“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.
People with meadows further along brought their load along the river bank because it was more level, except for one place where the only way through was very close to the river, with uneven ground sloping down towards the bank. It was a dangerous place and with the high load of hay it was very risky. That gap could have been made safe with a spade and an hour’s work but nobody bothered. Paddy McCann, who didn’t have a float, was coming with a top heavy load of hay and when he came through the gap, it keeled over into the river.
When James arrived at the spot, everything was on its side in the water with the horse being strangled in the harness. He and Paddy managed to cut the horse free but when it got free it struck out for the opposite bank, which was too high for it to climb on to.
So James took off his shoes and swam across, got the reins in his teeth and swam back again with the horse behind him. It was a very brave action, because those big hooves were pounding very close to him. The bank was much lower on our side of the river and when James got back with the horse, the two men were able to lead it out safely onto the bank.
When asked about it afterwards, James just said, “I used my side stroke,” as if everybody should know that nothing would catch him with his side stroke. It was an act of great bravery. He and a few others used to swim in the canal at the high bridge and it was deep enough there for diving and James was indeed a very good swimmer. It was lucky that he was there.
He did come back from America about twenty years later on a holiday, but I didn’t see him. He was a hero all right, when hero meant something. Not like today, when people are called heroes for doing their job.
A year or two after that, Charlie arrived – a middle aged man who was like a father to us, especially to Shamey. Shamey loved Charlie, and each Sunday, at King’s Island chapel, the two of them would be seen standing together chatting, and that continued until Charlie retired many years later.
In the summer, when he arrived at eight o’clock in the morning, he would hang his jacket on a nail beside the stable door and when we got up to start getting ready for school we would run down to look in Charlie’s coat pocket, where there would be a few lovely sweet apples from Charlie’s garden.
He was our friend and mentor and he knew how to handle young lads. If we were gathering potatoes in the cold frosty mornings, no matter how many clothes we had on we would still be cold, especially our hands. Charlie was all right, because he was digging with the spade, but we stood there picking up the cold spuds and our little fingers were numb. But Charlie would start, “I remember one day me and Harry McCormack were on the three o’clock shift,” and he would start to tell a long story of his life down the coal mines in Scotland, because that’s where he had worked before. It was only in later years that I realised that he was just keeping our minds off the mind and body numbing job that we were doing.
In the early years when he finished work he came in and had his tea at six o’clock and then settled back to smoke his pipe. Shamey would climb on his knee and Charlie would stay with us, probably until about nine or ten o’clock, and then off he would go home and be back in the morning at eight. I never wondered then what his wife thought about that, but they seemed to get on all right.
Charlie was a steady, hard-working man, but he was a great talker. If he met someone on the road he would forget himself, especially if they were discussing the war. So, if he had a wheelbarrow, he wouldn’t put it down on the ground, but would adopt a kangaroo squat with the handles of the wheelbarrow on each knee. In his mind he wasn’t idling and he could stand like that for ages. I think he lost track of the time altogether.
He had a cure for everything. For a boil, of which there were a lot at that time, it was onions. To kill a tree it was bore a hole in the trunk and put a clove of garlic into it. I tried that recently and it didn’t work. He would always say, “That’s the foremost cure.” He showed us how to set snares for rabbits and hares and even for rats, which was ingenious, because the rat would be left hanging in the air like on a gallows. I’m sure it would work, although I never tried it. I probably would have done so if I could have sold them for a shilling a piece.
When Charlie retired we all missed him, not only because he was a steady worker, but also because he had become part of the family.
Chapter Three
Life, when I think about it, was really quite primitive in my childhood: we had no electricity, no running water and outside toilets, the chemical type if you were so lucky. The roads were just rough cut stones and people in the bogs had ramparts made of soft moss where the turf was stacked to dry. These ramparts were lovely to walk on in the summertime but were mostly flooded during the winter months, hence it was a precarious existence in the bogs at that time.
Nearly everyone was honest and those that were not were well known. Everybody’s door was open and people usually walked in and sat down.
We carried our drinking water from a communal pump at the corner. The handle had to be pumped up and down and was quite stiff. Frances would bring two buckets of water down in the morning and fill the crock in the scullery.
A family lived
beside the pump and their mother was called Rosina. She wasn’t very strong and I think she relied on Frances to pump the water. So as Frances walked past her window, sometimes very quietly if she was in a hurry, she’d hear the little ones shouting, “Fassy’s at the pump, Fassy’s at the pump, Mammy,” and out they would come with pans and buckets to fill. When Frances was busy she was really annoyed.
Rosina was a great dressmaker and was very much used for altering hand-me-downs. My mother had one of her coats altered for me. It was brown and had a sprung waist. What I looked like I can’t imagine, but in the country nobody cared.
Everyone seemed to know each other’s business and nothing was private. I remember a young chap called John Joe got a new pair of dungarees. They were much too long, as all dungarees seemed to be at that time, and had to be altered by Rosina. Next thing I knew we were running behind him singing, “Big dungarees, Big dungarees. Go to Rosina’s and get them sewn up, Big dungarees.”
Frances lived with her uncle Jemmy Campbell and Aunt Kate on a small holding that was mostly moss and yielded good black turf, which Jemmy saved and sold in the towns and houses, where it was much appreciated.
Jemmy was a real character. He always wore a hard hat, both in winter and summer, and was known as ‘The Hat’ or, occasionally, ‘Jemmy the Hat’. They lived on the main road to Coalisland and their hobby was noting every car or vehicle that passed by, and they wouldn’t rest until they had identified any strange car that they saw.
“That’s a traveller going to Magennis,” Frances would say.
“The divil blow me, it didn’t stop,” Kate would say, scratching madly at a hole in her cap whenever she had a problem.
Jemmy had a habit of making a noise with his lips expelling air – “Buh, buh, buh,” he would say. And sometimes he would say “bhuh” more quickly. When he set off for Dungannon on a frosty still morning, we could hear the horse’s shoes striking the road, the cartwheels rattling and Jemmy going, “Buh, buh, bhuh,” until he went over the high bridge across the canal and the sound faded away.
“That car went down the other day,” said Frances. “And Mrs. McCann’s expecting.”
“The divil blow me, you could be right,” said Kate. “It would be that new Dr. O’Kane.”
“Buh, bhuh,” said Jemmy. “Wet that girl.” That was his way of requesting his tea.
Kate also made a murmuring sound like she was humming a tune very low. Jemmy and Kate were quite a duet. We could walk in anytime and would always be welcome. They were very kind to us.
On Sunday morning, a card school took place in Jemmy’s cart house. The cart was sitting with the shafts on the ground and the regulars were not all neighbours for some came from a mile or two away. Jemmy, wearing his hard hat, would sit on the middle of a shaft and the game, which was played with five cards, was called ‘15’. The ace of hearts was the best card in the pack, followed by the deuce. Three tricks won the game and each trick counted five.
About eight or nine players gathered around a piece of board between the shafts, and when they started playing the cards came flying around and around without a pause to take the tricks. It was a non-stop fast game, because whenever the trick was won the dealer immediately played the next card, without the tricks being lifted, and away they went again until the last card had been played.
Then Jemmy would say, “Buh, huh. Scowld the game,” and everyone would call out his score.
“I’m a trick.”
“I’m ten.”
And so on, until a discrepancy would appear and the arguments would start. Once it was sorted out maybe a second argument would take place.
“Why did you hang my king? You shouldn’t have hung my king.” I never knew what that meant.
The scores were sorted out and if there was no winner, the cards were dealt again and started flying around with the same speed, until someone won and they all threw their hands in in disgust.
I never knew how games started at school or who started them. Suddenly every spring we were all playing marbles and for a hectic few weeks that was all that mattered. Then as suddenly as it had started, it stopped and we were then into hopscotch, which we called bedsies. When that was over the skipping ropes would appear.
We had a game called ‘Draw a bucket of water’. I think four would hold hands and chant, “Draw a bucket of water, to drown a lady’s daughter, one in a rush, two in a bush, please young lady step under,” and we would lift our joined hands and bring someone from behind us. We would repeat the song until everyone was inside then we would jump up and down shouting, “A bag of rags, a bag of rags,” and we would all fall down laughing. I don’t know the meaning of that one.
Another game we had was called ‘Cat and Bat’. This was played with a stick, like an officer’s baton, cut out of the hedge, which we called the bat, and the cat was a stick of similar thickness about five inches long and sharpened at both ends like a pencil. All that was required now was a brick on which to lay the cat, with its end a couple of inches over the edge of the brick. The idea was to be ‘in’ and hit the cat with the bat. The cat would fly through the air and everyone waiting would jump to catch it. If it was cleanly caught then you were out and the catcher was in. Of course, you could hit it long or short, or you could place it on the brick to go high or low, and the catchers would place themselves wherever they fancied. It was a terrific game and cost nothing. I think the EU would probably ban it now on health and safety grounds. Politics!
My earliest childhood memories are vague, which is normal, as we tend not to remember very much from our youngest years. However, when I was still very young I do remember that Eileen Hughes started a camogie team.
Camogie is a game played in Ireland by ladies. Men also play a similar game, called Hurling; in Scotland it is called Shinty. Hurling is very popular in the South and draws capacity crowds to Croke Park in Dublin for the All Ireland semi finals and the finals. At the time, the GAA – Gaelic Athletic Association – was encouraging teams to form in the country districts so Eileen took up the task of introducing camogie to Derrytresk and surrounding areas.
First of all she organised collections in the district. I think everyone contributed and soon she had enough capital to purchase the equipment needed. Many people, especially men, treated it all as a joke, however, thanks to Eileen’s efforts, the Derrytresk camogie team became a reality and the players were soon giving good account of themselves against other teams in the league.
I, being very young, just heard people talking about it and I heard that Tarry’s Brita and Rose Fitzgerald on one particular Sunday had been the best players on the pitch.
Eileen didn’t play – I don’t think she had ever played the game – but she was captain and treasurer and walked round carrying a camogie stick. I can imagine she was an imposing figure on the sidelines. From nothing she had created a team and it was a success to the ladies of the district, but some men took a different view.
One Sunday, three men from Derrytresk football team called on Eileen and asked her could she loan them money, because Derrytresk was short of funds and couldn’t fulfil their match commitments. She must have been very naïve, because she gave them the money and they, and I suppose the rest of the team, went straight to the pub and drank it all.
I heard people telling how the footballers were enjoying themselves in the pub by toasting the people whose money they were now spending.
“Here’s to Ann Doyle’s sixpence,” they would say as they downed another whiskey.
The camogie team died. To the ladies of the district it was a sad loss; to the men, sadly, I think it was a bit of a giggle. Nowadays, women are more emancipated, we hope.
The fall of the camogie team didn’t knock Eileen off her stride. She was nothing if not resilient. First she had been the nurse to Margaret and Eleanor Johnson of Lurgan, and when she called in to see my mother, Margaret and Eleanor would be the chief topic of conversation. Photos would be produced and their progress relayed to my
mother and sometimes they would come down to visit her. She was very fond of those two girls. Then, when she moved to Captain Carson’s house, the standards didn’t drop, and I think Eileen absorbed a lot of the life that was led by those two families, adapting it to her own.
So it was no surprise to anyone when she announced that she was giving a party for the poor of the parish. When we found that we were being included in the poor we were very pleased, and when we saw that the teacher’s two grandsons had been invited as well, we were surprised but happy.
What I recall about the party isn’t very much. I know that we had lots of lemonade and cakes and chocolates. There was no ice cream because there was no electricity out in the country, Coalisland being the nearest place with electricity. Anyone who could sing or recite a poem was called upon to do so. I must have enjoyed it, as I remember coming home and telling everyone about it.
Probably, my earliest memory, apart from being lifted up to see the floods, was playing with Kathleen, which I think we did a lot. I remember playing on the loft steps which were typical of the time, just eight or nine steps and a landing, but without a hand rail, which was really quite dangerous. The reason I remember this evening is because we fought and I bit Kathleen on the wrist, and she still has the scars to this day.
She got her own back soon afterwards, though not intentionally, of course. We were getting ready to play Cat and Bat and Kathleen was sharpening the end of a piece of stick with the bread knife. I was standing in front of her and stuck out my finger to point to where to cut and she cut my knuckle, instead. It was a deep wound and I remember screaming. Of course, my mother would have had the iodine out and onto the cut in a flash, and that was worse. I still have the scar – one inch long – so we both bear the marks of battle. I think it was the four year difference in our ages that made us play together, as Elizabeth, who was just two years older than me, would not have been up to playing with a boy who was boisterous at an early age, I think.
Living in the Past: A Northern Irish Memoir Page 3
