“Tell it once more,” I’d plead. Then my mother frowned as Aunt Aggie began again, my favourite – the story about a young Uncle’s Pad antics at the Halloween party, in the Big House.
On the last day of October, the mistress of Blossomgrove House gave a party for the workers – a sort of harvest-thanksgiving blast before November’s abstinence. Pad had finished his tasks early, so Master Cahill invited him into the parlour ahead of the rest. Opening the drinks cabinet, the master was suddenly called to the yard, and said, “Help yourself, Lad”.
Overwhelmed by the abundance, Pad selected the largest glass, a half-pint stout glass, brim filled it with Jameson and downed the lot before you could say – All Hallows! Shortly after, Babeanne Barry, bringing in the soda bread and not recognising his condition, ran out shouting: “come quick, Pad Murphy is having a turn.” Strong coffee was administered, he was escorted to the avenue and faced for home.
Negotiating the avenue was tricky. Earnestly trying to go forward, he was somehow dragged back and had to lunge ahead to make progress. Then, with sudden runs this way and that, he took two sides and constantly found himself facing a ditch. The gallons of milk, delivered daily to the neighbours, were proving quite a challenge. Finally, Pad arrived at Dolly Byrne’s.
Amid a clattering of cans, he descended the steps from her wicket gate. Hearing the racket outside, Dolly opened her door just as Pad reached out to steady himself. He shot forward and landed in a heap on her kitchen floor. Dolly in name but not in nature, she was filled with a nervous energy that readily transformed into fiery outbursts. If his collapsed heap angered her, her upturned gallon made her doubly vexed. Bad enough that she hadn’t a drop of milk for her tea, she complained to Grandmother, but she had strained her back manoeuvring him upright.
Drunkenness was a sin. She would tell the parish priest after Mass on Sunday. Poor Grandmother, panicking at the thought of the Canon at her door, asked the mistress to intervene. Grandeur prevailed! Canon Mac never heard about Pad’s mortal sin and Pad never again touched a drop of whiskey. My loudest whoops, however, were saved for Aggie’s reminder that ever after, that Halloween was remembered as the day when Pad Murphy fell for Dolly Byrne.
We would love to receive your family memories, anecdotes, traditions, mishaps and triumphs. Email 400 words and a relevant photograph to familyfortunes@irishtimes.com. A fee will be paid
