The Corner Bar

It was eleven o’clock in the morning on the 11th of March 1965. My father sat with Christy Mimna in a small bar beside the hospital in Manorhamilton. Jim O’Rourke was a relieved man. Relieved that he was able to treat Christy to a few drinks and him after bringing himself and me mother all this way. Christy had driven them the 57 miles from south Leitrim because our car was in Brewster’s garage in Carrigallen getting serviced. The Auld Lad had left it in the day before – 10 days before I was due – but Mammy’s waters broke the following morning, and so Daddy went up the road to his first cousin for help. Christy said of course he’d drive to Manorhamilton, and they set off. They were that excited they almost forgot to pick up Mammy at the house, although it was her that was having the baby. They also picked up Christy’s sister, Peggy, in Gortahose, a mile into the journey – company for my mother, and more importantly, another woman to talk to Mammy about ‘woman’s things’.

The Corner Bar was empty that morning. A roundy-shouldered fella by the name of John, in a white shirt and braces, had just opened up. He wasn’t the owner – far too oblivious for that. He grabbed the men two bottles of beer and two half ones, took my father’s money, but showed no interest in their plight or business, and then proceeded to slap a mop around the floor. As unwelcoming and as brazen as you like. No way to treat a father- and godfather-to-be.

The ambience, circumstance and time of day were not conducive to normal pub talk, and so the two men sat in silence mostly. My father, every now and then, stretched his long neck to look out the window to check on the car outside – making sure that Mammy was all right and still sitting up in the back, chatting to Peggy.

This scene and these men might seem callous and neglectful, but we must remember the time. Back then, it was only common courtesy to bring a lad for a drink and him after doing you a favour. Back then, there was no flapping