Living in the Past: A Northern Irish Memoir (2 page)

There was a big crook and a little crook – the little one for the kettle and the other one for the pots, small medium and very large, which I think my mother and Frances, who was our maid of all work, boiled clothes in.

Frances, who lived a few hundred yards from us, had a more primitive earlier fireplace called a backstone fireplace. In this you could walk right under the chimney breast and look up into the sky through a big wide space. I imagine a lad could have abseiled down it. Instead of a ceiling, a large platform came out from the fireplace and reached a quarter of the way across the kitchen. This was called the farry and on it you threw everything that you wished to keep dry, including the horse’s collar.

By the side of this fire, right under the chimney, the jinny lamp was hung on a nail in the wall. This was a tin about half a pint in size with a spout like a teapot. It was filled with paraffin, the wick protruding from the spout, and when it was lit at dusk it gave a long streaky, smoky flame, which, of course, went straight up the chimney. The jinny would be lit long before the main oil lamp.

Some of the houses still had earthen floors that felt cold on our bare feet when we went in. In later years they would all be concreted over.

We also had a ceiling in the roof, which was unusual, as in most of the houses when you looked up you saw the scraws – fibrous sods cut from the bogs – and the great black oak purlins bearing the roof.

The top end of our house was where we originally had a pub and our wide cindered forecourt, which we called a street, had a double gated entrance so that horse drawn vehicles could drive in and park or turn. I think it was in the early 1920s that the licensing laws were changed, because of the proliferation of pubs, perhaps, and our pub was closed. The only pub in the area then, belonging to Mr. Falls, was about a mile away. I remember my mother was very pleased with this, she said, because she hated the fights that broke out in the street at the weekends. Maybe the liquor was too potent.

When I was small I used to play with a lot of pewter whiskey measures, ranging from the smallest – not much larger than a thimble – to about a pint size. They had a blueish tint and were very ornate. I loved lining them all up in order of size. I suppose there were about a dozen altogether.

My father was in his fifties when I was born and also lame from an accident he’d had a few years earlier, when a loaded cartwheel ran over his leg and smashed it. He had a steel plate down the front of his leg, which fascinated us when we were young and we used to count the studs screwed into it. He always had to use a stick to walk afterwards.

On the morning that my sister Kathleen was born, my father had just got out of hospital and was on two sticks. It was 4th May, 1922. The Black and Tans were proceeding with an operation which became known as the Round Up. They rounded up every able-bodied man in the district and marched them three or four miles into Clanoe, where they herded them into a field. When the officer in charge saw my father hobbling in, he said, “What did you bring him for?” and told him to go home again.

I wrote a little poem on Kathleen’s ninetieth birthday card. She may have been only a few hours old but she was there.

The Black and Tans had arrived in Ireland in March, 1920. A year earlier the British government had advertised for men for a “rough and dangerous task”. Former British Army soldiers had come back home from the Great War to unemployment and happily joined the Black and Tans for ten shillings a day. There weren’t enough uniforms to go round and they wore khaki jackets and Royal Irish Constabulary dark trousers, hence the name.

They set about a programme of terrorism and their atrocities were legendary, so my father would have known not to protest or he would have been shot.

As in England, the upper classes were in agreement about one thing: keep the lower classes uneducated, unable to read and write, otherwise they will be able to see through the myth that they are inferior beings. The cut glass accent was part of this and people respected it as a voice of authority that could be trusted. Not anymore, though. At the time of the troubles in Northern Ireland the press boys coined the phrase, “Please leave your message after the high moral tone,” which they said was recorded on the answering machines in London.

My father hadn’t much education, apart from reading and writing, but he went to night school later on. When we brought home mathematical problems from school, he would do them in his head, but he couldn’t tell us how it was done.

He was easy-going and a figure of authority in the background. If the girls wanted to go to dances when they were young, they would go to Daddy first and he would promise to do his best for them, as my mother was very strict.

I never knew my father as a young man who could kick a ball around with his son, although his contemporaries would often tell me that, in his younger days, he could run like a hare. And one woman called Nellie, to whom I used to deliver flour, would smile at me and say, “Oh, you’re like your dad. Your dad was a bit of lad.”

He looked after the shop all day, every day, and had a man to do the farm work, giving him instructions each morning. Alongside the usual groceries, he supplied the local farmers with cattle, horse and pig feed, as well as sacks of flour as everyone made soda bread. It was delicious and I can still taste it.

He stocked animal medicines and ointments and advised the farmers what to use. He also stocked farming implements, like spades, forks and anything a farmer needed: medicine, knitting wool, paraffin, treacle, salted herrings. These are some of the things I remember. Of course, cigarettes and tobacco were the biggest sellers as everyone smoked. And the sales continued even after the shop closed, for people came down to the house for cigarettes almost until bedtime.

When we were sitting around the fireside at night and a knock came to the door, whoever happened to be nearest would go out into the dark hall and open the door. We could never see who it was, but we could usually guess from the voice and call them by name. It was always cigarettes. “Give us ten Players, Arthur,” a voice would say. I’d go in, get the Players, take the money, drop it into a silver gravy boat that sat on the sideboard and resume my seat. If my father went to the door he would say the same to everyone – “Hello, Juh” – that way he covered fifty percent of the names.

On Saturday, Charlie, our farm man, would deliver loads of animal feed around the country. I went with him, of course, and I got to know about every house and its occupier in the area.

When the cart stopped I’d jump off and run into the house or run around the yard while Charlie and the owner would be unloading. I loved those trips in the summer but in the winter, if I was foolish enough to go with Charlie, I would regret it. Sometimes coming home late on a frosty evening, really cold, the houses would all be lit up and through the windows I could see people getting the evening tea ready, exuding warmth and reminding me that I was freezing and starving. The last mile or so seemed to last forever.

When we came home about six o’clock the kitchen would be bright and warm and the tea would be on the table. The radio would be playing and next we would hear the introduction for
Dick Barton, Special Agent
and I would sit spellbound, while Dick, Jock and Snowy knocked the daylights out of the baddies.

Sometimes, when I got home after visiting all those houses in the surrounding area with Charlie, my mother would ask me what a house was like.

“It was all right,” I would say.

“What kind of kitchen did they have?”

“It was all right,” I would reiterate.

“Didn’t you notice anything at all?” she would say. “You’re not much good to send out anywhere.”

Now I realise how frustrating it must have been, as my mother was very furniture and fashion conscious.

There was a black and white wall with a smooth surface that ran along the road opposite the shop, and on Sunday mornings after Mass, if the weather was good, people would gather and sit on the wall. When it was full they sat along the hedge. I suppose they were just there for somewhere to go or, maybe, for the craic. Craic is a Gaelic word meaning fun which we added to our English vocabulary, because there doesn’t seem to be an English word with the same meaning. Everybody loved a bit of craic. If you complained about someone to my mother she would say, “Ah, but isn’t he great craic,” and that was that. I think it was a form of repartee which is the nearest I can get, but it had to be witty – everyone likes a laugh.

On Sunday evenings another crowd would gather at the corner to play pitch and toss, because the Irish do like a gamble. It would start about seven o’clock and the crowd would get bigger and bigger, surrounding the wide sandy space on the quiet road opposite the shop. One night, my father was late locking up because the trade in cigarettes and minerals and the like was good and he said, when he came home, that there were perhaps thirty men there in the circle, and they were striking matches to see if the coins were heads or tails.

Gambling on horse and dog racing was also a great craze. My father had the weekly handicap books stacked behind the door in his bedroom. These were cross reference books and he could look up any horse and find out its history and past form at any time. When my father was ill and had to get Dr. Girvan from Coalisland, who also would have had a flutter, the doctor drew back the bedclothes and there underneath was the handicap book.

“Ah, James,” he said. “I see, like myself, you study the bible.”

I
didn’t like school right from the first day. Kathleen took me by the hand and told me about another little boy who was starting school that day as well, and what a nice little boy he was, as we walked along. I suppose I was probably crying. I remember we got to the door and when I heard the harmonium playing I bolted and ran all the way home.

School Photo from around 1931
Arthur is 6th from left on front row (no shoes).
Also, on the school photo is ‘The Mistress’, standing left, Kathleen, 9, back row, 2nd from left, Mary, 11, middle row, 6th from left, and Elizabeth, 7, middle row 7th from left.

After that I had to be watched, as I would bolt at the first opportunity. The big boys would be sent to catch me, as well as people in houses along the way. But it seemed I kicked anyone in my way on the shins and I always got home.

Recently, Shamey was talking to a man called Joe Mor who was in Dungannon hospital with a bad heart and he asked him, “How is Arthur?”

Shamey replied, “He’s all right.”

“Well, tell him I’ve still got a black bump on my shin where he kicked me.”

I must have settled down eventually. In the wintertime at school we were given a mug of cocoa about eleven o’clock each morning from a big enamel bucket in the playground. School was heated by two coal fires; one in the upper infants’ room and the other in the bigger senior room. The large room was always cold.

The cane was used a lot and was something one had to get used to. It was part of school at that time and I think it was very cruel when one considers the tiny hands and the cruelty that seemed to be part of the adult culture of the time.

Our school had a headmaster called the Master and a headmistress known as the Mistress, and an assistant teacher who taught the infants up to first grade. The Master had a weakness which was called ‘the drink’ and was a common affliction in Ireland. The Master was a binge drinker, which meant he could go sober for a long time and then suddenly break out and go on the tear, as we called it.

When he showed signs of erupting, the Mistress and her family usually took precautions and watched him closely. Alcoholics can be very clever, devious and extremely difficult to watch. At this particular time they got a friend and neighbour of the Master’s, called Tommy, to sleep in his room with him when they first saw the signs that he had been at the bottle. Knowing he would stop at nothing to get out, they had his clothes removed lest he escaped during the night.

One night, Tommy woke up to find that the Master had disappeared. He rushed to put his clothes on but they were gone as well. The Master was small and squarely built, and Tommy was very long and skinny, so the idea of him being seen in public in his new outfit would have given the Mistress palpitations. Respectability and keeping up appearances were most important.

Members of the family went in different directions and during the afternoon he was located in a pub rendering all of his favourite songs and entertaining the customers, still dressed in his special clothes.

We dreaded him returning to school because he would be in a terrible temper when he was coming off the drink. One morning he came in early and lined us all up to examine our readers. We had to stand in front of him and hold up our reading books as he laid the cane against the page and peered at it to see if the corners of the pages were turned up. Dog’s ears, he called it. Nearly everyone was severely caned that morning – I think I can still feel it.

In spite of the cane there was plenty of fun at school. One day in the reading class a little girl called Mary Ellen couldn’t say ‘the’ – she would say ‘de’, instead. The teacher said to her that to say ‘the’ she should put her tongue out, showing her how to do it. So Mary Ellen said ‘de’ then stuck out her tongue afterwards. Of course, we all laughed and giggled in spite of a fear of the cane.

Another girl called Molly, who was very scared of the cane, wouldn’t hold out her hand for the punishment, or she would hold it out and then pull it away at the last second. She was really terrified. The Mistress told her that she would give her another blow if she pulled her hand away again. So Molly got hold of her left wrist with her right hand in order to keep her hand there but, when the Mistress came down with the cane, Molly jumped back out of the way. The Mistress made another swipe and she jumped back again and off they went around the class room. In spite of the fear in us we all started laughing again. It was very funny to watch.

One day the inspector came and asked some of our class to read aloud poems he selected from our reading books. One girl was asked to read a poem which started, “The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold.”

She read out in a very high confident voice, “And his corsets were gleaming in purple and gold.”

When we all roared with laughter she just stared at us as she didn’t realise what she had said.

The inspector smiled a little then said, “Very good, very good. Now, next please.”

After school, our family of six children normally made our way to Hughes’ where we were always welcomed by Peter.

“Holy boots,” he would say, “But you’re getting bigger every day.” And he would sometimes produce a Victorian penny stained with tobacco, as most of the pennies at that time were, or a sweet. We just walked in, sat down and, as kids do, missed nothing.

Peter and Jim Joe ran the farm but the main thing about Hughes’ was that it was open house to everyone. Tramps and anyone down on their luck came and went at will. Peter would look after them and feed them, and they would sleep in the barn or somewhere around the house.

Mrs. Hughes had her own special tramps with names like Bright Maria, Strabane Annie and Kate Shaw. Mrs. Kate Hughes was a fat woman and she and Peter were not as young as they had been, although Peter was a very fit upright man for his age. The first thing that fascinated me was his gold tooth, which shone like a beacon and made a clicking sound when he chewed. I never tired of watching it.

Mrs. Hughes sat on her especially wide chair in the corner next to the hearth with her snuff box sitting on her stomach. She would share her snuff with Bright Maria when she dropped in for a day or two. Bright Maria had two little sparkling eyes like a bird and perhaps that’s where she got her nickname.

Kate Shaw, a plump lady in her fifties, had long conversations with Mrs. Hughes and they were punctuated by Kate’s favourite expression.

“Well blessed to God and deed by jint,” she would say when she wanted to emphasise her latest tale, of which she had many. Mrs. Hughes sat listening and nodding but she seemed to enjoy it all.

Peter was on best terms with all the dogs in the area for he carried pieces of bread and titbits for them. You would see him take something from his pocket and give it to them and they would follow him everywhere.

He was a keen gardener, growing all his own vegetables, and he surrounded the house with flowers and plants and little arbours overgrown with rambling roses. He would plant rambling roses along the roads as well, and the hedges on the road past our house would be beautiful in the summer. Altogether Peter was a saintly man.

Jim Joe, on the other hand, was a different person. A handy man with brains who could do most anything with building and machinery, but his moods were unpredictable and, over the years, caused many disagreements between himself and Peter.

For ploughing in the spring and harvesting in the autumn, neighbouring farmers would join together. A plough and mowing machine required two horses to pull them, but each farm had only one horse each. This system saved people having to keep two horses just for the spring and autumn. Naturally we joined with the Hughes’. My father supplied the machine and the horse, Jim Joe supplied his mare and himself, as he did the ploughing, in which he took great pride. If his furrow wasn’t dead straight he wouldn’t be happy. Later, when he allowed me to have a go, he described my furrow as “like a dog piddling in snow” and woe to you if you let the outside horse come around too quickly on the turn and injure the inside horse.

But in those early years of my childhood I would come home from school and see Jim Joe and the horses in the field, surrounded by a cloud of seagulls having a feast of fat worms. I would run along in the furrow behind him and the cool clay felt beautiful on my bare feet.

In the wintertime we children wore heavy nail boots, like the farmers and the farm labourers, as our roads were surfaced with loose cut stones and were hard on shoes. In the summer, most of the boys would go barefoot which is something we looked forward to, our feet becoming very tough so that we could even run over the stony roads. My mother tried to make us wear sandals, which the girls did, but I would take mine off and shove them under the hedge. One could not be different from the majority. As we didn’t use the roads much anyway and had a short cut through the moss, bare feet was an ideal and pleasant way to travel as the moss was soft and cool on the feet and was also very clean.

The down side to being reared on a farm was that as you got older you had jobs to do, such as setting potatoes. When the fields were ploughed and harrowed and the drills were opened, dead straight of course by Jim Joe, then seed potatoes would be brought out to the headland and we would each don a sack apron tied around our waist, lift the bottom up and fill it with potatoes, and proceed with the back-breaking task of planting along each drill – one potato for each step. Of course, to children that was monotonous but it had to be done and it was more readily tolerated because we were allowed to stay off school.

There was a lot of work to do, what with the shop and the farm, so we always had a man of all work who could turn his hand to anything. The first one I remember was Pat Connolly. He had a tattoo of an anchor on his wrist which was fascinating to me. He seemed to stay on after work and ceilidh, as it is called, and sometimes my mother would ask him to sing, as he had a nice voice and he always sang the same song: “When the fields are white with daisies, I’ll return”.

He had a very good voice and all the Connollys were musical. I must have been very small because I can remember one night, my mother got me ready for bed and then she said, “Now you must go to the toilet or you might w-e-t the bed,” spelling it out. That was a habit she had with Frances when they were speaking, because little ears pick up everything and repeat what has been said at embarrassing times.

“No, you mustn’t wet the bed,” said Pat.

“Mammy,” I whispered, as she was carrying me out, “I think Pat knows the meaning of w-e-t the bed.”

Another time, when I was having rice pudding with golden syrup on it, which was a great favourite of the family as a special treat, I couldn’t finish it, as it was very filling, but I had seen my sister Mary putting hers on a high shelf in a cupboard and I said, “Mammy, I’m going to hide my p-i-g rice.” I suppose I thought no one would know what I meant and I was very cunning, indeed.

Pat went away to work in England and when he came back home again, he said Hitler was getting belligerent. This was about 1935 and he thought there was going to be a war, but it was another few years before the war started.

I was bigger then and I remember he called in to see us one Sunday when he came home. He was wearing a stone coloured mac and when my mother remarked how nice it was, he said, “That, Mrs. Magennis, is what’s called a swallow mac and it’s lined with teddy bear fur,” and he opened it and displayed the furry lining.

Pat’s successor was James, or Ned’s James, as he was known. James whistled and sang his way through life. He was quite young and I followed him around the farm. I suppose I was about eight or nine at the time. James sang and I sang with him and then he told me that I wasn’t swinging it enough. At that time, everyone was going to the pictures, black and white, of course – Charlie Chaplin and Gracie Fields were the stars – but not us children, of course. It would be years before I would go, but James knew all the latest songs and how to swing it. So then the two of us would be swinging it in the middle of the potato field, hands swinging and body swaying, until he was satisfied that I had got it right.

Then he taught me to stand on my head. We were in the middle of a field one day and I think James was mowing rushes, when he decided to stand on his head. Of course, I tried to do the same but just fell over, so he got my feet and told me to grip the grass with my hands making a triangle with my head, and soon I was standing on my head. After that, I stood on my head at every opportunity. I tried it one day when I was about forty – on the golf course – and I could still do it.

James wasn’t very long with us before he emigrated to America, but he signed off with a flourish. One day I was helping him to bring in the hay from the meadows. We had just got a new hay float, which was a flat low wooden platform with shafts for the horse to pull it and a big cog wheel at the side with wire ropes to wind the cock of hay onto the float. This was a big advance, because previously we had to pitch the hay onto a cart which was very labour intensive. So James and I hopped on the float, James whistling as usual, and went to the Brilla to bring in the last load of the evening. We were just fitting the wire ropes around the bottom of the hay cock when we heard a shout from the river and James went down to investigate while I stayed to mind the horse.