‘There’s very little left for me there in Ireland anymore’ says Cavan native

'Am I happy living in London or would I go home?' He repeats the question to himself, rolling the words slowly around inside his mouth. 'Am I happy... What if...?' he begins, but just as quickly as the sentence started he trails-off. He shakes his head. It’s a dismissive nod, and it indicates that our conversation is over. We get up and together we head for the door.

Outside, as he locks the metal gate covering the doorway to the 1940s-style London terrace house where he lives, we try again: 'Are you happy living in London or would you go back to Cavan?' But like the iron security gate being shut and locked twice, this answer too seems closed.

We meet Tom in the park near to St Gabriel’s Community Centre in Archway, North London. Through a warren of two and three-storey high-rises, the park is sandwiched as an island between two busy roadways. The main entrance is nearby. Our entrance, through overhanging tree branches and trampled hedging is a little more discreet. It is though a well-trodden path for those in the know.

Tom is sitting there with others, some Irish, some not. A bottle of cider in a brown paper bag is concealed behind one persons leg though some of the contents at least have been shared out among the party present, all drinking from disposable paper cups.

When asked what part of Cavan he’s from Tom announces it in a grand and theatrical voice, almost Londonesque. It’s a papering which only serves to cover the elongated ‘A’s associated with the Breffni accent which spills out when he really begins talking.

Middle-aged, bearded, he’s far from dishevelled. Its clear Tom approaches his appearance with some semblance of care applied. We go back to the house Tom has lived in for much of the past two-decades.

Growing up in the west of Cavan, among some of the first students in the area to be educated at the newly built St Mogue’s Community School, he left Ireland in search of work a short time after and travelled the continent before finally settling in London in the early ‘80s. His story is not unique.

Brian Boylan of Kilnaleck was one of Tom’s first landlords when he landed in the English capital, and made a living as a labourer. Tom’s first job was laying part of the M25 motorway that encircles most of the Greater London area. He also worked on projects in the East End, Slough and on the Thames Barriers.

Blazer

Upon entering his house we’re greeted almost immediately by a boisterous Staffordshire Bull Terrier named ‘Blazer’. She’s half-blind, a condition caused by cataracts. It’s an operation well beyond Tom’s financial limits. Even still, he cares for the dog as much as she clearly loves him.

On the wall of his house, more than just a mere statement, is an Irish Tricolour, while cassette tapes of Irish show-band singers litter the floor. The corner of what looks to be an Ireland’s Own magazine pears out from beneath a pile of other newspapers.

His eyes are glassy, an affect of the previous night’s drinking, but they light up with talk of home.

Tom makes tea. When he returns he explains that when he first arrived in London it was 'great.'

'Everybody seemed to be working. There was lots of Irish. The pubs were packed. You could go to a dance - find them all there,' Tom recalls.

There was no such thing as isolation. Loneliness was unheard of or at least not contemplated. The Irish then worked hard and played hard but as work dried up so too did the chances to mingle as they once had. Where employment once gave people a purpose and identity, that has now been lost for many. In much the same way, they too find themselves cut adrift on a personal level.

'The problem now is that there is not as many of us old Irish over here as there use to be. A lot of the older ones are now dying off,' he says, explaining that in recent years he has seen a number of friends pass away for one health reason or another. Few within the marginalised sections of society have the chance to die happily and of old age he adds.

As an aside, funerals serve to bring old comrades together, if only for a while. United in grief.

'The thing about London is that it’s a great place to be when you’ve got friends and a bit of money in your pocket and what-not. If you don’t have those it can be a very lonely place.'

The younger people coming over here from Ireland are 'different' says Tom, whereas once you use to be able to spot an Irish person on the street. That’s no longer the case. The new travelling Irish are not plagued with the notion of being able to return back home. Social media connecting families and their loved ones in every corner of the world, not to mention low costs in air travel, have made that difference. There is a new confidence there. Though a recession in Ireland has once again forced the hand of many to step-out in search of work abroad, the extraction from one’s family, community and country Tom feels is not as severe. Tom is thankful to have a roof over his head at least. He knows many who are not as lucky and he often times offers up his shelter and the comfort of his couch to Irish people he finds are down on their luck.

'I’d give anyone a place to stay rather than have them out on the street. You wouldn’t want it yourself.'

Uncertain

Tom’s last visit to Ireland came some months back. He still has family in Ireland. A deceased relative left him an old rural farm house with land attached in a will, but even still, he says this isn’t enough to encourage him to return on a permanent basis.

'Sure what would I do?', he asks. 'There’s very little there for me in Ireland anymore. I’ve my friends here, the house, my dog'. Something in his voice indicates he attempting to make excuses, but he repeats, 'There’s very little there for me there anymore.'

'What would I be going back to?' he says, a little more uncertain this time. His words hang there.

Despite his recent visit to his native-land, and the high amount of coverage proportioned to promoting the year-long event, Tom is somewhat perplexed when the premise of The Gathering is explained to him.

'I’ve never heard anything about it. What is it? Do they just want people to go home... or visit... or what do they want? It doesn’t mean much to me', he says.

'Some go back. Others find a place for themselves here. They get married, have kids. If you don’t have that or you don’t have much connection with home you just have to keep going I suppose. You keep plodding along.'

'So are you happy living in London or would you go back to Cavan?' The Celt asks Tom. His response is short, unfinished. It also calls an end to our conversation.

Outside we depart, he one way, us the other. As we head back towards Archway we pass through the park where we first met. There remains a number of familiar faces from earlier. Some new.

'Where’s Tom?' a person sitting on the ground with a clearly refilled cider cup by her foot. We tell them he’s gone walking his dog.

'No worries, he’ll be back down to us soon.'