The Border of Two Worlds

At five in the morning, the house was bitter cold. Shivering, I'd turn on the gas bar heater in the kitchen to full (all three rings, a scandalous luxury) and eat a quick breakfast, throw the beetroot and cheddar sandwiches my mother had made the night before in my canvas schoolbag, the one that advertised the bands I thought were cool or would make me look cool, drag the bike out of the back shed and head off at pace up the road of the estate.

Some days it was still dark. Others the sun had just risen and the sky was autumn clear. Either way the milkman had already done his round. Some days the neighbours didn't get their milk. We lived on the north edge of Dublin City. It was as if our house lay on the border between town and country, new and old. Ten minutes on the bike one way and we were in Coolock or Ballymun—dangerous suburbs of concrete and high-rise towers, symbols of modern urban poverty. Ten minutes the other way brought us to a lush world of green fields, cabbage, lettuce, broccoli, cauliflower, wheat, and potatoes. But mostly potatoes.

I was 14 and it was the eighties. It was hard to find work and nobody around my way had much money. The pocket money you were given was never enough for all the things you wanted, like new football gear, new clothes, new music, and new computer games. I was too young to work in a bar. I had to take whatever was on offer.

I did a string of jobs. I sold lines door-to-door for the Irish Epilepsy Association. "Hello, I'm from the Irish Epilepsy Association, and I was wondering if you'd like to buy a line," I'd say, trying to sound professional. I was not professional. More often than not, they thought I had epilepsy, felt sorry for me, and bought a line. I was only ever in it for the commission—and the laugh. You met some characters going door-to-door, and had some funny moments. In one, a fellow Irish Epilepsy Association associate was bursting to go, couldn't hold it any longer, and started to find release against the wall of the house we were visiting. I'd rung the bell and nobody had answered. It seemed all clear. And then suddenly the door opened. All parties to the transaction were shocked. We did a legger, laughing hysterically—kids again, no longer sales representatives of a major non-profit organization. The Irish Epilepsy Association didn't know the calibre of their associates.

In what could have been the start of a budding career in health care, I graduated from epilepsy and moved on to work in polio. Again I made a packet. I was a killer salesman, and remain so to this day. I'm not so proud of this ability. To be a good salesman, you need to be a good liar. And I am scarily good. Pathologically so. Between you and me, I had no morals whatsoever if there was something in it for me. In those days it was side-splitting how far I'd go to sell a polio lottery ticket, and just what shite I'd come out with next. In essence, I'm a talented, ruthless conman. I learnt that then. But it just wasn't for me. Even then, the sales jobs of the urban world felt like whoring.

And so, we went north. We left the estate and took the back road past the Grove, over the motorway, up by Jolly's Hill and around into the Baskin, or we went up to the Coachmans or on towards Swords. We were on our way to whatever potato field was being picked that morning. The potato pickers were a motley crew of local men supplementing their dole income and kids on their school holidays or weekends. Some days the dole inspectors would show up and a whole field of potato pickers would scarper like startled birds.

Payment was 25 pence a bag—if they'd let you pick. Some days they'd decline the offer of your services: "Fuck off, you little bastard and don't let me see you round here again." Other days you'd be welcome. It was purely random. So even being allowed to pick was a victory.

Once there, if you picked a ton of spuds, 40 bags, it was a tenner. The good pickers with good backs, like Fago, could pick up to four tons. For a kid like me, forty quid for a morning's work was out of reach. The mark of success was to pick a ton. And I was lucky: I had an elastic back.

But picking the bags was no guarantee of getting paid for them. First we had to get them by our nemeses, the checkers. The checkers examined your bags to see if you were picking the right size of potatoes, the right kind of potatoes, and if you'd filled the bag to the right level. No green ones, no seeds, no rotten ones and no muck. Not too little and certainly not too much. If they didn't like your work, they'd empty the bag out there and then and you'd have to pick it again. Picking spuds is a numbers game, so there's nothing more demoralizing than having your bags emptied. You knew you had the all clear when you heard the distinctive squeaking sound of the bags being tied. I still remember some of the ones who did that job. One was Cowboy, who wore a cowboy hat, and affected that he was American. In reality, he was from Swords. He was a mildish man, and more than mildly alcoholic. He wasn't ruthless enough in his checking for the farmer's liking, and seemed only to be counting down the hours before returning to the pub. But he pretended to be strict whenever the farmer was around.

Then there was the one that looked like he had tropical fish swimming around in his bloated lips. He was as nasty as he was retarded, as was his son. People used to give him a really hard time. It didn't help that he couldn't speak properly and foamed at the mouth when he gave his orders. Or that he was a first-grade prick. Looking back, I suppose his hiring was the attempt of the farmer—a cruel, ignorant man—to serve his community. He wasn't a foreman based on his ability, that's for sure. He once threw my jacket in a tree, and I can't, for the life of me, remember why. But I, or one of us, must have laughed at him about something.

Loading the spuds at the end of the day was a pain—and another test of a young boy's manhood. If you couldn't load your bags onto the trailer, you wouldn't be paid for picking them. Even more worryingly, if you couldn't lift a four-stone bag of spuds, the other kids would say you were a wuss. In this macho culture, I was more conman than strongman.

Each evening, we'd come home starving and exhausted, to mothers who would fuss over us, their hard-working young lads. The tiredness and the hunger was something noble, the full chip-pan of chips a reward that went down well.

And then, on Friday afternoon, the farmer would return from the bank and we'd be paid. In cash. It was all perfectly below board. All the pickers would gather around the farmer as he stood atop a trailer doling out the money, full of jokes and fake camaraderie. It was the happiest moment of the week. Then, as the men adjourned to Kealy's pub, the young hunter-gatherers would return home, a bag of spuds on each of our crossbars, proud of the work done.

On Saturday morning, we'd get up early and take the 41 bus into town, farm labourers turned city shoppers. In my father's time, it was still pretty much all rural, but I grew up on the border of two worlds.

Posted by Setsunai at November 30, 2005 11:47 AM