Whats in a name

My Mom call's me Squid, my Dad call's me Squid, none of my friends even know that I’ve another name, but I was christened Harold Anthony McFinnigan. All-in-all I much prefer to be called Squid. Who wouldn't?

Nancy Begley, Mom to me, was a lovely Irish girl of eighteen years when she was swept clean off her feet by a dashing teddy-boy called, Tony McFinnigan, or Dad. They first saw each other across the crowded dance floor in a parish hall way back in nineteen sixty-seven. Dances in Ireland were a tea total affair back then. The girls would arrive early, sitting around the edge of the floor in their best dresses, waiting eagerly to be asked to take a turn on the dance floor. And where there were girls, there were boys, lots of boys.

The air was thick with smoke, hair lacquer and body heat. So heady was the atmosphere you could nearly see it ripple with the beat of whatever band happened to be playing. One thing you were never short of back then was a crowd. These days, with so much to do, it's hard to imagine how special those dance nights were. Young people had one chance to go wild and it was at the Saturday night dance. It wasn't strange for people to walk ten, or fifteen miles, to get to a dance. Not surprising really, women weren't even allowed in the pubs in those days. A snug perhaps, but never the pub.

Dance nights were an oasis of excitement provided by, Mike Dell, Joe Dolan, Dicky Rock, and the like. Young people jived, flirted, fell in love, and made life-long commitments all in the space of a few hours.

We think our days are different…don't fool yourself. Even back then there were girls you wouldn't be seen dancing with, but you'd still meet them in the shadow of the handball alley for a cuddle. Then there were the boys, the ones a girl's father wouldn't let inside the garden gate, and my Dad happened to be one of these.

Even after a dance started, Tony and his friends would be propping up the counter in a local drinking hole, sinking pints, or even a few shorts if they were flush. They'd make fun of the country boys, in their mass suits, supping lemonade and dreaming of a wife.

Tony was broke most of the time, but he dressed like he was loaded. Trousers so tight, he got pin's-and-needles if he sat too long. A long grey jacket, with velvet lapels, a skinny tie and winkle picker shoes. It was the teddy-boy uniform. He looked sharp and he knew it. His hair gleamed like it had been painted with gloss paint, a little sneer on his lips and eyes twinkling with good humour.

The dance would be going an hour when the cool crowd would turn up. The boys would swagger down the street like John Wayne, talking loudly, and laughing louder. Men they passed threw them dirty looks, while the girls just looked. Bad boys are the same the world over. Rule breaking is just so sexy. The teddy-boys, my Dad included, would gather on the balcony, looking down on the heaving throng of dancers. They’d laugh, whistle, and call, to the spinning girls as they whipped around the floor.

Mom said she knew Dad was different because he never whistled, but for all the dances he went to, Tony McFinnigan never once graced the floor. Another thing not in short supply in the good old days were lads not liking their girls being whistled at. A fight was constantly in the offing. Waiting for the right combination of sly remarks and hurt feelings to flare into spectacular life. As the temperature rose in the room; pulses raced, comments were made and heard, looks were thrown, and in the end, voices grew threatening. With tension at fever-pitch, they would charge in to the car-park. Two tides of testosterone crashing against each other. Fists flying, oiled hair whipping and boots a swinging. Sure, it was all part of a good night out.

On one particular night, James O'Brien, Dad's friend, had an eye on wild-looking red-head making circuits of the floor. Every time she came under the balcony, she’d make cow eyes up at him over the shoulder of the guy she was dancing with. She came closer and staying longer under the balcony with each turn around the dancefloor.

"Jesus Tony, will you get a load of the strawberry number with that big bullock chaser," James shouted into my Dad's ear over the drum of the music.

"Where about's?" he asked, scanning the floor.

"Here she comes now, past the tea table," he said kind of pointing with his elbow because being interested enough to take your hand out of your pocket was not cool.

"She is a fine thing right enough," said Dad, watching the bobbing mop of deep red curls like sunset on a summer’s night. "I think yr man she's with has you spotted and he's not looking happy about you grinning at his bird."

This time, as the couple came around the floor, it was the dead eyes of the massive farm labourer that searched the balcony, and not in a friendly way. The red-headed girl was looking away but clearly quiet pleased that the young bulls were squaring up over her.

"What you looking at, you greaser?" the farmer roared up at the balcony.

James leaned far out over the rail before shouting at the top of his voice, "A fine thing and a GOBSHITE, can you figure out which one you are!" The balcony erupted with shouts and cheers. Fingers were pointed and feet stamped as the man mountain below stood rooted to the floor, his face as red as a beetroot. The girl slipped away into the mill of dancers, giggling into her hand.

When the shouting died down the big lug eventually thought of something to say and shouted back. "If you had any balls, you'd say that to my face and not be hiding behind the skirts of the fancy-boys up there!"  Questioning anyone's balls did two things. First, it made sure blood would spill, and soon. Second, it caused the parish priest to jump out of his chair and start yelling.

"Less of the language you guttersnipes." Funny thing about the priest, he was not at all fussy about the number of teeth knocked out in the car park, but one semi-bad word and you were going straight to hell.

"That fucker has it coming," said James, as he pushed through the crowd toward the stairs. The thing about James is, he talked a good game and was brave enough, but he couldn't hit a barn door with a Massey Ferguson. Dad pushed through the crowd after him. After all, someone had to save him if things went bad. By the time Dad got to the dance floor things were already bad, and heading straight for disaster. James was toe to toe with the fella, who had looked big from the balcony, but was enormous from down here. He was too far away to hear what was being said but James was the one doing all the talking right up to the point a hay maker lifted him clear off the ground.

It only took a second for war to break out. Bodies were flying in from all directions; some picking sides, others just hitting anything that stood in front of them. In the middle of all this the band kept playing and some couples danced through the melee. Dad was trying to reach the stretched-out James when a sly little fucker snuck up behind him and levelled him. When his head cleared, he was looking up from ankle-level at the most smashing girl he’d ever laid eyes on.

"Are you finished down their Mister?" she said, but made attempt to move away. Tony had the smallest glimpse of two shapely legs disappearing into the darkness before he gathered himself enough to sit up. As the fight raged round them, my Mom and Dad fell in love.

He walked her home that night but she wouldn't let him hold her hand. As far as Nancy was concerned, if he wanted an easy girl he could stay running around after the townies; with make-up applied by the trowel-load, and skirts up to the crack of their arse. For her, he would have to put in some leg work. It was five miles to her house and when they got there, they sat on the wall talking until the hills popped out against a brightening sky. I don't know what they talked about that night, and I am not so sure I want to.

They became a regular sight at the dances and even though, like I said earlier, they never actually danced together, everyone knew they were a couple. Nancy would whirl the night away with other girls, never accepting a dance from any of the men that asked. They would spend the night stealing looks at each other. In the end, they would meet at the tea table just before the dance was over. The fights still happened but Tony wasn't interested in taking part any more. He went for a few drinks with the boys, but stopped hanging out in the balcony. Every weekend for well over a year, he would walk Nancy home and they would talk until dawn. Ok, ok, in my mind they were talking, use your imagination.

About a year and a half later, Tony got a job as an apprentice-fitter in the Ford factory in Cork City. Realistically, he didn't know what a fitter did, but he knew it was the key to a good future. Four years it would take before he was qualified, and then he could work anywhere in the country he liked, but for now it was Cork or nothing. Four years seemed like a heck of a long time. He kept the news to himself, trying to work out what to do. It all revolved around Nancy. If he took the job, he'd be gone for months at a time. Would she wait for him? Like hell she would! She was gorgeous, and every guy in town was gagging for them to break up. Anyway, she'd probably think he was running around with every floozy this side of the river Lee. How could they survive that?

What if he didn't take the job? What was there around here for him? Building, labouring, farm work or he could try for a job with the council? He was fairly sure his years of swaggering around town with the tough crowd would put the knobbler on anything but the worst of jobs. Would she want to be with a looser like that either? He didn't think so. He spent so long time trying to work out what to do, but he still hadn't a clue and it was a week before he was due to leave.

That Saturday night after the dance finished, he walked Nancy home as normal. He'd been skittish as a wild cat all week, never knowing what to do with himself or what to say. He knew he was making Nancy worry. That night, they walked the whole long five miles without a word passing between them and even so, to him, it seemed like they got to her wall in seconds. He couldn’t put off his decision any longer. The killer was, he still had no idea what he was going to say.

"What's wrong with you tonight?" she asked as they sat.

He sighed, "I have a bit of news."

She looked nervous and Tony thought he spotted a tear hanging in the corner of her eye. "Go on," she said looking up at the stars. "You better tell me so."

He gritted his teeth and went for it. "I've landed a job down in Cork. It starts next week. Tis a good job but the pay is cat. I won’t be able to travel up and down all the time."

Now he was sure he saw the tear. She looked at her hands resting in her lap and said, "Are you breaking up with me?"

"NO! No," he said, not really knowing what else to say, but the next few words came out all by themselves. To this day he's sure his brain had no hand in it. "I was thinking you might come with me?"

"Jesus me Da would love that," she said in a mocking half laugh.

"He won't have a say in it if we’re married." Now this statement came as a surprise to Nancy and an even bigger one to Tony. Yet again, his brain wasn't in charge, his heart was driving this bus now.

In the silence that followed Tony knew there had never a better idea in the history of the world. It must have been infectious because Nancy dived from the wall in a flood of tears and wrapped her hands around his neck like she was drowning.

"You’re not messing, you wouldn't do that to me would you, say you’re not messing?" she mumbled into his neck. He laughed as he stroked her hair and whispered something secret in her ear that neither one has ever told another person. Five days later she left on the bus for Cork and two weeks after that they were married.

At last we get to where I come into the story. They had a little flat over a shop in Bishops Quay. It was dark, a bit damp and tiny but they were in love and as far as they were concerned it was a haven. The wedding had the sum total of seven people at it. Afterwards, they all went to the Royal Hotel for drinks and a couple of plates of ham sandwiches. If it had been a banquet in Buckingham Palace, Tony and Nancy couldn't have been happier. Tony was working his job three weeks by then. I won’t go too much into the factory at the moment except to say the best friend he ever made in Cork, he made on the first day at work. To my misfortune the man's name happened to be Harold Boyle. Dad insisted I be named after him, seeing as he stood for me at my christening. As easy as that, I was given the worst name in the history of names.

But where did Squid come from? This is a much better story.

A few months after the wedding Nancy came down with a bug and couldn't even hold down a cup of tea. She mentioned as much to the old woman who ran the shop down stairs one morning.

"I don't know why your shocked, Misses, with all the new cracks in the ceiling. The banging and carrying on of yea. I was sure your name was, Rabbit, not McFinnigan. There'll be three upstairs before next Easter, or my name not Peggy Sacks," she told my mom while Nancy was buying a batch loaf. Sure enough, she was right. My Ma was up the duff.

From the get go I was a great little mover. One night, after hours of me kicking and twitching, my mam turned to Tony with a hand on her stomach and said, "I am telling you Tony I am not sure this is a baby at all. I'm sure it’s a squid or something." Tony laughed and laughed.

A few days before, they’d been walking along the jetty in Cobh when they came across a young lad trying to get a “Thing” off his fishing line. It was white and slimy and wriggling all over the place.

"Look at that," said Nancy pointing. "What kind of yoke is that?"

Being a country lad, Tony had never seen anything like it either. "What you got there?" he asked the boy.

Just then the thing plopped off the fishing line and went skittering across the concrete. The lad tried his best to grab it but it kept slipping out of his fingers. It went sailing over the edge and into the water.

"Me fucking squid," wailed the boy, grabbing his head. To Tony and Nancy this seemed like the funniest thing anyone ever said. All that day for no reason Tony would turn to Nancy and imitate the lad making them both howl with laughter all over again.

So, from the moment my Mam made her joke, in a small little flat on Bishop's Quay above an ancient grocers’ shop, I was squid then and ever more.