‘He used to do ten o’clock Mass because the pubs opened at half ten, and he’d be in there at half ten – in a flash! That was him.. FR FLASH KAVANAGH pints small ones.. the collection
He’d drink and all according to that morning!’
In Our Day Kevin C Kearns €25
F‘Oh, don’t attempt to bring the horse in there – you’ll have the whole place upset!’
or more than 50 years, armed only with a Sony tape recorder, Kevin C Kearns trekked the rough-and-tumble streets of the heart of Dublin recording the city’s vanishing oral history. The ordinary people he encountered – street traders, dockers, factory workers, tram drivers, housewives and midwives, children and grandparents – shared private stories of hardship, joy, sorrow, suffering, survival and triumph.
In Our Day is a treasure trove bursting with whispers from the past – 450 vignettes, memories and recollections preserved in an evocative, poignant portrait of a forgotten Dublin. As RTÉ broadcaster Joe Duffy says of In Our Day: ‘Without Kevin, the lives of ordinary decent Dubliners would be forgotten. This book is a celebration of them’. The following extract of this encapsulates exactly what Joe means.
ROBERT HARTNEY, b. 1899 Usher at Manor Street picture house from the late 1920s until it closed its doors in 1956.
‘Now, ‘Baby Nugent’, he was a character, a bit mental, you know. Not dangerous or anything… used to take a drink. And he had a horse that was blind in one eye. One time he went into the public house and called for two pints. And you know what he done? Went outside and the horse drank one pint!
‘Well, then he come down to the cinema and he brought the horse up the steps into the hall! And the manageress says, “Oh, don’t attempt to go in there, you’ll have the whole place upset!”
‘So he backed the horse down and went off.
‘Anyway, in the end, unfortunately, one day he made a bet with somebody that he could cross the bridge on the Liffey [walking on the wall]. He got halfway across and he fell in… and was drowned. That was the unfortunate end of him.’
JACK MITCHELL, b. 1928 Started as a gravedigger aged 27, earning around three pounds a week.
‘The old gravediggers were characters… some had names like ‘The Lump’ and another was called ‘The Swanker’. All elderly men and long at it. And they’d get a pint of porter through the railings. They’d just knock on the side of the pub [directly adjacent], Josie Kavanagh’s… for the barman to come out and they’d get their pint. It was well known it was done – but they weren’t supposed to! If caught, they were sacked!’
BILLY SULLIVAN, b. 1914
His favourite character was Maggie, who used her famous ‘fainting act’ to trick people to reviving her with a free whiskey.
‘Maggie, she’d faint – playing possum. Always outside a public house she’d do this. And a crowd would congregate around her, and she’d say, “Ah, me poor old heart!” And someone who didn’t know the act would go inside and get her a half of whiskey.
Pretend she was sick – and there was nothing wrong with her at all. It was an act! ’Cause she’d get a half of whiskey… always done outside the boozer. And then Maggie’d do her act again.’
KATHLEEN MAGUIRE, b. 1923 Daisy Market dealer.
‘Now, Kitty Doyle, she was a character here. She’d go on the beer and dress up in clothes. She was very tall and loved to laugh and Kitty’d come down this lane all dressed up in old clothes and a hat and long dress. Or put on a wedding dress and old-fashioned hat. Or dress up in a man’s suit! And she’d go across to the pub all dressed up like that for a laugh – and the men would be all roaring in laughter in the pub!’
CLARA GILL, b. 1929 Proprietor of Gill’s pub on the North Circular Road.
‘All sorts of characters among publicans.
There was one that’d go on the beer and he’d be stark naked behind the counter with a bowler hat on, nothing else. Another publican, very religious, used to walk around with a cross.’
GERALD DEVEREUX, b. 1918
One of Dublin’s last old-fashioned bespoke tailors, he began his trade in the 1930s.
‘The old tailors, they were marvellous characters with their own language and their own way altogether. The old journeymen, I’ve worked with them. They’d think nothing of walking 40 or 50 miles and come into a shop, sleep under the bench and maybe work until four in the morning. They’d do piecework and get bed and breakfast. Very few of them were really good workers.
‘Some of them would be philosophising more than sewing! They could quote Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Longfellow. Very learned – and they never got anywhere in life... marvellous characters.’
JACK CUSACK, b. 1919 Publican of Cozy Bar, The Liberties.
One character he never welcomed to his pub was the Guinness traveller making his official rounds of inspection.
‘In the old days the Guinness traveller used to come in and say, “Good morning”… he was a commercial traveller and he tapped his silver cigarette case, but he never offered you a cigarette! No.
‘Then he’d say, “Give me a glass of plain and a bottle of stout.” And then he’d get out his little book and his thermometer, put the thermometer down inside each one and check the temperature and write it in his book. And then he’d say, “A little warm, the stout”. He thought he was Jesus Christ or God Almighty!’
MICKEY GUY, b. 1919
A Liberties lad who dreaded going to the only dentist around – and for good reason.
‘The only dentist in my time was a man named Mr Carey. It was a half a crown. When I went to get mine out [his tooth pulled] he’d say, “Give me your money”. Oh, then he’d pull the head off you! He’d get his knee up on you and he’d pull. Just ether and pliers.
‘Now, he’d no wife but a big family of boys, and a maid. And what he’d do in case you’d be crying – if your mother’d be outside the room – he had his sons playing music in the back, playing instruments and fiddles, so your mother wouldn’t hear the roaring! That’s what he used to do. And then – and this is history – he died and the maid took over pulling teeth! One man died… and she was jailed.’
JOHN PRESTON, b. 1926
Saw Fr ‘Flash’ Kavanagh’s pub routine often.
‘Now, Father “Flash” Kavanagh, he’d drink in the pub called the Deer’s Head in Parnell Street. Used to drink there in the mornings and you’d see him locked [inebriated]. In there with his red vestments and he’d go right through the bar to a little snug and that’s where he used to be – and that was his berth. Nearly every day he was there. He used to do 10 o’clock Mass because the pubs opened at half 10, and he’d be in there at half 10 – in a flash! That was him, “Flash Kavanagh”. He’d drink pints and small ones [whiskeys] – all according to the collection that morning!’
PADDY WHELAN, b. 1908 Railway steam engine driver.
‘At that time the engine drivers were the elite men. Each driver had his own engine. Drivers got a big heavy pilot overcoat… a notch above all the others. Years ago I saw some of them with spats and gloves on them. Oh, I remember one old driver now – he had a beard down to here [his chest] – and he was a Scotsman. And he used to say, “Is the trimmings right? Well, then you’d better go and piss because there’s no time for pissing on this job!”’
TOMMY MURRAY, b. 1919
A regular at Walsh’s pub on City Quay back in the 1920s and 1930s.
‘I drank in Walsh’s on City Quay, a dockers’ pub, a fantastic pub. And there were some great characters around. One we used to call “Jingle Bells”. We used to get great craic with him. A small man. See, when he’d come in the barman would say, “Would you not give us a song?” And Jingle Bells would sing a bit of a song.
‘And then it was “Sing another song”. And the barman would keep giving him a half whiskey. And he’d be singing songs all night. And so he’d start staggering. And here’s the best part of it – do you know what it was all the time? It was lemonade with water in it! He thought it was whiskey – and he had to have a tumbler of water beside it. Really thought he was drunk! And staggering. True as heaven! Oh, we used to look forward to that… He’s years dead now, I hope he’s in Heaven.’
MARTIN MITTEN, b. 1914 Dublin docker.
‘Soon as I come 18 I went on the docks. Stevedores practically had the power of life and death over you. And one fella, he’d pick the men – he called them all by their nicknames… maybe a hundred men by their nicknames. He was fantastic, this fella. He was a foreman at George Bell’s. Knew every nickname: Joxer, Lordy,
Stumper, Tricky, Joker, Lucky Bar, Bunter, Hairy Eye, Saddler, Spit in Pint, Rabbit, Never Wrong, Yank, Sailor, The Blind Fellow, Pegleg, Shoulders, Nudger, Pee Wee, Guzzler, Hookey, Lights Out, The Deviller… Called them all by their nicknames – fantastic!’
PADDY O’ BRIEN, b. 1919
Barman at McDaid’s pub during the halcyon days of literary giants such as Brendan Behan and Patrick Kavanagh.
‘She’d go to the morgue in St Kevin’s and knock the pennies off all the corpses’ eyes’
‘Brendan had the image of being a big drinker – but he just couldn’t hold it! See, four or five pints in Brendan and he’d be falling around the place. But he never put on an act, he was always himself. Now, he was a bit of a showman all right, and he’d like to be in the middle of things if there was a party going on. He used four-letter words and he’d sing these old bawdy songs. But he was a lovely man… flowing with nature.
‘But Kavanagh and Behan didn’t get on well at all. He looked on Behan as rough. And I’d always try to explain to him, “Behan is a nice guy, just try and be nice to him.” “No, never, he’s just a bowsie!” Brendan used to try and be friendly, but he couldn’t get through to him. He’d always push Brendan away.’
TOMMY O’NEILL, b. 1926 A jarvey and pintman in the Liberties.
‘I knew Widow Reilly well. She ran a marriage bureau there in her pub. Yeah, a marriage bureau. Matchmaking! You’d go in there and you had to pay her a fee. She had a special compartment and she’d take all the particulars. Oh, she’d write it all down. And you’d meet them [women] in the bar. It was like going to the cattle market and buying a cow – that’s true! Oh, it’d be packed with women and she’d make a match. She’d get you fixed up, get you married.’
MARY CHANEY, b. 1910
Along Hammond Lane where she lived there were some boisterous characters, but one was a quiet little woman who was up to her tricks on the sly.
‘Now, there was a woman around our way – and this is as sure as God I’m talking – and she used to do a desperate thing. Well, you know when a woman or a man died, they’d put pennies on their eyes for to keep them shut? Well, she used to go up to St Kevin’s Hospital [morgue] and she’d go and knock off all the pennies off all the corpses’eyes – to go to the pictures! They were dead, now… when she’d take the pennies. The good old days!’