Writing in our I, on the 20th Century series the other day, John McGahern remarked on what he saw as the bitterness among many Irish exiles in the 1950s. As an example he recalled working on a London building site in 1954, when a "young Clare man" sat listening to another Irishman reading aloud from a local Irish paper about the dismal weather conditions back home, in particular the incessant rain.

"May it never stop" said the young fellow when the reading ended. "May they have to climb trees. May it rise higher than it did for fukken Noah."

Well, this is not the way I remember it at all, because I clearly recall the building site, the conversation, McGahern himself, a lot of other good strong lads and in particular the young fellow from Clare - Josie McInerney, God rest him, who would never have used the kind of coarse language he allegedly did. In all likelihood, McGahern misheard Josie, whose reference was probably not to the Biblical figure but to Fu Ghonn Ogha, ("the inlet of the young reeds"), his own small damp townland some five miles outside Ennistymon.

Usually there was more bitter than bitterness, that's my recollection. We were all working for George Wimpey that summer of '54, on what is now the Thames Embankment, but was then only a mess of mud and foundation concrete. It was hard and dirty work of course, but we were well used to it, and the way most of us young lads figured, it was better than snagging turnips on the few miserable acres back in Roscommon or Leitrim when you knew the older brother was going to get the place anyway, and him already thick as thieves with young Kathleen or Maire Beag in the next townland, with the promise of another few acres and maybe a pig or two in the dowry, and the banns about to be read. Even awash with porter as it regularly was, the cattleboat from Dun Laoghaire was a more attractive option as far as we were concerned. There were always emigrants like John who clung to romantic notions of a day on the bog, or the glorious social occasion of the meitheal gathering to save the hay, but for young fellows like poor Josie and myself, there was a damn sight more promise of romance in Kilburn or Camden Town, even if a promise was as much as you got most of the time. The girls had to be careful too, of course. But I need hardly remind anyone who remembers those days of exile that in Cricklewood, the crack was very good

THERE was another young lad who shared digs with us too, by the odd name of Raftery Onphilla, a quare-looking but dacent character from Kiltimagh who had notions about writing poetry, and wasn't the worst at the job either. Blind drunk the poor fellow was a lot of the time, and always a bit sorry for himself, going on and on as Gaeilge about the wonders of his native Mayo and his plans to return there (travelling from pub to pub - he was going to have his first pint in Ball, for some reason) when he got a few bob together. Which of course he never did.

I recall one Saturday night after a hard week's labour when Raftery, McGahern, Josie McInerney, our Pakistani workmate Ahmet and myself got stuck into a few pints in Finch's pub on the Portobello Road. Josie produced his weekly plaintive letter from his lonely mother, begging him as usual to come home, and asked for our help in replying to the poor woman "for once and for all." The next thing we knew wasn't Raftery scribbling away furiously, glass of whiskey in one hand and pen in the other. "Oh mother dear", Josie translated for us over his shoulder as Raftery wrote, muttering to himself all the time, "I'm over here, and I'm never coming back. What kapes me here is the rake of beer, the women and - "

Sure there was no more translation needed: we all chimed in - "the craic", and off with Josie to post the thing without delay. It happened that the poor mother took a bad turn soon after, and didn't last out the winter, and I don't think Josie ever forgave himself, but sure it was only a bit of fun at the time.

But it was a quare night all in all. Didn't Raftery get up at one point and stare out the window, shaking all over. What was it he saw, we asked nervously? "The dark" was all he would say, shivering. With that, McGahern shot out of his seat and took off into the night, and devil the sign of him we ever saw again. That very same night our good mate Ahmet told us he had had enough of racial abuse on the streets of London, and was heading back home to Pakistan. We drank many a toast to him long into the night, and once again Raftery - despite being rigid with drink - came up with the poetic goods, this time his great lament beginning "Cad a dheanfaimid feasta gan Ahmet." We miss him still. Ahmet I mean. Poor ould Raftery too. And Josie. Shawn O'Ferrall. Red Hanrahan. Sure we miss them all.

E-mail: bglacken@irish-times.ie