilient and cheerful. For the majority of children, the word ‘pocket money’ simply did not exist. You were lucky if you received one penny occasionally, on a Saturday. On this September day, we had the rare chance of selling our blackberries for eight whole pence to Mr Willie Lynham, of Kilcarrig Street, who, in turn, sold them on to Lamb’s Jams, in Dublin.

It was with great enthusiasm then, that I ran into our house that day to collect the milk-can, into which I was going to put the blackberries. Imagine my disgust, when I discovered that my sister, Olive, had already pounced on it. Help was at hand though, as our good neighbour, Mrs Howard, gave me an empty ‘Cow & Gate’ baby-food can, so all was not lost. Olive and I quickly set out, followed by a warning from our mother, to be home by six o’clock, ‘as the nights were drawing in’. In our haste out the backdoor, we nearly bowled poor John “the Count” McCormack over as he was about to heave a sack of turf into our coalhouse, where it would sit in solitary confinement in the corner. Up the road, at the “Stump”, we picked up a couple of pals. Within a short time, we had left the town behind us, trotting briskly down the Parade, through Becher’s wood, not pausing today at the bridge over the stream, to make little boats out of rushes, throwing them down into the stream, and watching them bob along on their merry way, as we had done earlier in the summer. We climbed the last stile at the edge of the wood, and emerged out on the road at the golf-links. Our target was the ‘far’ Green Road. We knew that the blackberry bushes down the ‘near’ Green Road, close to Wyckham House, would be picked bare. It would be worth while going that extra half-mile; the pickings would be rich, we just knew!

Our hearts lightened when we rounded the bend in the road, and surveyed the laden blackberry bushes. They were at the peak of perfection, and with gusto we started picking. There were squeals of pain, as the thorny briars scratched our arms and hands, just as we captured that elusive juicy blackberry. Why were the best always on the top of the bush, out of reach? The thorns seemed to take a fiendish delight in “scrawbing” our legs, when we were ‘off guard’. We also forgot about the nasty nettles, which lay in wait for us, until, with a howl of pain, we felt their sting. Immediately, a big dock-leaf was plucked, spat on, then slapped onto the smarting area. What instantaneous relief that cool leaf gave! There was laughter too, as someone’s foot slipped into a fresh cow-dung, the offensive mess being removed straight away, with tufts of grass. We had to watch that our feet didn’t slip down a rabbit burrow either. Rabbits abounded everywhere; soon, that awful disease, Myxomotosis, (known later as ‘the Myxo’) would decimate their numbers. By now, our cans were almost full. Hunger gnawed at us, and it became ‘a blackberry for me, and one for the can’. The drone of the binder cutting the ripened corn, came to us from the meadows. The corn was then bound into stooks, by the workers. Later would come the threshing, a labour intensive process. Within a couple of years, with the coming of the combine harvester, the entire procedure would be done in one fell swoop. The bustle and excitement of “threshing day” would be history. But today we had finally reached Drea’s farm, the edge of our little world. This was our boundary line. Beyond, lay Rathellen, unfamiliar territory. With our cans over-flowing, it was time to retrace our steps, and head for ‘the town’.

Everyone was thirsty, when we reached the hand-pump opposite Sheehan’s house on the Dunleckney road. One of the pals pulled down firmly on the pump handle, sending the water gushing out unexpectedly, splashing our faces and surging up our nostrils. We laughed uproariously, our ghoulish appearance, with purple lips and teeth, adding to the hilarity. At the golf-links, we crossed the stile into Becher’s wood. The only person we encountered was little Mrs ‘Spirit’ Connolly, carrying her can of fresh milk, which she had just collected from Lily Corcoran at Becher’s dairy. We continued on, making no delay, until we emerged out onto the Parade. Our weary legs carried us into Kilcarrig Street, then around the ‘back lane’ to Mr Lynham’s big shed.

Mr Willie Lynham was a dealer, travelling around south Carlow and into county Wexford, in his van. At home, in the shed to the rear of his house, he dealt in fowl, rabbits, and in September, blackberries. At the ‘lower stream’, we had seen a chap add in water to his can of blackberries, thereby adding to their weight. There he was in the queue before us. We held our breath while Mrs Lynham weighed his can. Would she or wouldn’t she notice? As she added the oozy mess to the huge pile of blackberries in a big barrel, she merely said, “They’re very juicy this year, aren’t they?” We all gave a collective sigh of relief on behalf of the culprit. Mr Lynham would not have been fooled! Dead rabbits were hanging in pairs from the cobwebbed rafters. We gingerly picked our way over to the scales, in case something unsavoury landed on our heads. Our big moment had come! She weighed our blackberries in turn, handing me a ’sixpenny bit’ and two brown pennies, and eight pence each to Olive and our pals. We were delighted. None of us had had so much money since our First Holy Communion day. We emerged into the back lane, a happy bunch. It is amazing how the jingle of a few pence can put a fresh spring in your step, and our tired legs found renewed energy, as we hastened down towards home.

At the Market Square, we couldn’t resist pausing at Mr Paddy ‘Rajah’ Phelan’s shop window, to look at photographs of the most recent wedding in St. Andrew’s Church. Mr Phelan was a first-class photographer. We jostled each other and craned our necks to look up at the wedding group. With the irreverence of children, and without “shushing” mothers to check us, we passed comments on the group. “Doesn’t Mrs Murphy look ‘quare’ wearin’ a hat?” asked one. The only thing I ever saw Mrs Murphy wearing on her head, was a woollen headscarf, tied in a knot under her chin. As for Mr Murphy, well, you wouldn’t know him! (Usually he had a week’s stubble, like the man on the Mac’s Smile blade – well, depending on which way you turned Mac!). There he was, clean-shaven, a short-back-and-sides ‘Paddy Cleary’ haircut, his hair plastered down with Brylcreem. (Paddy Cleary was one of the town’s two resident barbers, his shop being in Kilree Street, where the striped sugar-barley pole over his doorway, proclaimed his trade.) The children in the photo looked spick and span too, with white bows perched on their heads, like butterflies about to take flight. But we mustn’t delay. Whelan’s ‘Little Shop’ around the corner in Kilree Street, lured us like a moth to the flame, with its attractive display of all kinds of sweets. It was truly a little shop then, with just one shop-window. The sweets were on display inside, as the window space was taken up with a big cardboard ‘Hohner Accordions’ advertisement, and three or four lovely accordions beside it. It wasn’t accordions we were interested in though, as we zoomed over to the sweets. We were spoiled for choice. You had Dinkie bars, Peggy’s Leg, liquorice pipes, conversation lozenges, aniseed balls, to name but a few. Mr Whelan rolled a piece of brown paper around his finger, twisting it at the bottom, and then popped the sweets of our choice into it. A final bit of a twist secured it on top. He smiled and asked us if we had ‘drunk the ink out of the inkwells’, when he saw us. The best value of all though, was the ’slab toffee’. It was as hard as a rock, lasted for hours, and had a rich, creamy flavour. Apart from our own sweets, Olive and I decided to bring two squares of slab toffee home to our mother.

We were just about to leave the shop, when one of our gang espied the poster on which the names of all the “pictures” or films for the coming week, were shown. Our local cinema’s correct title was “The Astor Cinema”, but everyone knew it as “the picture-house”. We eagerly looked to see what would be on at the matinee on Sunday. It was a Laurel and Hardy comedy, which would be just great. The audience usually erupted in laughter, at the antics of those two. Though only going to the “pictures” a couple of times a year, we knew the names of all the cowboys, particularly Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Durango Kid, Hopalong Cassidy; not forgetting the ‘sidekicks’ Gabby Hayes and Smiley Burnette, who always made us laugh; also the comedy-actors, Abbot and Costelloe, Ma and Pa Kettle, and Old Mother Reilly. You would always know when there had been a cowboy film on, as the chaps, for days afterwards, would be jumping out at corners, with an imaginary gun, shouting “Der!Der!” “yor dead!”. But alas and alack, today we had spent fourpence each, and we would need another fourpence each to make up the eight pence, to get in to “the middle” or stalls, in the cinema, on the coming Sunday. That would take a minor miracle. Today, though, nothing could dampen our good humour, as we bade goodbye to Mr Whelan.

At the top of Kilree Street, Mr “Saddler” Doyle was putting up the wooden shutters on his shop. It was nearing six o’clock. The day was turning chilly. There was a definite autumnal nip in the air, as we hastened down by St.Mary’s church. The leaves on the row of beech trees behind the church wall were changing to a golden brown. At the top of the Fairgreen, we parted with our pals, promising to meet tomorrow for a game of “Hopscotch”. A few minutes later, our mouths watered, as we looked at the penny ‘Chester cake’ and ’short cake’ in Miss Kilcoyne’s shop window, but we resisted the urge to part with any more of our precious pennies! Within a few seconds, we had crossed the road and were turning in at our gateway. As I lifted the latch on our back door, the last peal of the Angelus was ringing out, on our new wireless. The new Marconi wireless was a wonderful acquisition, which my mother was buying on hire purchase from Mr Ned Nolan of Regent Street, at a half-crown per week. We children certainly couldn’t meddle with the dials, as it was on a high shelf, and even Mother had to climb up on a chair in order to turn it on! Later, our Da cobbled a lower makeshift shelf for it, which at least brought it down out of orbit, and lessened the risk of Mother falling off the chair.

Olive and I put the cans into the sink, then flopped down on chairs at the kitchen table. Our brothers and sister were nearly finished their tea. They were all agog to know how we had fared with the pickin’, and, above all, how much money had we “made”? “We’re starvin’, Mammy” we said. “Well, sit in there now, and eat up” she said. “I’m glad you’re home before dark” she added. We laid into a pile of bread, spread with salted ‘country’ butter from Miss Farrell’s shop, and crowned with Mrs Comerford’s home-made blackcurrant jam. A mug of good strong tea rounded it off nicely. So in between drinkin’ tea and munchin’ bread and jam, we told our story. Meanwhile Mother was taking a freshly baked cake of bread out of the ‘baker’ over the open fire. She rapped it on the back with her knuckles, and on getting that hollow sound, was content. This was put by for the following day – fresh bread being considered by one and all to be bad for you.

Later, Din-Joe and “Take the Floor” was on Radio Eireann, a hugely popular programme. Apart from recitations and ballad singing, you could listen to someone dancing a hornpipe! In addition, you had the Gallowglass Ceili Band playing “The Walls of Limerick” or “The Siege of Ennis.” By this time I could scarcely keep my eyes open until the programme’s end. Sleepily, I washed myself at the kitchen sink, brushing my teeth with Gibb’s toothpaste, a dark pink paste that would roast the gums off you. Thank God that tomorrow was Saturday, and the Irish and English homework ‘compositions’ could be left until then. As I left the kitchen, Mother was sitting at the fire, reading a good library book, contentedly chewing one square of her slab-toffee. Snugly tucked up in bed, my mind went over the happenings of the day. I chuckled to myself, when I recalled some of them. What a great day it had been! To add to my satisfaction, I still had four big brown pennies left. Reaching under my pillow, I pulled out the pennies, looking at the hen and her chicks impressed upon them. Drowsily, I pushed them back again; a feeling of happiness enveloped me, as I floated off to sleep………

THE END