God Only Knows
“I may not always love you
But long as there are stars above you
You never need to doubt it
I’ll make you so sure about it
God only knows what I’d be without you”
Brian Wilson / Tony Asher
Everything hangs by a thread. Once you start to appreciate that everything looks and feels very different.
Last weekend brought it all into focus once more. On Saturday we drove down to Meath to attend the first blessing of the graves in Crossmacole cemetery where my friend, my Soulmate’s brother , Speedy, is resting. For my non-lapsed Catholic , Non-Irish, and Yankee readers, the ‘Blessing of The Graves takes place annually in every parish in Ireland. People tidy up their family graves and gather on a particular day, which varies from parish to parish, around the graveside of their ancestors to pay respects while the local priests say a few prayers, read out a passage from the Gospels, and wander through the graveyard blessing the graves with holy water. People put a lot of effort in the days beforehand tidying up their family plot out of respect and a slightly benign ‘Keeping up with the Joneses’. It can be an opportunity for family members from far away to travel home. And the most wonderful aspect of it is when people tend the grave of a neighbour or friend because they know there is no longer a living relative close by. And more wonderful still are the people who tend an old grave near theirs without ever knowing the family who rest there, but who noticed that nobody came to it one year. And even more wonderful than that are the people who, at the Blessing of The Graves themselves, don’t stand at their own family graveside, but , knowing that there are plenty of family at theirs, go and stand at a grave that is alone.
Stephen passed away last December, suddenly, and far, far too soon. He meant so much more than he ever realised to us all. ( You can read more about him here ). This first blessing of the graves was a tough day for Stephen’s wife , Maria, and their boys, and for Eileen’s family. We gathered at the graveside , some joining in the prayers loudly, some mumbling half remembered cadences, and I just looked silently at the flowers. There were several flower arrangements, with lots of different flowers, ( obviously) and they were all nice…nice and flowerly in the understated way that graveside flowers generally are, but there were a couple of sunflowers in a couple of the arrangements that looked gently rebellious in the midst of the more refined others.
They’re a bit too big for their boots, quietly confident, very much , to my mind, with a punk attitude of ‘Yeah I’m gorgeous and too big, what are you going to do about it ?’. That might just be me. Sunflowers are symbols of joy, optimism and loyalty. If Stephen had been a flower, and he had his moments, he’d have been a sunflower.
When the prayers were over, I touched the top of the wee wooden cross at the head of Stephen’s grave and walked away, a tear in my eye and Joy Divison’s ‘Love Will Tear Is Apart’ playing in my heart. Stephen had proudly played me that 12” single one day when I called to their house to collect Eileen in 1984. I always think of him when I hear it…which is a lot , because our own daughter Robyn thought she’d ‘discovered’ it six years ago and has played it non stop since.
We went back to Maria’s house afterwards for sandwiches and a Malteaser infused cheese cake which a neighbour had made , knowing Maria would have visitors. I ate two slices, out of politeness. We sat around the kitchen together passing around old photos and swapping old family stories.
The following day, Sunday, we went over to Smithborough to take part in a 6k run/walk fundraiser organised by Alan McElroy for the Beaumont Neurology Unit. Alan had a brain bleed on the very same day in Monaghan as Stephen had. Alan’s two brothers are married to our great friend and bestest neighbour ever, Kieran’s two sisters, or rather , two of Kieran’s sisters. It was very much a family affair…the run, not all of the marriages. When we arrived at the hall where everyone was gathering Eileen spotted Alan outside and he just about managed to say ‘Eileen..’ out loud before she gave him the biggest hug ever.
There was a large crowd and we seemed to know everyone. Some people were going to run the route, and some people were going to walk. My friend Ray and I were going to do it in a style that was hard to tell whether we were walking or running. Eileen decided to walk with our friends , and her brother, Gareth and Angie…and they finished at the same time as we did.
Back in the hall the McElroys and McMahons and their friends and neighbours had laid on a spread of homemade scones, tarts, cakes, pastries, buns, with homemade jams and fresh cream. We had one of each…to be polite.
It was a wonderful occasion to take part in and people donated with wild abandon. I’ll put a link to Alan’s donation page in the P.S…
Monday was my birthday.
I got lots of lovely messages from my family and friends, and some lovely handmade cards, featuring the cover of David Bowie’s ‘Ziggy Stardust’ album, and Harvey, the greatest movie ever made. Lots of people asked how I would be celebrating the day later on that evening, and thought I was joking when I said I was going to a Reformer Pilates session.
I wasn’t.
Being easily led, and falling woefully behind in my weight loss challenge with Ray, when he said he was going to go to a Pilates class, I said I would go too. Ray had no idea what a Pilates class was when he said this and based his whole desire to go on a conversation months ago when Eileen said that she goes regularly and that it helps with general fitness. Ray, then being Ray, having heard about something he knew nothing about, but deciding he’d do it, then did nothing about it. A month later he asked me if I’d sorted out a Pilates class for us yet. I then made the stupid decision to joke about this with Declan McElroy at Parkrun one Saturday and a week later he had signed Ray and I up to a Reformer Pilates class with Niall McDonald on my birthday.
It was a class of 4, all beginners. Declan had also roped in Brendan from our running club. Ray, not knowing what Pilates was, certainly didn’t know what Reformer Pilates was. It’s the same as Pilates, but with a medieval torture rack thrown in. Our class was at 8pm, so I arrived fashionably late at 8.05pm. The others were waiting, but in good spirits, as in no one minds being kept waiting for a firing squad. I signed the form absolving Niall of any responsibility whatsoever for what was about to happen and then we each stood by our medieval torture racks and Niall explained in kind and simple terms how to sit down on the machine and how to get off without hurting ourselves or damaging the machines. Ray fell off during this introduction. Niall then led us through warm ups and was a little taken aback by the internal bubble sounds, groans, and audible cracking sounds that emanated from us during this gentle stretching. Thankfully the music being played covered up a lot.
Over the years I have attended lots of physical training classes , but never in my whole life has one had a better background music. Niall’s featured The Velvet Underground, Pearl Jam, and Led Zeppelin. Recognising the tunes stopped me thinking about which bit of me was being used in a manner it was not accustomed to.
Pilates and Reformer Pilates are odd in that during them , you don’t really feel like you’re doing anything, but cumulatively you do feel tired at the end. It was a pleasant experience. Niall was very kind and patient with us and Ray fell both getting on the machine, and getting off which took the pressure off Declan , Brendan and I.
It’s good to try new things…and laugh at others doing the same.
On Tuesdays I write a worky blog for Monaghan’s 4th largest workwear store. It’s shorter than this one, and slightly more coherent, with some mention of a product crowbarred in. I enjoy writing them and especially enjoy when someone replies. Mostly they reply because there is a quiz with a prize, but their answers sometimes include a local story that they know I’ll like, or they simply write back to say that it’s nothing like any other work/promotional email they get and just say thanks or well done. It’s such a simple thing and yet makes me feel 10 feet tall. This week’s worky blog was supposed to be about gloves but ended up being about a friend who went skiing for the first time, over-indulged in the apres-ski, missed breakfast and his friends the next morning, and in full ski gear, and carrying his rental skis, took the wrong bus, fell asleep, and ended up at the airport, where he had to wait with the holiday makers in shorts, to get the bus back.
I was sitting at my desk on Wednesday morning when someone who’d read this blog last week, said “I thought you were giving a talk to pensioners in Emyvale this morning ?” to which I replied “No, that’s next Wed…oh bugger !” I ran to the car and headed off to Emyvale, ringing Peader McMahon to apologise and say that I was on my way. I abandoned my car outside Hollands and ran across the road to the community hall, met Peader, apologized again, was rushed in to meet the group, and as I was being introduced realised that I hadn’t thought about what I was going to say.
I’d been asked to talk about our business for 10 or 15 minutes.
I started by apologising for being late and spotting Mrs.McKenna at the first table, followed up by saying that because she was there I couldn’t tell any lies. I work with her sons Joe and Martin, her son-in-law Vincent, and her grandson Ryan. I said that I was here by accident. When I left school, having survived Peader McMahon’s tutelage, I wanted to be a missionary priest. I left that after a year realising that I loved Eileen too much. I worked for the summer in Mullan Mills, then a shoe factory, because Butch, the warehouse manager had to have a cruciate operation. I was due to go to college in Galway that Autumn to study law. The managing director of the company left and Dad was asked to take over. He asked me to defer college for a year to help him out and I said yes. A sales rep for the company, Liam Stirrat, took me out on the road with him so that I could do holiday cover for him, and became my mentor. I eventually started my own wee company wholesaling footwear to shops. I ended up being the agent for Skechers by accident because the first 7 or 8 people offered it turned it down.
I was then able to start a new business with Dad, thinking he’d gently retire, and before I knew it we had a warehouse and my two brothers were working with us. None of it was planned. Our biggest supplier, Haix, has dealt with us for almost 27 years and we’ve never had a contract with them. During the downturn we should have gone out of business, we held on by a thread. Many of our competitors contacted Haix kindly offering to replace us , but Haix said no. The owner, Ewald, was a couple of years older than me, and we were very grateful for his support then. He passed away a few years later, suddenly, and my two brothers and I went to Germany for the funeral. I think we were the only customers to go. His step son and step daughter worked in the business and knew us well enough. A month after the funeral it turned out that he’d never changed his will , and had left the company to his son and daughter from his first marriage. The people we knew left. At a subsequent meeting the new owners spotted in the accounts that we owed them a lot of money and that there was not enough insurance cover in place and that this was not in order. The lady asked who these people were.
“The Bond family, from Ireland.”
“The brothers who attended the funeral ?”
“Yes.”
The page was turned and the meeting carried on.
I should never have been a businessman. By any measure I am not terribly good at it, but I always seem to have people like my brothers, or the Mckennas, or Haix to keep me right.
And that was it.
I got a round of applause from everyone and a few people came up to say that they had worked with Dad and to pass on their regards to him.
On Thursday morning , yesterday, at our Elevenses at work I asked Joe if his Mum had mentioned that I’d been down to give her group a talk.
“She did, aye. She said you were late.”
I went off then to meet one of my oldest friends, Milo, to get my eyes tested, in Dungannon. I met Milo for the first time on the very first day of secondary school in St.Macartan’s College, in 1979. We have been firm friends ever since. He gave me a check up and then we went for lunch. Milo being Milo already knew that I’d been to five a talk in Emyvale, and that I’d been late. He asked if I go into work regularly these days. I said of course and that I’d had a very busy morning.
“What were doing this morning ?”
“I was reading up about Brian Wilson and his connections to Monaghan.”
“Does he have connections to Monaghan ?”
“He will have when I get writing tomorrow’s blog.”
We chatted about friends, about our kids, about our Soulmates, about our plans, and it all boiled down to how lucky we were.
On the way back to Monaghan I listened to a podcast where Rob Brydon interviewed Stewart Lee. Towards the end Stewart was asked how he reacts when someone recognizes him on the street. He said he’d previously been quite dismissive, but that as his whole livelihood was based on live performances, when Covid came, it all disappeared. But people would come up to him later and say that comedy, and his sketches on YouTube helped them through the darker moments of the restrictions and that meant a lot to him. He realised how everything held together by a thread. Now he stops and talks to absolutely everyone that wants to say hello, as he now realises that it’s a privilege.
It was raining when I got home. I was due to run 5k. I didn’t want to and was hoping Eileen didn’t want to either. “Isn’t great that we’re able to ?” she said. So we did.
I am always a little sad when I read about Brian Wilson, founder and chief writer of the Beach Boys. He had such amazing tortured talent. His song ‘God Only Knows’ is Paul McCartney’s favourite song. At a fundraiser in 2004 McCartney got to play it with Brian Wilson and he said that he choked up twice while playing it during their soundcheck. McCartney also said that Carol Kay’s bass playing on the ‘Pet Sound’s album influenced his on ‘Sgt.Peppers’. McCartney wrote Sgt.Peppers based on a story his grandfather told him about a man from Monaghan, the actual Sgt. Benjamin ‘Pepper Magennis from Clontibret. True story. You can read it in the P.S.sss
I live a life of great privilege. I get to live in Monaghan, the True Centre of The Universe, and hang out with very, very cool people. I get to share my life with an incredible family, amazing friends, in a wonderful community.
I also get to write this and you , kindly read it, and sometimes you message back, or comment in person and I just want to say thank you for taking the time. It’s very much appreciated.
Life hangs by a thread…but you can swing wildly on it.
Toodles,
Paul
P.S. This is for you guys ‘God Only Knows’
P.P.S This is the link if you wish to donate to Alan’s fundraiser.
P.P.P.S This is the story of Sgt.Pepper
SGT.PEPPER
By the time Ownie Mohan was born in Clontibret, Co.Monaghan, Benny Magennis was already an old man. He’d followed the only path to employment open to many Irish men in the 19th century and joined the Royal Irish Fusiliers, a British Army regiment. He was a diligent soldier and attained the rank of Sergeant. He had once sported a bushy black beard that was flecked with little flashes of white and this earned him the nickname ‘Pepper’. It was snow white now.
He had seen service in South Africa and India and had retired from the army in 1869 before moving back home to live out his days on his family’s modest farm. As he got older his neighbours would send their children to do messages and errands for him. Sgt Pepper was a wonderful story teller and very often his neighbours would have to send other children to fetch back the first ones who, instead of helping him around the farm , were sitting at his feet listening in wonder to stories of elephants, Zulus and the Punjab. Every child in the parish of Clontibret knew the difference between an Indian and an African elephant before they’d even seen a picture of an elephant .
As little Ownie Mohan grew up he was always the first to volunteer to go and help Pepper, he loved the old soldier’s stories more than anything, and he quickly became the old soldiers favourite too. By the time Ownie was nine he’d heard all of Pepper’s stories , in fact he’d probably heard them all two or three times each. There was only one thing that Pepper wouldn’t discuss. On his mantelpiece was a yellowing photo of a young soldier, who Ownie assumed to be Sgt.Pepper Magennis ,in the uniform of the Royal Irish Fusiliers , and a very young Indian boy who appeared to Ownie to be the same age as he was himself. Ownie had never asked Pepper who was in the photo, older boys had warned him not to. They had asked and had been snapped at and sent home early for their trouble. The photo wasn’t very large, it wasn’t framed and was always in the same place, resting at a slight angle behind a plain wooden crucifix.
By the time Ownie was ten Pepper was 72 and his health was failing rapidly. He lit a fire most days and spent an increasing amount of time sitting in front of it , wistfully staring into the flames ,lost in thought. That’s how Ownie found him on what proved to be their last day together. When he entered the house he saw that Pepper was sitting in front of the fire holding the old photograph , tears slowly making their way down his cheek before disappearing into his beard. Ownie approached him slowly and not knowing what to say , placed his hand on the hold man’s shoulder. Pepper placed his own hand on top of Ownie’s and said “Thanks young fella” . He motioned Ownie to sit down beside him, put his arm around him and finally told the story of the soldier and the boy in the photograph.
Sgt.Pepper Magennis was stationed in Lucknow in India in 1855 on a brief secondment to the East India Company’s Bengal Army, helping to train their troops. Groups of young boys would follow the British soldiers around offering to do messages for them, clean their boots, carry their washing , anything for a few coins or a hard boiled sweet if they were very lucky. Rachit was one such boy and he seemed to adopt Pepper. He wouldn’t do chores for anyone else and followed Pepper everywhere until he was chased away, and even then he would sneak back. Pepper called him Ricky and doted on him. The other soldiers paid the boys in pennies, Pepper paid Ricky in Rupees. The money meant nothing to Pepper, he had no one at home to send it back to, his parents had passed away many years ago, he had no brothers or sisters , wasn’t married and had no plans to.
After a week had passed Rachit’s father , Mr.Kapur, arrived outside the barracks at first light asking to speak to Sgt.Pepper. The guards on duty ignored him for the first hour or two , but realising that he wasn’t going to leave , one of them went to fetch the sergeant. As soon as Pepper appeared at the front gate Rachit’s father threw himself at his feet ,begging forgiveness for his son. Pepper was a little taken aback, the man seemed distraught and genuinely afraid. Pepper bent down and patted the man on the shoulder and motioned to him to stand up. He took him into the barracks and sent one of the orderlies to fetch tea for them both. It took a few moments for him to calm his visitor down but eventually Pepper teased out that the amount of money that he had given to Rachit had led his family to believe that he had stolen it from the Sergeant as no one would pay a boy so much for errands. It was more than he himself earned in the market.
Once Pepper had assured him that he had indeed given the money to Rachit, Mr.Kapur insisted that it was far too much and it was also dangerous for a young boy to carry such an amount. The two men agreed that in future Pepper would pay Mr.Kapur directly and Mr.Kapur promised that he would use the money to pay for an education for Rachit. Pepper was only due to be in Lucknow for a month , so for the next three weeks Rachit and Pepper were inseparable. The other soldiers and guards started calling Rachit ‘Shadow’. Rachit showed Pepper all the sights and sounds of Lucknow and Pepper told him all about Ireland and Africa. They wandered far and wide blissfully unaware of the time of day. They got their photograph taken together and Pepper got two copies, one for him and one for Rachit.
After his month in Lucknow was up Pepper was stationed back in the Punjab , but he wrote to Mr.Kapur every week enquiring about Rachit’s progress at school and sending more money. Two months later he was thrilled to receive a letter written by Rachit himself , he was a fast learner. He went out and bought a silver fountain pen and had ‘My friend Rachit’ engraved on it before he posted it to Mr.Kapur. It quickly became the highlight of Pepper’s week to receive a letter from Rachit. They corresponded religiously throughout 1855 and through the early part of 1856. But in April he received a very troubling letter from Mr.Kapur saying that there was much unrest in Lucknow and the whole of Bengal. The East India Company had effectively removed the Shah and the new British governor was a tactless man who was busily offending everyone and imposing harsh taxes. If it wasn’t for the importance he attached to Rachit’s education he would leave Lucknow and move his family into the countryside until the atmosphere cooled.
Pepper had heard the rumours too, they were sweeping all of India but he assured Mr.Kapur that he felt they would be safer staying where they were. He also said that he was going into the field himself for a four week campaign and wouldn’t be able to write but included money for the next four weeks schooling. After his campaign ended he couldn’t wait to return to barracks to catch up on Rachit’s letters. There was only one. It was from Rachit, it only had a few lines and included the photograph they had taken together. In the letter Rachit thanked him for his friendship and asked him to pray for his family as open revolt was breaking out and they were very afraid. He was returning the photograph as it was dangerous for them to be associated with a British soldier at the moment but that he would one day ask for it back when this bad time had passed.
Open rebellion broke out in Lucknow in May and many other places thereafter. Sgt.Magennis and the Royal Irish were engaged in quelling outbreaks of revolt almost every month in a different part of India. The British called it a mutiny, the Indians claimed it was a war of independence. Massacres and outrages occurred on both sides. Lucknow suffered worse than most places and by the time the Royal Irish made it there the revolt had been stamped out, but at a great cost. The once beautiful and thriving city of Lucknow had been razed to the ground.
As soon as Pepper arrived he sought out the Kapur family home. The whole neighbourhood was gone, destroyed, not even a single wall remained standing. He made his way to where Rachit’s house had once stood and remained there in stunned silence staring at the rubble. When he eventually turned to go something glinted in the pile of stones at his feet. He stooped to pick it up. It was a badly bent silver fountain pen, he could just make out ‘….friend Rachit’ still engraved on the side. He let out a desolate roar. His heart broke. He knew that Rachit would never have left it behind.
He seemed to spend the next few days in a daze. The whole city seemed to be in mourning. He eventually enquired of some soldiers that had been stationed there for a few months where had all of the city’s dead been buried. They directed him to a mass grave on the outskirts of the city. It was hardly marked at all. He knelt down scraped a small depression with his hand and then took Rachit’s photograph from his wallet and placed it in the hollow with the pen, “Take care my friend, we will wander together some sunny day in some other place. In the meantime rest well.”
As more troops arrived from other colonies to relieve those regiments that had fought through the war word came that the Royal Irish were to be ‘rewarded’ with a softer posting in South Africa. Pepper sought out the local Hindu priest and handed him half of the money he’d been putting aside for Rachit’s education and asked him to provide for some deserving boy’s education and promised to send money monthly. He then found the local Imam and gave him the other half of the money and made the same request. He left for Africa the next day.
When he had finished telling Ownie the story of the photo he asked him to boil some water to make them both a cup of tea and he buttered some bread. When they sat back down at the fire with their cups of tea Pepper smiled and said to Ownie “ And now young man , what are we going to do with you ?”.
Ownie looked puzzled “How do you mean Pepper ? “
“Well Ownie I won’t be here much longer. I plan on going for a wander. I can tell you don’t have much time for school and that farm of your father’s can’t support nine children, so what can we do for you ? I could leave you this place , but it would only tie you to it and break your heart. I’d beg you not to join the army, it is no life. I have money set aside for you. Fetch me the envelope in that drawer in the press there. Good boy. Now you take it, hide it somewhere safe. When the time is right use it to leave this place, you have no chance here. Explore. That money will be enough to get you started.”
“But Pepper, what about you, who will look after you ? And how will I know when the time is right ?” He was confused and frightened as he spoke.
“You don’t need to worry about me . I told you I’m heading off myself. I’m going to wander again. It’s my time. I’m not afraid.” He was smiling broadly now. He placed his hand over Ownie’s heart saying ”And you, young man ,will know here when the time is right. Speaking of which you better be heading home now yourself. Be off with you.”
Ownie stood to leave. He still wasn’t sure exactly what Pepper was truly saying to him. He was half way to the door when he turned back and ran to Pepper and gave him a big hug. Pepper kissed him on the forehead and then Ownie turned and left. This time he stood in the open door way looked back and straightened himself .He called out “Sgt.Pepper, Sir !”. Pepper stood up and turned to face him and then they raised a salute to each other and Ownie ran home.
That was the last time he saw Sgt.Pepper. One of the other boys called to the house the next day but the door was locked. Six weeks later a letter arrived for the local schoolmaster with strange stamps on it. The letter was from a Hindu priest in Lucknow who wrote that an elderly man had arrived in Lucknow a week earlier and introduced himself as Sgt.Magennis. He was greeted with open arms and taken to meet the seven local doctors and teachers who had all been educated thanks to his monthly donations over thirty five years. The local Imam sought him out as soon word got out that Sgt.Pepper had returned and a further round of introductions to several more teachers and doctors ensued. He let it be known that he had returned in order to be buried in the mass grave from the war of independence. He wanted no ceremony and no marking of the spot. He passed away that very night in his sleep. They buried him the very next day in accordance with his wishes. There was no ceremony as such but the Hindu priest and Imam attended and said a prayer quietly, not together, but at the same time.
The letter stated that when they were preparing the ground for his burial one of the workmen found an old pen and a photograph of a British soldier and a young Indian boy. They returned them to the ground with the body of Sgt.Pepper. The reason for writing the letter, the Hindu priest explained was that Sgt.Pepper had asked him to inform the local school teacher in Clontibret, County Monaghan, Ireland that he had a left his will with Martin & Brett solicitors in Monaghan town. He was to take this letter to the solicitors who would then , in accordance with Sgt.Pepper’s will, sell the old Magennis farm and issue the proceeds to the teacher for the upkeep of the schoolhouse.
Two years later Ownie Mohan left Clontibret for Glasgow, eventually settling in Liverpool.
He often told this story to his own children, and to his grandchildren.
Paul McCartney was one of his grandchildren.
