Christmas 1965

I was born into a little terrace house on a street in Belfast.  It had 2 bedrooms, 1 living room, a kitchen, an outside toilet and a bath that hung on a nail in the yard wall.  That yard wall was coated every year with distemper and the bottom of the walls treated with black tar paint.  We had an old black and white mongrel that resided in that yard, he had been rescued from certain death, when my brother called into the dog pound in May Street in Belfast, claiming that he had lost his dog.  He hadn’t.  It was something that he would do on a regular basis.  He would walk into town, call at the dog pound and say “Mister I’ve lost my dog” and when asked to describe it, he would always say “I’ll know it when I see it”.  He would walk along surveying the cages that held the wayward, lost and abandoned dogs looking at only one thing, the date upon which the furry little beings time would run out.  He would always pick the one whose expiry date was closest.  In this case, it was the most unruly black and white mongrel dog that loathed men in working clothes and more especially if they wore a cap.  He would bark in the most ferocious of ways, snarling and growling.  No doubt this reaction was borne from very sad and without doubt horrendous past experiences.  However he was now safe.  We called him Rover and he lived within the confines of our yard walls, even though we had to live with the fact that he could be only ever be let out if on a lead, but he never missed to seize the opportunity to escape when both back and front doors were open.  This was a regular occurrence on bin day, when we had to bring the metal bin through the house to leave at the kerb.  Catching him was another story completely, and perhaps best left to another time.

It was a tiny house, but somehow my parents managed to raise 8 children there.  By 1965, 3 of the children had married and moved into homes and lives of their own, leaving 5 children living at home with our parents.

It was the month of December, one sister had married the month before in November.  My father worked for the Electricity Board and started at 8 o’clock but had to leave before 7 to arrive there on time.  My Mother worked as a cleaner in the Gas Board, which required her to go clean the offices and showrooms before the staff arrived in the morning, so left our home before 6 in the morning and she returned at night when the staff went home.  So both parents had left the home early in the morning to earn money for our upkeep, leaving early morning duties to only remaining older sister still living at home.  She would ensure that my brother was up for work and that myself and my other 2 brothers, who were still attending school, were up in timely fashion, fed, dressed and left in time for school.  She would rise first, put the kettle on for our hot tea, make toast under the grill whilst attempting to wash herself at the only sink the home possessed.

Our living room (like many others) was tiny, the coal house under the stairs had been removed allowing for our 2 seater settee to be pushed back  under the descent of the stairs, giving more floor space.  There was a chair under the window.  We had a Christmas tree in the window, steadied into place with a heavy claw hammer laid across its base, then covered in Christmas paper. A black and white tv, in a heavy wooden case sat upon a shelf made over a housing of the gas meter.  Our fireplace where our mirror was suspended on chains above.  At this time of year the mirror that hung on the wall above the fireplace was adorned with holly and coming closer to Christmas, the children were allowed to write “Happy Christmas” on it with shoe whitening.  Then there was the upholstered rocking chair, at the entry to our scullery, that couldn’t be rocked because there was not enough floor space to pull it out to allow for this.   There were always more bums than seats in our home, and as a child I would often be relegated to the floor to sit, a place that I still favour to this very day.

At this time of the year, we had paper Christmas decorations strung on the ceiling, going from each of the corners of the room meeting at the glass light shade suspended on chains from the light rose in the centre. Each string of the paper decorations were pinned up in the middle as they made their way to the light.  In between each of the streams of decorations hung from the ceiling we had Chinese paper lanterns pinned, that had been sent by an Aunt who was stationed in Singapore with her RAF serving husband.  It was a colourful, glorious sight to a child.  During the month of December, while the paper decorations hung from the ceiling, my Father could not fully walk upright in the living room for fear of pulling them down with his head.

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It’s strange the things you remember.  The night before, Sunday, was the night for Sunday Night at the Palladium and it was the last one before Christmas Day.  A show not to be missed, all Christmassy themed with the Tiller Girls, Dickie Henderson as compere and all the top performing acts of the day.  I always wanted to be a Tiller Girl when I grew up and leg kick in that line up with all the Tiller Girls and then stand on the turning plate  holding onto the letters as it spinned at the end of the show.

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Our day, just like all our other Sundays was spent attending the many Sunday Schools, but at this time of the year, we were singing the Christmas Carols that we loved, spreading the childlike goodwill.   Our feelings of joy and excitement over the impending, much anticipated arrival of Santa in a few days time, among our friends, and indeed within our home, was almost palpable.  Our excitement built through the experiencing the many arrivals of Santa at the end of all the Sunday School parties we attended and the pouring over of home shopping catalogues.  We always headed to the most leafed through section of toys and games, making lists and wishes in our heads, for the many gifts that our parents could never afford, but Santa could.  In reality, our Santa couldn’t afford them either, but no matter what we received on Christmas morning, we loved.  Even my dolls pram and bike that were recycled and cleaned up every year were always a surprise for me.

So, as we retired to our beds that Sunday night, it was with our dreams of what the jolly Santa would be bringing us in a few days time.

My sister worked in the Accounts Department of a drink distribution company called Morton McClure Bottling, that were famous for their “Red Hand Stout”, and Christmas was a very busy time of the year.  The drinks industry was a very busy industry in Northern Ireland all year round, but more especially at Christmas time.  No computerised accounts back then, everything had to be manually recorded and everyone depended on the other to ensure that the correct account entries were made.  So, with this is mind, she decided to rise earlier than usual, so that she could get to work earlier to get started on her heavy workload.  This decision as it turns out was vital, because had she not, I would not be here today to share this with you all.

The next morning, Monday, as she descended the stairs  which led into the living room, to her shock and horror, the rocking chair beside the fire and the entry to the scullery was on fire.  She immediately run past the flames to the scullery and started to fill a bucket in the Belfast sink with water from the tap.  As it was filling, she run to the bottom of the stairs, shouting and screaming for us all to get out of bed because the house was on fire.  Being a Monday morning, typically as school children still do, we tried to languish in bed for 5 more minutes and were oblivious to her calls.  As she was making her way back to the sink to get the bucket, which was still filling with water, someone from outside had spotted the fire, and threw a brick through our window to alert us.  Whilst this action was no doubt done in the true spirit of helping us, it actually made the situation worse.  The cold December winds whipped through the broken window and fanned the flames of the fire enabling it to spread faster where the untamed fiery flames spread across the entry to the scullery and to the settee placed under the stairs.  My sister was now trapped in the kitchen, she could no longer yell to us all sleeping upstairs, as she could not get past the flames that barricaded her way to the living room.  Myself and my 3 brothers were now trapped in our bedroom as the fire had spread to the stairs, and with no escape other than through the old wooden sash window in our bedroom.

My sister who was normally quietly spoken, was now stood in that yard screaming and squealing up to that bedroom window to us all to get out.

The first thing I remember of that morning was being physically lifted out of my bed by my oldest brother.  I was bleary eyed, still half sleeping and totally unsure of what was happening around me.  The room was beginning to fill with smoke.  We could hear other people shouting now.  People who had been on their way to work were shouting at the house telling us to get out, this in turn brought out our neighbours, who joined the swelling chorus shouting to us, to get out.  The front of the house could not be accessed by anyone inside the house, so they could not be sure if we were awake.  I have often pondered how helpless they must have felt, knowing a family that they knew, and with whom many of their own family members played with, were now trapped inside that building which was fast becoming an inferno.  Their uncertainty, their panic, their fears.

Inside that back bedroom, my eldest brother took charge and made sure all of us were out of bed.  We stood there as he told us we would have to jump from the bedroom window into the back yard below.  No sooner were the words out of his mouth, when the brother next in age to me, had jumped through the window, glass, frame and all.  We didn’t know what had happened to him, but removing the window was made more difficult now that it was broken.  Three of us now stood in that bedroom and the smoke was getting blacker.  My two brothers worked at that frame and were able to remove it and they were putting me out of the window next.  I didn’t want to jump from that window.

Even to this day, I still remember absolutely those feelings of the most extreme fear ever.  Although it was only a one storey jump, to a child, it felt like  I had to jump off a multistorey building.  It was a long way down for me.  I was small.  I was only 8 years old and the thought of it, filled me with absolute dread, fear and panic.  I could not turn back, because the flames of the fire, were now licking the doorway to our bedroom inside the house, where the night before I had gone to sleep dreaming of Christmas in the safety of what had always been my home was now, no longer a place of safety.  Sensing my hesitancy my eldest brother picked me up and threw me down to my sister and brother who were waiting open armed in the yard below.  They caught me.

Now three of us stood in that yard with Rover our dog, waiting on our two remaining brothers who were left inside.  The next brother jumped.  He was 14 and had reached that gawky stage of growing.  He jumped.  As we stood there and watched.  In his descent from the 1st floor bedroom, he caught his head in the washing lines in the back yard and was literally hanging there before our eyes.  My sister and my other brother were trying to help him, as I pulled at his feet.  The only brother remaining inside the fiery inferno could not jump from the window until we could free my brother from the washing lines.  He remained inside the bedroom, waiting.  Finally, he was freed from the washing lines and it was my eldest brother’s time to jump.  Just as he was about to, there was an almighty explosion.  The fire had hit the gas supply to the house and the impact of the explosion threw him on his back inside the house.  We stood there waiting, initially, we had run back from the house to the rear yard wall when we heard the explosion, but returned to be under the bedroom window from which we had previously jumped, watching intermittent tongues of fire escape through the same window.  It seemed like an eternity before he reappeared back at the window and somehow managed to pull himself in his dazed state through the window and jumped to join us below.  It later transpired that his leg had been broken by the impact of the explosion and he had jumped to safety with a broken leg.  With the result that he landed clumsily and had to be assisted to his feet.  We five of us, stood there in that back yard where the walls encompassed us.  Our house stood back to back with the houses in the next street and our only way out now was to climb the yard walls to the safety of our neighbours.

I was assisted over the yard wall to the left, and as I perched on that yard wall, I could see our neighbour waiting with open arms to lift me down and my sister followed me down.  The girls climbed over the yard wall to the neighbour on the left whilst the boys went to the neighbour on the right.  One still struggling with having almost hung himself and another with a broken leg along with other cuts and bruises.  Physically, I was unscathed, mentally I was confused, I was frightened.  I couldn’t recognise my life any more.  Yes I knew the people, our friends and neighbours who filled our next door neighbour’s living room, every bit as tiny as ours and they were just so thankful we had escaped.  Then there was the sound of machinery, clanging of a bell, men shouting, the fire brigade had arrived.  The friends and neighbours were making soothing noises and rubbing my head and my arms as I waited for the hot sweet tea that everyone said would settle my nerves.  I wanted my Mummy, but Mummy was at work.

Being December, it was cold and in eager anticipation and fearful that Santa could see, I couldn’t wait to get into bed and be fast asleep to ensure my name was on the “Nice” list so I couldn’t wait for my Mother to get my nightdress, and had climbed into bed wearing my winceyette petticoat reassuring my Mother that it was enough.  It was a pretty pale pink petticoat, with little red roses all over it and a frill at the bottom.  So as I stood there on that very cold December Monday morning, 5 days before Christmas,  barefoot in a winceyette petticoat, a vest, a pair of knickers, and this was all I now possessed in the world in terms of physical items at the tender age of 8.

As I sat sipping the milky sweet tea, a realisation hit me, that despite the firemen being there, our house next door was still burning with the fire and I became fearful that it would invade the house of my neighbour that we now sought sanctuary.  I started to panic, I cried, I shivered.  I wanted to leave, I wanted my Mummy.  In my childish mind, I wanted to be back in the safety of the home that I had gone to sleep in, the night before, but it was burning in flames that were billowing and causing the street that I played in everyday, to be filled with smoke.  I wanted to flee, but I couldn’t leave without my Mummy.  Where was my Mummy?  Where was my Daddy?

As I sat in my neighbour’s home, the fear and panic started to build.  They knew I needed to be as far away from the fire as possible to allow me to calm down, the fire was after all, still raging just next door to where I was now sitting, .  It was suggested that I go to the elderly neighbour of my late Granny and Granda who lived just up the street on the opposite side.  A lovely lady who was always kind to me and my family and we had become her proxy grandchildren, in absence of her own.  So I was led, still barefoot to the door.  The street was filled.  The fire engines, the firemen, all busy fighting to control the fire.  People who had been heading to work, now lined the street watching.  Children who had been on their way to school stopped to watch the firemen as they battled the fire.  They all stood there watching as the smoke engulfed them in the terraced housed street that was my home. There were rumours that, we, the children had died in the fire, so when I stepped outside into the street, there was a cheer.  Just then, an ambulance arrived.  Someone wrapped a heavy coat around me, scooped me up in their arms and carried me to the safety of my proxy paternal Granny’s home.  She set me up on the settee and covered me in heavy coats to keep me warm, whilst she went into her kitchen and made me some more tea,  She was sure a cup of tea with a biscuit would help me.

Within a half an hour, my Mother appeared.  Her eyes were full of tears.  She had to walk past what was her home, which the firemen were still working on and was still smouldering.  The sight distressed her, but couldn’t dwell on that sight for too long, she needed to look for, and find her children.  Because there were 5 of us and we were all sent off in different directions, it was not an easy task to put her mind at rest until she found us all.  As she walked through the door she saw me sat on the settee, and my sister with her hands wrapped around a tea cup for warmth sitting on the chair by the fire.  She sobbed and the tears fell.  Her eyes were red and her cheeks were wet with the tears she cried, every so often, she gave out a silent sob.  It strikes me now, that her silent sobs were masking the screams that must have lay deep inside her, but she suppressed them for fear of upsetting me, her youngest child.

While she had been working, her foreman had come to her and said there had been a phone call and she had to get home quickly.  They could not tell her why she had to get home. She had to walk home, her imagination must have conjured up all and every reason for the urgency and those images and ideas must have increased  the urgency to get home with every step she took.  As she was walking, someone stopped her to tell her that her home had gone on fire and it was the Christmas tree lights that had caught fire, but everything was ok.  She was still a long way from home.

It’s hard to imagine in this day and age how someone could receive such a call and then send their employee to walk home to face whatever it was that awaited them, but those were the times we lived in then.

Everyone rallied around us.  Neighbours gathered to discuss what they could do.  Everything we owned, was gone, we had nothing.  An older cousin who had a girl older than me, gave me some of her daughter’s clothes.  52 years later, I still remember what she gave me.  It was a handknitted emerald green cardigan that buttoned up to the neck and a red checked kilt.  I had never owned a kilt before and I had always wanted one.  Someone produced socks and a pair of black shoes that were too big, but I was no longer barefooted.

People came and went, discussions were carried on in the scullery of my proxy Granny, away from me.  Hushed whispers, then every so often, I would hear my Mother sob again.

My uncle (my maternal Granny’s only son) had died earlier that year in June.  My Granny lived in the same street as us, but had found coming to terms with the death of her only son so hard that she had moved to live with her daughter for a while.  So it was agreed that we would live in Granny’s house for the time being.  The local newspapers carried our house fire as headlines “Four jump to Safety” (which was probably the only accurate part of the story they reported on.  It was reported on the news and a news crew interviewed my brother and I in the back yard of my Granny’s house.  My Mother and Father were too upset to be interviewed.  They zoomed in on our faces as we stood there in that back yard, wearing borrowed clothes.  Rover was now reunited with us, but had to be locked into the outside toilet as the crew were all men and he growled incessantly from within his confines.  I don’t know if it was nerves or not, but my brother and I tried to look all serious when they were asking us questions about what had happened.  The cameraman got ever so close with is camera and the interviewer shoved the microphone to our mouths, it was all too surreal and we just looked at each other and laughed.  We did not exactly make a gripping or pitiful news story, laughing whilst we were being interviewed, even though we stood there knowing, we had nothing and all that we had once owned been burnt to ashes that same day.  My other two brothers had been taken to hospital. One was discharged the next day and the other two days after that.  Cuts, bruises and a broken leg, but all in all, we were all very lucky, everyone of us survived.  We celebrated Christmas in Granny’s house that year, not all of us fitted into Granny’s house, there weren’t enough beds.  It was a different kind of Christmas and Santa still visited.

I never received counselling. No one ever asked me how I felt about that day.  As a family, we never discussed it, because if we did our Mother became so upset, that  we never ever mentioned it.  Even 52 years after the fire, I still cannot fully come to terms with my feelings of what happened to me that day.  My sense of loss of everything that was familiar to me.  My childhood temporarily interrupted.  Everything changed for me that day, but I suppose it was ingrained into me to be thankful that I was still alive and that was all there was to be said about it.

The firemen came to my Mother later on the day of the fire, the only thing that they rescued and carried out of the remains of the fire was the family Bible.  It had been a collective family prize from a local Sunday School and it was the only thing that survived the fire, apart from us children.  The pages had been smoke damaged, but otherwise not touched by the fire.  Through the years those smoke marks disappeared, it is once again in the condition that it was always in, and it is still within the family to this day.  There has to be a message in that somewhere.

Happy Christmas everyone, and may your God always bless you and protect you.

Nothing was rubbish

Today as I am making ready for bin day, I am sorting through my rubbish and I can’t help but think back to my childhood.  The “Greens” people of today would have you believe that it was their idea to recycle, well I’m about to burst their bubble by saying MY CHILDHOOD WAS SPENT RECYCLING.

In our tiny 2 up 2 down, there was a Mum & Dad with 8 children, and we had a galvanised grey bin with a lid which just stood about 3 foot tall and it was sufficient to take all of our rubbish.  Why? because we recycled.  We didn’t call it recycling back then, we called it being wise.

All items purchased in a bottle was returned to the seller when the bottle was empty, as there was a deposit on each bottle.  Lemonade bottles and beer bottles were the big returners.  They were also used a currency.  If a neighbour asked you to go to the shop, they would give you an empty lemonade bottle as a reward for your troubles.  The princely sum of 3d was given for returning the bottles to the shop, and I say “princely” because back then, you could buy a lot with 3d.  You got 4 Walkers Caramels for a penny or 2 chocolate covered caramels for a penny.  You could buy a 5 Boys chocolate bar for 3d, a luxury indeed for a child back then.  We even returned Domestos bottles as you received 2d for those plastics bottles (I think they may have been the first product commercially sold in a plastic bottle).  Old wine bottles were used for locally made pine disinfectant and bleach and there was a 1d return on those bottles.  The locally made pine and bleach were very popular as they were cheaper and the pine disinfectant was the greenest green and could certainly be described as one of the forty shades of green that was sung about our wee country.

When Mum was putting away her shopping, anything that was in a brown (or white) paper bag, was handled carefully and when the goods had been removed, the bag was smoothed out flat, folded and put in a drawer ( just in case it might be needed).  These folded bags were used for many other reasons. One such reason was to put washing powder in when there was sufficient money from the meagre wages which allowed for a wash to be taken to the launderette. This was regarded as a luxury for the Mothers, as it meant not having to stand over the sink scrubbing and rubbing the many clothes by hand, or rubbing the clothes up and down the washboard which skinned many Mothers knuckles, then to be put through the mangle that stood in the yard before being hanged out to dry.  I doubt there is a person reading this, who, as a child, didn’t try to put their hand through the rubber rollers, whilst turning the handle with the other hand. Yes you remember that pain!!  It was somehow less painful if it was your decision, rather than a dare from a brother or sister who would coax you and then they turned the handle.

Mothers went shopping with shopping bags made of hardened plastic, or straw baskets, or a new invention – the string bag.  If their shopping far extended the capacity of their shopping bags, it was put into a cardboard box in the shop and carried home.  The box would be used for many things once inside the house.  My personal favourite was to make a dolls house out of the cardboard boxes which I would play with for weeks on end, adding to it.  Did you know that 2 matchboxes could be linked together to make the appearance of an armchair?  That which is discarded without thought today, were some of my toys as a child.

Egg boxes were kept, and you brought them to the Egg Shop to purchase your eggs, otherwise the purchased eggs were given to you in a paper bag and it was so difficult to bring all the eggs home intact in a paper bag whilst getting the rest of the shopping. So egg boxes were a “must keep” item.

I had two Aunts that lived in Canada and they would send home generous presents wrapped in brown paper, tied up with string and red sealing wax used to secure the string to the parcel.  When they were delivered, there was no delving or diving into the presents ripping the paper as you went.  You stood back and allowed your Mum to slowly remove all the packaging, anticipation building all the while.  Indeed if you had tried to rip the paper, you would be reprimanded, and smacking back then was not the forbidden taboo it is today. So another reason to learn to wait patiently.  The brown paper was then flattened out and folded and put into the same drawer as the paper bags, and the string was rolled up into a ball and placed in the same drawer.  This string was used for “conkers” season for the boys or any other household emergency that required a length of string.

The Rag and Bone Man rode his horse and cart in our streets.  He shouted as he sat on the carriage shouting “Rags, Rags” in a yodel that was all his own.  For a bundle of rags, you received a cup and you also got to stroke the horse as it waited to be loaded with the rags exchanged for a cup.  The rag man wasn’t just given a bundle of old clothes.  The clothes were thoroughly gone through and all the buttons were removed and placed in a tin box, for the “just in case” emergencies of replacing a lost button on a coat, a shirt or a blouse.

If your socks had holes, or the elbows of your jumper were frayed, that was no reason to discard them.  They were darned to repair them and made ready to wear again.

My cousin kept pigs, and he called on all the houses in our area and left a large can which had a make-do wire handle and inside this can, you placed what was called skins, which were used to feed the pigs.  The skins of your potato peelings were put in there, the remains (if any) of dinners, orange peel (if you were lucky to have fruit) and many other left over items edible to pigs were also put inside that can.  The can was placed at the kerb and he collected the “skins” every week and paid 2d to each household. Many young boys would ask to “help” him, as this would be rewarded with a 6d bit.  This peculiarity was given UK acclaim on the programme “This is your Life” when it was revealed by Alex “Hurricane” Higgins sister, Ann, the shame his Mother felt at finding out Alex was helping out my cousin collect “the skins”.

So when the tree hugging lovelies try to tell me how to recycle my rubbish and why it is important to do so, I just smile.  Well its better than asking them if they are trying to teach their Granny to suck eggs – isn’t it?

 

The Rules for Street Football in Belfast of a Bygone Era

1. The boy who owns the ball, gets to pick his team first.
2. Pick an area for the match where a neighbour won’t complain of the noise and end the game prematurely.
3. If a game is ended prematurely, you can go to another area and start playing again where you were interrupted.
4. It is ok to play the same match at several venues in the neighbourhood, due to being “moved on”.
5. Those with jumpers, must give them to mark out the nets.
6. It is allowed to have uneven numbers in opposing teams, and there is no limit to the number of members in each team.
7. It is ok for a footballer to be in both teams, if even numbers are required for the teams.
8. If times are hard and there are not enough boys to play the game, it is ok to have a girl in the team, but she will have to play in goals (unless she is a tomboy and will usually be your star player).
9. The best footballer is also the referee.
10. There is no time limit to the length of the game and there is no half time.
11. If a member of the team is called in for his dinner, play continues until he returns.
12. If all members are called in for their dinner at the same time, one boy must remain with the ball (preferably sitting on it) until the other team members return and game resumes as before.
13. It is ok for a member of the team to leave the game while he runs a message for his Ma and return to the game when his message has been run.
14. Sometimes both teams are allowed to have the same goal and the same goalie(usually when playing against a gable wall)    
15. Sometimes the score can be 100 – 78 (this is totally acceptable).
16. It is ok to stop the game to pump up the football.
17. It is ok to play on until the other team equalises.
18. Throws-ins are only allowed when the ball goes so far out of play that it interrupts the game or gets trapped under a car or up on the roof of building.
19. Spitting is a must but only the better players get to do it more often.
20. It’s ok to let your Ma have a kick of the ball if it means you can play for 5 minutes more. 
21. Only darkness (or the owner of the ball)  can prematurely end the game.
22. You can never leave the game to do homework.
23. If it is an important game, it is ok to play under the name of your favourite player.

24. NEVER EVER FOUL THE OWNER OF THE BALL

    (This is the most important rule of the game).

It’s a Long Way to the Pawn Shop

The Saviours of those in poverty

Two businesses traded in Sandy Row which were vital to the survival of most of the families in the area.  One was situated at the top of Sandy Row and the other at the bottom.  Both displayed the big sign with the three golden balls.  The one at the top of Sandy Row towards the Donegall Road was known as Allen’s, and the one at the bottom was called Warnock’s, but regulars called it Tommy’s.  Warnock’s also had a “new” side, this was where new clothes, shoes, bed linen were sold.   The inventiveness that is driven out of necessity was certainly alive and kicking in the community.

Golden Balls

In one family, the man of the house, was not generous with his housekeeping and kept the wife on a tight rein, for no other reason than to be in control.  At week-ends he donned his best suit to drink the majority of his money in the pub, while the wife stayed at home, struggling to meet the requirements and needs of her ever growing family.  After the week-end he hung the suit in the wardrobe and locked the door with a key, which he carried with him all week, wherever he went, so did the key.  Unbeknown to him, his suit was left in the pawn every Monday and redeemed on a Friday afternoon before he returned from work, placed back inside the wardrobe hanging there ready for his regular trips to the pub.  Only the wife and the pawn master were aware of the travels of the suit through the week, as had her husband found out, it would have resulted in punches being thrown.  He had thrown punches in her direction many, many times before for less.  Then the fatal day arrived which caused her to panic and take someone into her confidence. Her husband was coming home from work early midweek to attend the funeral of a friend and as was the requirement in those days, all the men who attended funerals all wore their best suits. She was beside herself with worry as she did not have the money to redeem the suit on a Wednesday, no-one had money on a Wednesday, although my Mother received her weekly pay packet on a Wednesday, she would not get it until later that night. When she regaled the story, the person asked, “but how are you going to get the suit back into the wardrobe if he has the key?” She knew she could trust this person and replied “the same way I got it out, I took the back off the wardrobe”. As luck had it, the person that she had spoken to had just received that very morning, her maternity grant and was able to loan the money to redeem it and the suit was hanging in the wardrobe in readiness for the sombre occasion. As was the case for most people, they wrapped their goods for pawning in brown paper and tied up with string. The pawn shop had little booths to allow privacy during this trade off and it would be here that the paper and string would be removed, the contents examined. A price agreed and pawn ticket and cash duly exchanged. With regulars, it was the same thing that was being pawned, and to save time, the pawn master would ask “what is it?” and the reply would be “awk Tommy just the usual”, so Tommy gave the agreed price from the many weeks before and business was over until Friday. However, some of the more desperate people saw this as an opportunity for a dual opportunity to trade with the two pawns. So they would go into Tommy’s and when he asked “what is it?” the reply as before would be “Awk Tommy just the usual”, he duly handed over the cash and pawn ticket, only to find that the parcel was not redeemed come Friday, and when the redemption period was up some 3 months later and Tommy undid the string and unwrapped the brown paper, he found that it was not the usual contents but instead a parcel of rags, with no comeback to the culprit. However it may have been for reasons such as this that the pawn master then took to nearly asking what you had for breakfast when trying to pawn an item in the future.

What did you have for breakfast???? ……..

Another strange incident was when an older gentleman of the area, who, brought down every Monday a small rectangular parcel, duly wrapped in brown paper and tied with string to deposit in the pawn and exchange for a few shillings and a ticket. It was taken in every Monday without examination. Every Friday he redeemed it. This practice had been going on for years, until the day that it reached the pawn master’s ears that the depositor had dropped dead. The pawn master decided that he should open the parcel to advise the family of its contents, or not, in case it may have been of value to the family, and he would accept that they would redeem it, due to the death of the depositor. However when the parcel was opened, it was found out that every Monday and Friday the contents of the well travelled parcel had in fact been a brick, the same brick that the houses of the area had been built with, wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string.

Every week the mysterious parcel was pawned & redeemed on pay day

There were some families in the area, where the Mother of the house, who although not regarded as clever enough to hold down a job and were known to, not be, regular payers of tick (credit) had a unique and novel way of obtaining money which required a mathematical brain. Money lending was strict, and once you were know to be a “bad” payer (a jouker) word got around all the other money lenders. I suppose in a way it was like a bank reference for poor people. These people would enquire as to where the premises where that gave goods on credit, and they would then go to these premises who had not known of their previous record and they would obtain on credit, such things as beautiful bedding, canteen of cutlery etc. Upon returning with the goods, they did not immediately return home, but instead went to the pawn shop. they pawned their newly acquired goods for a few shillings, and then they would offer the pawn ticket for a nominal amount, which along with the cost of redeeming the ticket, afforded they buyer of the pawn ticket to acquire goods, for a lesser amount than in the shops. The person was then supposed to pay the goods on a weekly basis, which needless to say, the tick man for these premises were also jouked (avoided).

Sanitation in our wee house

We recycled long before it even became a word

The house that I born into, looked no different from the hundreds of other houses in the area. It was one of many houses in a warren of streets where slate roofs and ever smoking chimneys (called chimbleys) went as far as a child’s eye could see. They were all red brick houses that stood in parallel lines and were back to back with their neighbours in adjacent streets, whose houses were exactly the same, 2 bedrooms, a kitchen (known today as a living room) a scullery (known today as a kitchen) which housed a grey gas cooker, a table and a big white sink also known as a jaw box, into which you could run two temperatures of water, cold and very cold. The square white sink which became known as the “Belfast Sink” occupied all the houses, and in our home that white sink, was used to prepare vegetables for dinners, used for washing the many items of clothing, the water for all the household chores was collected there, as well as serving for a quick wash through the week for the many inhabitants, the weekly washing of the hair for the females of the house, and was used for shaving for the men of the house who had reached that stage in their lives. It was the only place in the house that had running water, apart from the outside toilet. All of this was topped off with a slate roof, an outside toilet placed at the other end of the yard, away from the main house, and a tin bath that hung on a nail on the wall in the yard. in readiness for the ritual Saturday bath nights in front of the blazing coal fire in the kitchen.  The walls in the yard when I was young looked enormous but in reality any adult could see over the yards walls into the other yards, just by standing in the yard, they were probably only built shoulder high.

The Outside Toilet

In those days very little separated the look of the houses from each other. Two wooden sash windows at the front with a front door and two wooden sash windows at the back and a back door which led out into a yard, which housed the brick enclosure which was our toilet, complete with torn up pieces of the Belfast Telegraph and strung on a bit of cord and hung up, which were used to finish off the toileting procedure.  The ready printed toilet paper served as reading material for those who stayed a little bit longer (light and heat permitting).  Wiping the nether regions with torn up pieces of newspaper, ensured that you did not wipe too hard or too long, and always resulted in the print being stuck to your ass until bath night.

Bulk supplies of Toilet Paper

The toilet paper also meant that as you could not totally finish off the toileting procedure with any intensity, most of the underwear remained stained from the lack of proper cleansing until changed.  In winter time, you did not stay in the toilet for too long, as the cold would drive you inside quickly.  The sanitation was adequate for that time, but by no means healthy.  In the summer when you could linger that little bit longer, but you risked the fly’s landing and inspecting all exposed parts, which could be irritating when concentrating on relieving your bowels, or as we called it in those days “having a keek”.

the fly inspecting your exposed parts

The toilet seat was a wooden shelf, which ran from wall to wall across the width of the little outbuilding.

room for the candle

The wooden seat was scrubbed with bleach, hot water, a hard scrubbing brush and copious amounts of elbow grease on a regular basis.  It was by no means comfortable, long periods perched on the wooden shelf could mean walking away from the little outbuilding with the funniest of walks until feeling returned to your legs again. That, and the engorged ring around your ass from the wooden hole that made it look like a bulls eye target. It had a high cistern with a long metal chain which was pulled to send the bodily functions on their way. Those houses who could afford it, had the added luxury of a candle perched on the wooden shelf to allow for some light in the dark evenings to make the toilet procedure a little less hit and miss.

Going to the “”reading room” in the dark

The colours of front doors and window frames in the area were limited to green, brown or a dull red. Window sills were painted white or cream, and it was on these window sills that the empty glass milk bottles were left to be replaced by our Co-op milkman with full bottles, with a little silver foil top that was usually broken by applying the thumb in the middle, denting it so that it folded and allowed you remove it and if done successfully you could re-use this top to keep the milk fresh. There was a darker colour of milk for about 1 inch on the top of the bottle, which if you were in your parents good books, they would allow you to slurp the cream of the milk, otherwise the bottle was shaken before opening to disperse it amongst the rest of the milk, and an absolute waste to my young mind. Some of the children from the homes were the income was low, restricted or spent on alcohol or betting, took to getting up early in the morning and stealing the milk of the neighbours window sills. Some people had their delivered milk stolen on a regular basis.

The streets were dimly lit back then, all green gas lamps lined the streets and the gas lighter came along the streets with his small ladder over his shoulder, lighting each lamp that he passed, by leaning his ladder against the lamp standard opening the glass enclosure, turning on the gas and lighting them. Job done, he would climb back down the ladder and lift it up onto his shoulder and travel onto the next lamp to be lit. The man who lit the gas lamps in our area, had sandy hair and a rugged complexion and was of a grumpy disposition, which was never hidden, especially if you were caught swinging on a rope around the gas lamp he was about the light. We were totally oblivious to the danger of four of us swinging around the gas lamp on a rope, with never a thought that the lamp could be dislodged. We would swing forhours, on those ropes which we looped around the base of the gas lamp, and sat on the rope as we swung.  We swung on those lamps for so long that those who had the luxury of cushions in their homes, would get one and place it on the rope to lessen the welt from the rope on your arse. He had a cigarette attached to his lips which stuck to his lip as he spoke, and he could be seen occasionally spitting out the stray strands of tobacco from it, without the need to remove the cigarette.

The Gas Lighter went from lamp to lamp, lighting them in readiness for the the dark

The area had a smell all of its own. There were many factories in our area, and large chimney stacks which burned all the rubbish and the tall chimney stacks smoked almost all day, emitting the aromas of all sorts into the air that we breathed. If an animal had died the men who worked in the process of burning in the industrial chimneystacks, would be asked to cremate the animals remains, so animals were cremated long before it became normal to cremate humans. The smells changed with the weather. On a wet rainy day, the smoke from the many chimneys blew back down to the street, it smelt sooty, mixed with the aromas of the home cooking of pots of stew, cabbage, turnip and carrots all depending on the season.

Belfast Sayings (not an exhaustive list & may be added to)

Belfast, whilst it may have been very poor in many areas, we had a language all of its own.  The language of the true Belfast people, had a richness and everyone had a unique turn of phrase that would be passed onto each generation. The colourful language of the city, is beautiful, it is descriptive, and has a tendency to be quite cryptic to outsiders.  Some of these sayings are dying out, but many are still alive and well today and still being used.  Here is a list of some of the sayings and language that you may encounter or have encountered in the past. 

 

• Out in hur figure, meant that the lady in question was outside without a coat on.
• Sloppy Joes were T-shirts which were worn by men, and fleet tops were T-shirts worn by girls and women.
• Quit yer gurning, meant stop crying.
• It’s coul out there and it would founder ye, make sure ye hap yerself up well, and put your muffler on, quite a mouthful, but had your best intentions at heart and really meant it is very cold weather outside, so put a heavy coat on and make sure you put your scarf on.
  
• Quit yer skellying, was normally said to a child who was crossing its eyes, or thon hair’ll ge ye a skelly usually meant your hair is getting in your eyes and if you don’t get it cut you will end up cross eyed trying to see past it
• Ge ma head peace for five minutes wud ye?, normally meant, please do not bother me for 5 minutes.
• The snatters were tripping me /her /him /them – can mean several things, such as they had a heavy head cold, or were deeply upset, either way, their facial orifices were certainly very busy
• You’ll get barged, meant you will get a telling off.
  
• Would ye tak a wee drap in yer hand? Meant would you like a cup of tea.
• She’d start a row in an empy house meant, she’s very argumentative.
• Don’t forget your piece, meant, remember to take your sandwiches to work.
• Do you want a piece? Meant would you like a slice of bread
  
• C’mere til I hit ya, translates to, I am angry with you and I so want to hit you, so please save me the energy of chasing you to do so.
• That’ll larn ya, will usually be said in a gloating tone and means that will teach you a lesson.
• Do you want a clout? this is something that you do not wish to answer in the affirmative (unless you have masochistic tendencies) and certainly cannot be regarded as a treat. For future reference please remember, you do not ever want to be on the receiving end of any clout
• She’s gonna nurse, or she fell away both phrases meant the same thing, she is pregnant.
• He’s got a skelp in his finger, means he has a splinter in his finger.
  
• Me heads banging, whilst this might imply something that would be visual, its not, it means I have a headache.
• Away and catch yerself on usually meant, I know you are either telling lies or exaggerating, so please tell the truth. Or it could have been used as a reply to someone making a suggestion which was totally implausible. If stated to you in conversation, exit quickly as it usually means the other person has the full measure of you.
• Most relayed conversations would have started thus, says he to me, or says she to me, which is normally, he/she said to me.
• Which would normally be followed by “says I to hur” meaning I replied.
• Yer heads cut, if this is said to you, don’t bother checking your head, it means I think you are not completely sane.
• Yer heads a marley another way of conveying “I think you are not completely sane” We do tend to have many sayings for the exact same thing, I promise, you’ll get used to it
• Boutcha?,  a common greeting, meaning hello how are you?
• Would ya run a message fer me? Meant would you please go to the shop for me, or to a neighbour’s house.
• She’s away to get the shapping, meant she is purchasing the weekly shopping, however Belfast folk can be a tad suspicious and wary of people asking questions, and sometimes such a phrase will be used to throw you off the scent.
• Drunk as a lord, usually meant very inebriated.
• Houl on, usually meant would you please wait
• Houl yer horses this is an elaborated saying of the above saying, andwould also mean please wait, or let me speak
• I was afeard meant I was very frightened
• Ye gittin? This is something that will be stated to you in any establishment where you require the attention of the person and usually means are you being attended to?
• She was up to her oxters meaning she was very busy, or oxters referred to the armpits. In Belfast, you can be up to your oxsters in anything, and I do mean anything
• Away and take yerself eff, meant please go away and is usually used before a more aggressive tone is taken, and one would be advised to act on this request quickly, as situations tend to escalate very quickly
• Awk she was very fought looking, meaning she looked very worried/haggard/ill – strike out whichever does not apply
• He’s a wee slabber, he tends to say things which would cause an argument
• Dickey yourself up/dickey up the house meant to be dressed up, or decorate the home.
• Rough as Purdy Oaten – never regarded as a compliment as it meant that the person referred to has no manners or social graces.
• This place looks like Maggie Moore’s – This is NOT a compliment, it means the place being referred to is in a  very untidy state.  This saying came about from a very messy 2nd hand clothes shop in Sandy Row who sold 2nd hand clothing to theatrical folk, but it was a complete and utter mess
• He’s a header or he’s a head the ball, you would be forgiven for thinking that ball games are involved and could be thrown if this is said in the absence of any ball, but simply put, it means, not completely sane, in word, action or deed.
• Cowped – fell, usually clumsily
• He was standing in a coat that drowned him.  This has no reference whatsoever to water, it meant his coat was too large for him. This saying can apply to any item of clothing, including shoes
• I was sitting in the middle of my dinner. Does not mean physically sitting on or in your dinner, it simply means that one was eating my dinner at that time.
• Bobby socks, were knee high socks

• Yer donkey, was your fringe, or as the Americans called it your bangs
  Not to be confused with a “donkey jacket” which was a hard wearing coat with pretend leather patches (who am I kidding? they were plastic patches), which was usually waist length and was the desired attire of the working man in Belfast and beyond and would usually be accompanied by a piece box (see above) held under the arm.
  
• Hanging on a nail in Ann Street, usually meant wherever the person’s location, it was none of your business.
• Run off with a kiltie (a kiltie referred to one who wore the Scottish attire of a kilt) however, it also meant that the person’s location was still none of your business
• Browned off ……. Nothing to do with a tan, but simply meant the person was/is bored
• Do you think I came up the Lagan in a Bubble? ……. do you really think I am that naive?  It was adapted to different areas, for those who did not live near the River Lagan, would ask “Do you think I came up the Bann in a Bubble”
• Away and chase yourself ….If this is ever said to you, it does not require any physical exercise on your part, it simply means I have no desire to converse further with you as what you are saying is ridiculous, or can be used to simply convey, “are you serious?”
• She’ll not tear in the plucking, does not refer to anything remotely connected with the world of ornithology, simply put it refers to a woman who’s much older than she says she is or conveys by outward appearance.
• The cleaners – if you have asked a person where a particular item is, this is the reply that would be given if the said item was in the pawn shop or its whereabouts were none of your business
• “I’ll bate ya/she’ll bate ya/ yer Da’ll bate ya ………… each of the aforementioned people will hit you
• I’ll bate the gub aff ye ……. I will hit you very hard about the face
• He bate the loaf affa me ……… he hit me about the head
• She’s a hard faced ticket ……… She could not be described as beautiful and is mean too
• “Jeez but you’re fly”, or “thon’s fly”  This does not refer to any powers of levitation or refer to looking like an insect but instead refers to their ability to be cunning.
• Sit “fornenst” the fire, or you sit “fornenst” me ……… meant to be sitting facing the stated object or person
• It’ll turn into a pig’s foot in the morning … meant an injury sustained is not as extreme as the person is making it out to be and requires little to no sympathy.

In conversation with many people who have lived or still live in Belfast, the list will now be added to

 

• Think another clean shirt will do him – does not mean that the person requires laundry but that he will not live long enough to dirty two shirts
• All fur coat and no knickers, does not always necessarily mean that the person being talked about does not wear underwear but rather meaning that outwardly they like to give a show of wealth, but don’t look too closely as you will see the poverty
• Thon has a voice like a fog horn – Belfast people having their own shipyard knew how loud a foghorn was, so to have this said about you is NOT a compliment, it means you’re loud.  So if this is ever said to you, lower your tone immediately or leave yourself open for more sayings that you won’t have a clue about
• Catch yerself on – no rope is involved in this request, but its more a matter how confident you sound in what you are saying, but the listener is very aware that what you are saying is utter nonsense
• Do you want a poke? – please do not be alarmed if you are in any part of Northern Ireland and this is asked of you.  It is not a sexual innuendo, nor a threat, but an invite to partake of a scoop of ice cream in a wafer cornet
• Do you want a slider? – again do not be alarmed, this too is an invitation to partake of ice cream, but this time the ice cream is sandwiches between 2 wafer slices. We do tend to be inventive with our ice cream
• You’ll get your arse skelped – please be warned, this is not something that you would wish to partake of (unless you have masochistic tendencies) as it entails having your nether regions smacked, usually quite harshly
• Thon one would drink outta a shitty rag – would imply that the person being talked about might have alcoholic tendencies and would drink out of anything and everything (and usually does or did)
• Up yonder – this would be a reply to the question of asking one’s whereabouts, this reply would be used when not wishing to be specific and almost implies “mind your own business”
• Let them run on – this has nothing to do with instructions for a race or competition, but instead refers to treacherous acts of “would be” friends and this is advice to forget about them
• Pity thon shit or they could be in the waxworks – meaning the person is little use to anything or anybody and if it hadn’t been for their bodily functions, they could quite easily pass for an exhibit in the waxworks
• He/she wouldn’t give you the steam of their piss – this does not mean that the person stating this has a fetish for urine, but simply put, that person they are referring to, is mean.
• He/she wouldn’t give you the skin of their shit – see point above – this person is also mean.
• to travel, or eat, or work like two men and a wee lad – means that a lot of effort has been put in, they run very fast, they ate with great gusto, or worked very hard.
• He’d eat the pattern off a plate – Does not mean that the person contains some special powers to remove patterns from crockery – but simply that they have a large appetite and rarely leaves anything on the plate.
• I’ll give you something to cry about – not something you want to have said about yourself, it usually means self indulgence or great self pity and that the person is ready and, can (and will) give you something that you really can cry about.
• Don’t come running to me when your leg’s broken – A simplistic but graphic way of saying “Pay attention to what I’m saying as  I don’t want to have to tell you, I told you so”.
• Your arse is out of the window – what you are saying is absolutely ridiculous (you will have noticed by now,  that there are various colourful ways of expressing the same sentiment in our wee town.
• You’ll be laughing out of the other side of your face – no, your mirror does not lie, instead, this is a warning of extreme pain ahead.
• He/she thinks she’s no goats toe – means they think they’re better than they really are
• Aye if I ate coal dust and had a square arse I’d shit coal brick – meaning I do not have the wherewithal to accommodate your request
• He’d eat the beard of Moses – does not mean that the person has special dietary requirements, but just that the person is very greedy and would not care what they ate (however, if you ARE sporting a beard, keep your distance just in case)
• Her arse was making buttons – No the people of Belfast are not talented in the same vein as Benidorms’s “Sticky Vicky” it is just our way of saying that the person concerned is dying to find out some gossip, or very excited
• He’d steal the eye out of your head – No, despite Burke & Hare originally hailing from Northern Ireland, we are not really interested in body parts, simply put, he’s an accomplished thief
• He’d steal the eye out of your head and come back for your eyelashes – As above, he’s an accomplished thief, but, with a brass neck to match
• He’d eat Christ’s Church – He has a hearty appetite verging on greedy
• He’d eat Christ’s Church and then pick his teeth on the railings – He has a hearty appetite which certainly verges on the greedy side and is not embarrassed about it either.

Spastics and Cripples

Most boys in the area were given a nickname, such as Skipper, Spud, Winky, Dodger etc as most of the boys and girls in the area all had the same names (being named after the Father, Mother, Aunts, or Uncles) and this was what differentiated them from each other. I remember one guy, who did not appear to attend school, but his Father had taught him skills to ensure his survival. He only had full function of one hand, the other seemed claw like. All the fingers were there, but I think there must have been a form of paralysis in the fingers. Only one of his feet could sit flat with the ground, his other foot, due to his knee being in a permanent locked position, only his toes came in contact with the ground, which meant that when he travelled, it gave him a hopping gait. He was known as “Hoppy Harry” but to my young mind I thought he was called “Happy Harry” and this was what I called him. He stopped often on his travels to rest, by leaning against the wall. I think now with the wisdom and education through the years, Harry may have been a sufferer of what is known today as Cerebral Palsy. Although Harry had disabilities he also possessed entrepreneurial skills, and looking back I cannot do anything but remember this young man with total and utter admiration. He had an old pram, and it was with this pram that he went out looking for wood, one hand on the handle, hopping along, and at the end of his quest, he would return with the pram laden with wood to his home, still one hand on the handle and hopping. He would bring the wood out into the back yard of his home and chop it into sticks, which he bundled together with an elastic band. I think his Father may have helped him. I know his Father would carry out repairs to the pram, if it ever broke. Many a time I saw the pram upturned on Utility Street as his Father replaced wheels or repaired the chassis. He would then load the bundled sticks into the pram and he would go from door to door selling them. He was competition for the corner shops, and his price was lower. I think Harry also went further afield, such as the Lisburn Road and Malone Road, where wealth was more plentiful than in our tiny streets, and he may have charged more in the affluent areas than he did in his own.

It may seem cruel that Harry was given such a name, but back in those days there was no such thing as being politically correct or incorrect. People, who did not look normal, in those days, were called “Spastics”. A totally horrible and politically incorrect terminology today, but an organisation was formed, which was called “Spastics Society”. It was quite innovative, in raising money to help these “Spastics” find work, and also found leisure activities for them. My Uncle Billy ran what was known as the “Spastics” Pools, which my Mother contributed to on a weekly basis, and we won many prizes with the Spastics Pools. I remember my Mother winning a tray, considering how we all ate our dinners perched on our knees, and a sole tray was insufficient for our needs of all the inhabitants in our little abode. A stool sat in Aunt Kathleen’s house which was cream plastic leather look with chrome handles which she had won. It would be known as retro by today’s standards.

There were three types of “disabilities” back then although the word disability was certainly not in our vocabulary. Spastic, usually meant that the person could do very little for themselves, Cripple usually meant that their walking, or ability to move their hands was hampered and then we had the “they’re not right” meaning that they had a mental health problem. Life was simple, and tags were few.

Also situated in our area was a place called the “Cripples Institute” and it was here that disabled people who were known as “cripples” found work, when no-one else would employ them. The Belfast Cripples Institute originally began in Utility Street and in the 1960’s occupied the corner site of Sandy Row and Donegall Road, adjacent  the Clock Bar. There was a connection to the Felt Street Mission Hall. I remember in particular that they mended shoes, and I think they made baskets also. So, odd looking people to us in the 1960’s were not really that out of place in our area.

Across from the Carnegie Library on the corner of Donegall Road and Utility Street, there were houses facing it, which although there were railings on the side of the pavement, beyond the pavement, there were also houses that ran alongside the railings, but were built at a lower level to the pavement on the hill and had a separate pavement at the lower level too. Whilst at the top of the hill, you were on a level with the bedroom windows of about the first 3 houses. In one of these houses lived a little woman called Minnie. Minnie was very small of stature, almost dwarf like. She also had an enormous goitre. She had black hair, and a hairy chin and upper lip. She had very tiny feet and always wore tiny black leather boots. Despite all this Minnie lived an independent life. A kindly woman who lived in Hunter Street called Doreen wore what was known as a “built up boot”. One boot would be a normal boot that anyone could have worn but the other would have a wedge sometimes as big as 9 or 10 inches. They were issued to people who were born with one leg shorter than the other, and the built up boot compensated for this and gave them the opportunity to walk almost normally. I say “almost” normally as they usually walked with a dip. Looking back, the difference in their legs must not have been measured accurately or were measured whilst they were still growing and were never updated. These boots were always black or an orange brown colour. They were heavy and cumbersome, and the built up boot must have been very heavy to lift with the shortened leg, but these boots were worn winter and summer, there was no summer alternative to the built up boot.

Also at the lower end of Donegall Road where it met with Shaftesbury Square, there was an elderly gentleman who several times a day was sat on a wooden chair at the corner of Combermere Street on the main thoroughfare of the Donegall Road. He sat on the chair wearing a pot on his head, which he wore as a helmet, and a long army overcoat (in all weathers) with a big pot on his knee which although there was nothing inside the pot, he would use a dipping motion with a big white handkerchief into the pot and then place it around his mouth and nose. It looked quite distressing and totally out of place, especially on a summer’s day, and when I asked my Mother why he did this, I was informed that he was “shell shocked”. I accepted this and asked no further questions, although I would put as much distance as possible between me and him should I have had to pass him on my travels, whether it be with my Mother, my friends, or alone. In later life whilst recalling memories of this man, my older sister told me that there had in fact been 2 brothers, both of which were shell shocked and in their minds to keep them safe (even though the war was long over) the two brothers, took to digging a trench right outside their homes in the pavement. They removed the paving stones placed to form a pavement, and dug into the muck and soil underneath. When the trench was completed to their military minds, they would both sit down in their self styled trench with a pot on head and a pot on their knees dipping their handkerchiefs into the imaginary contents. It is without doubt that many a reveller returning home from Mosie Hunters (Moses Hunter Bar which occupied the site on the corner of Donegall Road and Bradbury Place), no doubt found himself down this hole which was probably the reason why the brothers were convinced that the self styled trench was not a good idea and in fact a danger and hazard to the people of the area.

A Death in the Community

Thinking back to my childhood in Belfast in the early 60’s, few people went into hospital. Most people died at home, and there were women in the area who were then sent for, to “lay out” the departed and place the pennies on the eyes. Indeed many people would approach whoever they favoured and would request that should anything happen to them that the person of their choosing would be the one to “lay them out”. Death was revered. A death in the street was cause for the paper blinds of the house, to only be raised half way up the window during the period of mourning, leaving the kitchen darker than before. On the day of the funeral, the blinds were kept fully drawn until after the procession had left the street. Children did not play in the street of the departed until after the funeral had taken place; it was a respect that was inbred.

In Utility Street there was a bus depot, and above the gateway was a glass roof. The boys in the area would climb up onto the roof of the building when it had closed up for the day. Climbing buildings was an art, and a very necessary art to retrieve wayward balls during the many games of football that took place in the streets. Their art came with the strength that developed in the young limber bodies of the young boys and everyone dared to climb higher and onto precarious places to enhance their standing amongst their mates. The more danger it involved, the greater their standing. Those that could climb higher were the ones that would be sent for to retrieve the wayward footballs, and would almost elevate them to “hero” status. One young lad who lived in Utility Street, found climbing onto the roof of the building in same street very easy, and after many times of venturing onto the roof he had been called for to retrieve a football that had landed onto the glass roof covering the gateway. He could not reach the ball from the sturdy roof and nothing was long enough to reach the ball, so there was nothing left to do but to try to walk across the glass roof. He did not get very far when the glass broke. Confusion reigned when those on the ground could hear the crashing of the glass inside the confines of the locked building that he climbed onto, and they shouted his name. They waited to hear a return call, none came. They ran to his home to get his parents, frantically people tried to alert the watchman. Alerted, the watchman, finally opened the big gates, and there, our friend lay motionless on the ground, surrounded in a pool of blood which confirmed that he had fallen right through the glass roof, severing his throat as he fell. He was proclaimed dead. The children ran home to tell their parents. Sympathy oozed from the entire community, it was not often that children died and certainly not unexpected like this, tragically it did happen occasionally, but no-one ever looked to blame anyone. We were not a blame culture then.
As his lifeless body lay in the coffin in his tiny home, the children queued up at the door, to view his body and pay their respects. The children stood in groups, each urging the other to “rap” the door, somehow bravado eluded us then. We waited until an adult came to pay their respects and we slipped in behind them. Some queued to pay their respects and others were queuing to view the body in the hope of seeing his cut throat. It was normal for children in the area to view blood and guts, retelling their exaggerated experiences like an old veteran recalling war stories. The gorier the better and their stories were almost a badge of honour. Relating the stories to their peers, a captive audience, as everyone had a fascination of the gory. A dead mouse, or rat was something to ogle, and the brave prodded the lifeless bodies but the very brave lifted it and ran after the other children, who squealed. I was one of the children who would run squealing but for some reason, I queued along with the other children. I am not sure why I queued; I was too young to understand how to pay your respects and I certainly did not want to see a cut throat. It struck me as I entered that home, that the coffin was the only shiny and new thing in that tiny house. Everyone who had packed into that tiny kitchen house, had tears in their eyes. The coffin which housed his lifeless young body was probably the only new thing that had ever entered into the house. He looked so clean and angelic. Children in our area were rarely so clean, as our playground was the street and there was no running hot water in any house, bar those that could afford a hot water geyser, which could not be described as “running” more a steamy trickle. His clothes which had normally been dirty and holey were replaced with a white gown. His face was pale almost white. His Mother cried into a large men’s cloth hankie, totally inconsolable. It was a memory that never ever left me, nor indeed I am sure, his family, as he never got to fulfil a future that they had thought was promised to him when he was born. Once again all along the cortege route, the blinds of all the houses were pulled down as a show of respect for him and his family.

Illnesses amongst the young were usually measles, german measles, whooping cough, and scarlet fever and amongst the older generation, it was an unknown illness that required nursing at home, until death relieved them, I was later to find out that this illness was cancer, but it did not have a name in those days. When it was talked about, the women did so by mouthing the word with  no sound, and it always brought about a groan of sympathy.  For many other illnesses when it was thought that the doctors were not dealing adequately with the sickness, people would go to “Charmers”. Seems strange today, you would think that this would refer to their personality traits, but back then, these “Charmers” would cast a charm over the afflicted person and would give them a task to do and a promise that they would be cured. People became “Charmers” (especially women) when they married and they never changed their maiden name, i.e. they married a man with the same surname as themselves. These people would buy warts (an affliction which many from our area suffered with) off the sufferer, which was said to make the warts disappear. My encounter with a “Charmer” was when my niece was suffering a really bad bout of whooping cough, an illness back then that had the ability to kill, and whilst she had been in hospital, the small body was racked with the cough. She had been discharged from the hospital, no longer regarded as being life threatening but her poor  body was given no respite from the horrible cough.  After talking with everyone, my sister had been cajoled into bringing her to a man who lived in a street off Sandy Row, and what happened then, she was not allowed to tell. He did whatever he had to do, told her Mum something, which to this day, she has never repeated, and put something which was in a little green homemade bag around her neck. Whether she had already been on the road to recovery or if the charm really did work, no-one knows, but thankfully, she made a full and speedy recovery after her encounter with the “Charmer”.

Despite the harsh times that we lived in back then, no-one suffered from depression, mainly because the term did not exist to the common people back then, but there were however, many people who were “bad with their nerves”. These people would take to wandering the streets, some smoking their Park Drive or Woodbines as they went, drawing on their “fegs” (cigarettes) frantically. They would walk with their heads bowed although their faces when seen, would be gaunt and darkness encircled their eyes. Their behaviour could become erratic and if they created a scene, members of their family would call to the home of whoever had been witness to it and explained that they were “bad with their nerves”. This explanation was enough to provoke forgiveness.

The Belfast School Nit Nurse

Almost every street had a bonfire. Matilda Street, Hunter Street, Utility Street, Britannic Street, Boyne Square, Clementine Street, just too many streets to mention. Bonfires were how we started our summers. The boys would build a makeshift house from bits and pieces of “donated” wood, whereupon all the remaining wood of the bonfire was piled on top, and the “big” boys would sit in there and usually have a crafty smoke of a Park Drive or Woodbine, or if stolen from yer Da’s pocket may have been a Gallagher’s Blues, or Senior Service. Smaller children were not allowed in, and

The bonfire – a breeding ground for nits according to Mother

not the girls, unless the “big” boys’ hormones had suddenly awoken and then they would do all in their power to entice the bigger girls inside. There was always a damp fusty smell of the collected wood, and with it I always remember too, the smell of Lorexene. You were warned by your Mother that you were to stay away from the “boney” as you would get the dreaded “nits”, and a “smit” was always worse, or so you were told.

The plastic nit comb, the kinder of the two combs

If this ever happened, your Mother would bring out the dreaded nit comb, which was then followed by the even more cruel “steel” derbac comb and drag it through your scalp and hair onto an opened Belfast Telegraph. She would inspect the comb and the open Telegraph and if anything was found, would prompt the cracking of the lives out of the creatures and their eggs, between her 2 thumb nails. Your scalp would be raw, as in her quest to rid her family of such disgusting and dirty creatures, total and utter vigour was applied. Having long thick hair, this was something that had to be avoided at all costs, hence why my hair would be covered in Lorexene to stop any such “smit”. The smell of the Lorexene could never have been mistaken, and would usually prompt such questions as “have you got nits?” “No I haven’t it’s to stop me getting them off you” which would lead to the sing song of “you’ve got nits, you’ve got nits”. This was enough to reduce any child to tears and gave cause to run home into the arms of the Mother. “Mammy she says I’ve got nits” which would bring the Mother out, hands on hips, calling whoever the culprit was who started the sing song, to inform them that I indeed, did not have nits. They would stand there looking at the ground saying nothing, which brought a smug, satisfied look to my face, only for it to be wiped off immediately my Mother walked away, when they would whisper the sing song “you’ve got nits, you’ve got nits”.

♫you’ve got nits♫, ♫you’ve got nits♫, ♫you’ve got nits♫

Thinking back nits figured a lot in our childhood, so much so that we even had the “nit” nurse visit us in school regularly, and class by class, we were sent down to a room beside the Headmaster Mr O’Hara’s office, where she would hold residence for her duration.

Lining up for the “nit nurse”

As you lined up outside and waited for your turn to be inspected, you would watch the children before you come out and those issued with cards held them aloft like a victory medal. I was gutted, I did not get a card, and then one day, a year or two later, after being inspected with the two metal prongs, as was the usual weapons of nit inspection, which had jingled as she removed them from the steel kidney dish as they soaked in some sort of liquid, using them to separate the hair. She did not touch anyone’s hair with her hands at all. These metal prongs were later replaced with wooden sticks wider than a normal lollypop stick. Well glory be, after she had finished and threw the prongs back into her kidney dish, with an even louder clang. I was motioned to wait, not to return to my class immediately as had been done before. The nit nurse proceeded to write out a card for me, and one better, gave me a little brown box into which she had squeezed some white ointment stuff from a tube and in joined up writing, wrote something on the lid. Oh the feeling of elation as I proudly showed off my wares to the children waiting outside. Everyone clamoured to see my trophies. Back in class we all tried to translate what was written on the lid, but to no avail. I rushed home from school that day, not stopping to play any games with the other children or gaze in the windows of the many shops on the short walk down Blythe Street to Felt Street, then into Matilda Street. Opening the door I shouted proudly “Mammy the nit nurse gave me a card” the words ejected my Mother from the kitchen at the speed of a rocket, the type which we only saw on Halloween. She yanked the card and box out of my hand and I stood smugly, waiting for my congratulations, but instead, she grabbed me by the arm, pulling me out to the yard and lifting the derbac comb as we went.

The “dreaded” Derbac comb

She trailed and dragged that comb through my hair, I’m sure she took off many layers of my scalp as she went on the quest. My neck ached, first holding my head to this side, then that side, while the comb was dragged through my long thick mane of hair. “Don’t move yer head” ….. “Stand still” ….. “I’m nearly finished” ……. I ended up in floods of tears, my scalp felt like it was on fire; I sobbed and gulped with my sobs, and my shoulders heaved up and down with the crying through the mass of hair being flung first this way, then that way. My tears did not bring forth any sympathy. My Mother was due to start her evening shift of her cleaning job but she sent a message to her cousin to tell the “powers that be” in work, that she would be in late; this in turn produced me to send louder wails through my tears. It seemed I was not to be reprieved. My Father returned home from work. As he appeared, she stopped her rigorous combing to converse with him and present him with what I had been sent home with. This allowed me the time to lift my head and move my neck from side to side, to try to relieve the cramping feeling, the tracks of tears still visible for all to see. Unlike in the past, when my tears would provoke sympathy and cause my Father to gently take me to the side, away from the situation and send me on my way. My Father examined the card. I watched him in the hope of being sent on my way with an “away out ta play” and I stared with pleading eyes, for reprieve. Being in the yard, they kept their voices low, but it appeared that my Father would not be congratulating me either and indeed my heart fell, when my Mother said “you take a look” and the process began all over again only with my Father now being the bearer of the nit comb.

The family nit hunt began

That evening I could not eat my dinner for sobbing and later my head throbbed as I shared my bed with my sisters in that little back room, with my brothers on the other side of the room. Little sobs still escaped from my throat, so hard had I cried. I didn’t even have the energy to squeal on my brothers for teasing me. Many confused thoughts went around in my head and I could only think that the addition of the little brown box with the white stuff in it was why I had been made to suffer, as all the other children had held their cards with big smiles, and many of them had got the cards before. It was just too much for my young mind to understand.

The next morning I was told that I had to wait for my Mum to come home from work, from her early morning shift at cleaning in the Gas Works. “Am I not going to school?” I asked, but unfortunately was told that I would be attending school. “But I’ll be late” however, the conversation was brought to an end with “just wait for your Mauer”.  Mum arrived home; it had seemed like an eternity as I waited on the settee swinging my legs, with only the sound of the ticking clock on the mantelpiece. The clock was wound up by my Father every night as his last duty before retiring to bed. It was rare that our home was quiet enough to hear the tick of the clock. When she arrived home, my Mother did not remove her coat; she just took me by the hand and walked me to Blythefield School, and insisted that I direct her to the office that was occupied by the nit nurse. Unsure of what was happening, I did as I was instructed and we entered through the door that usually only entered by the teachers and headmaster. I brought her along the corridor and stopped at the door. There were no queues of school children outside the door. My Mother closed her hand to make a fist that she used to knock on the door. It was not a polite little rat-a-tat-tat, more a boom-boom. The door was opened and there stood the nit nurse with a china cup in her hand, prettier than the ones given out by the rag and bone man. Her cup had a beautiful pattern on it. “Yes?” My Mother stared at her steely eyed “you gave my child a card yesterday”; the nit nurse was not intimidated. I remember thinking, “silly woman, this is where Mum becomes dangerous”. The nit nurse just looked at my Mum and said “hmmm hmmm”. Well this was like a red rag to a bull. “What the hell da ya mean with yer hmmm, hmmm, hmmm’s?? Who the hell da ya think ya are, ya stuck up bitch?” My Mother in her later life became very religious and sought solace in prayer with God, but at this time in her life, she could swear like a navvy and I was waiting on the explosion of expletives. They did not come. My child does not have nits”. The nit nurse was unmoved “Madam if I issued a card, to your child then she does indeed have nits”. At this, she set the china cup down on the desk. “Oh does she indeed?” my Mother grabbed me by the hand and threw me in the direction of the nit nurse, and I was thrown slightly off course as I had the added weight of the leather school bag, with its straps slung over my shoulders. “You show me one”. My young little heart had yo-yoed so much during the last 18 hours and yet, again it fell at these words. The nit nurse just put her hand to my shoulder and pushed me back in the general direction of my Mother. My heart lifted again, although I was soon to find out, that my heart was rising only to fall again. My Mother bellowed, “ya say she has nits, ya show me one, go wan show ma one”. The thought of having my scalp is examined yet again was more than my poor heart could stand. I watched the proceedings, feeling the cramp in my neck threatening again. Thankfully, for me, the nit nurse stood her ground, “Madam I will not be ordered about, nor told how to do my job”. I watched in utter bewilderment. “How ta do yer job? How ta do yer job??” Mother yelled, and flung the small brown round cardboard box in the general direction of the nit nurse. I suspect it was the raised voices that brought Mr O’Hara, the headmaster, to the door, pushing his spectacles up his nose as he entered. “What seems to be the trouble?” he asked in a soft voice which I think he was using to try to diffuse the situation. My Mother was not for being diffused. “Thon aul bitch sent my wee one home with a card saying she has nits, and I’ve looked her hair and her Fauer has looked her hair and between us we can find nuthin”. It was at this stage that my Mother appeared to be squaring up to the nit nurse, as although she was speaking to Mr O’Hara, she was indeed staring down the nit nurse. The nit nurse unlike the other women of the area, who engaged in rows, did not retaliate with a quick retort or an accusation of past demenours, but instead held her face as though there was a bad smell beneath her nose. Rows (arguments) in the area, especially between the women were a spectator sport, with the children choosing different sides, but this row was different. Mr O’Hara guided my Mother out of the door, this was being done at a 2 steps forward one step back speed, stopping now and again to exchange dirty looks with the nit nurse, until he succeeded in getting her to his office door, and with a little bit of manoeuvring on his part, got her over the threshold, where he motioned for her to sit down in the chair facing his desk. He had wanted me to go to class, but my Mother was insisting that I was going nowhere until this was cleared up. He used every platitude in the book to calm my Mother down, but the only thing that would have succeeded in this, would have been an acknowledgement from the nit nurse that she had indeed been wrong. Neither were prepared to step down, and it was at this stage that Mr O’Hara dispensed me and my aching scalp to class. I remember my Mother regaling the neighbours with the story, so there must have been some glorious ending on her part. Let’s face it, being a proud woman she would not have admitted that a nit nurse who diagnosed nits in her daughter had been right.