Paddy Wack

1. What d'you call a Scouser with a pint of Guinness?

1. Happy

On the other hand, if you scratch a native of this fair city, the chance is you'll discover that he (or she) is at least a quarter Irish, if not more. The 'old man, rolling home' immortalised in the childrens' song is quite possibly on his way back from the boozer on Pay Day

***

When Séan Kermode decided he was not prepared to lie down in the green fields of his beloved Roscommon and starve slowly and painfully to death, there was only ever one solution. Cutting a "stout blackthorn, to banish ghost and goblin" he bought a "brand new pair of brogues" and took the rocky road to Dublin, a hundred miles to the east (as near as makes no difference to a corbie tanked up on Guinness……)

On his arrival in Dublin, Séan immediately made his way to the quayside – along with countless hundreds if not thousands of other unemployed, penniless Irishmen determined to escape grinding poverty and make a better life for themselves. Exactly how he managed to find a berth onwards to Liverpool must remain something of a mystery, but the vessel was without doubt overcrowded. A storm in the Channel caused the captain to order all hatches secured: when they were released upon arrival in Liverpool seventy-two of the passengers had suffocated.

Séan was young and healthy, and had never shirked from hard, physical work. He took whatever jobs were available, sometimes only for a day or two at a time. Unlike many of his compatriots, he had his letters – in other words, he could read, write, and add up. He quickly discovered, however, that this wasn't as much of a bonus as it should have been. Every time he opened his mouth, his accent betrayed his origins, and often led to doors being slammed in his face. "No Irish, No Catholics" seemed to be on every factory door and in the windows of all the boarding houses: it was so commonplace, nobody thought twice about it  ...  except the Catholics.

In the end, sheer weight of numbers proved the deciding factor. The Irish immigrants were almost exclusively Catholics, displaced from their poor farmlands and smallholdings by the greed of absentee landlords who were for the most part both British and Protestant.

As those who could not raise the price of a ticket onwards to the New World settled in the area and sent word for relatives to join them, Liverpool became almost overnight a predominantly Catholic enclave, with almost as many churches as pubs. At about the same time an equally devoted Catholic community established itself, and a significant part of the town centre became known as "Little Italy". Together with the largest (and oldest) established Chinatown anywhere in Europe, Liverpool quickly earned a reputation as a true "melting pot" of nationalities.

Séan quickly found both regular work at the docks, and somewhere to live close enough to be convenient. Although he had arrived in Liverpool with a good command of English, it had not been his first language while he was growing up in rural Roscommon.

Working on the docks, he soon discovered that he had a knack for languages, and was often called upon to mediate when crews, captains and traders from other countries needed to make sure that their instructions had been properly understood. Remuneration was, for the most part, in kind rather than hard cash, but this didn't bother Séan. It's a well-known fact that it is impossible to impose any form of Income Tax Income Tax on a hard-wearing pair of trousers, a bucket of salt fish, or a scuttle of coal to take home for the fire………

There were mixed feelings amongst the Irish labourers on the Liverpool docks when war was declared on Germany in 1914. Séan had been in Liverpool for almost three years, and still felt a certain resentment at the British landlords who had forced him to leave home or starve to death. Surely this wasn't his fight ……….?

And yet. Like many others, he could not allow himself to stand idly by, refusing to support what his conscience insisted was a 'just cause'.

Army service revealed another of Séan's skills, one which he had never considered to be a skill because it came as natural to him as breathing: he was a 'natural' with horses.

Although he saw service on the front line (and was gassed twice) his knack with horses kept him away from the most dangerous duties and for the most part out of the trenches. Once again, his skill with languages proved useful, and by the time hostilities ceased he had secured several field promotions in recognition of his specialist knowledge, resulting in a modest military pension when he returned to civilian life.

This suited him fine: he now felt he could offer his girlfriend, Ellen, a reasonable life in better quarters than the single room in a boarding house which he had lived in before going off to serve in the Army. He also managed to persuade his CO to allow him to buy a couple of dray horses at knockdown prices, reprieving them from the knacker's yard. He then acquired a couple of flatbed wagons, and established a domestic coal delivery service which quickly grew to become a profitable venture.

When Séan's son, Turlough, was born the family had moved twice, each time to larger and more comfortable accommodation. By 1930 they were living in a spacious Georgian house with six bedrooms, looking down on  Séan's offices, stables and stockyard. There was also a magnificent view of the blue hills of North Wales across the Mersey estuary, the house being situated at the top of Everton (or, in older English, "Over Town") Vale.

Turlough never had any trouble accepting his family history, absorbed (as they say) along with his mother's milk. These stories would follow the time-honoured "oral tradition" of tales told (and sometimes acted out) by an elderly relative taking on the role of the family seanchai or storyteller.

Turlough's own talents, however, proved to lie in another direction, and perhaps it was just as well. Séan had indeed lived each day as if it might be his last. Before Turlough was ten years of age Séan went to bed one night and failed to wake up the following morning

Turlough, despite his tender years, was left as 'Man of the House' with a mother, two sisters older than himself, and a baby sister who must somehow be provided for.

His schooling came to an abrupt end that summer, and although in the years to come he was able to acquire new skills and qualifications through his own efforts, he never showed any signs of his father's affinity for words or languages.

What he did have was an infallible sense of the 'rightness' of a page of figures, a speed and accuracy with mental arithmetic which time and again left anyone who was dependent on a calculator or other mechanical device floundering helplessly in his wake. He could glance at the double-entry pages of a Profit-&-Loss ledger, closely handwritten, and know at once whether the two balanced – and on which line any errors it contained could be found.

When a couple of Séan's less-than-scrupulously-honest 'associates' attempted to persuade Ellen Freeman to accept an outrageously low bid for the business as a going concern, Turlough tore their false accounting to shreds before handing them over to the family solicitor, who happened to be present purely and simply  in his role as Séan's executor…

During his lifetime, Séan Kermode had accepted and lived with his own natural gift for languages (and, to a lesser extent, animal husbandry) as part and parcel of who he was: he would certainly have laughed out loud at any suggestion that he try to live any other way, as to him it would have been the same as deliberately attempting to live a lie.

It didn't take Turlough long to realise that not everyone found manipulation of abstract mathematical formulæ and number crunching in general as easy as he did. He tried not to show it, but deep inside he had to admit (to himself at least) that the suspicion which was the direct result of jealousy, envy and a lack of willingness in others to understand and accept his number skills was something which hurt him deeply. Gradually, he withdrew further and further within himself, building barriers, becoming more and more of a recluse. By his mid-teens, it wasn't unusual for him to go days on end without speaking to anyone, not even his mother. Naturally, she fretted at this change in her son but was unable to think of a possible solution.

Turlough's affinity for mathematics in all its various guises was intuitive and might have been even more impressive if he had ever completed his formal education. He insisted on assuming the full responsibility of the "Man of the House", which in his eyes meant that it was up to him to provide for the rest of the family.

The first few months were the hardest. The few employers prepared to even consider taking on a young boy e.g. as a messenger, or to deliver groceries and/or newspapers paid a pittance and demanded he should put in long, arduous hours in return.

Ellen had married Séan on his return from the War: she had never had to work. She ignored all Turlough's arguments, rolled up her sleeves and took to scouring doorsteps and general cleaning at a number of local pubs, rising at the crack of dawn each day without complaint to do whatever was necessary to keep her family together. Cleaning (and housework in general) was one thing she was good at, and she certainly didn't need a school certificate to prove it.

The one 'luxury item' she had insisted on taking with them from Allcard Street to the (smaller) house in Dovecot was an upright piano. In the 'years of plenty'  prior to Séan's death, she had been an excellent pianist. The piano now stood silent in the living room (though it was never allowed to gather dust) while Ellen's delicate musician fingers became rough, chapped and blistered from constant immersion in water.

Things eased after twelve months or so when Rose and Lily completed their secondary education and immediately found office work, which made a considerable difference to the family income. This, combined with Turlough's willingness to take on anything legal (as far as work was concerned) and his continued insistence on being responsible for overseeing the family budget meant that life gradually became easier – especially when their new neighbours discovered Ellen's gift for making a nourishing meal out of very little.

Before long, Ellen was able to supplement the family income with her culinary and baking skills, and they were less dependent on the hard drudgery of washing and cleaning.

The gradual easing of money problems made little difference to Turlough's sense of being 'different' to the few friends he had made during the time they had lived in Everton and he had still been attending school.

Ellen knew (as all mothers do) that something was seriously wrong but was totally at a loss as to how she should tackle the subject. In desperation, she did as many others did and turned to the Parish Priest for guidance, asking him to 'make a social call' at a time when she knew Turlough would be home.

Fr. Duffy brooked no nonsense, and challenged Turlough immediately about his moody turns and apparent lack of respect for his mother.

"Don't you think she's enough to sadden her days already, without you addin' to it further?" he said, sweeping on before Turlough had an opportunity to respond:
"You're a bright young man, and I'm not the only one who's noticed you've a rare talent for figures which many would wish for themselves: and that, despite you not finishing school! And before you start, I understand why you felt it had to be that way!"

Without making Turlough feel as though he was being steamrollered, Father Duffy went on to persuade him that he should put all thoughts of volunteering out of his mind, even when he became of age.

"Your mother's suffered one loss: d'you expect her to risk losing the other man in her life?"

Turlough could see the logic in the priest's argument, and found himself agreeing to accept a small stipend for the task of balancing the church's accounts in future.

"I've some friends who may also be interested in someone with your gift for numbers – because gift it is, young man, make no mistake about it!"

Fr. Duffy would not be drawn on the who or the what of this cryptic remark: Turlough had to accept that if he rook on the challenge of balancing the church's books, he could expect more interesting work to follow.         

Having the discipline of a routine imposed upon him was the best thing which could have happened for Turlough Kermode, and it brought him out of his self-imposed shell of silence and into contact with others around him. Almost unnoticed, he learnt some basic social skills. Without seeming to interfere with or influence the daily office routine, Fr. Duffy made sure that he was kept fully informed of Turlough's progress.

***

"Turlough, can you come through to the front room for a minute?"

It was a late Friday afternoon. Turlough had been totally absorbed in a long page of figures, and hadn't heard either the front door bell as Fr. Duffy entered. Stretching, he clambered off the high stool and glanced at the Westminster clock which stood in the corner.

 "It's still early yet, Father …………."

"That's alright: there are two gentlemen waiting who have travelled a long way to speak to you. I'll pack the ledgers away, you won't be needing them again today, anyway … go on, go on, there's nothing to worry about! They're here at my invitation, and I think you should listen carefully to what they have to say."

With a wave of his hand, the Parish Priest dismissed Turlough and began tidying the 'back room' of the presbytery which had been turned into the office of the busy parish church.

The visitors turned out to be two middle-aged men who had little about them to attract a second glance. They were smartly dressed, in sensible everyday clothing of decent quality but not in what might have been termed 'haute couture' styles. Their faces, like their clothes, were of the 'instantly forgettable' variety..

Both men stood up as Turlough entered the room. One of them, a clean-shaven man in his thirties, possibly slightly younger than his colleague, indicated an empty chair. He did not offer to shake: after a split-second's hesitation, Turlough dropped his hand and mumbled a slightly embarrassed "Good Afternoon" as he lowered himself into the vacant seat

"I don't wish to appear rude, Turlough: but time is short, and I don't want to …. become a problem for Fr. Duffy by staying here longer than we have to."

Turlough frowned, then looked the spokesman squarely in the eye.

"Fr. Duffy said he'd invited you ………….?"

The speaker nodded.

"That's correct. He thought we might be interested in your skill with numbers. But to be fair, I should at least tell you our names – though as yet I can't tell you much more than that, until I've heard what you think about …what I have to say. My name's Tony Sale, and my colleague's name is Alan. If you agree to assist us – and we hope you will! – I can tell you more about us – and about where we work."

Turlough's frown deepened.

"Why the secrecy?" he demanded, bristling suspicion as only a teenage Irish lad can when he thinks someone is trying to deceive him.

Tony glanced at his colleague with a look which seemed to say: "I told you  so!", then turned back to Turlough with a disarming smile.

"We knew from Fr. Duffy about your mathematical skills – which, as far as he's concerned, are little short of magical, by the way: did he ever tell you that? No, I thought not: it isn't his way of doing things ………. no matter!"
"We also spoke to your mother when we arrived this morning: you left home this morning an hour or so before our train arrived. But she knows why we're here …….."
"Which makes me the last to find out about it, apparently!" Turlough interrupted, with a hint of the old, troublesome, truculent teenager threatening to re-emerge. Tony Sale had the grace to blush ever so slightly, and appear somewhat ill at ease.

"There are a lot of things I can't tell you as yet, Turlough: it's no exaggeration to say that National Security is involved, and our main – indeed, our only – concern right now is to establish if you'd be willing to use your talent for maths and number work for the good of all and to help the country's war efforts?"

Turlough stared in disbelief.

"Me?! Look at me: barely school leaving age, not old enough to join up, and anyway I haven't been to ……….. "

"  ………. school for about two years? Yes, Turlough, we know! In fact, that was what convinced us that you have a special talent for maths, and that's why we came to talk to you today! But the work is Classified: Top Secret. You'd have to agree to come with us – now, today! – to work in a secret location on a project of the utmost importance. You won't be allowed any contact with your family until it's all over, but of course you'll be well paid and we will make sure they're properly looked after as well.…..!"

Alan spoke for the first and only time during that interview.

"I can tell you, we spoke to your mother about our ….. project ….. this morning, and she said she'd have a bag packed for you, with her blessing, if you choose to go with us – and no criticism or blame if you decide you'd rather stay at home with the family. Your sisters don't know about it yet, and they'd never be told if you aren't willing to help us ………."

Although he was to become the youngest member of the team working at Bletchley Park, the team which cracked the German Enigma Code and saved countless lives, Turlough never spoke of his contribution to the war effort until many years had passed and he was married, with a son of his own ………………                                                         

"D'ye see, Paul: at that time we were fighting for our lives – something I hope you'll never have to do! – and we all had to sign something called the Official Secrets Act …. You'll have heard of that, in history lessons?"

Dumb nod from an eleven-year-old.

Turlough continued:

"It wasn't until after the conflict was over that we were told we would no longer be prosecuted for talking about it ….  by that time, for those of us who were still alive, there didn't seem much point: it would only rake up old memories, best forgotten!"

"But, Dad ………..?" Paul stopped, a troubled frown on his face.

"Go on."
"Dad, if someone gives their word … like, a promise …. surely they wouldn't break it? Why would people have to sign a …. 'fishal secrets act? A promise is a promise!"

Turlough whipped out a handkerchief and began a series of coughs and wheezes to cover the conflicting emotions his son's pronouncement had provoked. After a few seconds, he was once more in control.

"That's the way you've been brought up, Paul. You've seen the way your uncle Tomàs buys and sells horses, on the strength of a handshake and a promise? Well, that's an example of your Irish heritage shining through. Yes, of course "a promise is a promise" to you and to me, and a man's word ought to be enough: but unfortunately, that's not always the case …"

Yet again a clash of cultures, ancient and modern, traditional oral agreement contrasting starkly with a formal written contract. Another generation of the Kermode family had reached a point when it was necessary to make a choice.

This time the choice was less of an urgent, on-the-spot decision, and was less trammelled by circumstances. Paul was not imitating his grandfather, escaping from poverty and starvation: nor had he been obliged to grow up overnight, as his own father had done when Séan Kermode died unexpectedly. He had the advantage of a place at a good school, where his flair for languages was recognised and nurtured, encouraged, developed.

With the rapid growth of the European market and the constant accession of new member countries, it was inevitable that the Irish oral tradition would sooner or later combine with the natural penchant for mimicry inherent in every Scouser to produce a Passe Partout of the Twenty-First Century , equally at home with all men, and all languages………

Which leads back to the initial question:

Q.                What do you call a Scouser with a pint of Guinness?

A.                   Happy – in whatever language you care to use …..

Word Count:    3552