Tales of Other Times , livre ebook

Tales of Other Times
Jack Leathem
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-03-31
Tales of Other Times Copyright Information © Paddy Circa 1956 Paddy Doyle Circa 1970 Doyle Mary Circa 1978 Mary A Vicious Circle Circa 1987 A Vicious Circle Roly Circa 1933 Roly Dollar Thompson Dollar Thompson The Reunion Circa 1955 The Reunion The Chequer Hen Circa 1961 The Chequer Hen O’Reilly Circa 1959 O’Reilly Johnny Circa 1935 Johnny Charlie Circa 1958 Charlie Francie Circa 1960 Francie Sarah Jane Circa 1983 Sarah Jane Jimmy the Bull Circa 1962 Jimmy the Bull The Hill The Hill Crawley Circa 1966 Crawley The Tinkerman Circa 1954 The Tinkerman Rory’s Place Circa 1957 Rory’s Place Going Home Circa 1962 Going Home The Interview Circa 1948 The Interview Billy Circa 1949 Billy What’s in a Name? Circa 1948 What’s in a Name? Tommy Circa 1952 Tommy Anna Circa 1954 Anna The Egg Circa 1998 The Egg The Mountain Man Circa 1962 The Mountain Man Barney Barney Patsy Present Day Patsy Innocent Youth Circa 1956 Innocent Youth
Copyright Information ©
Jack Leathem (2020)
The right of Jack Leathem to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528950657 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528972758 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
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E14 5LQ
Paddy
While the extrovert is rarely embarrassed,
Inhibition can make cowards of the self-effacing.
Circa 1956

Paddy
One thing I’ve noticed as of late is that the good old-fashioned character has begun to disappear. Maybe it’s something in the water, or the additives they put in food nowadays, or perhaps there isn’t room in the modern world for eccentrics anymore. But, whatever the reason, life seems to be all the greyer for the lack of them.
When I was in my teens, peculiar behaviour was so prevalent it was in danger of becoming the norm and in my particular environment, there was no greater exponent of the bizarre than Paddy Moriarty.
He was a bosom pal of my brother, Jim, in those days, probably because Jim was motor-bike mad and Paddy was the owner of a 650cc Royal Enfield. The fact that Paddy was seven years older than Jim did not seem to matter. Jim was innocent in years, while Paddy was innocent in spirit, their pleasure in the excitement of high speed was a thing of undeniable purity. The fact that they fell off the machine with monotonous regularity, sustaining sprains, abrasions and one broken limb that I can remember, never seemed to dampen their enthusiasm. Theirs was a meeting of true minds.
I was sixteen years old when Paddy first demonstrated to me the idiosyncratic side of his nature. It was on the occasion of the Hunt Ball, an annual event high in the calendar of the local big-wigs, an affair about which I was blissfully unaware until introduced to it by Jim and Paddy; or perhaps I should say Paddy, for Jim, I doubt, would have had anything to do with the event if Paddy had not decided they should go.
It was announced one evening in our tiny back kitchen by an ebullient Paddy, who had just burst in from the yard waving a handful of envelopes with fancy edging on them. When asked by Jim what they might be, he was informed in his friend’s melodic bass that they were an invitation to an evening of feasting, dance and good company. Jim was used to Paddy’s extravagant pronouncements and immediately cut through the rhetoric to enquire who the female partners were going to be, this, as far as he was concerned, being of prime importance.
“The Johnston sisters,” came the instant reply. “Fine girls and great wee jiggers.”
Jim looked dubious. He and Paddy had been taking lessons in Belfast at Sammy Leckie’s school of ballroom dancing, but, as yet, he was not well-versed enough in the intricacies of the foxtrot and the old-time waltz to feel confident in the arms of a girl expecting Jack Buchanan or Fred Astaire as a partner.
“I don’t know, Paddy. It’s hardly my sort of affair.” Jim’s sort of affair was the church social, where the key game and the Grand old Duke of York gave way to a shuffle round the floor for ten minutes before the end of the evening. One, two, chassé was about all he could manage at the moment. “And anyway,” he went on, “there are three Johnston sisters and only two of us. It wouldn’t be right to disappoint one of them.”
“Fear not,” Paddy replied grandly. “We’ve just the man to make up the numbers.” And with that, he turned and looked straight at me.
I nearly fell off my chair. “Not in your life,” I said hurriedly. “I can’t dance, I don’t know the girls and, what’s more, I don’t want to know them. Just leave me with the Rover and the Hotspur and I’ll be quite happy.”
“No sense of adventure in the young men of today,” Paddy remarked sadly to Jim. Jim agreed with him, but he seemed relieved at the stance I was taking. “Not like you and me, Jim. Do you remember the time we climbed into the nurses’ home at the City hospital after the midnight matinee at the Hippodrome?”
Jim looked alarmed. “Hey, hold on a minute, Paddy. That’s not a story for young ears. Somebody might just put the wrong construction on it.”
“Maybe you’re right, Jimmy boy, maybe you’re right. On the other hand, as you’re not too keen on attending the big occasion, and as that means I don’t have any arrangements to make, I might as well stay here and tell the lad the whole sordid tale.”
“Go ahead, Paddy,” I said eagerly. “I’ll not tell a soul.”
“Damn sure you won’t,” Jim intervened quickly. “Get on with your organisation, Paddy. I think I’ll go to the dance after all. And you’re going too,” he said to me, “or else I’ll tell your Da you were fogging Lavery’s orchard the other night.”
“How did you know that?” I asked in astonishment.
“I didn’t – but I do now,” he said grinning. “Boy, you do have a lot to learn.”
And I had to. So Paddy Moriarty and one of the Johnston girls began my education.
Three nights before the Ball, Paddy arrived at our house with the regalia for the big night. This had been borrowed from various friends and acquaintances of his and the three of us retired to Jim’s bedroom for a fitting. Twenty minutes later, we trooped downstairs to be greeted by a fusillade of ribald remarks from the Da and laughter bordering on the hysterical from the Ma and my other brother, George. And I couldn’t blame them. Paddy’s evening suit was much too small for him, mine was much too large and Jim was wearing the only cummerbund provided, a deep purple affair that caused the Da to address him first as Captain Blood and then proceed to engage him in a mock fencing match with the aid of a poker.
When the hilarity abated, the Ma got out her tape measure and some pins and Paddy and I were measured for let-outs and tuck-ins and told to leave everything to her. By that time, I was about to call the whole thing off, but the look on Jim’s face when I suggested it, was enough to warn me not to pursue the subject.
The Ma did a good job and when adjustments were made to the various sleeves, waists and trouser legs, Paddy and I looked almost presentable, although Jim was still a figure of fun due to the Douglas Fairbanks cummerbund.
Came the night of the Ball and Paddy arrived at the front door of our small terrace house in a motor car large in dimension but ancient in years. The Johnston sisters were already aboard.
Jim hurried out; I followed more slowly, conscious of the neighbours and the rest of the family peering out from behind the lace curtains of their respective front-parlours, eager for a glimpse of the girls. I don’t know about Jim but I was thankful it was dusk and the light was poor enough to hide the lot of us from the street’s curious gaze.
The sisters were in the back seat and Jim, who was familiar with two of them, climbed in and took his partner for the evening on his knee. There was much squealing and merriment as this manoeuvre was being accomplished and under cover of the confusion, I slipped quietly into the front seat beside Paddy. Then, with a screech of gears and a racing start we were off, the car rattling and shaking as we raced along, our destination was a posh hotel in the country.
Paddy kept up a continual stream of banter while he drove, to which the sisters were not slow to respond and in the course of time, I discovered their names to be Pat, Meg and Lizzie. Which one I was to escort I did not discover until later, neither Jim nor Paddy having bothered to introduce me. In fact, I was totally ignored by all and sundry, which induced in me such a feeling of self-consciousness that I soon began to wish I had never left the house. On top of all that, I had stubbed a big toe on something while getting into the car and a full fifteen minutes later, it was still throbbing painfully. To see what the object was that had waylaid me, and to give myself something to do, I groped around in the dark and discovered two large bricks.
Picking up courage, I asked Paddy what these were for and my question was greeted with such hilarity by all present that I was deterred from pursuing the matter. A few miles further on, Paddy informed me in a quiet moment that these were the emergency brakes and this too elicited howls of laughter from the others, which only added to my discomfort.
At first, I thought Paddy was taking a hand out of me for the benefit of the girls but, as we got closer to our destination, he raised the subject of