The Ditcher

By Dennis Carey

An Irish historical novel about family.
A story of love and hate, romance and betrayal, humour and tragedy, community and family, people and machines. A nostalgic, informative and humorous insight into Ireland in the 1950s
The burden of debt does not sit easy with Willie Casey, especially when the debt is to a dangerous man. For the solution, he relies on his young son, Sean.
Sean takes on the challenge with fervour but will all of his dreams be realised?
Set in 1950s Bangor Erris in County Mayo, Ireland, this is a fictional tale set around a factual event.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dennis Carey
• Release date: May 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310144899

Dennis Carey

Like most of the characters in the book, I was born in County Mayo, Ireland. My family moved to Coventry, England when I was very young and they were responsible enough to bring me with them.My wife and I moved down the road to Northamptonshire about 20 years ago.For 30 years I taught, for a short while in Secondary Schools and more substantially in Further Education.A cliche is required: writing has been a lifelong ambition. Every summer during my own time as a pupil in secondary education, my mother bought me a new fountain pen to start the academic year. Examining each pen, I would wonder if this was going to be the pen I would write my first book with. Then someone invented laptop computers. My first book has now been written. No fountain pen involved.The idea for The Ditcher comes from long-past discussions with my father, who did drive one of the machines. I only wish I had taken detailed notes.

Book preview

Chapter 1: Pat Lynch

Where’s that bastard Willie Casey?

Pat Lynch’s six-foot-five inch, twenty-two stone, barrel-chested frame filled the doorway of Mulranny’s Bar. He blocked any further entry of daylight. The question had been bellowed into the front bar of Mulranny’s for all those within to hear. Pat Lynch liked to bluster.

The four customers inside looked up at Pat and then, for fear of getting involved at too early and potentially dangerous a stage, returned their attention to their pints and Sunday newspapers.

Pat Lynch was in his seventh decade but the sexagenarian remained a formidable force of nature. He had yet to show any withering effects of the aging process: there was none of the usual skeletal shrinking or muscle atrophy. Pat remained big and very strong. He was the loud head of a large family and his reputation went before him like a beacon of contrived menace. Johnny Mulranny, proprietor of ‘Mulranny’s Bar’, was the first to speak, trying from the outset to placate his new patron.

Come in Pat, what’s the bother on ya? He reached for a pint glass and began to fill it from the pump with porter.

Is he here? I want to have word with ‘im! shouted Pat, making a pugnacious gesture with his fist, to display the seriousness of his intentions. He snatched the cap off his immense head and stuffed it into the pocket of his jacket. He took two giant strides towards the dark pint of porter that was settling on the counter. Daylight flooded in after him.

When I see Casey, he’s in trouble, he said, flicking his head quickly to one side and back, the way men do to emphasise their point. As if calmed by the sight of the porter, Pat stopped shouting but chose to maintain the menace in his voice. He blew out a long slow breath, his big flushed cheeks bulging like bellows. He wanted to show everyone that he was still angry but was attempting to calm himself down. He reached for the pint. His huge right hand engulfed the glass and he raised it to his face, emptying its contents into his mouth.

Pat placed the empty glass back on the counter and stared at himself in the gold-framed mirror behind the bar. The mirror told Pat ‘John Mulranny’s Sells Walnut Plug And Ogden’s Best Irish Roll’ in a cowboy western font. Peering through the lettering, Pat noticed the line of froth above his top lip. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

The other customers, sensing the storm had abated, now stared over at Pat and all silently lamented the fact that Casey was not in; it might have led to an entertaining afternoon. Not that any of them could remember the last time Willie Casey had patronised a public house this hour on a Sunday.

Jimmy Lough was sitting on a high stool at the far end of the bar. Not one to miss an opportunity, he sensed that Lynch would want to follow his show of bravado with a demonstration of largess. Jimmy hopped down and approached Pat, carrying his near empty glass. Jimmy was debating in his own mind should he go for a half-one of Jameson or stick with a pint. He concluded that a free drink is a free drink, either would do.

And you can feck off as well, Jimmy Lough. You’ll get no free drink from me, Pat said.

Jimmy feigned incredulity. This was a setback but he had recovered from initial refusals in the past. He was not beaten yet. He stopped, raised his open palm high into the air and like an itinerant seanachaí, a story teller, he gestured his way through a rhyme, the bar his stage, pausing only briefly after each line to think up the next.

Now Pat, I must tell ya...And it’s in my defence...That I come as a friend...So please don’t, take offence...For you seem to me...Like a dear friend in need...And sure a dear friend in need, Is a dear friend indeed.

Jimmy lowered his arm and looked around for plaudits from the drinking clientele.

Jimmy..., th…that was a load o’ shite. said Mikey McHugh, from a small round table by the window.

Four years previous, a mild stroke, triggered by high blood pressure due to excessive alcohol consumption, had left Mikey with a speech impediment. It caused him to leave expectant pauses between phrases.

I have ta tell ya... th…that was... the worst I ever heard. Tell me this... do ya ever... write them... b…bloody dreadful verses down?

Jimmy took a bow, I am grateful for the critique, Mikey, thank you. I’d say you’d be a fine one to judge alright, he said, not wishing to suppress the sarcasm. I do concede that it might not have been my best, but it was quick. As for the writing down of my verses, I’m afraid I have to leave that to another as neither a reader nor a writer I be.

Jimmy turned away from his audience and stepped towards Pat. Jimmy was dressed in his Sunday best; the jacket he wore was clean and his white shirt, buttoned to the top, was fraying only slightly around the collar and cuffs. His trousers, whilst not a perfect match, were of a similar pattern to his jacket and he had on him his best pair of shoes; Jimmy did not like wearing wellingtons on a Sunday. He was a good foot shorter than Pat Lynch. He looked up at Pat, extending a small hand for Pat to shake, and said quietly,

I am assuming it would be Mr Willie Casey of this parish you’d be seeking the presence of, Pat? If I am correct in my assumption, then you might be opportune in finding meself in the fortunate position of being conscious of his current whereabouts. Jimmy liked to talk. He had a maxim Never use one word when five will do.

Another pint, ordered Pat, handing coins to the publican, and after shaking Jimmy’s hand, and a glass for Jimmy.

Only a glass, not even a full pint? Your need to find Willie Casey can’t be that great, thought Jimmy, careful not to let the words leave his mouth. Remember James, a free drink is a free drink.

May I enquire as to what it is that you would be wanting to speak to Mr Casey about? said Jimmy, mining for gossip whilst trying to withhold his valuable information until he had the glass of beer in his hand. Pat Lynch ignored the question.

So what do ya know ya scavenger ye? he said, dropping his voice to a whisper and staring down on the comparatively diminutive Jimmy. Jimmy was hurt by the insult but, conscious of the free glass of beer, decided to rise above it.

I was travelling the Bangor Erris to Belmullet road on my bicycle not one hour ago and as sure as I stand before you I could distinguish a distant machine hard at work in the depths of Bangor Erris bog. The fountain of peat it was emitting immediately identified the machine to me as a Bord na Móna bog ditcher. I would presume the driver in the cabin would be none other than the said Willie Casey. The doyen of the ditcher himself.

The new drinks had been placed on the counter and, having yielded his information, Jimmy grabbed the glass and took a long slug. Pat Lynch stared down at him, watching Jimmy drink as though he were afraid the beer would be snatched away from him before he had managed to drink it all. When Jimmy paused for breath, Pat bent down to him.

On a Sunday? When did Bord na Móna start working on the Sabbath? said Pat, keeping his voice low.

Ah, sure when did our Mr Casey ever abstain from an opportunity to earn a pound? Sabbath or no Sabbath. They say he’s in need o’ the money. Jimmy whispered back.

Pat knew Willie Casey had debts, and he knew to whom he was indebted. Jimmy finished off his drink and lowered the empty glass onto the bar, raising an expectant eyebrow at Pat.

You’ll get one more and then you’ll have to put yer hand in yer own pocket, said Pat looking Jimmy in the eye. Pat turned to the barman, Johnny, I’ll have another pint and a glass for this latcheco.

After the third rapid pint of porter, Pat Lynch was starting to succumb to the warm enveloping flush of the alcohol. The third pint always had this effect on Pat, transforming him from a man who had things to do or people to meet or places to go, into the world’s greatest procrastinator. After a third pint, his main priority became the fourth pint. He was now, as he would describe, getting the taste for it, he was settlin’ in. He had already perched himself on a high stool at the bar beside Jimmy, the seat of the stool looking ridiculously small under his large backside. After the fourth pint, it got a lot harder to leave Mulranny’s Bar and Pat temporarily forgot about his pursuit of Willie Casey, his anger dissolving in the pints of porter.

The two men drank on for another five hours. The other three customers had left the public house shortly after closing time but Johnny Mulranny was coerced into giving Pat and Jimmy the aftertime. He made them promise to keep the noise down, leave money for the drink, not answer the door to anyone and close the door after them when they left.

My dear Mister Mulranny, I fully understand your fear of that officious dictator Sergeant Molloy himself, but do not worry. You can leave it to meself and my good friend Pat here to take all the necessary precautions to keep the long arm of the law from crossing the threshold of your fine establishment.

It’s the uniform I fear, Jimmy, not the man, just do as I ask, will ya? With that, Johnny went upstairs, following the aroma of cooking food. He was looking forward to his Sunday dinner: a good feed of boiled bacon, cabbage and potatoes.

Pat paid for the drinks and Jimmy provided the entertainment by retelling old stories that were, for the most part, the rough talk of men and best suited to the male only environment of the public house.

"Did I ever tell you the story of Brian O’Donnell, from behind in Blacksod Bay, right out on the very end of the peninsula? Now there was a young man who could work. Legend has it that ... armed with his father’s oul’ slane ... he could dig peat out of the bog at the phenomenal rate of two sods a second. Two sods a second! Every feckin’ second! The best turf digger in the whole o’ Mayo. A mighty worker amongst workin’ men. They say he was as good, if not better, than the legendary All-Ireland turf cutting champion of 1945, Paddy O’Sullivan from Tipperary himself. However, it was the same Brian who befell a serious, performance threatening injury, worthy of a claim for compensation in my humble opinion but he never pursued it. Now this injury could have seriously threatened his turf cutting prowess. The poor man was bitten by a cow. On me solemn oath, he was bitten by a cow.

"The story goes that at the precise time of the incident, the cow was being serviced by one of his father’s bulls. Young Brian was holding the cow steady at the head. Can ya picture the scene? Well, the act was in progress nicely, and I can only surmise that the cow was entering into the throes of ecstasy, when it lost all self-control. Now, when a female is lucky enough to enter this phase of an ongoing copulation, it is said they are either screamers, or biters. Unfortunately for young Brian, this cow happened to be a biter. And so, she bit down on the nearest object she could see. You could maybe call it a love bite, however, on this occasion the nearest object that the cow could see happened to be a finger on Brian’s right hand. The bull must have been hung like ... well, like a bull, because the cow bit down with such force its teeth sliced right through Brian’s finger. Well, what with the County Turf Cutting Championships only a month away this was a catastrophe.

After hearing about the incident, I rushed up to Brian one night when he came in here, asking how he was recovering. I enquired of him as to whether or not it was the whole finger he had lost. D’ya know what he said t’ me? Well he didn’t seem perturbed at all. He turned to me, held up the hand with a finger missing and said, and I quote word for word, No, it was the one next to it. I was nearly breakin’ me shite laughin’.

The stories continued. Not long after the first few rounds of drink, Jimmy was overjoyed that he had progressed to blowing the froth off pints of porter. He felt pleasantly inebriated and was very pleased that he had not lost any of his talent for procuring free drink. However, he was sensing a restlessness coming from Pat. When he was convinced the drinking was about to come to an end, he found enough coppers in his pocket to cover the cost of a pint for Pat. Buying one drink would enable him to leave with a clear conscience.

Mr Lynch, he announced, this has been a most agreeable afternoon of imbibement and I have to say, I have enjoyed your company enormously. But I think it is nearing the time for me to take my leave before this quiet drink turns into an almighty session. So please, do me the honour of allowing me to buy the last one.

Pat gave a grunt and staggered off the high stool and outside to the toilet. Jimmy poured and paid for the drink. Pat was ready to leave anyway. Whilst Jimmy had been talking all afternoon, Pat had enjoyed the stories but he was starting to feel a niggling irritation about getting side-tracked from his purpose. With Jimmy Lough of all people - always a costly encounter. He would have been happy to leave Willie Casey for another day but he had set out from the house with the loud declaration he would sort the matter out. He would feel undermined if he were to return home without a settlement. He swayed as he relieved himself up against the wall of the toilet. He decided he would confront Casey before the day was out.

Chapter 2: A complicated affair part 1

Hello, Dermott, she mouthed silently, looking up at him.

Body of Christ.

Amen.

She parted her lips to accept the host. He admired her beautiful mouth. She slid her tongue out over her bottom lip. The priest held the host over the chalice for a long moment, looking down at the young woman who knelt before him. He reached down to the upturned face, its underside reflected in the communion-plate held under her chin. He gently placed the Body of Christ on the protruding, pink tongue. She relished the slight pressure of his finger on her. Drawing the host into her mouth she blessed herself: in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen. She stood up from her kneeling position at the altar, gave a respectful bow of her head and moved off to the side aisle and back to her seat. Only then did Father Dermott Brannigan follow the altar boy to the next communicant. He wanted the mass to be over.

Chapter 3: Willie Casey

Willie Joe Casey pushed the gear lever into neutral and the ditcher came to a halt. He cut off the power to the disc cutter and eased the throttle. As the engine calmed and the momentum in the spinning disc petered out, the noise died away to the dull, long-stroke chug of the engine below. He turned off the ignition and pulled back on the long handbrake lever. Without waiting for the disc to stop completely, he stood and turned to the disc handle. He took up the strain on the large metal handle and unclipped the ratchet. Straining with all his strength, he resisted the handles attempt to spin wildly and break bones in his hands and arms. He allowed the handle to turn slowly, releasing the cable that held up the disc cutter arm. The disc lowered to the bottom of the ditch and skidded to a halt. Willie replaced the ratchet clip.

Bending, he reversed out of the cabin and climbed down the metal-rung ladder to reach the ground. He circled around the machine, checking the ballast box, cleaning off any build-up of peat on the machine and making sure that the tracks and wheels of the ditcher were on sufficiently firm ground; it would be a catastrophe if it rained overnight and the ditcher sank without trace. He was the only one left on site now and he leaned back against one of the giant front wheels of the ditcher. He fidgeted in his ears removing a small ball of dust stained cotton from each. He threw the makeshift earplugs away and closed his eyes. The high pitched ringing reverberated louder in his head as though closing his eyes trapped the noise inside. His head ached behind the eyes.

He looked up to see the lights of Bangor Erris in the distance. A Sunday night would be quiet in the pubs until about 10 o’clock. But then, he knew, everyone would rush out for the last couple of pints as though they had forgotten it was the weekend and they now had to pack all their socialising into the final two hours. How the Irish loved a Sunday night out.

He noticed the silhouette of the westerly peaks of the Nephin Beg Range that lay to the south-east of Bangor Erris. The outline of Nephin Beg, Slieve Carr and Knocklettercross descended in gentle stages to the Owenmore River on the edge of town. From this position in the bog, the peaks resembled a stalking crocodile, lying in wait, choosing its moment to pounce on and devour the small town of Bangor Erris.

Willie turned and looked west, out over the bogland. It was dusk now and the blackening bog was in stark contrast to the glowing sky. He narrowed his eyes against the light. He could see red and orange, copper, he could see dark blue fading to pale blue and he could see another blue-green colour that he could not name. Bridgie would know, women were good with colours. In the middle of it all was the red sun lighting up the horizon. It looked like the Atlantic Ocean was ablaze, ignited by the fiery red ball that had dipped into it. He marvelled at the panorama. He was sure that nowhere is the sunset more beautiful. He praised God for his artistry.

He found himself staring at sunsets more frequently of late. He was rarely, now, in a hurry to get home and the sunsets brought a tranquil respite from his troubles. It was the trouble in his life that required him to blasphemously work on a Sunday. He found the bog a place of austere beauty and, at this time in the evening, a place of utter peacefulness and, usually, impenetrable silence. A good place to quell the ringing in his ears. Where else could you find such a vast expanse of uniformed nothingness as far as the eye could see? He savoured the subtle smells of the deep dug peat and the macerated heather and mosses. He stared out over the five thousand acres of blanket bogland, set out in gently cambered portions, each at various stages of manicure. He stood still and savoured its sensuous pleasures.

Willie knew the bog was far from empty. Even through the cacophony in his head he often heard the warbling cry of a curlew as it glided the perimeters of the bog where the rushes were still tall. If they were close by, he would hear the rustling of hares relocating their forms away from the areas being worked by the thundering machines. On a rare occasion he would spy a merlin at hunt, flying fast and low over the bog, wings flapping or sheared back, in a graceful display of speed and manoeuvrability.

He needed the shepherds to be right about the red sky at night. Last year the weather had been dreadful, a total wash out. So far this summer it had been drier but he needed the dry weather to continue if he and Sean were to earn the money that Willie urgently needed. It was the end of September now and with continued fine weather there would be another month or two of work left on the bog. Would two more months’ earnings this year be enough to pay his debts?

He set off walking alongside the newly cut ditch in the direction of home. His wellingtons were heavy with damp peat by the time he reached the boundary of the Bord na Móna site. He clambered over the fence into his own bog and, stumbling from tussock to tussock, made his way to the road. He turned towards home, the ringing still resounding in his head.

He wondered how Bridgie would greet him when he arrived home. He always feels relieved when she behaves as though nothing is wrong: a guilty relief yes, but a relief nonetheless. He admits to the mistake, but she can surely see he is trying to put it right. He hoped the man from the north had not called to the house: Bridgie would have difficulty coping with that on her own. He dragged his boots homeward. Home was just half a mile away; he would be there soon enough.

Chapter 4: The story teller – the bog

Sean squeezed hard on the metal brake levers and the bicycle squealed to a halt. He dismounted, stood the bicycle up against the whitewashed wall of the house and removed the half bracken loaf from inside his pullover.

He stood back for a moment to look at the house. Its door was made of vertical tongue-and-groove planks and painted pale blue. There was a large half oval missing from its bottom edge with gnaw marks around its perimeter, indicating to Sean it had been eaten away by a determined dog. He noticed too the hole in the lower right hand corner of the rusty red corrugated roof. Holding the half bracken in one hand like a peace offering, he stepped forward, took a deep breath and tapped on the door.

Who is it? came a voice through the half-oval gap at the bottom of the door.

Hello, Mr Finnerty. It’s Sean Casey, Willie Casey’s son.

What do you want? came the voice. Sean was already beginning to think this was a bad idea. It was his father’s suggestion to visit Mr Finnerty and it will be his father’s fault if it goes wrong.

Mr Finnerty, I had some questions that I was askin’ me father. He didn’t know some of the answers and he said that you would.

There was a pause.

What sort of questions? the voice asked. Sean wondered if the entire conversation was going to be conducted through the hole at the bottom of the door. If that were the case, he reasoned, he need not have bothered with the half bracken. Sean heard shuffling as someone neared the door on the other side. He lowered his voice accordingly.

I’ve some questions ‘bout the bog, Mr Finnerty.

I didn’t know you were coming?

I’m sorry Mr Finnerty, sir. I’ll go and come back another time if ya -

What about the bog?

Erm, it’s a queer question right enough but I was just wantin’ t’know where it all came from. How did we get so much bog here, around Bangor, that’s all? I did ask me father but he said I should come and ask you. He didn’t admit it but I don’t think he knows.

After another pause, Sean heard the door unlatch and it swung inwards. Sean was not small but the old, white-haired head that appeared in the opening looked down on him. The old man had thick, long-haired eyebrows that lay across his brow like two fat, white, hairy caterpillars. His diamond-sharp blue eyes, darting all about and beyond Sean, were set deep in his skull.

You have brought bread, said the white-haired man.

It’s me mother’s bracken. She’s Bridgie Casey. It’s nice, sir.

I know who your mother is. Is that your father’s bicycle? Sean looked at the bike curiously.

"It