Jersey-based writer draws on Derrygreenagh childhood for inspiration

Eilís Ryan

Derrygreenagh Park in Rochfortbridge has long been celebrated as an architectural treasure – but now, a Jersey-based writer who grew up in the estate is about to celebrate it as the much-loved community that formed her, and that gave her a wonderful childhood.

Yvonne Heavey is about to publish ‘No. 56’ a book that is a cross-over between autobiography and short-stories, built on a framework of memories emanating largely from Derrygreenagh and Rochfortbridge, and also from Mullingar.

While her background was in finance, Yvonne made some property investments that have left her free to write full-time – but it was only last year that she sought – and received – the affirmation that she had a talent and gave her the confidence to push forward with plans to launch No 56.

“I’ve written all my life and I was writing stories over here, probably since I first arrived. But I never entered competitions, nothing like that: it was all kind of private writing. And then just last year, I decided: ‘Why not enter a competition?’.

“They do a big award over here – quite a prestigious award – at the Jersey Festival of Words. And I just entered one of my short stories [The Wake of Yer Man] and it won – I was actually quite surprised.

“Then I put one of my stories into the Dublin Movie Awards, and I got into the semi-final of that. So I was thinking: ‘Oh! There must be something in these stories…’.”

At that point, Yvonne started to think more firmly about what she wanted to do with her writing, and thus she has put together the 18 short stories that form No 56, which is the house at Derrygreenagh where she lived as a child.

“I said to myself because Derrygreenagh is such a time capsule, and was such an incredible place to have been brought up in the ‘80s and ‘90s, and Bord na Móna and the boglands and everything – ‘You know, that ageing community in Derrygreenagh, they are all a lot older, they’re in their 80s, their 90s…’, and I wanted this book to come out so badly, before they’re gone.”

She has huge love and affection for all the families of Derrygreenagh, and remembers it as a special place.

“All the characters in the book are these incredible people. I have obviously fictionalised bits of it, but it’s pretty much semi-biographical.

“So the stories are from the eyes of a 10-year-old growing up there. I was one of 11 of us in our house, a tiny little Derrygreenagh house, so the stories come from that, but the stories are also from around Mullingar, Knockdrin, Offaly – basically all over the midlands.

“It’s all set in 1980s and 1990s Ireland, and during the time of Bord na Móna and I’ve done one of the stories on the boglands, where I’m just a 10-year-old with my brothers, and we’re working in the bog, so there’s a bit of history in it, and it’s a bit of a time capsule as well. It’s an era that I don’t want people to forget really.

“One of the stories I’ve done is of ‘Frank the barber’ [Frank McIntyre] in Mullingar. He used to cut all our hair, so I’ve done a short story on him; I’ve done a short story on these characters that influenced me as a 10-year-old.

“Another story, one of the stories that seems to get a lot of recognition at the moment, is called ‘Mission on Tinker’s Hill’.”

That story – printed in this week’s Westmeath Examiner – features a visit to St Vincent de Paul in Mullingar with her father, who, sadly, died at just 51, leaving her mother, at just 44, with nine children to rear.

“But the community supported us,” says Yvonne, adding that by community, she means both the people of Derrygreenagh, and the members of the St Vincent de Paul.

That is why the full proceeds from the sale of No 56 are going to the St Vincent de Paul.

Now, no longer resident in Rochfortbridge, but back on visits around six times a year, Yvonne is fondly fascinated by the dynamic that prevails: “Because I’ve lived out of the country for so long, when I go back, and I see all these women and men living well into their 80s – there’s a lot of 90-something-year-olds there – and the reason they’re living so long is community, and I think people forget the importance of that connection. Over here on the Channel Islands, we don’t have that, we don’t have community, it’s very segregated.”

Some might be embarrassed to admit their family fell on such hard times that they needed the assistance of the St Vincent de Paul Society but Yvonne wanted to give the true picture: “That was the reality.

Don’t get me wrong: probably 70% of growing up in this environment was tough but 30% was true magic. I didn’t want to be Frank McCourt, but I did want to show that actually, large families do have this magic as well, and I wanted to show the importance of community, and, you know, St Vincent de Paul didn’t come every week and help us, but they were there for us to get, like, corned beef and all that kind of stuff.”

The book is being launched in Jersey on September 28 – at the Jersey Festival of Words, at which Yvonne has been invited to speak this year. She returns home in October and is due to give a talk to the pupils at St Joseph’s in Rochfortbridge and hopes to have local launches in both Rochfortbridge in Mullingar.

“The more I sell of this book, the more it goes to the Saint Vincent de Paul,” says Yvonne.

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SHORT STORY BY YVONNE

The Mission over Tinker’s Hill

By Yvonne Heavey

“Da, will ya hold on!”

The dampness of the morning soaked my shoes, seeping into my socks as I sprinted to catch up with Da, my breaths shallow and quick in the crisp air.

“Da wait up,” beaming with pride as I pulled on my schoolbag, which felt as empty as our fridge.

“Da, I’ve emptied out all my school books, so loads of room for the tins,” I said, practically bouncing on my toes just to glimpse his face hidden way up in the rainclouds of his blazer jacket.

“Good girl,” Da grinned, the rain dripping off his nose, “sure, we only need a few dozen, that’ll tide us over and I’ll get you something nice in Bradley’s tomorrow for all your hard work. You’re a great girl,” he winked.

“Oh, pull that over your head,” he said, plopping a black woolly hat on my head.

I beamed up at him, my hat drooping like a soggy cake. “Thanks Da, do you not have one?” I asked. “That’s mine, you have it, das don’t get wet,” he said while the raindrops pelted off his face.

I loved the smell, a smell of Da, cold turf embers, smoke and Old Spice.

We crossed over the road and Da and I stood at the thumbing stop just across the road from the Derrygreenagh Park sign. I might as well have had no shoes on with splashes of muck all over my grey school socks and I could feel raindrops like cold little kisses plopping on my woolly hat.

Da, his jacket collar turned up against the wind, gave me a wink. “Sure, we’re a right pair aren’t we,” he cackled.

Every car that passed was a blur of hope that skidded away as fast as the rain poured. Da stuck his thumb out, his big hand steady as an old oak, while my little thumb wobbled like a new leaf.

I felt another rumble in my tummy. I silently prayed and made a few bargains with God if he’d let the next car stop. “God you see, I have been a pretty good girl this week. I helped Ma and Da with giving them a few pounds of my babysitting money and I said the novena every night before lights out. Listen God, if you do me this favour I will owe you one – promise.”

My internal chat made me forget about the rumbling tummy.

“Are ya alright?” says Da, pulling me in a bit closer to shade off some rain, “there’ll be one stopping soon,” he said.

“Da let’s pass the time,” I said with a shiver going down my spine, a raindrop managing to make its way down my neck. “Let’s play I Spy.”

But it was tough with everything all different shades of rain. “I spy with my little eye, something beginning with…” and just as I squinted hard to see something, anything, Da laughs and says, “Wet!”

Then God kept his side of the bargain, a miracle, a car pulled over.

It was old Mrs Claffey from Tyrrellspass. The back of her Cortina was stuffed with bags of knitting and a dog named Seamus, who was the only dog I knew with eyebrows like a cartoon; but there was room for the two of us.

“Jump in craturs, can’t have ye swimming to Mullingar!” she laughed.

We squished into the back seat, and off we went, to the sound of All God’s Creatures Got A Place In The Choir coming from the radio.

Mrs Claffey was the deeply religious sort that did the holy hour each Sunday and had a shrine to Holy God draped on the dashboard and rear view mirror, all rosary beads and Catholic saints’ bobbleheads nodding in silent assent. She wore big, round glasses that made her eyes look like they were about to break a massive secret that only you were lucky enough to be told.

Da leaned in, his voice tickling my ear, and held my thumb in his damp hand. “Thank ye, little thumb,” he whispered into my thumb, “you’ve saved the day.” I felt my cheeks glow though my socks were soggy.

As the car bumped along and Seamus snored, I watched the raindrops race each other along the window. Mrs Claffey smiled at me in the mirror, keeping the rest of her eye for the lurching potholed Mullingar road. The car was her church altar, her shrine to Baby Jesus and as the opening notes of her favourite hymn floated from the radio, she began singing along, her voice slightly off tune but a sincere instrument of her faith. It was clear that Mrs Claffey felt each word deeply, her voice rising and falling with the pretty melody.

Between verses she’d have a little chat with us. “Isn’t it just a blessing how the auld daisies are blooming early this year? Hallelujah!”

“Oh it is, grand to see the flowers blooming,” says Da as sincerely as if he meant it.

The conversation stopped there, taken over by a rant about a grocery list, a reminder to call her sister, and then the heights of a particularly rousing Amen, all delivered in one breathless blur. I wondered if she had any sweets in the car.

We were nearly at the greyhound racetrack. Mrs Claffey’s finger reached out to the radio, the volume of the holy hymns descending into a quiet lull. She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh Jim, where will I drop you and the young one?” Her voice carried the unmistakable timbre of a slightly intrusive concern. Da shuffled in his seat, his hands clasping in a silent show of appreciation. “Thanks a million, Mrs Claffey, anywhere that suits you,” he said. “We’re very grateful.”

“Thanks a million,” I echoed. It was an awkward chorus, our gratitude stuck on repeat.

“Ah Jim, I don’t mind. I would pull up anywhere,” Mrs Claffey assured us, her voice cutting through the silence left by the now muted hymns. Her eyes held ours in the rearview mirror for one second longer than was needed.

We exchanged a quick glance, Da and I, sharing the silent agreement to keep our destination, St Vincent de Paul, our secret. “Mount Street would be grand,” Da let out, finally settling on a place. Mount Street was grand, but it was four streets’ walk from where we were heading.

“Are ya sure?” Mrs Claffey turned her body to face us entirely, the concern in her eyes scanning our faces for any trace of hesitation.

“That would be perfect,” Da assured her with a firm nod.

I shifted in my seat, grimacing at the sensation of pointed metal against my flesh. The tin opener had wedged itself firmly in the back pocket of my jeans. With each bump and turn along the road, the jagged implement embedded itself deeper into my backside. I had shoved it into my back pocket for later and hadn’t even noticed its presence as we’d made our way down auld Mullingar road. My bum ached but the warmth in Mrs Claffey’s car and the deliverance it offered prevailed.

“Thanks a million again, thanks,” says Da and I in harmony, as we stood on the side of the street.

Mrs Claffey pulled away, beeping her horn as if she was attending a wedding. We waved back at her until she turned the corner.

The rain had eased but the air was damp, we were damp. I hated anything damp. Da and I, squelching feet after feet, proceeded down Mount Street. The town was barely awake, its main thoroughfare a grey, sleepy river of tired faces, but the shop windows were cosy frames of light and colour. We could see in the distance the blue Georgian building of St Vincent de Paul’s to which we had made many visits. We approached by the side door, not the front entrance, to avoid detection. With the Mrs Claffeys of this world, one could never be too careful.

The ache in my tummy intensified as the prospect of being fed grew closer. I could taste the first bite even before I made it to the door. I checked my back pocket; the tin opener was still there.

Da pressed the bell, its ding-a-ling jingle announcing the enormous feast on the other side. Once inside, it was like being in granny’s house, all lavender and the scent of clean. I could see a shadow coming to the door. “Aha, what’s this we have here?” said Kathleen McDowell, looking at me, her face crumpled like my copy books for homework. She wore a cardigan that held every colour of the rainbow and carried the look of kindly attentiveness that always greeted us when we came to St Vincent’s, a look that I had glimpsed in the Cortina. I hated that look, but the way my tummy was feeling, every look or gesture annoyed me.

“You’re like two wet cats, get into the hallway here and heat yerselves up.”

We stood in the orange-tiled hallway and Da gave her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hi Kathleen. We wondered, you wouldn’t happen to have a bit of food to tide us over?”

“Of course Jim,” Kathleen nodded, bustling around the counter. “We’ve got some bread, cheese, and a few bits and ends and lots of the usual corned beef, will that do?”

“That’s more than enough. We’re off back to Rochfortbridge, you see, without our car,” said Da and he gestured me to place our bags on the counter.

Despite our hunger we were steeped in manners. I grinned, showing all my teeth, maybe even the ones at the back.

“Thanks so much Kathleen,” Da said, his eyes on Kathleen’s precise loading of the Libby’s tinned corned beef into my school bag. Kathleen clicked her tongue, “Rochfortbridge, is it?”, as she assessed the tins to squeeze more of them in. The job was taking ages and the rumbling in my belly would have been audible only for Kathleen’s rustling. Would she ever stop? All I kept thinking was I could make a cheese sandwich right in front of her, two grabs of bread and a chunk of cheese would do it.

“We’re like mules!” I laughed to Da.

Kathleen asked if we wanted to stay for a cup of tea but Da said we had to get back to the others at home so she walked us to the door.

“Good luck, good luck Kathleen thanks a million. Hopefully won’t be seeing us too soon,” shouts Da pulling down the damp woolly hat on my head so it covered my eyes.

“Thanks Mrs McDowell,” I said, in a giggly muffled voice from under the hat.

The brown door closed behind us. “C’mon, let’s get outta here”.

We played dodge with the puddles. They had turned the colour of a cup of Lloyd’s tea, creamy and strong. Each step made a squelching noise, but this time the discomfort couldn’t dampen my spirits. After all, I had the tin opener in my pocket and a bag full of corned beef. Even before I left Mrs McDowell’s thoughtful gaze, I was plotting how I could open a tin on my way home without annoying Da. I had my school bag of corned treasure.

“Are we going up Tinkers Hill Da?” I was hoping he’d say we would loop around it – it was more like of a mountain than a hill. “Yeah it’ll be a short cut, you’ll be grand.” “Ah Da!” I said with a moan. The hill always seemed to go on forever, and I didn’t want to be stopping halfway up on a slant opening my corned beef.

My breath hitched in bursts as I scrambled up the hill, three strides to Da’s lanky one. The foretaste of that corned beef kept my speed up, despite the creeping soreness in my legs.

Da leant forward as he walked, no messing or lingering. He was intent on finishing our mission. He stretched further ahead of me and the tin opener was in my right hand as I reached back with my left under the flap of the school satchel for the first tinned offering. After a rapid darting manoeuvre, a tin of corned beef now nestled in my cupped palm. My eyes flicked to Da’s receding figure as I waged war on the tin. It took three efforts for the cutting wheel to catch on the edge before I remembered the tin had its own key.

The damp made the operation nearly impossible as I removed the key from its hold and turned it around. With the first twist, the curled tin revealed its pink fleshy sacrament. I twisted and twisted till the entire bottom of the can had opened. My life, it seemed, who knows, maybe my salvation, hung on the salted pink beef. Greed got the better of me, and I nipped one of my fingers on a serrated edge as I wrested the meat into my hands. I grabbed a chunk and lodged the remains of the rectangle in my pocket, replacing the empty tin and the opener back in the satchel.

“What you at?” Da played the seer unseeing, the sparkle in his eye belying his ignorance. It was our silent treaty.

“Grand, Da,” I said, the words half-muffled as a chunk of corned beef lodged stubborn in my throat. I battled it down as he approached.

“Da, want a slice?” My right hand, a mix of raw blue and blistering red, held a hunk of hearty beef. He snatched it with a chuckle. “Jesus, you’ve no patience,” he laughed.

And so we climbed the hill, rain drizzling on my sodden hat, a scarce shield against the dreary sky. Our path was etched with straining and chewing.

“Shall we have a go at another tin?” Da said, as we reached our thumbing spot, a scheming gleam in his eye. “We will, Da, we will,” I said. And right there, as we gained Tinkers Hill, in the cold and unforgiving morning of our mission, our laughter rang out, filled with the magic of small joys and stolen bites.