Living in the Past: A Northern Irish Memoir (9 page)

One particular night, Eileen had a date with a taxi man called George, whom Peter knew quite well. George was late and Peter didn’t know he was a date. When he appeared Peter gave him what for.

“Holy boots, what time do you call this? She’s been waiting for ages.”

George just smiled and apologised.

It was about this time that the house where Eileen was nanny was visited by a burglar. Eileen was alone with the children babysitting when a man appeared from nowhere and he said, “If you show me where the jewels are kept, I won’t harm you.”

“I’ll give you jewels,” said Eileen and she lifted a cut glass tumbler from the sideboard and hit him over the head with it, then called the police. Her photograph appeared in the paper the next day. That was Eileen.

T
here were so many characters in our neighbourhood. Nearly everybody developed their own little ways and habits, most of which were amusing and enjoyable.

My cousins, John, Joe, James and Ellen, lived with their mother, Maggie Magennis, my Uncle Peter having died prematurely. Maggie was of the old school and still wore a shawl when going out to town or to church. A few older ladies did still wear shawls and I can also remember Jemmy Campbell, The Hat, sporting a fancy green coat – perhaps, it was called a frock coat – very ornate and gathered at the back with pleats and buttons. It was his Sunday coat and he had a special bowler for Sunday, as well.

Maggie was a shy person who was kind and friendly to talk to, but had an unusual way of telling anything. She didn’t like naming people or things, almost as if that was too open and easily understood. I wondered if it was something to do with the British occupation. Maybe she had been told to be careful with names and what she said, just like in war time later when “Don’t forget that walls have ears” posters appeared. At any rate it made her very amusing. She would walk to Coalisland and back, carrying her shopping, and that was about three miles away. Then she would tell you, “I got a bit of thing for him, went to him with the hat, them ould dogs.” As her eyes were always running, she would be rubbing the corner of each eye alternately with her fingers, right and left, punctuating each phrase.

Frances would translate for me when I told her. She said, “She bought cheap meat for John’s dogs, from Tomney the butcher, who always wears a hat, and she is fed up with John’s dogs.”

She never referred to any of the boys by name, she called them all him or he, and the boys did the same, but I think she referred to her daughter as Ellen. This was very confusing and I never knew to whom any of them was referring. I found that each got impatient and angry if I pressed the point, as if I was just being obtuse, so I learned to settle for an educated guess.

Maggie didn’t own a radio but we had one that sat on our window sill. One day she asked me, “What did that old boy in your window say about the weather?”

In later years, when there was only John and James left, my brother Shamey told me that he used to press John when he said him meaning James, to make him say the word James.

Shamey would say, “But who, John, who do you mean?”

And then he would explode with, “James,” as if he were having a tooth pulled.

Everybody walked or cycled to the towns, which, as I’ve mentioned before were three and seven miles away, as we didn’t have any public transport until the war started and then things began to happen.

Maybe we weren’t worthy of such luxuries, but war changed all that. Soon the countryside was covered with troops training, a new aerodrome was being built along the lough shore and everyone had a job either at the aerodrome or rebuilding in Belfast, which was heavily bombed.

Petty hates had to be forgotten and a bus service began from Derrytresk to Dungannon via Coalisland. Oh, there was some excitement then, even though it only ran one day a week, on Thursday. The old ladies never missed the bus and the tales that followed those trips were good entertainment.

On the first day there was a lady called Jane and when the conductor asked her what ticket she wanted, she said, “There and back.”

Still in a good humour, as it was early in the day, and he had no idea what naivety he was going to experience, he said, “Oh, we’ll get you there and back all right, but where are you going?”

“I’m going with you, so I am,” says Jane.

“To the town, then,” he said.

“I am,” said Jane.

“Is it Coalisland, then?”

“No, it’s not the Island. Sure, I could walk there,” said Jane.

“You’re going to Dungannon, is that it? That will be 1/3d then.”

“No, it’s not. I’m not going all the way – just nearly there.”

“Where exactly is the stop you’re going to?”

“Here as you go in, on the left,” said Jane.

“Is it a shop, you’re going to?”

“No, it’s not,” said Jane, with a tolerant smile and wondering at his stupidity. “It’s a…” and she looked over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “It’s a bank,” she whispered.

“It’s the Northern Bank – that’s where you’re going. There’s a stop right outside it,” said the conductor.

It seems Jane was embarrassed. People kept their affairs very quiet. Even to have a bank account would be a well guarded secret. Somebody might get the idea that you had money and that wouldn’t do at all, at all.

She got her ticket and was very subdued for the remainder of the journey. When Jane got off the bus with her travelling companion, she said, “You go and do your business and I’ll do mine,” and she waited until the coast was clear before entering the hallowed portals of the Northern Bank. To have been a fly on the wall at the counter would have been a treat.

That bus was full up every Thursday and later the service was extended throughout the week.

Dungannon was a good shopping town with shops such as Alexander’s drapers and Fred W. Robertson hardware in the Square. My father had accounts in these two shops, as he bought clothes and farming implements from them to retail in his shop.

Across the road was Marshall’s Chemist next to Burton’s Confectioner and McAleer’s Hotel on the corner of Thomas Street, which Eileen had often mentioned in her accounts of her soirees.

At that time, pubs had snugs leading off the street where, if one wanted privacy, there was no need to enter the pub proper. The customer just slipped into the snug and the barman, who was always the soul of discretion, would slide back a panel, take your order and serve you your drink.

I remember my mother and my aunt Maggie went to Dungannon, which is the only time that I can remember they ever did, because they lived a few miles apart, which is a long way if one is walking. They both returned about 4:30 in the afternoon and I noticed that they were a bit flushed and giggly and I discovered that they had slipped into a snug in Scotch Street. It was at the corner of Shamble Lane, which was very convenient because if anyone noticed someone turning into the lane they wouldn’t know where they were going, as the snug was only a few paces away and easy to disappear into. So they had a half one or two and came out again feeling all the better for it. At that time it wasn’t done for ladies to go into a pub without a chaperone.

At the beginning of the war, I suppose in 1939, a new force was formed called the B Specials, or B-men, as they became known. These were not like the Home Guard to protect us from Hitler, but to quell the anticipated Irish Catholic uprisings, and they were all well armed. They wore different uniforms than the police and, of course, were wholly Protestant, and their chief activity seemed to be harassment of Catholics.

They would stop us when we were coming home from the cinema or from dances at weekends and examine our bicycles. The following month there would be a list of fines imposed. All our names would be listed: no bell 2/6d; defective brake 5/-; no light 5/-; defective tyre 5/-.

This was harassment of a community, as we were informed it didn’t happen in the Protestant areas. Five shillings was a lot of money at that time and most of the young people would find it difficult to pay. A lot of the B Specials were just ordinary farmers and labourers who were decent enough and just joined it to supplement their incomes. But, there were also those who loved bullying the Catholics.

One of our own men called Alec, who was a bit of a wag and was also always playing practical jokes, made a speciality of staging hold-ups on dark nights. If we were all coming from a dance or church, on bicycles, of course, Alec would be waiting up ahead with a strong flash lamp and wave us down. He would have his trilby hat turned upside down and would proceed to examine identity cards and check bicycles, until one’s eyes got used to the dark and caught on. Then somebody would shout, “It’s only Alec,” and we would all be relieved that it was.

Sunday night was usually dance night. The AOH hall, or Ancient Order of Hibernian Hall in Derryloughin was our mecca every week. It was built on the moss from timber and zinc and it was well run and provided a meeting place for young folks, which was very necessary. My older sisters, Mary, Kathleen and Elizabeth, would go regularly to the Sunday night dance and I tagged along with them probably from when I was about twelve.

There were quite a few of my friends there as well and we just treated it as if it were a school playground. One night Paddy Hagan, a school friend who lived near me, began to play on the drums for the band and the next night he let me have a go and for a while afterwards we took it in turns each night. I suppose the drummer was glad of the break, but Paddy and I loved it and were learning fast. It was quite simple really, with one foot on the pedal of the big drum going boom, boom, boom, to give the rhythm, and then doing whatever we felt like on the other equipment.

We were learning to dance as well and one lad used to take out a forty year old unmarried woman who attended regularly, and I thought that must the thing to do, so I began dancing with her as well. I’m sure she wasn’t a bit pleased to see me coming to ask her to dance, but we didn’t know any better and perhaps, if she wasn’t getting danced, she would welcome it. We’ll never know.

My father would lock the door at midnight. It was a security door and couldn’t be opened from the outside. So if we were late and had to get him up he wouldn’t be pleased. As the three girls went in ahead of me they each got a cuff around the ear, but when I came in with my head well down behind them, he’d just give me a shove.

When we were older we started going over to Mahery, a village that was situated about two miles from Derryvarn where the river joined Lough Neagh. Mahery was on the Armagh side of the river and there was a ferry big enough to take horses and carts and cars across. If the ferry was on the Tyrone side, all one had to do was pull on the rope to the other side and Mahery Hotel was about 200 yards further up the road. It was quite a pretty place: the lake extending outwards with Coney Island and Scady Island in the distance, and the river flowing into it to the left. Mahery’s main attraction to young people was the dance that was held there every Sunday night in the hotel. There would also be dinner dances and it was very popular with all classes.

A big attraction was a bar upstairs, which was supposed to be closed on Sundays, but it did a good trade in spite of that. The dance hall walls were lined with mirrors and on the mirrors was chalked “No jitter bugging allowed”. That didn’t stop the jitter buggers, because the Yanks were stationed in the vicinity and they were a joy to watch, throwing the girls between their legs and then over their heads.

The Yanks came up from Ardbo aerodrome, and other places in Tyrone. They parked their jeeps along the road on the Tyrone side and would go across on the ferry.

They were very popular with girls and also the pubs, as they had lots of money and weren’t afraid to spend it.

One night, two Yanks came strolling up from the ferry, shining, as usual, in their beautiful uniforms, and they asked the yardman, “Say, buddy, can you get us a couple of bottles of whiskey?”

“Sure,” the man said.

“How much is that?” said the Yank, putting his hand into his pocket.

“Ten bob,” said the yardman.

“Gee, what’s that then, bud?” asked the Yank.

“Just a pound,” said the yardman, doubling the price.

“Okay, a pound it is, bud,” said the Yank, but they didn’t mind.

Another incident I witnessed was when a Yank walked his girl, whom he had probably met at the dance, down to the ferry. They said their farewells and he waited and waved to her as she boarded. Then he turned and strolled back to the dance. We were standing nearby and happened to be watching. He put his hand into his pocket and then he stopped and started to search his pockets; his wallet was gone.

“Gee I’ve been robbed,” he said.

He ran back to the river, dived in and streaked across the river with a beautiful fast crawl. We watched as he ran up the road, got his wallet from the girl and walked back to the ferry. As it was a warm night and he was young and fit, I don’t suppose it did him any harm.

A friend told me of another incident at the ferry. The ferry had wooden rails along each side and people would lean on them as they crossed, looking out at the waves and relaxing. But there was one spot where there was a break in the rails and there was a chain across for safety.

On this particular night the chain hadn’t been connected and there was a man there called Patrick who was talking to two girls just at the break in the rails. He had what was known as a posh accent for the area, and after he made some witty remark to the girls he put his hand behind him to lean on the rail but, alas, the rail wasn’t there and he fell back into the river. My friend said he disappeared for a few seconds and he thought, “I’ll find out now if his accent is genuine.”

When his head appeared above the water, he had drifted away from the boat and as he trod water he shouted, “Someone throw me a rope,” with the accent still intact.

We did enjoy those nights at Mahery Hotel. People came from miles around: from Portadown, Dungannon and local towns. It was unique to the area.

I
’ve mentioned that Peter Hughes and his son Jim Joe were completely different characters, but time didn’t heal their differences, it just exacerbated them. I think it was mostly Jim Joe’s fault, as he didn’t seem to be able to tolerate Peter at all. Jim Joe was like the freemasons – everything on the level and on the square – while Peter was more of an artist and hadn’t much time for levels or squares. He preferred growing flowers, weaving baskets and making little summer houses from woven osier rods.

Our houses were within a hundred to two hundred yards of each other, with our farms fanning out radially from each one, and with nothing between us but fields. With practically dead stillness all around we could hear a raised voice like it was beside us. Mary Donaghy, for instance, bringing in the cows sounded so clear it was like she was standing beside us.

“Come on, you old bugger,” she would shout, and you could imagine her poking it with a stick.

There was no privacy. Jim Joe and Peter both had high carrying voices and when they were shouting there was nothing left to the imagination.

Shamey told me that one morning when he was going to school, which was about a mile away, he listened to them all the way until he closed the school door. The row could start from anything and one massive row started when Peter let the tea boil over.

Jim Joe had a bull calf that he thought a lot of and he decided not to have it doctored with the rest, as he thought it would make sire material. When it reached a certain age it had to be passed by the ministry inspector, but it failed. I remember it well and I didn’t like it myself, although I wasn’t an expert. An order was given to have the bull castrated, which Jim Joe refused to do. He finished up in the law court and was fined, but he refused to pay and was sent to jail where he spent a few days, until Eileen paid his fine and had the bull castrated.

Another time he killed a sow pig – a sow pig was one which had had one litter. At that time they were bought by the ministry, so Jim Joe brought the pigs to the abattoir to have them graded according to quality. The heads were all cut off the pigs and they were labelled and hung up as they were graded.

When Jim Joe got his docket he got a grade two, which he refused to accept. The official assured him that his pig had had a litter and was, therefore, a sow pig, grade two. Jim Joe wanted to see his pig and when he was shown it, he said, “That’s not my pig.”

“Why?” said the vet.

“Because my pig had a head,” he said.

I understand that the row lasted all day, because Jim Joe never gave in and he says he got his grade one in the end.

He was relating this episode in our house one night to Father Regan, our curate. When he had finished, Father Regan said, “Jim Joe, would that not bother your conscience?”

“No, Father, I’ll never trouble you in the confessional with that one,” he said.

So, Peter and Jim Joe continued to row and became the talk of the countryside and, when Eileen came home she got involved, as well.

Jim Joe had built himself a large boiling house with a high brick fireplace where he could boil a huge pot of spuds and other foods for his pigs, of which he had quite a lot. He moved his bed in there and started to sleep there and this quietened things for a while, but not for long.

Left to right: Arthur, 16, Jim Joe Hughes,
and Arthur’s cousin James Magennis

Eileen’s nursing job had finished by then and she came home permanently and did some casual local nursing. She developed severe migraine attacks and took to her bed for days at a time. The rows continued between Jim Joe and Peter and now Eileen, as well.

One morning Jim Joe threw a bucket of water over Kate, his mother, in bed. That night my father decided to discuss the order of the bath with Jim Joe but he only gave him a funny look and decided not to take the bait. Eventually, Peter signed the farm over to Eileen and Jim Joe was disinherited.

Eileen then married a man called George who, of course, had the necessary car, and Jim Joe began lodging with different neighbours and acquaintances. I remember coming home from college at Halloween break to find that Jim Joe was asleep right in the middle of the bed I was going to share with Shamey. Shamey just got into the bed and gave him a shove and said, “Lie over to the stock, boy.” Then I got in and we all slept well.

After Eileen married George and they had returned from their honeymoon, she invited all the local children to another party. My mother didn’t tell us what to do, so I am now ashamed to say, Elizabeth and I arrived with “our two hands the one length”. That was a phrase of my mother’s and meant we had brought nothing. But neither did anyone else, with one exception. Eileen was friends with a family from Tamnamore called Cranson. She invited Sue and Melvyn, for that was their names, to the party. I seem to recall that they were a lot older than the rest of us.

During the festivities Eileen asked us who was going to be the first to propose a toast to the bride and groom. The only toast I knew was toasted bread so I was completely in the dark. Then Sue and Melvyn Cranson stood up and said a little rhyme, which started, “We wish you health, we wish you wealth.” Well, we were all struck dumb until Eileen said, “Who’s next?”

And then we looked at each other, like children will do, for inspiration. Eileen said to the boy nearest, called Joey, “Come Joey, stand and wish health to the bride and groom.” Joey did so and Eileen said, “Now, each one can take it in turn.”

So each one stood up and said, “Health to the bride and groom,” but the pace got faster and faster, until we were jumping up and mumbling, and gradually only half standing up and still mumbling, and in the end just bobbing up until there was chaos.

Eileen wasn’t perturbed and thanked us very much for our kind wishes – a lady to the last. Elizabeth was imitating the toast for weeks afterwards and kept us all stitches.

When the spring came, the crops had to be planted and ploughing had to begin, but we didn’t have a ploughman. Shamey was just twelve years old at the time and Jim Joe was not quite left and not quite at home, so he took one of his little breaks and disappeared for a time, not reckoning on Shamey being able to do anything about it.

Shamey went down to his neighbour Tom Gartland, with whom we were then joined for the ploughing and suggested that they have a go at the tillage.

“Can you set the sock?” asked Tom.

“Certainly,” said Shamey.

“Right, I’ll bring the horse up in the morning,” Tom replied.

I must tell you that Shamey, from when he was a toddler, had a craze about horses and harnesses. He would spend all his spare time harnessing the wheelbarrow, putting in every buckle and clip, and putting the leather reins through all the little keepers etc. and it was all perfect. Then he might sit and drive for a while but soon it would be all undone again and again.

At first, he had been content with the working harness, which was well worn and he couldn’t do any harm. But he now wanted the best harness with the gleaming silver and adornments shining in the sun. These were kept in the outside loft, hanging on pegs on the wall. They were all best black leather kept pliant with harness oil and bright silver polish. I think my father liked to see Jim turned out well in the trap, although he didn’t have the time to drive around now.

Well, he thought the best harness was safe from Shamey but he was wrong. Shamey climbed up the steps to the loft one Sunday afternoon, opened the back door that was never opened, dragged the harness off the wall and pushed them out onto the dung hill underneath.

He had it all worked out because although it was about an eight foot drop onto the dung hill, it was horse manure which is comparatively dry and clean and would brush off fairly well. He would then drag them into the large hay shed and proceed to harness the wheelbarrow as before. Eventually, I believe they had to let him have his way because that is what he lived for at that time when he was a little boy.

That story reminds me of a joke. A man’s mother-in-law, who was a bit posh, arrived at lunchtime.

“What are you doing today, John?” she asked him conversationally.

“Oh, I’m just putting a few loads of dung on the top field,” he said.

Afterwards, she spoke to her daughter about it.

“Don’t you think you should ask John to say manure?” she said.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, mother, I’ve only recently got him to say dung.”

So, to continue with the ploughing story, Tom Gartland brought up his horse, and Shamey set the plough. They took the two horses and hitched them up and Shamey ploughed his first field at the age of twelve.

A few days later, while he was ploughing another field, Jim Joe appeared on the road, stepped in and took over again.

A few years later, Jim Joe, who was sleeping in the boiling house at night, went missing for a few days and no one knew where he was. People began to get worried and eventually Shamey and Johnny Taggart went to Hughes’ to investigate. Shamey lifted Johnny up to the window at night and he saw Jim Joe lying dead in the bed. The post mortem revealed that he had a brain tumour which had killed him, but also accounted for his quirky personality.