Peter Pringle - About Time. Surviving Irelands Death Row

I dedicate this book to my children and grandchildren
and to set the record straight

This book comes out of my desire to tell my story. I struggled to prove my innocence and I regained my freedom with the help of a great Human Rights lawyer, Greg ONeill. I remain very grateful to him and to all my friends and family who stood by me. Thanks to Lorna Siggins for her article in The Irish Times; to Ronan Colgan of The History Press for expediting the publishing process; to Aonghus and Beth for their valuable and painless editorial assistance; to the legal department for their in-depth examination and advice.

My thanks to Sunny for her support and love.

I hear that at least two of us will have to help at his hanging.

I heard that too, wonder will they ask for volunteers or will we be ordered to do the job?

Either way we would have to be paid extra wages or a bonus.

Thats right, theyd have to make it worth our while.

What would we have to do?

When he drops through the trap door of the gallows wed be underneath ready to pull on his legs to make sure his neck is broken.

Thered have to be one for each leg.

This discussion by three jailers was conducted in my sight and hearing as if I did not exist. Happy Christmas, Peter, I whisper softly as I try to distance myself from the reality of being in the death cell.

I was born in Dublin in 1938. During the war, when I was about 4 years old, I would watch the searchlights in the sky at night and it was very exciting. They were operated from the army barracks at Portobello, nearly a mile away from our house. My pal Nancy, who lived next door, was the same age and we decided that we wanted to see the searchlights up close. So that night, after we were put to bed, we each climbed out of the window and down the drainpipe and headed off, hand-in-hand, to find the barracks. We got into the barracks area through St Marys College grounds, which were adjacent to the barracks, and hid in some bushes to watch the searchlights. We fell asleep there and were found by the sentries who brought us to the canteen where they gave us cocoa and biscuits.

Meanwhile, our parents had discovered that we were missing and had frantically organised a search. They and the army notified the police and we were soon returned home safe and sound. I couldnt see what the fuss was about. Our parents were so relieved to have us home safe and sound we were not punished but they checked on us more often when were were put to bed.

My older sister Pauline always looked out for me and my younger brother Pat, especially if some other kid tried to bully either of us. I, in turn, looked out for Pat. Thats how it was with brothers and sisters, and not just our family. We built a hut made from scraps of timber in the middle of the bushes. In the autumn when apples were ripe we would go on an expedition to box the fox, which is what raiding an orchard to steal apples was called, although we did not think of it as stealing. Sometimes we would be chased by an irate house owner and have to run hell for leather to get away. When we got back to our hideout we would feast on the apples, sharing them with the other youngsters.

If we had difficulty with doing our school homework Dad would look at the problem. He would not solve it for us but would show us the method for solving it and leave us to sort it out ourselves. Then he would look at our result and question us as to how we had resolved it. At the time, I did not really appreciate his wisdom.

My Dad rented a bog on the Featherbeds, an area of the Dublin Mountains to the south of the city. He would go up there on Saturdays and Sundays and cut the turf. Sometimes hed bring me with him, on the crossbar of his bicycle as far as Rathfarnham, where we would board a big turf lorry, bike and all, and be driven the rest of the way up to the Featherbeds. While Dad was cutting turf my job was footing the turf, stacking it in a special way so that the wind would dry it out. We would light a fire and boil tea and eat our sandwiches for lunch. I loved being in the mountains. Come evening time, we would travel home by bike as it was all downhill. We seemed to whizz along the road and be home in no time. When the turf was all cut and dried and ready to be taken home, the turf lorry would collect it and bring it to our house and tip it in the back lane. Our neighbours and all the kids on the street would help to bring it into our back yard where my Dad would stack it properly. Then thered be a big party, with Guinness and food for the men and lemonade and cakes for the kids and pennies too.

My grandfather lived in County Kildare, near Rathangan. He was originally from Dublin, but left the city when they started building outside of the two canals. He reckoned the city was getting too big. He and my grandmother had a small farm and every summer I looked forward to going to them on holidays. It was magical for me, being in the country and enjoying their country ways. They had two cows, a pony, pigs, hens, geese and ducks. There were fields and woods to roam, and a river at the bottom of the big field. Grandmother made homemade bread, cakes and butter. And in the evenings around the fireplace, it was so warm and snug. Listening to the stories and local news I got ever more drowsy. I would then be carried down to the room and into bed, to dreams wrapped in eiderdown quilt and not stirring until daylight. Sometimes I would lie in bed and listen to the chug, chug, chug of the barges as they passed along the canal about a mile away. The sound of the barge got louder on the night air as it came closer, and then it would fade away into the distance. And I would dream of its journey and of travelling on it.

Sometimes my grandparents told stories about the Fairies. And they believed in their existence too. Each night before retiring, Grandmother put a glass of milk and a plate of cake or scones in the window for the Fairies. And it was always empty in the morning. I remember one time walking in the woods with Grandad, and we came on a foxs covert. He pointed it out to me and told me that this particular opening was also the entrance to the Fairy world under the ground. The Fairies, or Little People as they sometimes called them, lived underground and in the hillside and one must always respect them. This was wise, as the Little People could be lethal if they were upset or treated with disrespect. Grandad told me to keep the memories and not lose sight of the important things handed down to us through the generations.

I remember one time Aunt Mainie, who lived with my grandparents, had to visit the dentist in Kildare Town, which was several miles away. The evening before, Grandad brushed down the pony, polished the harness, and shined the buckles and the brass rails on the trap in preparation for the journey. We were up early for breakfast, and then I went with Grandad to get the pony ready for the trip. When he had been harnessed to the trap I held him while Grandad went to put on his Sunday suit. Grandmother and Aunt Mainie were all dressed up too, hats and gloves and all. The trap was a two-wheeled light cart entered through a door at the back. Seating was along each side, passengers facing inwards. Grandad sat to the front on the outside and I sat opposite him. Grandmother and Aunt Mainie sat to the back and away we went, Grandad gently clucking to the pony to start him trotting. After a few miles, when the pony had settled in to his task, Grandad passed the reins to me while he filled his pipe and lit up. Satisfied that I was doing alright, he settled back and enjoyed his smoke while I tried to appear casual driving along, especially if we met anyone on the road. It was the most exciting event of my life up to then.