In the early spring of 1953, Cornelius Dunne — or "Neely" as he was known to his friends — had just reached his twentieth birthday. Like many other young men of twenty, he was weighing up his options. Would he stick it out at home or take the boat to England? It was a difficult decision. There was no farm to hold him back but he was the only son of a widowed mother who had no one else in the world to look after her. Not that Neely was much use in that department; his upbringing was a bit on the pampered side, but only to the extent that pampering was possible in those lean times.
Having procrastinated for a number of weeks, his idleness of body and soul did not go unnoticed by the local parish priest. Neely finally bit the bullet when an enthusiastic missionary was dispatched to his tighín to recruit him for the priesthood. He bade farewell on a wet Saturday morning armed with a freshly baked brown cake, flask of tae and all the savings his poor mother could muster to get him to his destination. She made him promise to write home every week.
The sight of the postman was always a great source of sustenance and pride to the heartbroken mothers left behind and Neely’s mother was no exception. The crisp English pound note that accompanied each letter was the icing on the cake. It served not only to boost a waning household budget but it symbolised the upward mobility of a hard working son who never failed to think of the woman who had brought him into this world. As the graft, monotony and loneliness of emigrant life took its toll, the ould devil drink would inevitably take up the slack and the weekly stipends might decrease or even disappear altogether. For some, the shame would cramp their writing style completely.
And so it was with Neely. At first the letters came weekly, then fortnightly and then monthly until finally they came to a shuddering halt. The local postman could hardly bring himself to cycle past the little tighín anymore. Even when it was obvious to all around her, Neely’s mother never gave up hope. That same look of anticipation, his all too predictable “Nothing today, Mrs. Dunne” and the suppressed tears as he cycled on up the road. Like many a postman before him, he had briefly considered forging a letter but such actions tended to have longer term repercussions.
One day, word came that young Johnny Sullivan was also taking the boat and was fairly certain to be heading for Kilburn in the heart of London, bringing him close to Neely’s last known address in Westminster City. Mrs. Dunne cycled over to the Sullivans to explain her predicament, not that her predicament needed explaining as the word "confidentiality" had not yet entered the lexicon of the Irish Postman. Johnny, who had played alongside Neely on the local GAA team, promised to make every effort to track his old friend down.
Of course Johnny was every bit as green as Neely and took to London like a rabbit to headlights. Having made it to Piccadilly Circus without incident, he jumped at the chance to explore the great metropolis before completing the last leg of his journey. The exhilaration of the big city and the majesty of the Thames at high tide inevitably took its toll on his bladder. So, at the first opportunity, he relieved himself at an ornate urinal in the outer reaches of a lavish public facility. With his anxieties abated and the hazy overhang giving way to warm sunlight, he had the presence of mind to remember his solemn promise to Mrs. Dunne. Noticing a police constable on duty at the street corner, Johnny approached him with all the humility a newly-exiled Irishman could muster. A stuttered enquiry about the whereabouts of Westminster City invited a response that was crisp, polite and most encouraging.
“You are actually quite close, sir. Just follow the WC signs. You cannot miss them”.
Johnny was about to melt into the milling crowd when he did a sudden about-turn and squinted down the street at the great building he had just exited. The two letters were small but indisputable. He smiled at his good fortune, gathered up his belongings and retraced his steps.
Walking past the teeming urinals which had recently made his acquaintance in more expeditious circumstances, Johnny ventured into the bowels of this busy intersection of city life. Far removed from the halcyon out-houses of his innocent youth, he would have felt like a fish out of water were it not for the incessant gurgling and flushing echoing round the exquisitely tiled interior. Finally he came face-to-face with a conglomeration of hardwood doors which held out the promise of a more tranquil and accommodating sub-culture. The comings and goings at this end of the social spectrum were markedly subdued which prompted Johnny to remove his peaky cap and stand back at a respectable distance. Long processions of chastened citizens came and went but nobody ever emerged from the door on the far right. Sheltered by a steely maintenance closet, this remote outpost was a natural draw for outsiders with more bashful dispositions — and, in that respect, Johnny and Neely were two peas from the same biodegradable pod. When time and motion finally caught up with Johnny's lifelong ambition not to draw attention to himself, he approached the suspect tenancy, tapped on the door and whispered:
“Are you Neely Dunne?”
“I am”, came the embarrassed reply, “but I’m out of paper”, to which Johnny retorted:
“Yerrah, boy, that’s no excuse for not writing to your poor mother!”.
Having procrastinated for a number of weeks, his idleness of body and soul did not go unnoticed by the local parish priest. Neely finally bit the bullet when an enthusiastic missionary was dispatched to his tighín to recruit him for the priesthood. He bade farewell on a wet Saturday morning armed with a freshly baked brown cake, flask of tae and all the savings his poor mother could muster to get him to his destination. She made him promise to write home every week.
The sight of the postman was always a great source of sustenance and pride to the heartbroken mothers left behind and Neely’s mother was no exception. The crisp English pound note that accompanied each letter was the icing on the cake. It served not only to boost a waning household budget but it symbolised the upward mobility of a hard working son who never failed to think of the woman who had brought him into this world. As the graft, monotony and loneliness of emigrant life took its toll, the ould devil drink would inevitably take up the slack and the weekly stipends might decrease or even disappear altogether. For some, the shame would cramp their writing style completely.
And so it was with Neely. At first the letters came weekly, then fortnightly and then monthly until finally they came to a shuddering halt. The local postman could hardly bring himself to cycle past the little tighín anymore. Even when it was obvious to all around her, Neely’s mother never gave up hope. That same look of anticipation, his all too predictable “Nothing today, Mrs. Dunne” and the suppressed tears as he cycled on up the road. Like many a postman before him, he had briefly considered forging a letter but such actions tended to have longer term repercussions.
One day, word came that young Johnny Sullivan was also taking the boat and was fairly certain to be heading for Kilburn in the heart of London, bringing him close to Neely’s last known address in Westminster City. Mrs. Dunne cycled over to the Sullivans to explain her predicament, not that her predicament needed explaining as the word "confidentiality" had not yet entered the lexicon of the Irish Postman. Johnny, who had played alongside Neely on the local GAA team, promised to make every effort to track his old friend down.
“You are actually quite close, sir. Just follow the WC signs. You cannot miss them”.
Johnny was about to melt into the milling crowd when he did a sudden about-turn and squinted down the street at the great building he had just exited. The two letters were small but indisputable. He smiled at his good fortune, gathered up his belongings and retraced his steps.
Walking past the teeming urinals which had recently made his acquaintance in more expeditious circumstances, Johnny ventured into the bowels of this busy intersection of city life. Far removed from the halcyon out-houses of his innocent youth, he would have felt like a fish out of water were it not for the incessant gurgling and flushing echoing round the exquisitely tiled interior. Finally he came face-to-face with a conglomeration of hardwood doors which held out the promise of a more tranquil and accommodating sub-culture. The comings and goings at this end of the social spectrum were markedly subdued which prompted Johnny to remove his peaky cap and stand back at a respectable distance. Long processions of chastened citizens came and went but nobody ever emerged from the door on the far right. Sheltered by a steely maintenance closet, this remote outpost was a natural draw for outsiders with more bashful dispositions — and, in that respect, Johnny and Neely were two peas from the same biodegradable pod. When time and motion finally caught up with Johnny's lifelong ambition not to draw attention to himself, he approached the suspect tenancy, tapped on the door and whispered:
“Are you Neely Dunne?”
“I am”, came the embarrassed reply, “but I’m out of paper”, to which Johnny retorted:
“Yerrah, boy, that’s no excuse for not writing to your poor mother!”.