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Pat Smyth, a civil servant with the National Assistance Board in West Tyrone from the 1930's to the 1950's, recalls his memories, experiences and the larger than life personalities he encountered on the way.
The Fordross monument was pointed out to me as marking the vault of the Brackenridge family, notorious in history for harsh treatment of their tenants in the bad old days. Allegedly, Squire Brackenridge loved to amuse himself by ordering his tenants to turn up at 4 a.m., or some such ungodly hour, with their rents. If they failed to obey they were evicted.
Legend had it that the same Squire was an avowed atheist who never ceased to mock 'lesser mortals' who believed otherwise. When he died, he was laid out in his chamber attired in frock coat and starched shirt, etc. His gold-mounted cane, gloves and silk hat were placed beside him. His tenants were ordered to queue up and file past the bier to show their respects.
One country yokel, called Johnny Mulligan who wasn't 'all there' burst into uncontrolled giggling when he spotted the old boy. Some of the more respectful mourners clapped their hands over the big mouth of the disturber, and a couple of others gave them a hand to get Johnny outside quickly.
When they got him out they shook him and verbally chastised him for being disrespectful in the presence of the dead. Between chortles, Johnny gasped: 'Sure I cud'nee help it when I saw oul Brackenridge lying up there all dressed up with nowhere to go!'
According to folklore, the tyrannical Brackenridge had had a great mausoleum built to house his mortal remains, and his money and jewels. When the Yanks moved away it was found that the tomb had been vandalised. Who had done it and what they had found, if anything, remains a mystery.
Around Fordross, where the Brackenbridge monument lies, the American G.I's used the area for a shooting range in the nineteen-forties. On one occasion we had reason to revisit a client who lived on the shore of a very small lake among the hills and we had trouble locating his house. The little lake had disappeared.
On investigating we discovered that the Yanks had riddled the side of a hillock adjoining it with shells and caused a miniature landslide, which had wiped out the lake.
It was in that area, but a little bit further south on the Favor Royal border that a trainee visiting officer, named Doherty, from Belfast, whom I was breaking in, got a hell of a shock.
I was seeking a particular house and when I reached a farmhouse fairly close to the road I spotted a big truck loaded with crates of live fowls and three men standing on the street around it. I asked Doherty to nip into the farmyard and ask some of those fellows where 'Barney McCoo' lived.
Doherty was back in a flash, very pale. 'There's nobody there' he gasped. 'What do you mean?' I said 'There's three men and a truck there'. 'There's nobody there'' he insisted. I got out and had a look. He was right!
Seemingly there was a lively trade in smuggling poultry in those days. I twigged that we were in that kind of area and when I spotted another house down a slight incline I let the car run free, applied the hand brake, slowly got out and entered the farmyard quietly.
I was just in time to catch a teenage boy in the act of trailing a huge carton inscribed 'Imperial Tobacco' behind a mound of turf in a turf shed. He had his back to me so I stole up behind him and said,
'That's too heavy for you boy. You'll hurt yourself'. He disappeared like a jackrabbit. Inside the house we found his 'Da' - a small farmer who was claiming means-tested old age pension. One of our duties was to check his stock of cattle. He led us to the shore of a sizeable lake with cattle grazing all around it.
'Them two's mine', he said 'the border runs through that Lough and the wans on the far side aren't mine'. He was economical with the truth! He knew it, and he knew we knew it, but my farming background stood me in good stead when we toured the haggard.
In the byre (cowshed) we found proof that four animals had been tied up that morning. He was unable to explain away the four heaps of fresh cow dung, and turned nasty. We charged him with four cows and four young calves that were housed nearby.
Pat Smyth, 2001
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