Throwback Thursday: Emigrant’s ordeal as he left Cork for London

Last October, we ran a wonderful account by Joseph Terry of the night in 1960 he left Cork on the Innisfallen, another emigrant bound for London. Here is a reminder of how that piece finished:

“Going down the gangplank, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around. ‘Your first time crossing the pond, guv?,’ a stranger asked, glancing from my face to my cardboard suitcase. ‘Cor blimey, you’re the colour of death! Bovril is your only man. Follow me to the caff’.

“In silence, I trailed him, my head pounding, my suitcase seeming much heavier than when I boarded… The piping Bovril scalded my throat, but I already felt it settling my stomach. I boarded the train... destination Paddington... the Big Smoke... eight hours away…”

You, like us, must have been wondering what happened next in that gripping story. What awaited one young Cork emigrant in the maelstrom of London?

Well, last weekend we attended a very happy event, the launch of Joseph Terry’s Ráiméising, an account of the ten adventurous years which followed that first trip on the Innisfallen,

The MC for the event was The Echo’s John Dolan, and copies were selling like hot cakes at the launch at Inniscarra GAA Club..

Joseph, originally from Cloyne who now lives in Tower, writes with a powerful simplicity that gets his feelings across with immediacy. So read on, and see with your own eyes what it was like to be a young country lad in a big city for the very first time:

“A distant cousin - our meeting arranged through careful letter-writing before I left home - was supposed to meet me at Paddington and take me to the Irish Centre hostel in Camden. That small certainty had sustained me all the way from Coolbay Cross.

“Passengers drifted away in ones and twos. Some were swept into the arms of smiling relatives; others disappeared quickly into the vast, soot-darkened station.

“Gradually, the well-wishers thinned, the platform emptied, and still there was no sign of him.

“I went into one of the bright red telephone boxes lining the station concourse, entering it almost as though I were entering a confession box.

“My hands fumbled with the coins as I dialled his workplace number and waited while the receptionist put me through.

“When my cousin finally answered, he sounded apologetic but hurried - the voice of a man already absorbed into the relentless pace of London life. He was sorry, he explained, but he could not get away from work after all. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, as though worry could be dismissed like a bad dream.

“He carefully dictated directions, explaining that I could either take the Underground or go by bus. He had already spoken to Father McNamara at the Irish Centre, he assured me, and the priest was expecting me. ‘Buying an A to Z won’t do you any harm either,’ he added. ‘You’ll get one in the W. H. Smith bookstall on the concourse.’ Then he wished me luck, and the line went dead.

“An A to Z? W. H. Smith? The concourse? The words meant nothing to me.

“With the receiver still in my hand, I hesitated, feeling a hollow emptiness. The feeling was not hunger - but something deeper and colder. Panic began to rise. I felt as abandoned as Robinson Crusoe cast ashore on his desert island, only mine was built of red brick, deafening noise and millions of strangers. I knew buses; we all knew buses. But the Underground? Even the name unsettled me.

“Back home, trains travelled across the countryside, not beneath it.”

Joseph continues his tale: “I went out of the telephone box carrying with me the first hard lesson of emigration: plans made by letter could dissolve in an instant. With my heart pounding, I followed the flow of passengers beneath the immense iron roof of Paddington Station. Steam drifted through the air. Porters pushed rattling trolleys piled with luggage while loudspeakers blared announcements I could scarcely understand.

“Men hurried past with newspapers tucked beneath their arms. Women carried shopping bags while sleepy children clung to their hands. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going.

“Near the centre of the concourse I spotted the W. H. Smith bookstall. Its shelves were crowded with newspapers, cigarettes, magazines, railway timetables, postcards and rows of folded maps.

“Feeling uncertain and out of place, I bought a London A to Z exactly as my cousin had suggested. Standing to one side, I opened it cautiously. Thousands upon thousands of streets were listed in tiny print beside mysterious page numbers and grid references.

“Every page revealed another maze of roads, crescents, terraces, squares and avenues spreading across the city. London looked less like a city than an enormous jigsaw puzzle.

“But I needed only one place. Camden Square. Somewhere within that vast city of smoke, noise and strangers was one small place where Irish voices might still be heard, and where a bewildered emigrant from Cork might not feel entirely alone.

“I descended the ramp into the mouth of Paddington Underground station and joined the queue at the ticket office. ‘Change at Oxford Circus,’ the booking clerk said gruffly, sliding the ticket through the hatch before already looking beyond me to the next customer.

“I slipped the ticket into the inside pocket of my overcoat, and as I made my way deeper into the bowels of the city, I followed the signs for the Bakerloo Line.

“The tunnels possessed their own strange climate. Long before I heard a train approaching, I felt warm, gritty gusts of air pushing through the passageways, carrying the smells of scorched metal, dust and electricity.

“The deeper I went, the narrower my world became, reduced to painted arrows, tiled walls and overhead signs.

“I instinctively knew that one wrong turn could send me to some far-flung corner of London.”

Joseph recalls: “When the southbound Bakerloo Line train screeched to a halt, the announcement, ‘Mind the gap,’ rang in my ears for the first time in my life.

“Back home at Coolbay, a gap was an opening in a hedgerow leading from one field to another. Here, it meant the space between a railway platform and the floor of an Underground train.

“Inside the carriage, passengers sat hidden behind newspapers, wrapped in a defensive silence, as though conversation itself were something to be avoided.

“The carriage was thick with tobacco smoke, a grey haze drifting beneath the ceiling lights. There were no empty seats. Gripping my suitcase, I held on to one of the leather straps suspended from the ceiling.

“Further along the carriage, the strap-hangers swayed in a strange, synchronised rhythm as the train rattled through the tunnels.

“Opposite me, an elderly man leaned against a grab pole, flicking cigarette ash into a small metal ashtray built into the top of the seat next to him.

“At every stop, I watched the station names anxiously through the window. In real time, I was learning that London moved quickly and had little patience with newcomers trying to find their bearings.”

Joseph continues: “At Oxford Circus, I followed the signs for the Northern Line. The connecting tunnels seemed endless. The blast of air from an approaching train was so powerful that it felt as though the Underground itself was trying to blow me back towards home.

“For one absurd moment, I imagined retreating to one of the red telephone boxes above ground and dialling 999 for rescue. Instead, I leaned into the wind and carried on.

“Emerging from Camden Town station, I unfold my map once again. I felt exposed and conspicuous.

“Eventually, I stopped a passer-by to ask for directions. He looked me over carefully - the worn cardboard suitcase and my East Cork accent. I could almost hear the thought forming in his mind: another Paddy arriving from the bog with nothing but questions.

“He pointed down the street, muttered a few hurried directions and walked away as though afraid I might delay him further.

“When I reached Murray Street, there was the Irish Centre facing onto Camden Square. The walk from the station had taken less than 15 minutes, but it had carried the full weight of the loneliness I had felt since leaving home.

“At the top of the stone steps, I pushed open the heavy front door. For the first time since leaving Coolbay Cross, I felt that I had arrived somewhere. The cardboard suitcase no longer seemed quite so heavy.

“The foyer felt unnaturally still after the roar and chaos of the Underground. I had naturally expected to be met by a voice from home - a welcoming Cork, Kerry or Galway dialect.

“After the long, bewildering journey from Coolbay Cross, I had pictured the Irish Centre as a piece of home planted firmly on English soil.

“A small, wiry man sat behind the reception desk, absorbed in a stack of papers. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for Father McNamara. He’s expecting me’.

“The man did not look up immediately. At length, he raised his head and squinted in my direction. ‘Father Mac? ’E’s done a bunk, ain’t ’e? Off on some retreat or other this afternoon - gone AWOL. God knows when ’e’ll be back, but it won’t be today, knowin’ ’is form, mate.’

“Before I could answer, he leaned forward. ‘Look, sunshine, if you’re after a doss, you’re out of luck. We’re chock-a-block. Full up.’

“‘I… I don’t understand.’

“He sighed and tapped his biro impatiently on the desk. ‘No room at the inn, Paddy. You’re on your own. Savvy?’

“The words hit me harder than the Underground wind. Father McNamara was nowhere to be found, the promised bed had vanished, and the only man who might help seemed to be speaking a language I barely understood.

“I’ve come all the way from Cork by boat and train,” I said. ‘A friend of Father McNamara arranged for me to stay here.”

“‘What I’m sayin’ is, the padre ain’t ’ere. And the doss - the beds - they’re all taken. Every single one. ’Ave a butcher’s at the noticeboard. You might find a room advertised there for the night.’

“Deflated, I reached for my suitcase. At that very moment, the telephone rang. The man answered it, launching into another torrent of rhyming slang that I understood even less than before.

“I was preparing to thank him for trying to help when he suddenly raised a hand, as though stopping traffic.

“He replaced the receiver slowly and looked at me. ‘You’re dead lucky, mate. Another one of the padre’s so-called close friends won’t be turnin’ up. You can ’ave ’is bunk. Take a pew. I’ll book you in.’

“He began filling in the register. When he reached the column marked ‘Religion’, he glanced up with a wry smile. ‘RC - as I thought.’ His eyes settled on the Pioneer pin fixed to my lapel. ‘That - and the bleedin’ Sacred Heart badge - is a dead giveaway.

“First floor. Room Four, and no loiterin’ in the dormitories during the day. Read the rules on the back of the door, or you’ll be out on your ear before you can say a Hail Mary.

“I had not found the Irish welcome I had imagined, nor the familiar accent I had subconsciously counted on to anchor me.

“Instead, my encounter at the Irish Centre had been a sharp, rapid-fire introduction to the local dialect.

“Yet, disregarding the gruff exterior and the strange Cockney slang, I had found a place to begin.”

Don’t those vivid memories strike with force? Let us hear yours!

Email jokerrigan1@gmail.com or post on our Facebook page: www.facebook.com/echolivecork.

Ráiméising, by Joseph Paul Terry, is available from Dan Donovan’s Store, Berrings, Circle K Express / O’Leary’s Filling Station, Tower, Kennys Bookshop, Galway and Midleton Books.