When I was stationed at Dundrum in the foothills of the Dublin mountains, the village still retained much of its rural character. Fifty years ago a garda patrolled a leisurely beat to Windy Arbour, his only real challenge the education of trusting motorists who left cars unlocked, the key in the ignition and parcels on the seats.
On the embankment above the village the quiet railway station, morning and afternoon, was enlivened by schoolboys attending Synge Street CBS and the High School in the city. They could not have guessed that their journeys by rail to the convenient Harcourt Street station were numbered; before the decade was out, Todd Andrews had been appointed chairman of CIE with a brief to close uneconomic lines.
Pastoral peace
After the school train pulled out, a pastoral peace returned to the south Dublin countryside. The uneventful arrival of the next train might have inspired John Betjeman to immortalise Dundrum. Once on the Great Central Railway to Banbury, as the train was slowing to a stop, "colts in a paddock ran from us/ But not the solid cows. . ." At the deserted station, the poet "watched the empty platform wait/ And sadly saw it go. . ."
A decade earlier, during the poet laureate's sojourn in Dublin as Sir John Maffey's press attache, he would have been familiar with the sleepy halts on the inland line to Bray. He might have broken his journey at Dundrum to add to his collection of ecclesiastical sites the little 18thcentury church of St Naithi, discovering its association with the Yeats sisters, Susan (Lily) and Elizabeth (Lolly) of the Dun Emer Guild in nearby Churchtown.
He might also have made a pilgrimage further down the line to admire Tullow Church in Carrickmines with its remembrance of local casualties in the Great War, including three members of one family, the brothers Arthur, Charles and Robert Wilson.
As the college boys were on their way to Harcourt Street, the garda on duty in Dundrum was keeping an eye out for the national school children straggling to Holy Cross. At three o'clock he stood at the crossroads to shepherd the eager crowds across. The stir in the village brought Mary Mulvey, chairman of the county council, to the door of her clothing and hardware shop to greet the passing children, most of whom she knew by name.
My district officer in Rathfarnham, Supt Leo Maher, a Dubliner like myself, was a rara avis indeed among the Civic Guard recruits mainly from western counties who joined the new police force in 1922. Like many highly efficient sergeants in the early decades, when promotion was at a standstill, he languished in the lower ranks for 20 years. With his spic-and-span regimental outlook, he epitomised the reformed constabulary tradition in the Garda Siochana.
Droll humour
His droll sense of humour sometimes enlivened drab district court proceedings. District Justice Kenneth Reddin was collecting anecdotes for a book to be called Laughter in My Court. In a case of careless driving at the Scalp on the Enniskerry Road the offending motorist was a barber by occupation. "A barber, Justice," Maher intoned. "I have a note of that, Superintendent." (The bench was slow-witted that morning.) "At the Scalp, Justice," Maher prompted. A ripple of laughter eddied around the solicitors' table as the penny dropped. "Oh, very good, Superintendent! I'll make a note of that." The serious business of the court could then proceed, the majesty of the law enhanced by Kenneth Reddin's goodhumoured nature.
As a pioneer in promoting good community relations, Leo Maher once on parade suggested there were many useful services not strictly in the line of duty a garda might undertake. Would we consider it unmanly to escort a mother with children across the street, perhaps even giving a hand with the pram?
A decade after the second World War, with little traffic about, opportunities for such a mould-breaking initiative were few and far between. The patrician Overend sisters - Leticia, sometime lady superintendent, St John's Ambulance Brigade, and Naomi, one driving an antique Rolls Royce the other an Austin Princess - often had the roads to themselves.
Waiting at kerb
As the eldest in a large family, my attachment to a perambulator would have passed unnoticed in a city suburb, whatever about the stir a growing boy in such an unthinkable role would have made in rural Ireland. The next time I saw a mother waiting at the kerb I boldly offered my services. A little taken aback, she surrendered the pram and all together we crossed to the other side.
The bemused mother whispered to the nearest child, whereupon the little girl searched under the pram covers and produced a bag of sweets. Dipping into the proffered bag I was rewarded with a radiant smile. No bogeyman garda in that home, ever.