On walking into the side bar at the Imperial Hotel in Cork to meet up with my old classmates, I first thought that I had come to the wrong place. The group gathered seemed not to contain a recognisable face.This could have been something to do with the bright sunlight dazzling me as it shone through the windows on Pembroke Street behind the group, or it could have been due to a recent bout of macular degeneration. However, a few welcoming hellos soon told me I was in the right place and gradually I began to discern, amidst some indications of a follicular massacre, the old familiar faces. Most of them seemed in fine fettle, personable and talkative – mellowed with age. The class has reduced to 17 at this stage. Death and illness have halved our numbers since our last reunion 10 years ago. None of my bete noires (names on application) from the old days seemed to have made it.
It was a lunch affair so the drinking was more modest than on earlier occasions. Pinot Grigios and Malbecs being as prominent as pints of Murphy’s. Most present were dressed in smart-casual style, with only four, professional gentlemen all, sporting ties. Seven of the 17 wore glasses. There was just a little formality as we sat down to eat. (The food, by the way, was remarkably good. I hadn’t eaten in the Imperial for 10 years but I’ll be back.) The legion of the lost were honoured in a roll call by B. C., and those unable to attend were mentioned. A short speech by P. F. told of our good fortune in attending such a fine establishment as CBC. It would have been churlish not to mention the source of our happy gathering, even for quibblers like me who did not enjoy his school days or his teachers.
One long table contained the whole group so it was easy to move around and chat to most of those present - although not alas all. And what a diverse group we are. While I’m uncertain of how all our class ended up, I could identify a barrister, an accountant or two, an engineer, two solicitors, a few bankers, an estate agent, an academic, two journalists, two dentists, and two army officers (ok, I’ve counted K.H. twice). I was surprised to learn that there were at least three, or maybe four, religious vocations in our year. Although some, I believe, didn’t stay the course. A few of the more colourful characters in our class have not survived. There were two drug dealers that I know of (both dead), a once likely lad who apparently ended up as a street sweeper, and a couple of lost souls who were congenitally unfit for contending with the world.
As a group there seemed to be little rancour concerning the regime of corporal punishment that was part of the culture at CBC. I was beaten regularly for not delivering homework (my Latin unseens were a particular problem), but also randomly for imagined infractions on many occasions (hang down your head Dickie Rashers). I remember an English teacher who used to pull me up by my sideburns and another, infamous brute, who used to beat me regularly with an 18-inch wooden stick – until one day I fainted. A fortuitous occurrence that spared me from future assaults. But looking around the group it did occur to me that, with a few exceptions, they represented the more diligent and focused pupils. Consequently they would have escaped much of the carnage. It would be invidious to finger the exceptions, but all seemed to have thrived, notwithstanding their school day crimes and misdemeanours. I was an exceptionally stubborn and indolent boy whose interests lay elsewhere. I’m sure I would have tried the patience of a saint back then – if there were a saint around. Anyway, I’m happy to report that the punitive regime didn’t succeed in beating those qualities out of me.
One notable face missing from the gathering was my old friend Donal Murray (see in foreground below), who died earlier this year. He was my drinking and gambling companion back in our salad days (dancing in the Arcadia and the Majorca, playing poker in the Campfield, nipping across to Donnelly’s Bookmakers for a bet before classes began in the afternoon). We renewed contact over the past six or seven years and would meet in the Corner House, on Coburg Street, prior to Cheltenham to exchange views. Each year he would assert that this would be his last Cheltenham – and eventually he was right. I spoke to him shortly before he died, and the spirit was still intact. He handled his multiple medical problems with courage and equanimity. We had several contentious discussions on an apt final song for his funeral. I was glad he went for the great Warren Zevon in the end: Keep Me in Your Heart.
Dalkey
October 2024.
