A Christmas Eve in Tallaght, 1932

 

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve 1932, John Finnegan set out from his mother’s house in Roundtown on a tram to Tallaght, intending to stretch his legs and to take the country air before the festivities of Christmas got underway.  Arriving in Tallaght village at two o’clock, he intended to walk up to Brittas, a five and a half mile stretch, or a two hour walk, and would be in plenty of time to get the five o’ clock tram from Brittas back to Roundtown.  The tram was to be discontinued later that week, after over forty-five years’ service and it would be John Finnegan’s last chance to journey on the Dublin to Blessington tramline.  The afternoon was fresh but dry.  Stepping off the car Finnegan inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the fresh country air rolling off the Dublin Mountains. Tightening the laces of his sturdy walking boots and fastening his galoshes over his ankles he set out west, through the old village past Dr Lydon’s Dispensary and Ms Martin’s post-office.  He loitered briefly at the little pocket park at the top of the town, opposite O’Neill’s bar and grocery, which had once been the site of Tallaght’s ancient Cross.

Passing the old Commons of Tallaght he made his way toward Tallaght Hill, Mount Seskin and Knockannavea.  A white tonsure of frost sat on the peaks of the hills around Tallaght, like a pope’s cap or the head of a monk.

The walk up to Jobstown was a gentle enough stroll, relatively flat and with good paths. He knew the walk would begin proper just beyond Jobstown and before Kiltalown Cottages, where he would take a left, leaving the main Blessington road and sharply ascending west along the slope of Mount Seskin. There Finnegan could feel his heart beating in his chest, exhaling warm and deep breaths into the cold thin air.  He looked down over the fields at what remained of Johnville, the once stately mansion and one-time home to Mr Nicholas Roe of the famous Roe Whiskey family and later the setting of Dr Luther’s Hydrotherapy Spa before the mysterious Doctor removed to Belfast.

 

There was no better way to prepare for the Christmas celebrations in the coming day.  He thought of the hearty meal he would have the next day and the few glasses of sherry or tawny port in the evening before parlour games.  A walk in the country would build his appetite for the indulgences to follow.

Traversing the crest of Mount Seskin he could see the pond at Brittas, built to take water to the old Saggart Paper Mills- beyond Adam and Eve, the famous standing stones on the road to Saggart- its little canal stretching beyond the area on his OS map labelled Clearwater Commons and Cooldown Commons.  To the north, he could see the tower on Oughterard in Kildare, casting its own evening shadow toward Dublin, like a sundial over its mausoleum. To the west with his back to Deerpark, he could see the valley of Slade and further on the Hill of Allen.

He looked at his left wrist and realised he had forgotten his watch, back in his mother’s house.  It was not yet 4pm he surmised, the sun still a little above the Hill of Allen, and perhaps forty minutes of daylight remaining.  He had made good time. The tram wasn’t due for another hour. He saw a sign on the road in the distance, indicating Bohernabreena- 1.5 miles. He had thought it was further.  A little over one mile, and forty minutes of light left!  If he walked briskly he might catch a glimpse of the great waterworks and could get the evening bus from Bohernabreena back to Roundtown. He would be home in time for tea.   Just before leaving the main road, he paused to read a little cross, erected at the side of the tram tracks- “Patrick Gooling.  1903. RIP.”

Approaching Ballinascorney the light was falling fast.  A dark black cloud gathered- moving like a murmuration of starlings above his head.  He had walked at least four miles, maybe more, and it seemed the further he walked the more remote and further from civilisation he became.  The air felt damp as the late evening passed.  And then the rain arrived.  He walked for several hours, at times it seemed in circles. He thought he could hear the water of the river Dodder. The night became inky black, his boots heavy with clods as the gravel path descended to a track of clay.  The last bus from Bohernabreena would be long gone.

He marched on. At least it was all downhill. There was nothing for it but to keep going.  It must have been four, perhaps five hours since the light had fallen. This was not how he had envisaged his ramble when he had been reading his little book The Neighbourhood of Dublin.

He could hear in the distance the flow of the brown and yellow waters of the river on his left. He must have crossed Callaghan’s bridge, he thought, but had no memory of it.  He had read once of Arthur Ussher, who had been washed away by this river, when it was a raging torrent back in 1628 and had heard of the many men since who had fallen to its humours.  It was along these banks Mrs Kearney had watched her sons and husband hanged for conspiracy.   Finnegan felt himself now to be the subject of a conspiracy- “a conspiracy of starlings”, he thought.  “No. Ravens. That’s it” His mind was wandering. Whether it was this, or the cold and sheer exhaustion, he began to shake and tremble, no longer feeling at one with nature.

 

He had no idea where he was but knew he could go no further. Resting under the dead or dying canopy of an ancient Oak, he sat on a heap of stones gathered at the trunk and listened to the sound of rain, drenching the canvas of wilting leaves above his head. He shook off his hat, sending a spray of water into a puddle before him.  Damp and down spirited, he lay back against the trunk and lit a cigarette- a Player’s Wills.   And then another.  He cupped in his hands the little round spirit-lighter, made from two coins welded together by his father during the Great War- a gift he had received for his eighteenth birthday. He could feel the metal warm in his hands.  Finnegan mused that if he had just got the last tramcar from Brittas, he would be home now in Roundtown, sitting by the fire.

He lit another cigarette, and out of habit looked at his wrist- remembering again that he had left his watch at home.  He had no idea what time it was, but knew it was late.  Slumped against the tree, he resigned himself to the fact that he was lost.

The wind rustled the leaves overhead, when a thin horizontal ribbon of light between a cluster of bushes broke through in the distance.   It was a homestead, not six hundred metres away.   Suddenly filled with a renewed optimism and energy he jumped up and, oblivious now to the rain pouring down upon him, marched in a stupor with his head down towards the light.   He could no longer feel his feet, conscious only that he must put one foot in front of the other.

 

A set of heavy wrought iron entrance gates hung between a pair of matching twin piers, taller than a man, each topped with an ornamental globe.  A short gravel path of about 10 yards, sheltered by a line of mature silver birch trees led to the door of the house. Passing through the gates he could hear the crunch of gravel under his feet- Terra Firma.  Briskly, almost mindlessly, approaching the residence, he could see nine sash windows of a fine house, its corners partially covered with ivy.  A pair of elongated narrow windows, one on each side of the door, and each dressed with red curtains, were faintly illuminated by candle light.

Finnegan paused before ascending the nine granite steps leading to the hall door, kicking the mucky clods off his boots against the second step.  A wreath of entwined Holly and Ivy hung on the doorknob, an unpolished brass affair.

 Giving three timid taps on the brass knocker above the wreath, he waited in silence, watching his own warm breath condense against the black door.  After a few moment he rapped again- tap, tap, tap.

He could hear a presence inside, fumbling about.   “Thanks be to God”, he thought. He heard the shuffle of slippers on linoleum before a bar was removed from inside the hall door and a lock turned. The door was opened half way, and in the light stood an elderly white-haired man.  He was unshaven, tall and portly, slightly hunched, as very old men can sometimes be.  A paraffin lamp silently flickered on a stand in the hallway and moths flapped about overhead, lightly tapping their wings inside the glass in the fanlight over the door. It was a substantial residence, though one that had seen better days.

 

“Come in man, before you catch your death”, the host implored.

Noticing a small silver holy water well on the wall beside the door, Finnegan went to dip his forefinger in the water to bless himself- as much to let his host know he was a good Christian,  than out of any habit. Finding the font to be dry he tipped his forehead with a thumb, and then his chest with the dry forefinger, before resigning his effort at piety.

 

The old man’s face was broad and bearded, his cheeks ruddy.  Finnegan removed his galoshes and wiped his boots on a stiff and well-worn mat, draping the soiled galoshes over an umbrella stand that contained nothing but a single riding crop.

“Let me take your coat” his host muttered, hanging the coat on a hook on the wall opposite the water-font.

He motioned with a nod towards a door a few metres down the hall and without a word ushered Finnegan into a comfortable but dimly lit parlour. Two tall Rathborne candles gently flickered at either end of the mantelpiece as the cold air from the hallway entered the parlour. Smouldering coals glowed in the fireplace, the dying embers of what looked to have been a generous fire.

 “Sit down there and dry yourself off. How does a man find himself out here at this time of night”? The old man enquired.  Finnegan told him his tale- how he had intended to get the tram home from Brittas, but decided to extend his walk to Bohernabreena.  “That’s a good walk alright!  Another seven miles bedad!”  Finnegan realised either the road-sign had been wrong or he had misread it.  Either way, he had lost his bearings somewhere between there and here.

 

A fire of turf sat smouldering in the grate and a downdraft in the chimney again sent a plume of smoke into the room as the old man opened the parlour door to get a glass for his guest.  It was nice just to be indoors, sitting by the warmth of the dying embers in the hearth.  A fender and a set of ancient fire-irons sat beside the hearth-plate, looking somewhat out of place- almost too small for the great fireplace beside which they sat. Finnegan resisted the natural temptation to take hold of the poker and rake the glowing coals, to breathe life into the fire. He was grateful for the old man’s hospitality and didn’t want to seem overly familiar or too comfortable.  He surmised by the amount of ash that had accumulated under the grate, that the fire must have been lit first thing that morning and had been burning all day.

A large black Labrador lay slumped in the corner, sleeping, and every now and then he would sigh and twitch, as if dreaming, whatever it is that Labradors dream. The smell of turf smoke and damp dog hair mingled with the fragrance of Finnegan’s own labours- of a man that had walked many miles about a mountain in the rain. The old man returned with a glass of boiling water in one hand and a bottle of Irish whiskey in the other.  A silver spoon jangled in the glass of boiling water as the man set it down on the mantel above the fire. He twisted the lid of the unopened bottled, breaking the seal and pouring a generous measure into the half-filled glass of boiling water. Taking the spoon he briskly stirred the whiskey and water in a counter-clockwise direction.  Finnegan watched, slightly mesmerised, as the gold and water blended into an even elixir. The steaming mixture filled the air with a homely cheer.

 

Finnegan raised the glass, inhaling the vapour of the glowing spirit deep into his lungs.  He was just about to put the glass to his lips, when he realised his host did not have a glass.  “Are you not taking one yourself? It is a bad guest I would be, who would drink whiskey on his own. I don’t believe it’s something I’ve ever done before”. 

“Ay, my days of drinking Whiskey, man, are long gone. I drank up my share, in my own day.  It’s ten years since a drop of whiskey or anything else has passed my lips. It’s a bad host I would be if you didn’t drink it.” Finnegan, stretching his legs in front of the fire, took a sip of the whiskey and felt the warm stream running down his throat and into his chest.

 

A long garland of Holly and Ivy, loosely entwined dressed the mantelpiece. In the centre was a large ivory clock.  Finnegan was taken-aback when he noticed the time on it- six minutes past ten.  “Is that clock right, can I ask?  I thought it was later”. “And a lot later it is too, I’m afraid.  That old clock hasn’t ticked in over thirty years.  Not since we lost the key for it. It was a very fine clock in its day, a gift my father received from Mr Nicholas Reade, the previous owner of this place.  It came to me with the house”.

The men spoke for some time- the host telling his guest that he had walked a great deal himself when he was younger and knew the local hills well. As a young man he had been something of a wrestler and had trained in the hills of Ballinscorney.  He had been involved in the public affairs of the district and had chaired meetings of the league.  After an hour the men moved to retire for the night, the host raking what remained of the dying coals in the grate. Departing the parlour the old man handed Finnegan a tall red candle, matching his own, to light the way.

Standing in the Hall at the foot of a staircase, the old man paused at a large portrait that hung on the wall- a portrait of two men standing side-by-side. “That is Charles Stewart Parnell” He said. Motioning towards the other man in the painting, he continued “and that is my Father”.  He stared at the great picture wistfully and both men stood for a few moments studying the portrait of the two bearded figures. 

The old man gripped Finnegan’s left wrist, squeezing it warmly but firmly in his fist, causing the candle in Finnegan’s hand to shed a light splattering of wax down on the damp cuff of his sleeve- “Look- Look into their eyes!  Great men.  They took a country, a nation in hand.  Leaders of men, both.  Both dead. Gone. Gone forever”. Finnegan could feel the old man had never lost his wrestlers grip.  “Our time will come” he said. “Our time will come.  And we too will be gone”.  After a moment of silence the man led Finnegan up the adjacent staircase and down a hallway, into a bedroom in the corner of the house. “There is an extra blanket at the foot of the bed, if you need it.  Will I leave a candle?” the old man asked, as he shuffled toward the door.

“No.  Thank you. The one I have is all the light I need. Thank you”, Finnegan replied.

The room was basic- A bed and a bedside table on which sat an empty enamel jug. It’s certainly not the Gresham Hotel, he thought.  A pair of pictures with matching frames hung on the bedroom wall beside the door- one of what looked like a Thrush and the other a Deer. Finnegan turned to the window.   He could hear the distant sound of a cat wailing in the yard below- the cry of a new born baby.  He stared into the darkness outside, cupping the light of the candle away from the glass. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see in the moonlight, the faint silhouette of the ruins of an old square tower just metres from the house.

Turning away from the window, he caught a reflection of himself in the candle light.  For a moment he thought there was another man outside. He was tired and still not entirely himself. He wondered in whose bed he was about to sleep.  The white sheet was cold and a little damp, but it felt good to set himself down on the bed. He lay his arms across his chest under the sheet, to stay warm.  His eyelids became heavy.  The last thing he saw was his own whiskey breath, rise into the damp night air above him.

 

 

He slept soundly til the morning and was awakened by something at the end of the bed.  A cat or a dog- lying against his left foot. He could feel the weight of it baring down on him. Opening his eyes he found a great canopy of brown leaves mottled with blue breaking through above him.  A young countryman was standing over him, gently nudging his foot, with his boot. “Troth! Thanks be to God you are alive.  I thought you were dead by the way you were slumped against that tree.  You wouldn’t be the first man to die under a tree, on a night like that. Have you been there all night?"

Finnegan took a moment to compose himself, unsure exactly of where he was. “I’m afraid so. I think so”, he replied looking around at the field surrounding him and the tree above. Standing up to stretch out his limbs be began to make sense of the situation- “I took shelter under the tree from the rain last night.  I must have fallen asleep”.

 “Are you from the city” the countryman inquired.  “I am” replied Finnegan, “Well, near enough”.  “Come. I have a cart on the road. I will drop you some of the way there.  I saw you lying in the field and thought you were done for.”

The two men walked toward a cart on the road- about forty yards. Finnegan got into the jaunting cart, a two seater trap with a black canopy.  The men sat in silence for a few minutes, as the countryman lashed the single grey horse.

A great cape of frost lay cloaking the hills behind them- on Glenasmole and Knockannavea, on Mount Seskin and Seefingan, melting, as the sun rose, down into the Dodder.  All it’s little tributaries running into one- Under the bridge at Oldbawn, and down behind the Carmelite Monastery in Firhouse and further on down and down past the Gasworks near old Mr. Pidgeon’s House at Ringsend.  The moon, still high in the sky, held up like a host over the hills of Ballinascorney by forces poorly understood, by those who laboured and worshiped under its light.

It was a clear Christmas morning, the brisk air breaking on Finnegan’s cheeks. He could feel a cold but gentle breeze on his neck as the cab made its way north through Oldbawn toward the little village of Tallaght and then east to Balrothery and on to Templeogue.  A smell of turf-smoke lingered on his collar. Finnegan hunched his shoulders under the damp coat and put his hands in its pockets to keep warm.  In his right-hand pocket he could feel what remained of his damp packet of Player’s Wills cigarettes and the little round lighter.

In his other pocket he felt something heavy, but familiar on his wrist. Taking his hand out to look, he found on his wrist an old and unfamiliar watch- a heavy silver timepiece, with four Roman Numerals-   XII- III- VI- IX.  He had never seen it before.  On the cuff of his shirt, just above the watch- a small red stain- a drop of dried red candle wax- all that remained of his Christmas Eve in Tallaght, 1932, and the house with red curtains.

  Albert Perris

A Ramble About Tallaght

(The above story is loosely based on an account that appeared in the Evening Herald Christmas Supplement on the 17^th December 1934).