Canary In The Mine

The Canary in the Mine

Pat McLoughlin

Copyright © Pat McLoughlin 2020

First published in Ireland by

The Limerick Writers’ Centre

12 Barrington Street Limerick, Ireland

www.limerickwriterscentre.com

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All rights reserved

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No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Book and Cover Design: Lotte Bender

E-book Formatting: Máire Baragry

Managing Editor: Dominic Taylor

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ACIP catalogue number for this publication is available from The British Library

Contents

Preface

The Canary in the Mine

Michael (Mickey) Murphy

The Big Smoke

Big D

Derek

The Full English

Rash Judgement

Full Disclosure

Touching Base

Brenda

The Search

Marital Bliss

The Best Man

A Bumpy Landing

Holy Souls

The Reconciliation

Also by the Author

About the Limerick Writers’ Centre

Preface

I consider it a great honour to have been invited by Pat McLoughlin to write a preface for his first novel, The Canary in The Mine. Readers who are familiar with Pat’s work are aware of the outstanding success he has had with his collections of short stories, To Weave with Words and From Head to Tale. However, to move from the short story genre to writing a novel is a hugely challenging literary journey. It is a challenge that Pat has met with masterful success. The reader is transported to a time, places and society, all of which are vastly different to those of the modern era. And yet the issues, concerns and challenges of the past are still relevant and hugely significant in today’s world.

The past has always fascinated us and continues to exert endless curiosity. As L.P. Hartley in the Go-Between reminds us, The past is a foreign country. They do things differently there. Moreover, it is a country that we cannot physically visit. We must try to access it through archaeology and architecture, through pictures, portraits, photographs and film reels, through the memories of others and of course through the writings of historians, novelists and playwrights.

In this novel, Pat Mcloughlin has created vivid images of life in rural Ireland and the blight of emigration in the succeeding decades of the 20th Century from the 1920’s to the 1970’s. This was an Ireland of sharp contrasts that Pat has explored in quite some depth: there were close family ties; music; dance and romance; generosity and hospitality – all the hallmarks of a caring society. However, there was also the downtrodden Ireland: the mother and baby homes; the isolation of those who differed from what were the accepted norms; the hiring fairs and the plight of servant girls and boys; a social class system that was not publicly articulated but where dividing lines were implicit and crossed at one’s peril. The story of Dan Sullivan (Big D) in the novel illustrates the dire consequences that resulted from a relationship that was deemed unsuitable because of different social backgrounds.

The Canary in The Mine is based on a period of time in which life in rural Ireland was dominated by physical toil and a continuous flow of emigration from the land. Emigration caused mainly by economic necessity, but as readers will discover, there were other motivational factors. Nonetheless, regardless of these diverse reasons, Pat has brought together a group of Irish emigrants in London where their life stories continue to unfold in divergent and unexpected ways. We get to reflect on the life-changing experiences of leaving a working life in Ireland governed by the rising and setting of the sun to laboring in the London underground in artificial lighting where shift work and set objectives dominated the working hours.

Yet in these testing conditions, life-long friendships were developed, and bonds of loyalty were established. As a master of suspense, Pat keeps us guessing as characters and plots continue to interact and develop and we find ourselves engaging with them on an emotional roller coaster – never quite knowing what destination will be reached. This group of memorable characters reminds us that despite the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, our behaviour as human beings is a product of our decisions and not necessarily of our circumstances. As characters in the novel remind us, despite all the odds, human beings are capable of achieving great things.

The Canary in The Mine will appeal to readers of all ages. For a cohort of a certain vintage this novel will evoke many memories of an era, that even at this remove, seems distant and remote. For younger readers it will present images of a country and culture that will appear quite alien to the Ireland of today. However, it is crucially important that we learn both about and from our past. If we don’t know from whence we came. We cannot really appreciate our present and consequently will be unable to carefully and sensitively map our future. Pat’s novel is a praiseworthy and authentic literary enterprise from which readers will hopefully draw knowledge and inspiration.

Beir bua agus beannacht.

Dr. Paddy Fullam.

The Canary in the Mine

‘You haven’t lost your touch,’ said Brenda, as she watched Harry knock every ball into the back of the hole on the practice green.

‘What time are we due to tee off?’ enquired Harry.

‘We’re off in five minutes and the timesheet is running on schedule,’ cautioned Brenda.

‘In that case, I’d better get cracking,’ replied Harry.

Brenda Beatrice Cox was the love of Harry’s life and he worshipped the ground she walked on. She was beautiful in body, mind and spirit – brimming with goodness – a person who sought-out the good in everybody. She loved plants and animals – wild, domestic, flora and fauna; she couldn’t hurt a fly. Harry’s good friend, Mickey, shortened her name to BBC and jokingly asked Harry if she liked television.

‘You’re a great man for the TLAs,’ retorted Harry, when he first heard it.

‘You’ve lost me now, Harr, what’s a TLA?’

‘TLA – a three letter abbreviation,’ replied Harry – with a smug grin.

‘In Brenda’s case, BBC stands for beauty, brains and courage,’ Harry added.

‘Jesus Harr, go easy, I’m only joking – having a bit of craic,’ said Mickey.

Since Harry Kendy had lost some of his family and dear friends, he had become protective, perhaps a little over-protective, of his loved ones. The diverse collection of people in his hectic life had taught him so much about the human condition: the tenacity of the human spirit, the fundamental importance of love in the world, the triumph of good over evil, and the impermanence of life. Brenda, or BB – which was his term of endearment for her – had become a rock in his life. Her gentle support and tactful encouragement had helped him to navigate a life-path that contained, not only stones, but a few contrary boulders. He supported BB, in every way possible, as she followed her own star and was dedicated to her own cause. Neither of them would make a final decision without running it by the other. They were a great team, and, while they enjoyed their own careers, they also enjoyed the involvement in each other’s. Mickey would sometimes say in a jocular manner: ‘You two make me sick with all that lovey-dovey stuff, don’t you ever have a decent row, an auld donnybrook or a flipping argument?’

Harry, unwittingly, sent out mixed signals when he breezed into the car park of his local golf club in his top-of-the-range BMW. He would walk with a confident gait to the first tee, impeccably dressed, and proceed to launch a 300-yard drive straight down the middle of the first fairway. He played off a handicap of 2 and was, what the club professional called – a natural golfer. He was a great conversationalist, spoke well, was well-read, and could hold his drink. Some of the club members felt intimidated by him and, as a result, gave him a wide berth. From his style and elegance, they surmised a silver-spoon upbringing and existence; they could not have known what a roller-coaster ride his life had been to date. However, to those who knew him, he was a joy to be with. He had that wonderful gift of making people feel good about themselves and the world around them. He had no desire to manipulate or control anyone, and joyfully ignored flattery and criticism; he felt neither inferior nor superior to anyone. He displayed no ego and could keep his head while others were losing theirs – a wise man.

***

Harry was born in the 1940’s and grew up on a medium-sized farm – a holding of about 90 acres in North Tipperary. He had no recollection of an unhappy childhood which, to his mind, suggested that it must have been reasonably happy. He was the oldest boy in a family of five – along with two brothers and two sisters. He loved school and was an outstanding athlete who could turn his hand to any sport. He had a wonderful relationship with his paternal grandmother, who lived with them and, for as long as he could remember, had read bedtime stories to him. She had that unique ability to get into character and recreate the voice of the ghastly baddie, or the benign goodie. This always captured his attention, bringing the stories and characters to life, which added greatly to his enjoyment.

Harry sometimes struggled with Granny’s enigmatic way of life – she was warm, loving and caring with her grandchildren and adored the family dog. She was a terrific cook who could create a meal out of almost nothing; she would gather all the leftovers, and combine them with onions, herbs, and other secret condiments, to create a wonderful sauce or soup.

‘Waste not, want not,’ was her mantra.

However, she had no problem decapitating a free-range chicken, plucking it, gutting it, and preparing it for the pot. She would sing a merry song, as she nonchalantly mixed oatmeal, onions, pepper and salt with the fresh, pig’s-blood, before cooking the mixture that would go into the production of her tasty black-puddings. The pig would have been fed and fattened – before being slaughtered for the kitchen table. Neither was she averse to holding the white enamel bucket, to collect the blood, while this gruesome act was being carried out. She would pray devoutly for anyone in the parish who had been laid low by illness, or weep profoundly for a friend or neighbour who had passed away. She smoked strong, untipped, cigarettes and enjoyed the occasional nip of whiskey or brandy. When Harry told her that his teacher had warned them about the dangers of drinking and smoking – she said:

‘Listen to your teacher, or you could turn out like your grandmother!’

‘Granny, I think you’re great,’ Harry would reply.

‘Away with you now, and do your homework, you’re turning into a terrible rogue!’ she would respond. She was also prone to uttering coarse obscenities, that would make a sailor blush, when a goat broke into her precious garden and ate her gladiolas or when a young, untrained, pup defecated on her freshly scrubbed floor.

Rounders, a game similar to cricket but played without bats or wickets, was the game of choice for the national school and Harry excelled. He had effortless power, wonderful balance, perfect timing and was rarely on the losing side. He was a fast learner and, through the early interventions of his grandmother, developed a love of reading that would stay with him for life. He was rarely in trouble with his teachers – except for the time he had been caught having a sneaky read of a comic book that he perused beneath his desk and out of view of his teacher – or so he thought. Comic books were frowned upon in the 1940’s and television had not yet made it to Ireland. It was available in Britain but had been turned off during the war years because of fears that the BBC signal could be used to guide enemy planes to London.

During the long summer holidays, Harry lent a hand on the farm – which was predominantly dairy. It included: pigs, hens, ducks and something that was unusual for the time – twelve hives of bees. The bees provided honey, not only for the family, but also for neighbours and friends. His mother also reared free range turkeys; these were bred for the Christmas market and the proceeds ensured that Santa would pay a visit, and the festive spirit would permeate her children’s lives. Although he had little choice, he was nonetheless happy to clean the pigsty, look after the fowl and take the milk to the local creamery – in those days, by horse and cart. The journey to the creamery was his favourite one, because, after he had delivered the full milk, collected the skimmed milk (which was fed to the calves and pigs) and remembered the two-pound block of butter for the kitchen table, he was allowed treat himself to an ice-cream – which shortened – and sweetened – the journey home.

On one such journey, after Harry had procured his ice-cream, boy and horse commenced the homeward journey. As the cold substance made contact with Harry’s tongue, sensations of pleasure percolated through his entire being and he entered a world of his own. He forgot where he was, and he forgot what he was doing as his full attention was focused on the precious substance. When the ice- cream was devoured, and reality dawned, he realised that the horse had stopped and was also enjoying some succulent grass from the abundant roadside ditch. Now mindful that he needed to get a move on, he gently clipped the horse, without warning, on the hind quarter with the end of the reins. The startled horse made a sudden lunge forward, and in doing so, lost his grip on the road – causing him to fall to his knees. A frightened Harry jumped off the cart to assist the fallen animal. Within seconds, and to his relief, the horse was back on his feet. As Harry rubbed the horse’s head and told him he was sorry, he noticed a trickle of blood coming from its front knees. As he bent down to examine the skinned knees, he felt the warm tingle of a tear roll down his cheek.

***

Time appeared to fly and soon Harry was in secondary school – preparing to do his first big secondary examination – at the time called the Intermediate Certificate. He had started to think about his career – mainly because the significant others in his life had posed the question on numerous occasions. His preference would have been to follow in his Uncle Peter’s footsteps and become a sailor. He adored his uncle, who was a radio operator with the Merchant Navy and had travelled the world. Harry looked forward to Peter’s visits and listened with full attention to his stories from far-flung and exotic places like Kathmandu and Timbuktu.

The exam went well, and he was quietly confident of a pretty good result – which he played down to his parents – not wanting to over-promise and under-deliver. With the exam behind him and summer holidays starting, he settled into, and enjoyed, his farming duties. The familiar was comfortable. However, as he rose from the dinner table one day, he was taken out of his comfort zone when his father sat him down.

‘Harry, your mother and I have been putting our thoughts together, we have decided that you won’t be returning to school in September,’ he announced.

‘Why not?’ cried Harry. ‘I really like school and want to continue.’

‘I have good news for you, son, you’ll be following a long family tradition and taking over the farm. We’ll work together for now – until you get to know the ropes and, in a few years from now, all will be yours – the whole kit and kaboodle.’

Harry should have felt elated, but instead, experienced a strange empty feeling in his stomach as his father explained that it was the custom to make a farmer of the eldest boy – who would carry on the family tradition – thus preserving the family name.

He was troubled. On the one hand, it was a generous and kind offer that would secure his future – for which he did not want to appear ungrateful. On the other hand, he felt that he would never get