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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.
I rented a lock-up garage at Gaol Square belonging to Roddy O'Connor, an eerie spot in the blackout. Once I switched off the headlights at night I lost no time in locking up and getting out.
It was well that I had not read Ben Kiely's graphic account of his sojourn with Maryanne and Ellen at the Square, and his coming across the inscribed stone in a weed and rat-infested corner of the Square marking the spot where Henry Montgomery was hanged for the murder of William Glass and the ghoulish thoughts it invoked, or I would have been even more jumpy.
Although the railway was still open when our children arrived, it was not the best way to move paraphernalia of a family, which included three youngsters. In 1940 I had had a year-old Austin Eight car, but I lost my petrol ration when I had to go into digs and stop travelling to work daily.
I was offered twice the new price for the car and I accepted. Then I bought an old banger and laid it up, an ancient Austin Ten saloon. This was better than the train for journeying 'home' to South Antrim when petrol rationing ended, but the Omagh to Portadown stretch in particular was a nightmare due to bad roads, an unreliable vehicle and ersatz rubber tyres.
On one unforgettable journey I got three punctures. One at Dungannor involved removing a pram body, a hundredweight bag of spuds and a load of luggage to get at the spare wheel in the boot.
The next puncture came at Ballygawley and involved fitting a new tube as I had travelled too far on a flat and pulled the valve out. The third at Dergmoney forced me to hail a passing motorist who agreed to take my family the last few miles to High Street while I awaited the arrival of Billie Sharpe, an Omagh mechanic.
On another horrible autumn evening heading for Lisburn during what must have been the Lammas flood I traversed Magherain village with surface water at kerb level and a drip from the sliding roof pouring down on an occupied Moses basket and my wife mopping up with towels.
On the return journey when I had to struggle up Ballymacilroy hill with one of the four valves burnt out, I decided to get rid of the vintage Austin car. A young man from Cregan bought it and paid a deposit. A couple of days later John Joe Donaghy, a local insurance agent, rang me up to warn me that my purchaser had bought a car at 'the Cross' fair and boasted that he had already bought another from the Manager of the Assistance Office at Omagh but 'that he would soon get out of that'.
When he and his 'Ma' turned up with excuses, seeking his deposit back, I referred the good lady to Alex Donnelley, my solicitor. There was only a small sum involved but I had my reputation in a small town at stake.
By prior arrangement, Alex confiscated part of the deposit and a nominal professional fee. Hopefully, that taught the cute mountain boyo not to try to make a monkey out of a government official. John Joe Donaghy was in stitches, since the smart dealer was of an age when we could not have been held to a contract.
The well-established motor agents, Charlton of Derry Road and Torney of Dublin Road had a lean time during the war since no new vehicles were available but, happily, repair workboomed.
Non-availability of parts was frustrating but both garages made all but the most sophisticated components. Harry Torney, senior, was particularly highly skilled in that field. He had several sons, two of them Harry Junior and Billie, were in the trade with him, and maybe a younger one as well.
Genius that he was, the old man had a set of unique tools which no mechanic had permission to lay a hand on. Permission or not, some of them did. Harry retaliated by connecting a magneto-and-coil contraption to the metal bench on which he laid out his kit. The first boyo to lay a finger on one of his sacred tools nearly hit the roof when the shock hit him. He said it was like trying to remove a sparking plug while an engine was running.
A nice little anecdote circulated about old man Torney. Some clergyman gave him a broken brass cross to mend: I think it was the Parish Priest, Doctor McShane. When Harry had the welding job completed, he absent-mindedly lifted the holy cross before it had cooled, and of course, it stuck to his fingers! Tradition has it that the prayers that Harry said about the cross ill became a devout Catholic!
Pat Smyth, 2001
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