They were big one time in two counties and middling big in the three around those, but Murtagh Toole and the Rattlebones came to the end of their musical road last Sunday at about one o'clock in the morning. There had been only three couples dancing on the floor all the evening through in The Juneflower Ballroom and they decided it was not fair to be taking their nominal fee from Jackson any more. In fairness to Jackson he came up to Murtagh when they were packing up and he had their brown envelope as usual. But Murtagh left down the saxophone case and he said, "Joe, we're not going to take anything tonight and we think it's time to call it a day. It's not fair to you. All good things come to an end".

Joe Jackson firmly left down the brown envelope on the front of the little stage at the end of the ballroom nearest the bar. He silently came back from the empty bar with a bottle of brandy in his fist, the other hand with the four glasses. He poured four shots from the bottle. He picked up his own glass. "Good luck lads", he said, "and thanks for everything, all the craic." They all finished their shots in two swigs and left down the glasses in a broken line, the last tears of liquid weeping down their sides. Jackson was about to say something but then did not. He shook hands with all of them and took the bottle and the glasses back to the bar to lock up.

The Rattlebones brought their equipment out the side door to the van. They closed the side door behind them. They did not come back to the front door to say goodnight to Joe. The words had all been said. When they got to Jason's house they left all the equipment except

Murtagh's saxophone in Jason's garage as usual. Murtagh opened the brown envelope. It contained 150 euros in cash. He divided it equally between the three of them. They did not speak at all. Jason just nodded his head before heading towards his front door. There were tears on his cheeks. Murtagh dropped Tommy off at his house a half-mile down the road. Tommy shook hands with him formally and shook his head from side to side and he said, "Dammit we had a good long run at it all the same". And then he was gone.

Murtagh Toole drove the last three miles home up towards The Commons slowly and carefully as always. He switched on the radio to disturb the train of his thoughts because they were sad ones. The voice of Johnny Cash came harshly sweet over the airwaves. "May the circle", sang Johnny, "Be unbroken". It's broken now, thought Murtagh to himself, it's broken now because The Rattlebones are now off the road. Their biggest night, he thought, was the night they played as support to Jim Reeves the country singer all those ballroom and marquee carnival nights ago. They were in their heyday then and they had the good crooner Tony Fagan singing with them. He was on his way up to the top at the time. He was a real crooner that sounded a bit like Perry Como and he was good-looking and the girls loved him in his blue mohair suit and red shirts.

For the three years he sang with them on the showband circuit they were in action five nights a week and they were called Tony Fagan & The Rattlebones. They even thought about making a record and would have, too, only a Dublin outfit offered Tony Fagan the kind of wages they could not match and away he went. But there were thousands

in the Limerick ballroom the night they played support for Jim Reeves, and Fagan sang better than ever he sang before and that was the best night of all. And the night when they were paid more than they normally earned in two. And the night that Murtagh was photographed with Jim Reeves, his smile as bright as the glinting saxophone on his chest.

And then the bottom dropped slowly but steadily out of the showband circuit along the "dry" ballrooms, called dry because they did not sell alcohol. And the discos came in the towns, the discos and the nite clubs with their late drinking hours and flashy DJs. And these killed the summer carnival dances in the big marquees in the small

parishes where the Rattlebones had always earned their bread and butter. And the big ballrooms closed one after the other. Soon there were only the small halls, often parochial halls, which were what had existed in the era of the sit-down orchestras which preceded the showbands. And for the last ten years the skeleton of The Rattlebones, who once were seven strong, had been surviving by playing for weddings and socials, and, every Sunday night, in The Juneflower. And now that was over too.

On a sudden whim Murtagh Toole swung off the main road and diverted for a little more than a mile to Doonard Cross. There was a rusty old corrugated building just past the cross. It looked ready to collapse. He remembered when it had been their parish hall, brightly painted, the hub of every event in the parish. It was here, at a parochial concert, he had played his saxophone for the very first time in public. He was thirteen years old and everybody thought he was brilliant. He'd played "Yackety Sax" which was a big hit at the time. He'd made only two small mistakes.

He got out of the van. He opened the saxophone case. He took out the instrument. It glittered in the moonlight. He stood in front of the empty old hall and he played "Yackety Sax" again, the notes absolutely perfect in the clear air. Just once he played it and then he put the saxophone back into its case and turned the red van and drove home.

And that was exactly how The Rattlebones finally went off the road.

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