Preface

Growing up in Northern Ireland in the 1960’s right through to 1980’s was a daunting experience. Fortunately, I was born into a family with loving parents who instilled in me the belief that all men are equal and that colour, creed or religion was not important on choosing friends and colleagues. Born into a middle-class household, my parents doted on their three children to the extent that at one point they  sacrificed everything they had to pay for our education and for our start in life.

  Looking back, I continue to think of my father as “old school”. Not that he was backward in any way, just that he was so dammed old and comfortable in his ways. He was born in 1918 before the Irish border was formally in place and always thought of himself as a true Irish man, the border was never in his thinking. He was raised in a time very different from today and when he spoke of his childhood it was hard to believe in a few decades society and culture had changed so dramatically. He had sayings and memories which were quite surprising and at times downright funny and at other times tales of his youth were more akin to unrecorded history.

Being Irish he had the gift of eloquence and many times I found it difficult to distinguish truth from fiction, since even the truth was at times unbelievable.

However, above all things my father was an honest man and I believe his memories were largely truthful in his eyes and just in case there was any exaggeration, some names, locations, and places have been changed in this book to create semi-fictional references.   

Though frankly this book to me is a factual account of his early life and I believe it to be 90% fact and 10% fiction/exaggeration. Though I would not be surprised if his tales came across differently and in order to avoid any upset form anyone on anything which resembles the characters or events recounted, we will just call it a semi-fictional biography. However, should you choose to research elements of his story, you will be very surprised by the amount of fact within.

I dedicated this book to the wonderful memories of my father. It’s his story. He lived a full life to the age of ninety-seven years old, totally lucid, aware and in great spirits right up to his dying day. The times he lived through and the childhood he experienced; we will never see their like again now assigned to history or lost in time.   I thank him deeply for sharing his childhood, his early life, his experiences, and his humour with me.

Chapter 1

My Arrival

They say that it’s impossible to remember being born. They say that our brains are not formed fully, and our eyes are not yet open, and our brains are not conditioned to remember anything at birth. They say our senses are not engaged enough  to take in or remember the new world we have emerged into. They say it is simply not at all possible to remember being born.

But you know what?  I don’t believe this since I can remember.  Yes, I can remember being born, as clear a yesterday although in fact it was over ninety-seven years ago.

Now they say when you are dying you see a bright white light as if you are heading through a dark tunnel with a bright light at the end. They say to enter heaven; you must go through this bright light, they call it “going into the light”.  Well, I can tell you it’s the same being born. You emerge from the darkness as you head towards and into a very bright light. Now some say that all of us must die to be born again (in which case I wonder, wouldn’t it be strange if there was any connection, between the light of dying and the light of birth. As if we just transcend from one life to another.

Well I guess that could form the thoughts of another book, but not this one, this one is about me.

As I emerged into bright light, I remember it being very cold and my little body shook as I was suspended by my ankles and received a sudden stinging slap on my bottom.   I gulped in big gasps of cold fresh  air into my lungs to fill them as I gurgled and cried to clearing my throat. Most of all I remember the comforting soft warmth of my beloved mothers’ body. Even though they say I couldn’t possibly remember. I really do!  I remember my mother’s warm voice, her smell, her smile, and I knew right then, from the very beginning that I would love her passionately all my life (and I did). She was a gentle, beautiful, loving, kind soul who would die far, far too young.

For most people the 16th August 1918, appeared to be just another Sunday. But I when I decided to arrive, kicking, and screaming into the world I changed this sleepy Sunday for a middle-class family, living in a little market town in rural Northern Ireland.   Arriving a few weeks earlier than expected my mother’s labour pains came as a sudden surprise to both of my parents, but some form of universal wisdom, had decided that it was time for me to make my debut as their first child and first son. It was not at all common in those days to give birth in a hospital, most deliveries were at home assisted by the local doctor or midwife and since I was early, the doctor was called directly when my mother’s contractions started. It was lucky for us that the doctor had not far to travel, in fact he lived just across the street and arrived at the house within a matter of minutes. With clean white sheets unfolded, pots of boiling water bubbling over the fireplace and all things that could be sterilized, had been sterilized, the man of the family (my father with his friends) were ushered into the parlour to “wait it out”. Water was fetched, doctors implements, and tools arranged, and my mother’s breathing was controlled under supervision.  Even though it appeared I was in a rush to get here, my entrance or perhaps better put my arrival was not as easy and it took nearly three hours of labour contraction and pain until I finally arrived.  I think it came as a relief to all and especially my mother that I eventually arrived healthy and full of life. Since I was a boy and their first child, there was much joy in the Wilton residence; cigars were given out, whisky opened and the doctor had his hand shaken vigorously by all, until I am sure his arm and fingers were sore and numb.

In those days having a boy as first child was desirable, almost necessary since he was regarded as heir apparent.  Equality of the sexes had not yet been fought for and it was still then very much a male dominated world (or it appeared to be because I have learnt since through marriage, that the woman of the house often leads the way behind the scenes, and you can generally rest assure only when the lady of the house is happy is everyone else happy).

My father had grown up in the local ‘South Down” community; in fact, there were generations of Wilton living in the location long before there ever was a town. I would not have been surprised to find out that our ancestors  had formed part of a wondering clan of people thousands of years ago who  had arrived as far back as the Ice Age since we always seemed to have belonged to this area and we felt that our place was here as much as the trees and rocks. As such the town we lived in was very familiar territory as it had been for innumerable ancestors. Our home had been here forever and just a few months before my birth my father inherited a small grocer’s shop from his grandfather Mr. Turft. He had become a proud and enthusiastic entrepreneur as well as a proud father, with great ambition and aspirations for success. The future seemed bright.

My father was a very ambitious man with a strong desire to succeed, so there was little time to lie around or stay at home because of my birth. My mother was needed to work behind the shop counter packing goods and taking payment and her quick return to work was necessary. After only three days’ rest, she was back at the counter serving customers while tending for me. The whole family worked in the shop (electronic television would take another 9 years to be invented ), so apart from work the only means of entertainment was the wireless (or radio). We had one of the few in the town. We listened to it when we could in the shop and people dropped by to hear the world news and in return we got all the local gossip. The store was a great meeting point for ladies and those few men who did not frequent the local pub. It was therefore easy to be at work long hours and if we ever found ourselves with nothing to do, my father soon found us something. As a result, I can never recollect a still moment in my younger life. Work was our family ethos.

I spent my first year of life sitting up in a little homemade wooden crib, which lay on the floor behind the grocery shop counter. It was always within reach of my mother who rocked it with her hand or with her foot when she had to stand at the counter and serve customers. I remember there was always a smile, a big hug, and a kind word from her to ease my tears.

It’s funny I don’t recall much of those very early years. I only remember the rocking noise of a wooden crib swinging to and fro on a hard wood floor and the family black cat which would stop by occasionally to peer into the crib with its bright hypnotic emerald, green eyes. He would look in at me every now and then and sometimes he would climb into the crib and join me on cold winter mornings.

Now as it happened, my birth had created a family dilemma. My parents could not decide or agree on my name. In typical Irish tradition I was to take my father’s name as my middle name ‘James’. But the first name being the first son was expected to come from either my mother’s father or my father’s, father. Being the first male child and first grandchild on either side of the family both sets of grandparents had high expectations that their name would be used. In Ireland it is important to ensure to keep all relatives happy, (which is easier said than done, since big long-term problems can easily arise out of the smallest and silliest of things and choosing one preferred name over another could indeed cause such a situation). My father mulled this problem over and thought of the consequences of making the wrong decision and the need to find a compromise. After a couple of days, he came up with a bright idea which although very unorthodox in its nature and approach, would keep his decision neutral and should not upset anyone.

He would make his decision in the local pub.

In those days every small Irish town had at least four or five pubs and it was not uncommon for a town of around two thousand inhabitants to have eight or more pubs, as we did. Drinking was a way of life back then and for some men, drink was almost a religion. Our local pub was right next door to my father’s general store, the “ McCulloch Arms”. More than drinking dens, they were also the local meeting points for most men of the town. People would meet during the day and late into the evening and this is where the real day to day business was done, matters of importance were concluded and the most unbelievable tales were told (in such believable ways). My father had decided my name would be chosen there in the pub among and by the towns drinking men, and since there were a good proportion of the male inhabitants of the town, present at the time, it could and should even become a town majority decision.

His idea was quite simple. He handed out paper and charcoal pencils and asked each person to write a boy’s name on a piece of paper. Each piece of paper was folded in four and placed in my fathers’ up turned hat. He went around the pub collecting all the names and within half an hour the hat was three quarters full of slips of paper. When the collecting was over, he climbed upon a chair and then up onto the table to draw and announce the winner. Up on the table he was visible to all and balancing on top, he held the hat high above his head in his right hand. With his left he reached up and pulled one slip of paper form the hat. The paper was unfolded and opened, at which point he proclaimed to all in attendance that I was to be called “Horace”. Horace was not such a bad name in those days. In fact, I liked it. But as a child it caused me immense problems. Possessing a strong Northern Irish accent, for the first eight years of my life I pronounced and even spelt my name as “Horse”. Much to the delight, amusement and joking from my friends and to the upset and annoyance of my teachers and my parents.

So here I was, Horace James Wilton, the first son of James Wilton and some years later in my childhood I was widely and jokingly known in the town and local community as the boy called horse.  In my twenties I later evolved my name from Horace to  “Ace”, which seemed a cool name and it was much easier to spell and remember.

Days spent in a wooden crib and crawling around the dusty wooden floor of the shop passed fast. As I grew older, I began to help with some of the shop’s day to day tasks, and by the age of four I could even help with parcels, stacking cans and other small jobs. Work at that age was like a game to me and each day at the store was like a new adventure.

By the age of five years old we had firmly entered the beginning of what was to be called the roaring twenties and the shop wireless (radio) blasted out music from Bill Murry “I’m looking over a four-leaf clover”, (which became one of my favourites even to this day) jazz music and swing bands were very popular, and I worked and moved to their rhythm in the shop much to the amusement of customers.  (I guess most of you today will probably only connect swing band music as the type of music in Tom and Jerry cartoons, but in those days,  it was theeee best).  Having progressed from nappies and a dress (yes it was common for boys in those days in cradles to wear long white dresses. I think the dress was a throwback from Victorian days) I now wore shorts, shirt and lace up shoes, I grew more inquisitive and more mobile and more talkative. I did not know this at the time, but shorts would become my main attire until I was 11 years old, since I managed to quickly put my knees through the first pair of long trousers I was given and in order to avoid any future extra expense in replacing torn trousers, I stayed in shorts where my knees were allowed to take scraping, scratches, and cuts instead.  Even on the coldest of days I was often the only kid at school wearing shorts.  By five years old I had truly become my own proper little person with views and information to share. I had also become interested in the store and the thought of having a small business of my own one day. Or at least a store where I could  listen to big band music  while dancing and working  at the same time.

Chapter 2

The Junior School Days

By 1924 I had reached the grand old age of six years, and the only life I knew was either at home or at the shop. An education was beckoning me and the nearest “private” school to our little town was fifteen miles away. Horse and carriage was sill the main form of village transportation. The fastest and most reliable means of transport was the steam train and the best and only practical option for such a distance. Since luck would have it, we lived only a 20-minute walk from the train station and I would end up making that walk twice a day in all weather, sun, rain, wind, and snow, to and from the train station.

It was early and still wet and misty on the morning of Monday 8th September when I was packed up and sent off to the train station for the first day of school. Still dark and grey; a damp coldness ate at my face and hands. It was one of those autumn mornings where nothing you wore would stay dry and my clothes remained covered in moist drops of constant falling rain and mist. I can remember in those cold autumn and winter days having to walk to the train station wearing a small flat cap and two rain coasts, one buttoned up over the other.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        When I reached the station masters office, I would take the over lying wet coat off and leave it to dry by his open turf fire and go on my way wearing the dryer under coat and board the train to school. On the return journey home, I would again call by the station masters office and pick up my now dry and warm coat and wear it to walk home.

It’s funny in those days how simple and flexible life was. People were usually there to help and odd but practical things were tolerated or even regarded as normal. People were not put out of their way assisting even a kid with a wet coat. In fact, my coat was one of many which hung near the station masters fire to dry and none of them ever went missing. Today I feel there are so many rules and regulations which can easily suffocates a person’s ability or initiative to show an act of kindness in their work.

Now, it just happened that trains in the early 1920‘s were steam driven, which meant there was a lot of noise and activity at the station. Water was being taken into the train boiler, coal being on loaded as fuel, people getting on and off, porters going to and fro with packages and goods.  Whistles were sounded, steam released with a hiss and the grease, oil and coal smells added to the excitement.  These steams driven, coal burning engines were sheer excitement to me as a young kid and the fastest thing on wheels. In my first year travelling to school all I dreamt about becoming was a train driver, tearing up the track, loaded with people and goods, going to new places, going fast and always going noisy.

As the new kid on the train and being only six years old, I was easily regarded as a good victim for student jokes and pranks. After all, I was young, I was trusting, I was gullible, I was naïve, and I was just a bit afraid and wanted to make friends. Quite often I would be stupid enough to walk straight into their tricks and games, without even realizing until too late. I would always take it in good humour, and I had the ability to laugh even at myself, which  quickly made me popular with all my classmates.

Since my first ever steam train journey was in fact that first day I travelled to school, I was overwhelmed with the sheer scale of things.  My mother has bought a weekly pass ticket for me which I kept folded in a small leather wallet in my inner blazer pocket. I reached in and took it out, unfolded it and showed it to the ticket master who looked at the ticket then looked at my face, I was opened mouthed with frozen stare. He asked me if it was my first day at school, to which I nodded yes, and he took me by the hand and helped me up the steps into the carriage. He looked me in the eyes and said, “In future you catch this train, the eight am to Downterrick  on platform 3” (and held up 3 fingers), again I nodded I understood. Then he turned and walked back down the platform. I made my way down the carriage and to a vacant window seat and sat down peering through the glass. Soon the carriage was full of students of various ages from as young as eight or nine to around twelve or thirteen and I was definitely the youngest. All of us wore the grey shorts or trousers, dark green blazers, and red ties of the High Grove School. The carriage kids were shouting, laughing, climbing over, and changing chairs, bags were being thrown around, late breakfast bread wedges were   being eaten and the chatter was just constant. Then with an unexpected jerk and a clunking of carriages we were off as the train pulled out of the station. I excitedly peered through the window as we began to gain speed.  Soon we were free of the station and out of the town.  I had never travelled so fast, and everything seemed a blur.  I saw, horse drawn carts which appeared to move so slowly compared to the train. I saw people working in fields and I saw woodland and then the ocean. Yes, the ocean as we raced through coastal villages and towns. I hadn’t seen the sea before. It was so beautiful and so vast. The fishing boats at the harbour walls and the gulls screaming as they flew above.  Waves crashed on rocks and lapped on sandy beaches as the train raced along, around cliff faces and back down into the countryside. The train was taking me places I had never been before, and I loved it. The older kids in the carriage could see my excitement and my new uniform and soon we struck up a conversation. They told me many tales of the school I was to attend and tales of the train we were travelling in. The most exciting tale they told me was that if I was brave enough to put my head out of the window when the train entered a tunnel, I could see in the darkness an outline of an image of what I would look like in twenty years when I had grown up. I could see from my apparition and the way it was dressed if I was to be wealthy and  handsome or not.  Since the train journey seemed so magical and they were so convincing, I was going to show them I was not afraid and that I was brave enough to do this. I believed without question what they had told me and I though after all who does not want to be able to peer into their future? To a naive six-year-old boy this was far too good an opportunity to miss.  So, I climbed up onto my seat which was a padded wood bench and balanced my feet on the edge of train bench arm. Holding on to the luggage rack above my head I could lean across with outstretched arms and just be able to put my head out of the open window. As the train rocked from side to side, I balanced on my tiptoes while I clung on to the luggage rack with one hand and the window panel with the other. As I got closer to the open window, I could feel the cold morning air rushing toward me.  It was as if I was travelling as fast as the wind. With the window half down, I managed to get my face and most of my head through the open space. The wind blasted against my face, and I could barely open my eyes, air rushed into my lungs, and I had to push to breath out. I was gulping in cold morning air as the train picked up even more speed. It was such a thrill. Then we entered a tunnel, and everything suddenly went black. I squinted to adjust my eyesight in the dim light. The train engine sounded so much louder as it echoed around the damp confined walls and the air got cold and clammy. But I kept squinting to see through the racing air,  looking straight ahead to catch a glimpse of my future self. I couldn’t quite make out any clear shapes, but I could see a dark shape in blackness rushing towards me, which swallowed up all the little bits of remaining light in the tunnel .It raced closer and closer towards me. Could this be my image, I thought?  Suddenly I was breathing in heavy black smoke which rushed as a thick suffocating blanket of soot through the tunnel towards me. I was blinded by the dense smoke. I couldn’t breathe any more, I couldn’t see. All I could taste was coal all the way down my throat and I struggled to get away. My legs and my waist were simultaneously grabbed by the older boys, and I was dragged back into the carriage choking and coughing as thick black soot fell out of my hair and off my jacket to the carriage floor. The compartment erupted into screams of joy and laughter, which became infectious. Between the laughs I could here the other boys shout, ‘well done, you’re alright Horace, your one of us”. I felt a mixture of relief and acceptance and since the laughing was contagious, I too was laughing in between the coughs.  It had been a noisy suffocating experience. But I felt that I was now one of them, having gone through such an initiation.  I felt I now had some friends. I stood up and my laughter soon stopped when I saw my reflection in the carriage glass window, my black hands, black face, soot filled hair and soot encrusted blazer, black and grey shirt, the only white part remaining unstained from the soot was the bit of shirt that I had tucked into my shorts. Black soot covered my entire body.  Even my teeth were black with soot since I had left my mouth open. It looked for all the world like I had been eating ink.  I could easily have passed as a chimney sweep after a hard day’s work. My heart sank and the carriage went quiet. Tears rolled down my cheeks creating small clear tracks of skin as they fell. Panic and grief overwhelmed me. What was I to do? The train tannoy announced eight minutes until arrival and I simply flipped. I cried out loud, I stamped my feet, waved my arms around and shook my head. The whole sad dramatic, self-pitying performance would have been worthy of an Oscar. One of the older boys (maybe 11 years old, grabbed my arm and we ran to the toilet at the end of the carriage to see if I could clean up a little. The train toilets in those days were at the end of the carriage, with a strong wooden door and bolt lock. Inside was a ceramic or sometimes a steel sink with only one cold water tap which trickled and spluttered. There was also a toilet, which was more of a glorified hole in the floor of the compartment with a wooden seat, slightly raised above the hole. If you peered down you could see the track below rushing by, where your finished business would drop to. There was a neat pile of torn newspaper squares to wipe your backside  if necessary. I splashed my face, and he rubbed my neck with water. The black became grey and streaky. With desperate hands we splashed water on my legs, face, neck, hair, hands and rubbed my shirt. Despite the running tap the splashed sink basin looked like I been washing gravel and dark rings formed around the edge. I gargled with the water to try and clean my teeth and lips which again took on a more mottled grey appearance. As the train began to slow down, I knew we were reaching the station and time to depart for school. I peered through the small oblong toilet window to see how close we were. My gaze fell upon a large white building on a hill which looked like a giant haunted house. I thought to myself, “I hope that’s not the school”. Unfortunately, I would soon find out that it was. I would also find out to my dismay, when arriving at school that discipline, and grooming was everything. The white building was intimidating with a series of tall, whitewashed buildings surrounded by an eight ft ( about two and a half meters)  high tall dark brown granite wall. The imposing structure sat right on top of a hill and towered above the entire town. I could have doubled as one of those World War two German prisoner of war camps in the movies, one of those old Bavarian castles on a hill, which POWs would try and escape from. As I walked with the boys from the train carriage, up the steep hill along the town’s small winding lanes, little clouds of soot dust fell from my clothes, and I could see the school rise higher and higher above us. Gradually the lanes got steeper and steeper, and the gradient made it harder to walk. Care was needed since the lanes were cobbled for horses and it would have been easy to go over on your ankle and sprain it. As we climbed, we began to breathe a little more heavily and we chatted in broken sentences as we took deep breaths of air.  The other boys told me that the school had a previous history as a prison. Only the worst criminals in the country were sent there. It functioned as a prison from the 1700’s all the way up to the late 1800’s when a new larger prison was built in Belfast, it then lay empty for a few years until it was converted into a school.  As I approached the entrance, I could see a cluster of large white painted stone block buildings set against a dark grey sky, I began to feel very uncomfortable. A huge arch, maybe 24 ft ( around seven meters) in height made of solid granite blocks welcomed us at the school entrance. It looked like a miniature Arch de Triumph. Horses and carriages would stop in front of it, to drop off children who lived locally or deliver kids from wealthier families who didn’t want to walk up the hill from the train station. At the very centre of the arch, fixed to the highest point, was a large rusty steel hook. One of the older boys asked me if I knew what it was for.  I shook my head (soot still falling in faint grey clouds) ; I had no idea, what a hook would be doing there. He explained that the hook was there from the prison days. It was used for securing a rope from which they hanged convicted murderers and rapists. At that age I had no idea what a rapist was, but it sounded pretty bad. Those who received a death sentence spent their final moments dangling from a rope fixed through the hook in the arch. What a way to go I thought, and this was to welcome me every day as I arrived at school. One boy further told me if I came back on a full moon, I could see the ghostly body of one of these poor unfortunate souls hanging from the arch as a warning to others, not to break the law. (I never ever did come back during a full moon so could not contest the truth in this tale, but after my tunnel adventure I was a bit more cautions and reluctant to believe the unbelievable). My short-term curiosity of what they did with the bodies was also short lived.   Look one said pointing to the playing fields, this is where the dead prisoners were buried, but all the grave stones and crosses have been removed and the land rolled flat again and replanted with grass so we can use it to play rugby, hurley and hockey  That image of bodies lying under my feet as I played games, stuck with me all my days at school and I never found myself lying for long on the playing field grass after an injury. I preferred to hobble off to the concrete side lines rather than think of lying there among the decaying bodies of murderers and other criminals.  As I entered the school ground, I heard someone shout, “hey you boy come here!” At the sound of this voice my newly acquainted friends charged off in the direction of the school entrance and I was left standing all by myself as I watched them disappear through the front door.  Again, I heard “hey boy, yes you boy come here” but this time the shouting was getting closer. As I turned around, I could see another student about sixteen years old walking straight towards me. He wore a dark green blazer which was buttoned up tight with shiny, brass buttons, grey trousers, white shirt with a rounded white collar, dark red tie and a small gold shield shone on the lapel of his jacket.  As he approached, he stared at me, never breaking his gaze, and pointing his finger towards me on an outstretched arm as if I was one of the former prisoners who had been found guilty of a terrible crime. This student who I would later find out was a school prefect shook his head in frustration and demanded my name in a half spoken, half shouting voice , to which I answered “ Sir  my name is Horse”  (again my accent did not help matters ) and my answer only made him angrier. “Right” ! he said , ”Horse is it, trot along with me then “.He grabbed me by the hair at the side of my right ear and scolding he told me to come with him. With this painful hair grip I didn’t really have much choice. We went through the main entrance of the school and down what felt like a maze of corridors, turning right, then left, and then left again. Our footsteps echoed in the dark cold corridors, and I felt just like one of those prisoners being frog marched to see the local magistrate. We continued on until we finally reached a large oak door with gold letters marked on it saying, “vice principals office”, where we abruptly stopped, and he let go of my hair. My scalp and ear were burning from the grip.  The prefect told me to stand up straight, stand still and wait outside in the corridor as he knocked on the dark oak door. The sharp voice of a man summoned him to enter. He opened the door, announced himself and then entered. The door closed with a muffled thud behind him.

I was scared; I could feel my body shaking and I felt like just running away.  But I was also confused and lost so I decided just to do as I had been told and quite soon, I too was called to enter. I pushed against the heavy door, and it swung open. I stepped in and then turned to push the door closed. It swung quicker than I believed possible, and it closed with an almighty bang. As I turned back around, I could see I had just entered a large room with big full-length windows down one side.

Sitting at the end of the room behind a large wooden desk and surrounded by books on shelves and in stacks sat a thin man in a black suite.  He had grey “lamb chop whiskers, thick grey hair and three dark brown moles on his wrinkled face. A large sharp looking nose gave him a menacing appearance. He glared as the door thundered shut and I could feel his gaze burning into me as I slowly and cautiously approached his desk.  I could see he wore a dark cape with a pale green ribboned hood hanging down behind it.  Pointing a long boney finger at me he said in a strong clear voice “do you know who I am”. I said “Respectfully, no sir I don’t know who you are” .I said as politely as I could but in a slightly shaky voice. He replied that he was the vice principle responsible for discipline, dress code and behavior. He told me in an accusing voice that the school was for gentlemen and not paupers.  He asked me if I was a gentleman or a pauper. I replied “Sir, I am a gentleman in the making”. He demanded my name and told me to explain myself and to be quick about it. I tried to not cry. I just wanted to be home now and away from all of this.   But taking a deep breath and just wanting to be polite and not upset him further, I concentrated on telling him my name. It was after all just my first day at school, but with my nerves and my accent my answer came out “Respectfully sir I am, Ahhh,  I am ( I stammered) Ahhh Horse”  

That did it!  The vice principle raised himself out of his chair to tower menacingly above me. I could see his face going a reddish purple and his eyes widening ‘So you’re a horse!” He shouted, “A horse needs discipline, A horse needs its spirit controlled, it needs broken”, he shouted. I tried to explain what had happened but all that came out was a murmur and before I could finish, he boomed in a voice which echoed around his office “You are an Idiot Boy a Complete Idiot. You’re a time waster and time wasters and idiots need to be taught a lesson”.  He told me “The only way to deal with idiots is to give them ten of the best and five more for insolence”.   I didn’t know what he meant but it didn’t sound very good.  He produced a large wooden ruler and told me to hold out both my hands.  I then realized I was to be punished with hits from the ruler fifteen times across my hands, ten for coming to school with incorrect grooming and a dirty uniform and five for trying to make a joke by saying my name was horse.  At this point tears ran down my face as I held out my outstretched palms which began to shake and sweat. I was sobbing and shaking and even more soot from my air fell in little blankets onto my shoulders and onto the polished wooden floor as my head moved with each sob I made.

I could hear the crack of the ruler before I felt the sting. One, two, three, four, five cracks against my palms with the edge of the ruler, six, seven, eight nine, ten, but by the second blow I was already in buckets of tears. I was then instructed to turn my hand over since remaining five were to be across my knuckles, with the flat edge of the ruler. Have you ever been slapped on the knuckles hard with a ruler? Or hit your knuckles against a hard surface?  It not only hurts like hell, with the sharpest pain you can imagine, it also aches for hours after. Your knuckles swell and any movement or bending of fingers is very painful. The additional five blows were administered, and both my hands were numb and swollen.

Then with an exaggerated sweeping of his arm and a hand slap across the back of my head for good measure I was ushered out of the door and sent down the corridor for my first lesson which was Latin. I don’t remember much of that lesson, except my poor red knuckles and the pain of trying to copy the Latin letters and phrases on to my chalkboard.  I realized very early on, perhaps even that first day at school that I was just not academically inclined. I wasn’t the teachers or anyone’s fault; I just wasn’t interested in Latin, Greek, Mathematics and Science. I could not relate to it, and I much preferred sport. I joined the school hockey team and every season I had the bruised legs and staved fingers to prove it.  I also loved art and discovered I had a natural talent for drawing, painting and woodwork.  I was a kid who saw the beauty in life rather than the principles of life. I could have been called a day dreamer, but in reality, most of my thoughts and desires were earth bound. I just loved nature and simple things without complication. School in those days was what the Americans call co-educational or as we say in Ireland, the school had both boys and girls.  Apart from sports which was conducted separately we also had some assigned classes taught separately according to gender, for example the girls would do home economics and the boys would have woodwork. We also had to stand at separate sides of the school hall for morning assembly and prayers. I was quite a shy boy when I was young and felt in good and comfortable company with boys, rather than girls. But there was one girl who caught my attention almost from the first week at school. Her name was Lily McGill. She was quiet frail in stature and very pale, her skin was like pure white snow and her lips were the palest pink rose petals. She had the brightest blue eyes you could imagine, which sparkled with life and mischievousness and her flaming red hair curled around her shoulders. Her smile was so soft, so beautiful and so warm and she smiled a lot. She had such an infectious laugh, it lit up any room she was in.   Her family was from the new emerging lower middle class and came from Newtoncastle a town about four miles away from Castlewell where I lived. Even though both towns were such a short distance apart, she had a very different regional accent, much softer and more melodical than my harsh accent (or maybe I just heard it that way). She was always laughing and smiling, always good natured and happy. She was also very smart and although she could have anyone in the school as a friend, she was also quite selective on who she would hang out with and play with.  Luckily for me we both got on immediately (probably because I like to talk a lot and had a good sense of humor, and she was a good listener) and we simply accepted each other for who we were, and we didn’t try to be false or try to be something we weren’t.

When we had to go to the canteen or stand in assembly, we would find a location where we could see each other and then pull faces or make expressions in silence until we managed to make the other look away or laugh. Wherever we were in the school, we had this silent connection and would always find a place where we could see each other.  

Our friendship grew over the years and by 1927 we were just two little nine-year-old kids who enjoyed each other’s company and friendship. I would tell her jokes and sketch her portrait; she would help me with my reading and math’s. We laughed together and we played together. I guess thinking back, at that innocent age she was everything I could have wished for in girlfriend. Yes, I had taken quite a strong liking to her since she was such a gentle, delicate little girl with a strong sense of humour and a kind heart. When she laughed my heart would soar and everything would seem right with the world. She was also as true beauty with such deep ocean blue eyes which sparkled with her life and energy. They were in fact hypnotic to me as I could stare into them for untold periods of time lost in her charm, lost deep in her trance like stare.  Her long flaming red hair glistened in the sunlight and flowed in the wind. I can honestly say on reflection, that apart from my mother, she was probably my first true innocent love and within a matter of weeks we had become inseparable.

In my school days food formed such a major part of the day. I guess since food was not always available to everyone. In society we had the rich, a small middle class, poor and the very poor. Lunch was a time I could spend out of class and enjoy some canteen cooking while I chatted to friends. It was a time when I could be my real self rather than be in class and on my best behavior. We entered the canteen in rows and filed along long wooden benches which ran alongside big wooden tables. Rows upon rows of benches and tables filled the room. There must have been over three hundred of us between the ages of five and eleven years old sitting down to eat and the junior school would always eat first. A grand table sat at one end of the canteen with big oak chairs. This is where the headmaster and the teachers sat. A bell rang and we took our seats. Prayers were said by a nominated teacher each day and we all followed the words line by line, some by memory and others using prayer books, until they had finished reading. The end doors then slowly opened to reveal a large counter upon which stood a stack of tin plates, platters filled with sliced bread and tin mugs, a large metal jug of milk and a big tea urn at the end. The bread was cut so thick that each slice resembled a white brick. We queued table by table taking a plate, a slice of bread and a mug of tea or milk. Some days the slices of bread were coated with thick smooth dripping which oozed from the fat-soaked bread and closing my eyes I can still taste that wonderful meaty fatty flavour (I think today with cholesterol concerns this would be banned from school). Other days we had cheese and sometimes butter or jam and in winter we had some kind of soup or stew, usually containing large chunks of potato. The slices of bread were cut so large we had to squeeze down on them and stretch our mouths to take a bite.  Afterwards when we had finished lunch the heavy doughy bread sat like a solid lump of lead in our stomach for hours. I guess it was the cheapest and most practical way to keep the hunger pains at bay. There were no other breaks or snack time. We would only eat again when we got home or if anyone had a penny or half penny to buy something at the bakery on the way back to the train.

When classes would allow, I would walk back to the station with Lily, and we would talk and laugh and on the odd occasion when no one was looking we would hold hands. Her hands were always so soft and cold (as the saying goes “cold hands, warm heart” which she definitely had). I would wait for her to catch her train and wave goodbye before I ran to catch mine. I was completely smitten by Lily and would dream of a future, of our life together, when I went to sleep at night. She was the one for me. 

The winters back then were bitter cold, and we did not have central heating. So, on arriving back from school in the dark winter evenings my mother always had my favourite on the boil over the fireplace. A big pot of soup, with lots of root vegetables, barley and often a pork or lamb bone for flavour, which was generously served in a big bowl with a whole boiled potato placed in the middle.

We lived off simple food at home and at school, all meals with local organic ingredients, rustic in fashion and very inexpensive but wholesome.  I was raised on this, and I thank my god that we were a middle-class family and not one of the poor. The poor and the needy were a lot more common back then than you would believe, and it was not uncommon for paupers with their children to go hungry on some nights. Our market town did not have poor, and I would never know of these people until I grown older.  

(As a point of note that even though Northern Ireland 1920’s still had poor laws which had been put in place in the 1800’s, which made provision for people who could not earn money. More often than not there was a board of guardian who decided who got relief and any relief was raised through rates. These people were middle- upper class unionists whose own agenda was to keep rates low. Hence quite often many poor did not receive any relief or suffered harsh and cruel treatment).

As I turned ten years old, I returned to a new term at school. Al Jolson’s “The Singing Fool” had been the big summer hit in the cinema and I had been given the chance to see it as a birthday treat. One song stuck in my mind “Sony Boy” and the line in it “There is no way of showing what you mean to me Sonny Boy”. Though I had replaced the words in my head, Sonny boy with Lily McGill. I knew she would like to hear me sing it and I had especially memorized it for her.   It was the autumn of 1928. Lily who always sat on the same row as me if not the next row to me, was not there the first morning of term.  Since she came from in Newtoncastle which was about four miles down the road I had not seen her all summer. Four miles in those days could seem so far away. Our parents had nothing in common and so we tended to do our own thing over the break until school started again. It was unusual for her to miss school, but sometimes work, family issues are other matters meant children occasionally started late or missed a day or two.  Phones were not readily available yet and I had no money to catch the train or call by to check on her. So, I had no option but to wait until the following day and wondered why she was not there at the beginning of school term. At ten years old we were final year students in junior school so we came back with the knowledge we would be the most senior of the juniors (if that makes sense) . We all still had one year to finish before going to high school or helping at home or learning a profession/ apprentice or skill. I wondered if her family had money issue, which could have resulted in her going to a different school close by. But just as quick the answer was no; I knew they were not that poor. The first day led onto the second and then the third and she still had not appeared. I think even so young I really felt a degree of desperation and anxiousness. I was in fact suffering deep emotional distress that she had not appeared. I knew then how much she really mattered to me even at such a young age. She had become a big part of my life. No, to be true, she had become my life. Thoughts bounced around in my head from her being sick, to her family moving away or even going to a different school or moving to live with another relative. But as the days went by, I began to realize that she was probably not coming back. It took two weeks of waiting in vain and until I could not contain myself any further and I managed to summon up the courage to ask the class teacher Ms Kempton as to where Lily was. Ms Kempton’s was a lovely kind teacher and my question caused her to pause for a moment and I could see her eyes water over. She told me to wait until the class break and she would let me know then. Oh, I thought, Lily must be sick, so I waited to hear what was wrong with her. About an hour later, break was announced and Ms Kempton called me aside and it was then that she told me in a slow, low voice that Lily would not be coming back. I began to protest at this, it couldn’t be true. Had her family left the county?  I just wanted to know where she was and where I could find her.  I began to protest further at which point Ms Kempton’s voice became firm and she held both my arms tightly. She looked me in the eyes and instructed me to sit down and in coming to my senses I sat down quietly. She then continued that over the school holidays Lily had fallen ill with a very bad cold which had developed into a lung infection. The infection got worse, and she developed a burning fever. The town doctor was called, and Lily fought the fever bravely day and night for well over a week. She was determined to fight and get better, since she had so much to live for. The medicines her family could afford did not help and her fever developed in pneumonia. Lily’s condition continued to deteriorate and despite the very strong fight she put up, in the end her little body was just not strong enough and one late summer morning her young frail soul just gave up and she passed away.  I remember to this day, on hearing the news, the blood racing to my face, and it began to burn like a fire, and then I could feel the blood just as quickly drain out and my face and became ice cold. My arms fell away heavy, and my body felt week. My legs began to involuntarily shake, and I felt like I was going to faint. The room began to spin, slow at first then getting progressively quicker and my peripheral vision becomes dark and cloudy. Then blackness, cold numbness, peaceful comfort. I awoke to my cheek being slapped and Ms Kempton poured me a glass of water and holding it to my lips insisting I drank it, she poured it down my throat so that I half gulped, and half spilt it down my shirt, but it brought me back to consciousness and reality and I felt less dizzy and nauseous. 

I think that’s the first time in my entire short life I was heartbroken.  I was so lost and in complete despair. Life was so unjust and unfair. I have since questioned over and over in my mind “how such an innocent young child could be taken away in her early years, not yet having the chance to learn what life was all about”? This beautiful little girl would never reach her prime and it just seemed so wrong (surely children were not meant to die; they were meant to grow up and grow old. There cannot be any greater horror than for a parent to have to bury their child). Today we know child mortality happens regularly in the poorer countries of the world. Children die all the time with disease and hunger in Africa and parts of Asia. But in the early 1920’s it was much closer to home (and maybe society in those days had not become numb to such tragedy, as it has become today). Families in Ireland in the early twenties suffered such losses equally painfully and to me the loss of Lily was almost unbearable. She was smart, she was beautiful, and she was kind. She could have done anything; she could have really been someone of notoriety. She had her whole life ahead of her. But instead, she fell ill at the age of ten years old and died quietly in a little rural village long before her time. A life unfulfilled, unknown, and lost in time.

It’s strange to consider that many illness’s we don’t think of today were still common back then at that time in Ireland.  Lily’s passing was the first death that had touched my heart and although up to that point I had never thought about death, I can now say that maybe only seventy percent of my junior class made it to high school. Medicine was expensive and without antibiotics Tuberculosis was the biggest killer and the poorer families suffered the most. It was a time of inequality where the poor depended upon charity and the good will of others. Today and at my age I have a good grasp and understanding of my own mortality. I have been lucky to live a long and productive life. But thinking back now to poor, gentle, little Lily I remember how difficult and cruel it was to have been lower middle class/poor and frail. Beauty, love, and innocence were the true casualties of that time for large Irish families. My final year at junior school went ever so slow; her empty chair was a continual reminder of my loss and of the empty space left in my heart.

I take some comfort that with Lily’s passing she did not fully die, but instead she has lived in me, in my memories and in my love. She has lived in my heart, remembered, and loved daily for almost ninety years.

I truly cannot say any more about little Lily, she left such a deep impression on my life, that even today, when I see a little red headed girl, I am instantly brought back to her and I can see her alive in them, and often cry to myself and wonder once more at her sad fate. I believe that love is stronger than death.

Chapter 3

Boarding School in Belfast City

My father’s businesses were doing well, and I guess like all new generations of successful families it was the ‘done thing’ to send the eldest boy to boarding school. On my 11th Birthday my father told me I would be leaving the family and staying at a boarding school in Belfast. I was totally distraught and overcome with fear. It was not the thought of the great adventure of boarding school or upset at having to board or look after myself. It was the thought that I would no longer see my mother each day, the loss of Lily the year before had taken its toll on me and now I was to be parted from my mother, my only other love. It was the last straw.  I would not see her wonderful smile, feel her engulfing warm reassuring hugs or feel cared for and protected.

It was my father’s plan. I was to become more independent and self-reliant. He simply told me, “Boarding school will make a man of you” and his decision was final. There was no point in protesting since I had no choice. My father would not back down once he had made up his mind and my mother no matter how strongly she disagreed would not argue with him or protest in public on any of my father’s decisions, he was to be always seen as the master of the house (though she would always make her own views known to him in private).

I was now the eldest son of three. My father was overjoyed to have three boys and not just a successor, but a full work force. So, by the age of eleven with two younger brothers, it was my duty to make the way better for them, allow them both more opportunity and that meant I had to leave home for a better education.

With all my worldly belongings packed into a small wooden trunk with brass corners and a leather satchel I was ready to board the train to Belfast. Both for me and my mother it was a difficult moment, and we embraced each other as she showered me with countless kissed on my face and cheeks, reassuring me it would not be for too long and by Christmas I would have holidays and I could come home. My trunk was loaded onto the luggage carriage, and I was helped up the steps into the train. Finding my way into my carriage I walked up and closed the window before taking my seat (something I habitually did on every train journey since my tunnel incident all those years ago) . I peered out of the window towards my mother. We waved as the train began to move and she smiled back at me, but I could also see sadness in her eyes. I clenched my teeth to stop crying and with great difficulty I also forced a smile, but the tears still rolled down my cheeks.  Being held so tight on the platform I had felt so safe and so loved, but now seated in the carriage I felt so alone.  Even though the train journey was only two hours, Belfast seemed so big and so far from my hometown. The separation from my mother felt as if I had just been told I was being enrolled into one of David Livingstone expeditions to Africa. Home now seemed so, so far away, and inaccessible (remember we had no phone access in those days). So off I set, to better myself and get a full education with little knowledge that this time I was enrolled into an even stricter school, which was run by a religious order, where tidiness, clean mind/ healthy body and unquestioningly following of  rules were the norm and  where Sundays ( all day)  were spent at prayer.

Now I found boarding school as equally uninteresting as junior school. The subjects just didn’t get any better, Arithmetic, Mathematics, French, English, Economics, Science, with Art and Sport being secondary subjects.  Boarding was distinctly different where the school was run with military efficiency. Positively it did teach me discipline and it put a new order into my life. My father was right, in that it also gave me a certain independence and sense of responsibility. Every morning before breakfast, beds were made with precision, folded neat corners, clothes were heavily starched and pressed and folded neat. Jackets and trousers were hung in wardrobes and lockers; boots were shined with spit and polish. Yes, we had to spit on to the shoe and then apply some polish to the area with a brush and with a lot of buffering and a chamois cloth our shoes would sparkle like black crystal. Prayers were always said at all meals (which usually meant the food was not that hot by the time we were allowed to eat, and lukewarm food became the norm). We all sat whether in study or in eating with a rigid posture, straight backs, and hard, stiff shirt collars. The collars were starched so ridged they were like a razor-sharp plastic board where they folded at the top. The intention of hard, stiff broadline collars was to keep you chin up and your head looking straight forward. Collars came up to the ridge of the jawbone (just like in the army) leaving very little room for any movement. As a result if you turned your head too quickly when a classmate would grab or flicked your ear the collar stiffened ridge would rub so hard and sharp, it felt like your neck was being cut open. As you can guess this jibing was routine at class to see who would get the reddest neck.   Thank goodness these collars were detachable and every free minute we had in the dorm we would remove them ( I was later told that the rigidity of the collars were first introduced into the British army 1700’s for discipline then about  one hundred and fifty years later to civilian attire to  keep gentlemen’s heads forward and chins up at all times. Well they defiantly achieved that!).

Living in dorms was “cozy” to say the least. It was common to have up to 6 single beds in a row in one room. Each bed had one feather pillow in a starched white pillowcase, one starched under sheet and one stiff starched over sheet covered by a dark brown thick woolen blanked which itched against any bare skin exposed to it. The bed was an old-fashioned spring mattress which creaked and cracked if anyone moved in their sleep.   A wooden headboard was at the top of the bed at the bottom a big wooden trunk with faded brass corners and a large brass lock for the storage of clothes and personal belonging.  At the far end of the bed against the wall was a solid metal locker, which was to be used only for the school uniform and shirts, stiff collars, and shoes.

In the locker above the hanging rail was a shelf. Where toiletries were mean to be stored, but since the locker was perhaps the most secure area of anyone’s personal space. It was often used to store very personal belongings especially food from home. Some of the older boys hid alcohol (whisky and gin mostly, popular at that time) in pop bottles.  In those days there wasn’t any chocolate, or potatoes chips, there were no sweets or candy like they sell today. Instead everything was homemade and fresh such as fruit cake, biscuits, (more often bread, butter, cheese, and preserves were stored wrapped in brown paper or kept in sealed jars and cans). My favourite treats were homemade hard toffee, which I got occasionally and of course my mother made the most fantastic jams and cakes.

I remember clearly my first winter at boarding school. It was a very wet winter; it seemed to pour constantly with little let up. I would receive packages from home every four to five weeks. Early in October a package of jam, cake, biscuits, hard cheese, and letters was unpacked and neatly arranged on my locker shelf.  A safe place to store such homemade treasures. However, after a few days I began to notice small items of food going missing from my locked locker.  It’s funny but check as I might things just disappeared. At first it was a couple of toffee’s then it was a small piece of cheese which I had been keeping as a special treat, then someone stole almost half a dozen biscuits. Nothing big was taken and in no big quantities. Neither was anything of value taken, only food. Someone was snacking on my home-made goodies, but who? I had no immediate suspicions since everyone in my dorm received packages from home, so no-one we deprived, and no one would need to steal. There was only one thing for it I had to catch them.  I would lie awake at night snoring and pretending to sleep, but no one ever woke up or got up or went near my locker. On occasion I would finish dinner early and run back to the dorm, but never found anyone there. My locker door was always locked and closed, the lock was very secure and never damaged, I just could not find the culprit. Days turned into weeks, and I could for sure see things going missing on a regular base, but on each occasion, there was no trace of anyone. I could not figure out who was taking my food.  The lock was never damaged, and I was out of the dorm most times as were all the other boys. It was driving me crazy. I even announce in the dorm that if I did find out who was doing it, I would box their ears and report them, which no doubt would have resulted in being expelled from school. But I was determined to find the culprit and I almost expected a confession, but all I received was a couple of sour looks instead and derogatory comments. The missing items were driving me crazy and in turn it was driving all the other boys away from me. I had always been liked, I was funny, I loved sports and art and had a lot of friends. But my paranoia over the missing food was creating tension even with my best friends.

I think it was a December morning, just before term break that I suddenly and unexpectedly caught the culprit. I had got up a little earlier than the other boys since the room was cold and I wanted to get washing without having to jostle or push or wait over a sink of cold water. I looked at my breath as I breathed out little white clouds into the air and I finally forced myself to pull back the warm blanket and get up. The fire had long gone out and the wooden floor was cold on my feet. I wrapped a gown around myself and shuffled over to the locker to get my soap, towel, toothbrush, and salt (yes, we brushed our teeth with salt and other minerals and pastes. No fancy whitening tooth paste back then.) Upon opening the locker, I hadn’t realized, but I had left the lid off a very large, tall jar of blackberry jam (a great treat I had been eating slowly to enjoy this rich, sweet, fruity, jelly as long as I possibly could). In fact, I had only just been eating it with thick doughy soda bread the night before and had closed the locker in a rush and jumped into bed just as lights out came. Now in the grey morning light as I opened the locker to get my wash kit, I could see what looked like a large shoelace hanging out of the jar. I could not see clearly so I reached in and pulled the jar forward. To my shock it was not a shoelace, it clearly was a tail and it moved to and fro in the air. The tail belonging to a large, fat brown mouse which had become stuck in the jam and the jar, and it was still alive. It was so fat (on my homemade treats), that once it got into the jar it could not turn or get out. It just sat there three inches deep in blackberry jam.  We both stared at each other, and I don’t know who was the most surprised.  This fat mouse had been eating my food.  I smiled “got you at last”, I whispered. Then a wave of nausea came over me, when I realized we had been sharing each other’s food. We may have shared saliva, dirty mouse feet on my food and God knows where that mouse had been. I could have come down with some kind of sickness or even plague.  My stomach began to feel light and then with increasing speed it churned like a washing machine tumbling clothes and I ran to the toilet, dropped to my knees, and threw up into the toilet bowl, and pulled the chain to flush it away, the jar still firmly in my other hand. As I sat up from my kneeling position in front of the toilet, I thought “what the hell am I going to do with a mouse in a jar of jam”. It was then I decided the only way to give it a fighting chance was to flush it down the toilet. Maybe it could swim away and make an escape in the pipes or in the sewer. At least the toilet would wash off the jam.

I carefully lifted the jar over the rim of the toilet and slowly tilted the jar emptying jam, mouse, and all of the jar contents into the toilet. With a very large splash followed by plops from smaller parts, the jam and mouse fell as one large lump down into the water of the toilet bowl. The mouse struggled and broke free swimming around doing circles around the bowl trying climb out. I pulled the handle on the flush chain and as the water swirled around the bowl the mouse began to circle faster and faster until it finally got sucked down the pipe. I pulled the chain again to give the mouse a chance of not being stuck and to ensure he did not make a return visit. I never saw him again and hope he made it. From that day on I never stored any open food in my locker, though the dorm did have rodent visitors on semi regular bases, they never frequented my sealed jars and tins again.

I did not often receive money from home, but I did on my birthday or other special occasion. On such times I would frequent the local bakery and candy shop. It was such a joy to get something different from our normal mundane meals which comprised of stews, broths, bread, potatoes, dairy products, beans, and cereals (though frankly we were very lucky to have this since there were many poor who ate only on meal a day).

Tastes were different in those days. It was a real treat to get anything containing sugar or anything sweet and I loved fudge, yellow man and caramel toffee, treacle toffee and that hard rock candy they would make by pulling twisted sugar on hooks ( in fact I blame the toffee for my later teeth problems). McGowan’s Bakers was a favourite haunt. His meat pies were the best in town, not expensive, freshly baked, and hot, oozing thick gravy. Come to think of it we never ever found out what meat he used; they were just called meat pies. Since they were not that expensive, I guess it wasn’t prime beef.  More than likely in those days it was what was cheaply available or what he could get his hands on, probably rabbit, organs, and meat trimmings, though we had also heard stories of some people eating seagulls and other wild meat. I’d rather not dwell too much on the content, but they tasted great. Other favorites were sugar iced bread rolls, which were so, so sweet, sugar crystal buns, ginger spice biscuits, wheaten bread, and hot potato bread with melting butter in top. I loved thick doughy soda and wheaten farls which were cooked on a hot plate above a turf fire and eaten with butter, cheese, bacon, or jam.

Cinema was such a novelty which had not yet made it to my hometown, but Belfast had some of the best cinemas in the country.  Silent movies were those being billed the most (with talkies just beginning to make it to the screen and changing viewer opinions). But like all things going to the cinema cost money.  Not always having the money to get access we would work out the most ingenious and deceptive ways to try and sneak in, from crawling on hands and knees past the ticket box while others created a distraction, to trying to get in the back door or better still back window of the cinema toilets.  I am sure we did not fool the usher as often as we thought we did. He was a kindly old soul and I believe he frequently turned a blind eye to a couple of local boys sneaking in.

To me the cinema ( or as we called it “the picture house”)  was another world, I’d be on the edge of my seat with Harold Lloyd as he balance and fought his way out of problems and in roars of laughter at the antics of Laurel and Hardy, Charlie Chaplin, and Buster Keaton. Then there was Greta Garbo and those sultry eyes and the swashbuckling Douglas Fairbanks. Buster Crabbe as Flash Gordon was one of my favourites. There were only two types of entertainment available to us. The local cinema or the wireless (radio). But radios were prohibited at school, with reading books being the preferred past time. Since it was a religious school, dancing was also prohibited, and I never got to a proper dance until I was in my early twenties. But cinema was my world of escape, and I would relish the screen antics and drama and after the show, we would try and mimic the stunts and jokes we had seen, often resulting in cuts and bruises.

At the weekends we had no classes, but they were not days of rest since we were expected to clean our dorm in the morning and study in the afternoons. The cleaning of the dorms I did not mind, but often I didn’t study. I wasn’t really interested, and I could always find the most useless things to do instead. I would also draw and dream, often thinking of home, my mother, father and two young brothers. I had a head for art and business rather than intellectual past times. Unfortunately, it also reflected on my school exam results.

During the weekend dedicated to prayers, study, and reflection, most of our teachers travelled or stayed at home.  Those who were single or those who were assigned to weekend duty, which meant looking after us, lived in the school grounds. A few teachers permanently boarded but their dorms were in an adjacent building. 

I shall always remember Ms Best. I believe she came from somewhere in Antrim. She was single and had a slim wiry figure. She was in her mid-forties but already had extensive grey hair, which she chose not to dye or colour. I am sure she would have been attractive in her younger years, but she had aged prematurely and sadly the days of her beauty had long passed. Despite her slim body she was strong and agile. She always wore dark colored dresses with starched white- or light-colored aprons, dark jacket, or black buttoned top. Horn rimed black glasses and hair tied up in a bun and very little, if any make up. Her face was slightly wrinkled, with large puffy dark skin around her eyes, which made it look like she never got enough sleep. She smoked constantly between classes and as a result had developed a deep crackling cough. She had a cold nature and although not unfriendly she was always distant and frankly seemed uninterested in us as students. She never spoke of her past and would always be evasive of anything relating to her younger years. She was direct and very much to the point in her communication and teaching style which gave her an unwelcoming stern and harsh reputation. I can only guess that she had an unhappy life. We never saw her happy or smiling. Always serious or deep in thought. Ms Best lived in at the teachers block in the upper right-hand side of the building, a teacher’s apartment, which had a view across the main entrance and towards the city. Being an end room, it was a little more private and quieter than most apartments.

Every weekend on a Friday evening without fail, she would leave the school at 6pm, when students had long been dismissed and she would make her way into the city. Returning about 8.30pm carrying a large brown box which chinked and rattled, like a crate of milk bottles. She would go directly to her room with the box and lock herself into her room and no one would see her again until she emerged on Monday morning ready for class.  We would later get to know that in the box were four, pint bottles of gin, which she would consume over Friday evening, Saturday, and Sunday.

During her weekend lock in, period, no-one was permitted to disturb her, and no one ever did, since if Monday was anything to go by, it would have been a foolish idea. Monday morning was definitely not a good time to have Ms. Best for anything. At class she was as “cross as a bear”, nursing a very serious hangover. That coupled with a bad temper and impatience was a disastrous combination if you ever did anything wrong to upset her. On a Monday mornings there was no pity in her and corporal punishment was administered frequently for the most minor of misdemeanors such as talking in class, biting your nails, not in property uniform, poor grooming, not sitting up straight, stalling in your reading, not doing homework, or simply just irritating her.

Sunday was a prayer day, and the school had a special kind of church. It was a meeting room, a large hall which we also used for school assembly. The hall was a special place on Sunday as it took on an almost serene ambience. We would file in on a Sunday morning the boys and men would enter one side of the hall while the girls and women would enter the other. We all wore formal clothes and mostly black, grey, or dark colours and again the overly starched white collars with stiff edges like razor blades. The boys and men would sit at one end of the hall and the girls and women sat at the other end facing the men. In between lay a wide corridor and a small, raised platform.

As we sat there most of us would all looked down at our feet, or our laps or an open bible if you had one. Those who were brave faced each other in silence across the divide, but it was risky since often the opposite side would pull faces or stare into your eyes when teachers were not looking to try to make you laugh. We all had to sit in complete, still silence. There was no minister or priest; there were no prayers and no hymns, just silence. This silence could continue for the whole two hours of the meeting, without anyone saying a word. If this happened, it was regarded as a time of private reflection and private prayer. During this silence I would reflect, not on religious passages or prayers, but I would reflect on home, my mother and sometimes poor little Lily.  But should anyone during the meeting, young or old was to be move by the Holy Spirit to want to say something they would stand up or speak up and say what was on their mind. It was often a reading from a passage of the bible, singing a hymn or saying a prayer. It was a very peculiar way to spend two hours on a Sunday morning and often I would find myself nodding off in the silence of the hall only to be woken by a bamboo cane which was poked into my ribs or by my ear being stretched by strong chalky fingers. These strict procedures during my older school years and exposure to such religious practices sadly never encouraged me to take a dedicated religious stance.  I never personally found the comfort in religion since those enforced religious school days.

With summer, came our long school break which meant I could go home and see my family and was especially excited to see my mother.

You could feel the ease of manner and excitement build in the last week of term after the examinations had finished. All of us had extra energy and eagerness to finish classes. The day before term break and on the last day of school there was always a ritual song which we would sing, and it went like this.

This time tomorrow where shall we be

Out of the bonds of slavery

No more Latin, no more Greek

No more of the teacher’s cheek

Up with the tables

Down with the chairs

Knock the headmaster

Down the stairs

If he gets up and interferes

Knock him down and box his ears

No more cabbage boiled with slugs

No more tea out of dirty mugs

No more water from the gutter

No more dirty bread and butter.

I guess it was our way of rebelling against a very strict school regime and letting off some of our surplus energy and a means of getting the excitement out of our system being able to break the rules, without serious consequences.

It was 1934 and I was home on one of my school term breaks. It was summer and I had two more years to attend before graduating from high school and maybe just maybe going to college or university. I had just turned 16 years old when my father called me aside. He told me to sit down at the kitchen table one afternoon and looked me in the eyes. He held both of my hand as we sat facing each other. He told me directly that my results were not good and for me school was now over. I would not be going back.  He said to me, that it was my duty as his eldest boy to work to help put my two younger brothers through school and maybe eventually university. That I now had a responsibility to them and at 16 years old I was needed to bring in an income.

On hearing this I wasn’t really sure how I felt. I was still a child, and I was never really interested in school except art and woodwork.  It also meant I would be back home with my mother which was fantastic, yet I would no longer be travelling up to the big city and for me it meant city life and education were now over. I had really hoped to have been allowed to go to university and have a full education and it felt like opportunity had been lost. But I knew in my heart I was not academic and now a whole different future beaconed to me.

All my life I have never been a negative person. That’s not my thought process. So, after a few minutes of reflection I took his announcement positively and as a great opportunity to learn the business from my father. He was a very tough businessman and had already made a great success of himself in the local community he was respected and was also approached in business with caution. I thought, “heck maybe even one day I may be entrusted with and even inherit the business as the eldest male child”, which was again common in the early twentieth century.

Chapter 4

The Early Days

My father and mother continued living in the little market town I grew up in and due to the success of my father’s business he had recently moved into a big house. In fact it was known in the town as “the big house” since it was one of the largest in the town having four large bedrooms, a large sitting room, a kitchen, a drawing room and even the town’s first indoor toilet, with a white ceramic sink, bath, and toilet with a wooden seat. It seemed like luxury compared to the tin bath and the outside toilet we had been using. The house had about an acre of land around it and to keep us happy my father bought me and my young brothers a donkey called Nelly. She was one of the worst tempered, kicking, biting donkeys you could imagine. Did nothing she was told to do and stubborn as could be. But we would ride on her back, and it was my pride to look after her. As a result, I was the only one in the household she would obey. The house to me as a teenager seemed as big as a castle and with its large garden with trees and donkey run, it was indeed a marvelous place to live.

Along with the new house my father had expanded his business; he now owned a very small local furniture factory, coffin makers and undertakers.  Since these were hard days of recession in Ireland, the factory was not short of manpower with a lot of skilled carpenters (labour was cheap and with the recession people wandered from town to town looking for work. It was such a hard time that some would work for food and lodging only). Unemployment and poverty were common in the big cities. Luckily things were not as bad in rural locations where we were mostly self-sufficient.  Since we could easily employ skilled labour, we had the right people in place and there was very little waste. The factory almost took care of itself with my father at the helm. But being a young man, I had a morbid curiosity for undertaking, maybe it was those old silent Dracula movies or maybe it was just a sense of dealing with the unknown or taboo. I had at that time no sense of my own mortality and found the whole drama of life to death fascinating. Adjacent to where the furniture was made, we made coffins and casks. In some cases, we used the same wood at the sawmill. I guess it was the economical thing to do.

Adjacent to the furniture factory we had a show window with many types of coffin on display, oak and mahogany with solid brass handles and silk inlay for the wealthy. Ash, chestnut, beech with material inlay with brass coated handles for the middle class and pine wood with brass coated false tin handles for the poor. Death came for everyone rich and poor, young, and old. Working in the undertakers was indeed a life changing experience for me and a life ending experience for our clients.

Now we had something very special in our undertaking business which many of the local villages did not have. We had a hearse, but it was not just any old kind of hearse. It was a horse drawn hearse with 4 pitch black horses which pulled a crystal cut glass and ebony carriage, with black spoke cartwheels and frames rimmed in silver paint. It stretched maybe 12 ft long (8ft inside for the coffin and flowers) and 4ft at the front for the driver to sit and when all decked out in its full attire for a funeral it was a grand sight to see.

My job was manifold and evolving as the months went by and as my knowledge and awareness grew. I learnt carpentry and made all kinds of coffins, which I loved. I had a natural affinity with wood and being neat and detailed, even though I say so myself, the coffins I made were first class and my skills were in demand. I guess my woodwork classes at school had come in handy. I also groomed, stabled, exercised and cleaned the horses. Looking after four large carriage horses was almost a full-time job in itself. We kept them in a field with Nelly and I don’t know if you know, but in Ireland we believe horses will not break out of a field with a donkey in it. So, with Nelly wandering around the field we never had a problem keeping our horses in. I also waxed and polished their bridals, and I polished the glass hearse with old newspapers. ( Newspaper is the best thing to use to clean glass, it removes all smears).

After about six months I became the key contact for anyone planning a funeral. In short, my job was a one stop shop to arrange and prepare all the requirements for any client who needed a good funeral from start to finish. We did all sorts of funerals. Wealthy landowners, businessmen, farmers, fishermen, labourers, paupers, children who died of sickness, mostly fever and tuberculosis or those who fell ill or just had accidents. The children were the hardest for me to work on and one day when we received the body of a little red headed girl who had fallen ill and died, I broke down into tears. It nearly broke my soul to prepare her for burial, but I did it between tears to ensure she had the best possible send off and stayed pretty through the funeral rights. It made me realize that the wounds of losing Lily were still very raw.  Preparing bodies for burial meant that we washed them; we dressed them, laid them to rest in their lined coffin and even groomed their hair and made them up with cosmetics to make them look presentable if it was to be an open cask. We also embalmed the bodies with formaldehyde since we had a license for this. Luckily formaldehyde was readily available since prior to its introduction a more dangerous arsenic mixture was used. I never did the embalming since my father did not want me working with such chemicals. In those days you could custom make a funeral and even theme it if you wished. If you had enough money the sky was the limit on the size and style of funeral, you could hold. For example, if you did not have enough mourners, we could hire them to walk behind the hearse, in a procession of grief from a handful of people to a few hundred mourners. Sometimes on the sad occasion of a child’s death we could hire a young boy or girl who looked like the deceased or hand a melancholy look, pale and frail to dress in black and walk slowly in front of the horses leading the hearse to the cemetery. We could make it a grand send off with a band or people hired only to cry (yes, we could even supply professional criers). Cars were still a rarity in our little town and horse driven transportation was common. So usually a funeral process would comprise of horse drawn carriages, horse drawn traps, the hearse, and people who walked along side. A large funeral was indeed a sight to see with everyone wearing black and walking at the same slow pace as it curled along the town streets.  Professional criers giving their all, to add to the sad occasion.  It was indeed a sight you don’t see today. My favourite part of the job was to sit in a black suite with a black top hat on the hearse pulled by the four large black horses with big black feather plumes on their heads, fitted with black and silver bridal wear pulling a black and glass hearse. Before the funeral I would rub the horse’s hair with vegetable oil, so it glistened thick and black in the daylight.  The large black wheels would trundle slowly along cobbled roads and paths to the gates of the cemetery as I held the reins in my black leather gloves. Occasionally, when the road got steep, I would lift a long thin carriage whip, from the seat on the hearse and crack the air behind the horse’s head to get things moving.  It was a regal and elegant sight and a most fitting way for anyone to depart the world. As the coffin was paraded down the town’s main road quite often people would come out of their houses and men would take off their hats to show respect for the poor departed soul.

When we arrived at the cemetery it was also my job to jump down, tether the horses and off load the coffin. I would be a principal bearer and that meant I would stand at the front ( if relatives did not want to carry the coffin) and carry one of the four corners of the coffin on my shoulder to the grave side with three other bearers and gradually lower it down into the earth.

In those days you could place statues of the dead person by the grave. Those with marble or granite sculptures of angels, the Virgin Mary, small columns, or temples or even morgues were common for wealthy families, while the poor were given a simple marble slab or a wooden cross with their name etched on it. Sadly, such grandiose burial arrangements seem to have stopped now. I don’t know why since in those days it was very common to have beautiful carvings or deceased images in stone.  Today everything seems to be controlled to the extent you are lucky to even get a plot with a headstone. However in those days, they were so personalized and so life like in creation it almost seems like the dead were being honoured, cared for, remembered as if they could see what was being done for them  Graveyards were a place of exploration, a place of art, of personalization and very much representing something further, perhaps a new chapter in the deceased existence and owes itself to a very different generation. Today graveyards are just fields of tablet shaped gravestones. It’s sad that the personal expression or artistic expression of private grief has now been stopped in cemeteries.

I had been working in the family’s undertaking business for just over a year, I guess. I had almost become indifferent to what the job really involved. I was numb to it, and I had depersonalized what I did daily so I could sleep at night.  In a way I felt that death was my business and was a business. It was strange but it was like going to any other kind of work on a daily basis and I treated my work like any other job, all be it a morbid one.

Now, have you ever seen a dead body? Well I can tell you, you get all sorts, from those who passed away peacefully in their sleep to those who had an unfortunate accident or even others who fell ill and sadly never recovered. Those with peaceful looks as if they had fallen asleep, to those with faces distorted in the last moments of pain. All needing care and treatment to make the body look the best it can be in death, for the sake of relatives and mourners more than anything else. My skill with art came in handy since I was a dab hand at putting the right padding and colour into the deceased face. A dead body is strangely cold to touch and turns a pale grayish blue and at extremes a dark purple where blood has gathered and congealed.  In many cases the body must be put into posture before it goes stiff and rigor mortis sets in. Once the body goes stiff and is left in an irregular awkward position such as sitting up or arms extended it is almost impossible to manipulate into the coffin or get the lid on. Therefore, setting the body within a short period of their demise is important. Sadly, on occasion and I very much regret to say this; we had to break or dislocate an arm or leg to fit the body to the coffin. People just left it too long before calling us.

Out of all the bodies I had to lay to rest, one adult death in particular sticks in my mind and I can still remember it very clearly since it was an unusual death. We never ever found out who the poor soul was or where he came from to this day. He lies in an unmarked grave in our town cemetery.

It was a drowning. We guess the unfortunate man must have fallen from a boat into the sea (perhaps a fisherman, merchant navy or just a leisure sailor, we will never know) where he drowned.  It’s hard to know how long his poor body had been drifting in the sea, but the town doctor estimated around two weeks before being washed ashore on the rocky beach of a neighboring coastal village.  The lonely body had lain on the beach, bobbing, and rolling with the surf until it was found by a local lady walking her dog. The police and the local doctor had been called and on-site examinations and still photographs taken. Even the local newspaper had turned up to cover the story before the body was wrapped in canvas and hoisted unceremoniously on to the back of an open cart and sent to our undertaking business. Now at the grand age of 17 years old I thought I had seen everything death had to offer.  But this middle-aged man was my first and only drowning.  He arrived on the back of a truck wrapped in a green canvas, covered in sand and seaweed. The town doctor had checked over the body and confirmed that no crime had been committed, removing grit and debris from ears, fingernails and nose areas for examination. A sample of content was also taken from the poor man’s lungs and chest resulting later in a decision that he must have drowned at least two to three weeks prior. The body was slid onto one of our body dressing tables and I had the gruesome job of unwrapping it. As the canvas peeled off the smell of the decomposing body got worse. I can still remember the smell like a mixture of manure, vomit, and methane. The body was pure white, swollen and bloated. Just looked like a giant salted ham which had been soaking in water.  The skin was a soft and fragile and broke easily.  The whole body had become squishy and puffy with the saltwater almost like a melted piece of soft wax. Sadly, he did not look human anymore and there were marks on his body where every little sea creature in the ocean had taken a bite.  I stood there in silence just looking at him, thinking of his poor body floating in the ocean all alone in the freezing water in the wind and rain until he washed and rolled ashore. A dark shore crab about two inches in size ran out from the neck of his jumper, causing my heart to jump. You don’t expect any movement from or around a corpse. I did not know at the time, but when a body sits in the ocean and begins to decompose, the body swells with foul air as the bacteria grows inside and the flesh begins to loosen form the bones and rot. This body was literally a large rotten balloon ready to burst.  So, when I attempted to move the body from the canvas to a coffin, I was hit by an almighty blast of putrid air from all of his orifices.  The noise was sudden and terrific like a huge giant fart and the smell was so foul and nauseating that I threw up. The blast had ripped open his stomach area and I had to hand stitch the area closed to get his decomposing wet clothes off and avoid taking the skin and flesh with it.  It was indeed a very shocking and disturbing cleaning of a body and clothing him was equally tough. Since he had no identification and no documents of origin or religion the local Presbyterian Church had a poor fund and paid for his funeral from funds they had collected. He was given a simple pine wood coffin, which was nailed closed with an inner waterproof lining and a small steel plaque on the lid which read. “Here lies a poor unknown soul given up by the sea. May he now rest in peace”.  The plastic lining on the coffin was a necessity since the body was so far gone now it was beginning to leak and this would at least keep it temporarily waterproof. Having to care for his body while trying my best to help him keep his dignity was just too much for me. I felt pity for him and the state he had deteriorated into before being buried was so heartbreaking and I never felt comfortable working at the funeral parlor after that.  I think it was the foul smell, the jellified body, and the thought; he had not just lost his identity but also lost his mortal resemblance in every way. It was a poor lost soul; we never knew who he was nor did his family ever knew he had found a resting place in our town’s cemetery. This upset me the most. He was just a lost soul.

I realized at that point in my life that despite all the numbness I had applied to my job at the funeral parlor and tried to de personalize working with the bodies; I was just too sensitive or too young for the funeral business. It was just not really for me. As luck would have it my father decided to sell the funeral business shortly after and instead go into retailing house furniture and carpets.  This came as a great relief to me.

Chapter 5

A Change in Career

As one business door closed my father made sure another one opened and I went into selling retail carpets and furniture for him. The recession had eased off and had not really impacted our market town for a couple of years, though we still heard Belfast was bad. I guess being middle class and now owning a furnishing business there was a huge market in the town for us with the growing population of farmers and local landowners.  Moving up in the world of business and in order to get a wider catchment area, my father bought one of the first cars the town had ever seen.  It was a 1934 ford model B, which he had purchased on a recent visit to Belfast. If you don’t know what a 1934 Ford Model B looks like, then you need to think back to those old black and white moves of Al Capone or Laurel and Hardy. The ford model B came in black (though I think there was also a blue version since it was built around the time when alternative colours were being offered on cars apart from the obligatory ford black). It had big round headlights and a solid black oblong frame. Ours had a solid roof, but they also came with convertible black roofs.  Big thick runner boards each side of the two front doors (no back doors). The seats were hand stitched and black leather, and the steering wheel was as almost as large as a modern-day bus steering wheel. The windscreen wipers which in functionality were pretty, useless hung from the top of the window where the roof connected and were long enough to be able to only wipe across the upper half of the window. The wipers were not very efficient since when the car was moving the rain just ran up the glass to the clear wiped spot.  It had a large steel radiator and a steel horn. Big carriage style wheels with thick rimmed tyres and steel cable spokes with limited suspension created a bit of a bumpy ride. But it was the fastest mode of transport for miles. And oh! It was a sight to see.

No longer tied to the funeral business and with my fathers’   increasing base of clients and customers to meet and with more deals to make, I became his chaffer, and it was an amazing job for a 17-year-old. The joy of travelling at the breakneck speed of 25 or even 30 miles an hour down farm tracks and village roads was exhilarating. People would stop to stare at this grand sight of a modern-day automobile. Horse carrying carts, traps and carriages would shy away or rear up as we approached and spluttered and roared along.  It was a great feeling and as a young man I loved the attention and of course all the village girls knew who I was. I was Horace, the town boy who drove a modern-day car. I thought I had finally found my career in life. It just couldn’t get better than this.

The car was also a prestigious symbol for my father who went into auctioneering and would travel back and forth to each land auction is style, which the locals felt added even more to his credibility and to his professionalism.

No more stables to clean out or horses to feed, just a car to wash and polish. There was no such thing in those days as a driving test. No means of necessary qualification needed to drive a car.  Once we bought the car we applied for and got our road tax and license. There was no highway code except I do remember horses and carriages were to get right of way over the car and pedestrians just had to look out for themselves. Pedestrians today have right of way, though in those days I wouldn’t like to have to test it (bone and flesh do not hold up well against steel travelling at speed).

From 17 years old ,I drove a car most of my life into the old age and up to 80 years old before I had to stop. I stopped not out of a lack of enthusiasm. I loved driving, but because my doctor stopped me from getting a license renewal on my 80th birthday. I guess the fact that I had developed semi-permanent double vision and cataracts at that age probably had a lot to do with it. But in all my years of driving I only ever had one accident. That was when I drove the Ford Model B. I was always a slow careful driver, but what happened in that spring of 1936 was totally unexpected.

It was a beautiful sunny spring morning, with the sun already high in a pale blue, cloudless sky. There was still a cool freshness to the air, but it was laced with the sweet scent of spring flowers. It was glorious. It was mid-morning and I had dropped my father off at the local magistrate’s office after looking at some land he was to auction later that week.  Often, I had to drop my father off and pick him up later in the evenings.  On that morning I decided to return to the shop and get some work done, before being summoned to pick him up. With efficiency on my mind and looking for ways to save time I thought it would be a good idea to take a short cut down through farm lanes which lead to a road which would take me directly to the main street of the town. It was one of those old country lanes with old stone walls running along each side and a rough gravel road surface for tractors, carts, and the like. I trundled along these lanes and would bump on the occasional pothole as I passed cows, pigs, and sheep in the fields.

Now, I wasn’t going fast. In fact, I was freewheeling down a hill slope, having taken the car out of gear, using the road’s gentle gradient to take me along. I always thought I could save on petrol expenses doing this. I was travelling just fast enough to feel the breeze in my hair, and it was a thrill listening to the rumble of the car as it trundled and rocked down the pot holed lane. I must have been doing maybe 20 or 25 miles an hour when suddenly, this huge dark shape appeared out of nowhere and moved at speed towards me from an adjacent field. With an almighty crash it hit the hood of the car. I could just make out at this speed that it was a cow. A fully-grown adult dairy cow. I slammed on the brakes so hard that the wheels locked, and I could feel my bottom rising off the seat with the sudden halt ( no seatbelts in those days), with my feet still firmly on the brake and then bang, I hit my forehead against the wind screen as I rolled forward. I could barely believe what had happened. In fact, I didn’t really know what had happened, since it was all too fast.  I sat there clutching the steering wheel with tight fingers, with a trickle of blood running down my forehead where I had hit the windscreen. The car had come to a halt, and I was numb and just looked ahead as steam rose from the bonnet. The dark shadow which had risen in front of the car was now a large hairy black and white mass lying across the car bonnet.

I sat there trying to piece it all together still staring and oblivious to anything else except what I saw straight ahead. How could a large dairy cow break through the hedge so quickly and jump at the car. Why would it do this? It just didn’t make sense. But there it was.

As the seconds ticked by, I began to release my grip on the seating wheel and gradually got out of the car seat and stood on the running board to get a better look at the front of the car. Using the elevated car runner to get a 360-degree view of the whole area I could see the skid marks behind me. The car must have skidded about 15 ft. Wow 15ft was a good distance I thought. Steam continued to rise from the engine radiator, and I could clearly see the headlights were broken and buckled. The front right wheel was also bent in ward and the cow just lay there on top of the bonnet. I could see its diaphragm rise and fall as it breathed. It was still alive.  My head was a complete muddle; I think I may have been in shock. My mind was confused and racing. How could I get this bulk of a cow off the car bonnet? How could this happen? Suddenly the car rocked from side to side quite violently so much so that I slid off the running board and landed on the dusty gravel lane on my backside. As I stared and began to get up from my now seated position, I could see the cow moving and getting up from its knees and easing its body off the car bonnet. It raised itself to its full height and stood there motionless. I half expected it to fall over again, but instead it shook itself( a bit like a wet dog would do and I’ve never seen a cow do this since) and then it turned to look at me . I will never forget the accusing look it gave me with its big black eyes. It just stared at me. I did not break the gaze but as I rose to my feet it turned its gaze away from me and then ran off back into the field from which it had come, through the hedge and down into the dark green pastures with the dairy herd , showing no apparent sign of injury.

So, there I was, left standing on the gravel of the lane, in the middle of the countryside, with the only car in the town and a damaged one at that, with little or no evidence of what had just happened.  I could see a small stone farmhouse further down the lane and dusted the grit and earth from my trousers and started off down the hill hoping to borrow the farms’ telephone if they had one. As luck would have it, they did have one and I called the local police and was told to wait by the car until they arrived. About 40 minutes later I could see a bicycle making its way down the lane being steered by a man in dark uniform. It looked like a black uniform but as he got closer, I could see it was a dark rifle green of the Northern Irish Police  which since 1922 had become known as  the Royal Ulster Constabulary or to us locals the RUC.

As he drew closer, I could see it was constable Gilmore “senior”. I went to junior school with his son. He knew me and my father well. He dismounted his bicycle and walked steadily and surely over to the car. As he stood there looking with his hands-on hips, he shook his head and tutted. He would then move around and find another vantage point to stare at the car and the process of shaking his head and the tutting began again as he inspected the damage.

At least 10 minutes had passed until he finally turned to me and asked, “what the hell happened” adding “your father will kill you when he sees the car”.  Without waiting for an answer, he then went on to ask how I could inflict such damage to a car in such small lane., how fast was I travelling and why take this route down farm tracks. I thought he would never give me a chance to reply. Once he had finished his barrage of questions   I tried to explain telling him the whole story of the cow jumping through the hedge and landing on top of the car but it all sounded just a bit crazy (as if I was reciting an Irish farmers version of the nursery rhyme “the cow jumped over the moon”) and since my father owned the only car in town I guess constable Gilmore had never come across a car crash and probably did not know either quite what to do.

Since my explanation was muddles the constable asked me to describe the cow and wanted to know if it was hurt. I pointed over to the heard in the far field saying, “over there, black and white” but I couldn’t identify the exact one, just saying “she looked ok when she ran off”  Constable Gilmore asked me to concentrate and to point her out, but frankly they all looked alike to me. (It’s impossible picking out one dairy cow from the heard. I would have had more luck if it had been a heard of zebras). “Was it only one cow”, he asked? I said, “Yes”. He asked did it have any distinguishing marks. None I could think of you know a cow is a cow, four legs an udder and two horns, black and white marks. (But I have known some farmers who identify specific cows or sheep, I guess it’s through their prolonged exposure to their animals, but we won’t go there just now).

After about another 15 minutes of this type of questioning it became evident, we were getting no-where. Then a smile came over constable Gilmore’s face. He turned to look me in the eyes.  I know he said with his hands on my shoulders, you must draw me an exact picture as to what happened. “I want full details of the accident, be sure to miss nothing out”’ he said.  I nodded in agreement since I had become a good artist over the years and still loved to draw and sketch when I had time. For this reason, I kept a sketch pad and pencil in a lower glove compartment of the car. With pad and pencil in had I began to sketch walking around the car stopping occasionally to take in details? I wanted to be as accurate as I could.  Round and round I went making sure I got all the details, checking out different angles and picking out as much as I could. After about half an hour I had finished as best as I  remembered. I announce to constable Gilmore I had an accurate, detailed sketch of what happened, I was sure I had included everything and had what he needed as I passed the sketch to him.

He gazed down at the sketch in its full detail. It was a representation of the Ford B car (drawn accurately) with a crumpled car bonnet and a dairy cow lying over the bonnet having fallen trying to jump over it. It was probably the best live action sketch I had ever done. I was proud of it, but sadly from the look on the policeman’s face I could tell he was not impressed. He had been expecting a detailed sketch of where I came from at what speed and how the cow connected with the car, rather than a real-life sketch of a cow and car.  He stared at the sketch and then he stared at me and without a word or expression on his face he folded up the sketch and put it in his tunic pocket.

As he mounted his bicycle, he told me to get the car off the lane and to check with the farmer next door if he had a tractor to tow the car home. He asked one last time if  I was ok as he pushed off his bicycle and began his route back to the station. I guessed that was the end of his investigation and since the cow was not hurt and I was unable to pick it out of a line up in the field, he went on his way. The farmhouse I had made the call from did not have a tractor, but instead it had two of those huge shire horses (you know the massive one’s knights use to ride in king Arthurs day) and for eight shillings he agreed to pull the car back home.

  The car had repairable damage and luckily it was only a buckled wheel, busted radiator and bent hood cover and over the next 12 months I paid for all the repairs out of my basic salary. After that I kept my speed down never exceeding 30 miles an hour on the main road and much less on county lanes.

Now the amazing thing about small town life is that everyone knew of the crash before I even got home and by the following morning the news had spread to the neighbouring villages. Word had spread like wildfire, in Northern Ireland small communities in the 1930’s we didn’t need the internet for news to go viral all you had to do in my town was to tell the local police and in no time everyone knew.

I was greeted at the local news agent as Mr Moto Sport and  even Monty (after the Monty Carlo Rally) while the men at the pub called me the Silver Arrow after a famous racing team in the 1930’s ( I always thought that would have been a good superhero name) . I had again become a sort of celebrity in the town, but this time unfortunately it was not with the young ladies but to the younger boys who wished they could have driven as crazy or as fast and crashed a car. All I got from them was: “what did it feel like? Was it fast? Was there any blood? Tell us about the crash?  On reflection I guess it was the most eventful happening in the town for months. My enthusiasm for driving  was not dampened and my father continued to have me chauffer him around on his business deals and auctions for the next couple of years, despite the accident ( probably because no one else in the town knew how to drive and I did it for a very little allowance). But we never found out which cow had caused the accident and who knows, its spirit may still wander the fields along that lane to this day.

Now the 1930’s was a strange time for Ireland. The south was pulling away from any remaining British identity and rule while establishing its own governance as an independent republic. There was also a great depression in the USA which had reached across the Atlantic to Ireland as a whole. There were unemployed in most big cities and Belfast was no different. Life in Northern Ireland in the farming community was still alright and my father’s business was doing well. People who needed money fast, wanted to sell their land or property fast and my father decided to branch out into real estate since he had the finances to buy and sell land and property making quite a handsome profit. He sold off the furniture factory and focused on retail house furnishing, auctioneering and real estate. There was always work for me to do and I still believed with all my efforts and being the eldest son, one day I would take over the family business, so I  worked like crazy, selling goods, working manual labour, delivering furniture, moving auctioned products, night and day I worked to help my father and loved to see his pride as things grew. His pride was my pride also. Always when I got home late a night my mother was right there with a hot meal and freshly baked goodies and with a big smile, she would embrace me. How I loved her.

I guess I haven’t said much about my family, so I best explain a little about their background.

My mother was from a well know Irish middle-class family whose relatives had moved to America as pioneers in the late 1800’s and made it big there as the country blossomed. It was always her wish to visit them in America. My mother was a true lady, a friendly loving woman with a very big heart. She never had a bad word for anyone and only saw the good in people. A far better person than I could ever be, though I tried to follow her example.  My father was old Irish stock. He and his ancestors had lived for generations within a 7-mile radius of where we lived. Everyone knew him and he knew everyone. They knew he had a keen eye for business, and they knew he was a tough negotiator. They also knew he had money and could buy what he set his mind upon. I cannot tell this day if they respected him or were wary of him, but he always got a hat tipped or a respectful smile as he walked through the town. My father had two further sons, Billy, and Drew.  Drew was the youngest and always playing with engines and mechanical toys, while Billy the middle one even from an early age was more concerned about how he looked and his grooming than anything else. He would talk about my father’s success, as if it was his, but he was not one for hard work, preferring a more of a desk bound approach. Being the eldest son, I loved them both deeply and often gave in to their needs and wants for the sake of peace. I guess I wanted a close family, to be loved by them and a happy and peaceful life. Being the eldest I was also supposed to be respected by them but, I guess on high insight they always did what they wanted, and they had a large appetite for material things and wanted, wanted, wanted. I think I just lived with it to keep the family together. Further I was not really a materialistic person. I had a good job, a loving mother, great food, a roof over my head, a family and I lived a life I loved. As a teenager I did not get much time to see either of my brothers. They were both sent to boarding school at an early age and I was working day and night for my father. When they both progress to college and university I was so proud of them. They were getting a chance of receiving a much higher education than I ever received, and I was so happy to see my hard work was giving them such a good chance in life. With a university education in those days they could really go places and become someone of notoriety someday.

By the time both my brothers had reached university age and then gone to Belfast to study, both my mother and father decided it was the right time for them to take a trip to America to see my mother’s relations. I was left to look after the business which was a great responsibility and I jumped at the chance. I would be in full control and fully responsible. I’m not sure if I felt 70 percent excited and 30 percent scared or if it was 70 percent scared and 30 percent excited. Since I was so filled with mixed emotion. I knew I would miss my mother and definitely her home cooking?  But I also knew this was a very important trip for her and something she had wanted to do all her life and I was happy they decided to take the journey together.

Chapter 6

The Trip

The late 1930’s was the time of the great steam ships and Belfast had a great ship building dock called Harland & Wolf and by 1939  with the thought of a possible war looming the recession was over and the city was bustling again.

I was 21 years old when my parents sailed form Belfast to Liverpool to catch the RMS Mauretania from London then on to New York on the Cunard White Star line.  If the name sounds familiar, the White Star line ran the RMS Titanic (which was built in Belfast) but they merged with Cunard in 1934 to form the alliance shipping line. On hearing that they would be travelling on the shipping line which sailed and sank the Titanic on an Iceberg en route to New York my mother was very apprehensive about going. I guess she was putting the shipping line and destination together and getting worried if she would make it further than halfway. However, it was this shipping line which offered the most direct route and since my father convinced her the Titanic sinking was 27 years prior and ships were much safer in this  modern age, she decided and agreed to go. So off they went.

On the day of their departure I drove them all the way from Castelwell to Belfast harbour, taking about two hours  winding around the country roads in the cool morning air. On arriving in Belfast at the docks, I found them a ships porter to help them with their luggage up the gang plank and onward to their cabin. The ship was huge, I’d never see a boat so big and all the activity in getting ready to sail was just mesmerizing. The ship whistle blew so loud I was sure you could hear it in Liverpool. Ropes were let loose, the engine roared and the seas frothed, as the ship began to edge away from the dock. My parents appeared up on deck, my mother in wide rimmed blue hat, a long blue dress with small white dots. It was tied at the waist with a  pale blue belt, while my father wore a brown three-piece suite, with a watch on a gold chain in his waistcoat, a rose in his buttonhole and a flat-topped straw boater hat with a red rim. I shouted “Pop, Ma” (my names for them) and waved and waved. They stood there, with my father’s arm around my mother’s waist and they both smiled and waved back, my mother’s right hand holding down her wide brimmed hat as it fluttered in the wind as the ship pulled out of the harbour. They both looked so excited and happy.  I stood there for at least forty- five minutes until the ship was just a little dot on the horizon, streaking a long plume of smoke across the pale blue sky. I then turned away and walked back to the car.

Thoughts of my father’s one to one lecture with me before leaving, flooded through my mind, about keeping the family name clean and doing the proper thing and I knew I would have to be on my best behavior. As I drove home, I thought of my parents on their journey and of my huge sense of personal responsibility entrusted with the family business. With both brothers at university and parents en-route to the USA, I felt alone and just a little bit insecure.  It took another two hours to get home travelling at thirty miles an hour back along the winding country lanes. It was becoming dusk now. I hadn’t realized I had stood at the dock so long watching the ship disappear. As I pulled up the driveway to the front door, I could see for the first time that our house was in complete darkness.  I turned the key in the lock and pushed the front door open and through that crack of moon light which shone in,  I stepped into the cold darkness of the hallway. My footsteps echoes on the wooden floor and the whole building just felt so empty. I went into the lounge and over to the fireplace and with some old newspaper and wood, I quickly lit a fire and threw some turf sods on top to ensure it burned well, while I stepped into the parlor and kitchen. I went to the bread box and cut a couple of thick slices of wheaten bread and grabbed the cheddar cheese and a jar of pickles from the larder. I filled a big mug with steaming tea. I returned to the lounge, sat in a large armchair next to the hearth. While I ate, I stared into the flames.  I turned the radio on and listened to Cole Porter “anything goes” and to Frankie Trumbauer “Blue Moon”  when drossiness came over me like a thick, dark, blanket and before I knew it, I had fallen asleep in the chair.

I woke at 6.00am stiff and cold. The sun was coming up and the radio was still on, and the news was playing, the chimes of Big Ben and something about Germany and the growth of the Nazi party, followed by some weather reports and then back to George Formby singing. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and felt the stubble on my chin.  The glowing fire embers in the hearth in front of me still gave off a little heat so  I threw some more peat on top to ensure the fire did not go out, while I made my way to the bathroom to get washed. I turned on the tap and the water was freezing cold. I can tell you a sink of cold water is perhaps the best wake me up there is. I remember as a child sometimes I even had to break the ice in the water jug I had carried to the room in order to get washed, but now we had proper plumbing and water on tap. I think by the 1930’s with all the new gadgetry, we felt we had advanced as far as we possibly could. After a freezing sponge bath from the sink and washing my whole body with a small cold damp towel, I was wide awake. I dressed in a white shirt and dark grey suite and went down stair to make some hot tea. With the hot liquid inside me I felt more alive, and I ate some thick bread with butter and ham as I watched the fire gradually dwindling again. I took some of the remaining hot water from the pot and briefly stripped to the waist to shave. I used a cutthroat razor, so my movements were slow but sure. I can honestly tell you there is no closer shave than with a cutthroat razor. I then re-dressed and opened the front door and stepped out into the cold morning air, jumping into the driver seat of business’s delivery truck which was parked next to my father’s car (with had Wilton of Castlewell written on the side) I turned on the ignition and after a few splutters the engine started, and  I rolled out of the driveway and headed straight for work.

We were a small team of only one secretary, three workers/sellers and me.  We knew each other well having worked for years together and most of the others had watched me grow up in the business, taking responsibility, working like a slave, and keeping a low profile. The four months that my parents were away were, relatively uneventful. Which on reflection was a blessing, I guess.

  I worked all the hours I could to make as much money as possible for the family and at the end of the four months I had built up quite a tidy sum in my father’s bank account for his returned. I knew he would be secretly proud though he was not a man to openly express his feelings or emotions. But I wanted to show him that I could do well and if he gave me a bigger opportunity and more responsibility I could do even more for him.

It was 4am Thursday 31stAugust 1939 when I went back to Belfast harbor to collect my parents. There had been a freak early morning frost and I had to drive carefully. I parked the car near the dock and made my way over towards the birthing ship.  My breath was cloudy in the early morning air and the whole harbour was crowded with people waiting for friends or relatives.  I was so relieved to see both of my parents together disembarking making their way down the slippery gangplank. They were a sight for sore eyes, and they waved and smiled, looking down at me gazing up at them.

My smile was a mixture of happiness and relief since perhaps unknown to my parents, Germany was poised to invade Poland. If they did then Britain had issued a warning to Germany that doing so would result in us being at war. There were rumors of German U-boats waiting in the Atlantic in hunting in packs looking for both civilian and military targets, should war be declared. (Little did I know standing there waiting for my parents, that Germany would in fact invade Poland the following day).

My mother’s smile warmed my heart instantly. God knows, how much I had really missed her, and I was filled with such joy to see her again, she wore a beautiful long flowery dress all the way down to her ankles and a fur wrap around her shoulders. On her head she worse a hat with a brim which turned down and around her neck she wore a white pearl necklace. She looked elegant and since I was so happy to see her, I failed to notice that she was very pale and  much thinner. (Even if I would have noticed I would have probably put it down to all those days she spent at sea).

My father wore a three-piece light grey suite, again with gold pocket watch and a white brimmed hat with a light grey hat band. They both looked like “A Million Dollars”. In those days their attire was very trendy and way ahead of the current fashion in Northern Ireland.  Well perhaps that was their intention, to make people talk.

I must have had the biggest smile in the crowd as I ran over and hugged my mother and kissed her on the cheek and then shook my father’s hand. I grabbed their luggage from the porter and loaded it in the back of the car. They had so much luggage that the boot was full, and my mother was surrounded by bags and cases on the back seat, while my father sat on the front seats with me. Then off we went.

All the way back my father talked of their trip to New York and all about New York and the tallest building in the world, the famous Empire State Building. He was fascinated by high rise buildings, then he continued explaining his journey from New York to Virginia by train. He told me how developed America was and that one day I should go and see for myself. It did seem like a different world as he chatted on about seeing, huge roads filled with cars called highways, electric razors, frozen food, ballpoint pens, cats’ eyes on the road, high rise buildings, instant coffee ( none of which we had at the time in Ireland) and the huge range of cuisine he had seen and eaten. Italian food, Burgers, Deli’s, Steakhouses all seemed so exotic. He talked about business and how we had to modernize and work more intelligently and move forward with technology. It all sounded so exciting. They had even brought American chocolate for me to try and chewing gum and lots and lots of magazines to read.

They were both so excited and my father as he looked out of the car window all the way home kept commenting as to how backward we were in Ireland as if he was seeing the country for the first time and my mother just sat quietly and smiled. My father told me one day he wanted to build a high-rise building, he said he would build a skyscraper as they were known as in America. There were simply no bounds to my father’s ambition and determination.

When we got home I off loaded their luggage, taking it upstairs to their bedroom and then lit a fire in the parlour.  I put the kettle on to boil and left my mother resting in an armchair next to the fire. I then went over to the desk in the study and took out the business and bank books for my father to see. I showed him all the expenses and the bank lodging receipts and bills of sale. In the time he was away I had made him in four months more than we had made in the whole year before. Frankly I had worked like a mad man, night and day working my fingers to the bone for him and to prove to myself I could do it. The bank balance showed a profit of one thousand two hundred pounds, a huge amount of money in those days. My father put on his glasses and looked over the accounts. He didn’t say a word as he looked, though a big smile crept over his face. He took his glasses off and pat me on the shoulder, Well done, Horace”, he said. My heart inside jumped with joy (I knew I had done well).

The three of us ate dinner that night and since my mother had rested most of the day it was a simple meal of bread, soup, and cold meat with mugs of tea, after which my mother went to bed,  while my father continued to tell me about America. In between speaking he would stop to check on or ask questions of the business as they came to mind, before continuing to the next part of his story.

My father had filled my head with a whole range of experiences and visions and that night I went to bed with my wireless tuning into a distant American radio channel in the hope of keeping those moments alive just that little bit longer.

Chapter 7

The War & Belfast

By March 1940 (about six months later) my brothers were still at college and university in Belfast. Germany had more than invaded Poland in September the year before, they had advanced to the borders of Denmark and Norway, and it  looked like they were going to be next. As per our pledge to Poland, Britain was now officially at war with Germany which also meant Northern Ireland was also at war with Germany. Even though the development in world events was a concerning situation, we still failed to see the significant impact such events would have. We also failed to see that my mother was still pale and getting frailer as the days went by. Life just carried on and despite the war, business was actually good.

One Thursday my father told me he wanted to go and see a landowner in Belfast the following day in relation to an auction in Downterrick ( a city sitting between Belfast and our town).We decided to leave early so as to get there for their offices opened, in order that a full day’s business could be done.

Since it was a long journey ( still 2 hours to drive there) we stopped halfway in Ballynah at a roadside café locally famous for its thick greasy fried soda farl sandwiches filled with fried bacon and a fried eggs . Deep fried in lard and full of cholesterol and fats, but it tasted delicious and just the energy booster needed for a cold wet March morning. We bought two thick greasy bacon farls and two large mugs of tea.

My fathers’ meeting was to take all morning including lunch until around 3pm and since I was not required to attend and I did not often get the chance to see Belfast, I decided while he was to be in the meeting and business lunch I would take the car and explore the city and perhaps have a little bit of  hunt around to see if there were any bargains to be bought or deals to be made in the auction houses or workshops. 

Belfast was buzzing. The city was packed with people shopping and the economy was good with the ports busy mostly supporting Britain’s war effort. Belfast was a city where literally everything and anything could be purchased.  The docks were in full swing as were the linen mills and the factories were manufacturing shells and military requirements for the UK mainland.

This city was really doing well. Cars went to and fro and the city trams were rattling along so full that people hung from the doorways.  It was clear that the city folk had money and were not afraid to use it.

My first thought was to call by Queens University in the hope of seeing my brothers and perhaps treating them to a surprise lunch. I really missed them, and it would have been good to catch up with them over a meal. But when calling at the university dorms I found out that both of them were already out of their digs and somewhere in the city. My chance of finding them was very unlikely and after half an hour driving up and down the lanes around the university, I decided to give up looking for them and instead drive around the city and explore.     

As I drove by the docks, I could see large navy ships under construction with hundreds of men on scaffolding, balancing while they riveted and soldered the hull together. The building of naval ships really drummed home to me that the war in Europe was real and even a real possibility here in Northern Ireland.

I drove on and away from the docks and as I turned into the Malone Road, I immediately came across an anti-aircraft battery being installed by the army at Balmoral Showground. (I would later find out it was to be one of only seven air defense batteries installed, which made Belfast the poorest defended city in the UK).  I had never seen military equipment like this before. It looked like it could do some real damage and soldiers ran around installing sandbags and fitting the gun in place. This and the ship building were my first and clear indications, Britain was at war, and we were actively preparing for it. There were no barrage balloons and no search lights placed in the city yet, but the sight of the anti-aircraft battery and sandbagged air-raid shelters made my blood run cold and filled my heart dread. A German threat now seemed so real. It was something I had not expected to see. I turned the vehicle around and drove on; I wasn’t going anywhere in particular after that, just drove while my mind filled with thoughts of war. I drove through the Falls Road and on to the Shankill Road.  Suddenly realizing I was perhaps in the best location of Belfast city for fish and chip, I stopped for lunch at the local Shankill chippy. Lunch came wrapped in a newspaper.  It was fresh, hot, crispy, and greasy with salt and vinegar and at a very reasonable price. Fresh battered Cod fish in those days was so plentiful and so cheap, fish and chip suppers were both a cheap meal and a good source of protein. As I ate, I chatted with the locals and I told them of the aircraft battery and they listened with interest, since many had some relation or knew someone who had joined up to fight the Nazi’s. They in turn told me they had all been instructed to dig Morrison air raid shelters in their gardens in case of air raids and bombing. Despite Europe seeming so far away from our little province, the bombing of Belfast was now a very distinct possibility. I ate the last few chips form the newspaper then rolled it into a ball and dropped it in the bin. I bid the chippy people farewell and headed back to the car and on to Chichester Street to pick up my father up.

It was unbelievable people could busy themselves about their normal everyday life when such military installations were being built. War was coming to our little community, and I guess we were all in denial, believing it was all for show. As I drove back home with my father, I could not help thinking what war would bring and if it would affect Ireland. Would we all be, ok? Would I be called up to fight and if so, where would they send me? Could I fight? My mind was abuzz with what I had seen and heard that day. My father was less worried. His business meeting had gone well and since he had been up early that day he dozed in the back seat while I drove back home. I was left to my thoughts the whole long way back, worrying about my brothers in Belfast and the fate of our country.

That afternoon I had one of the grayest moods I had ever had, trying to take in what it all meant. In our little town nothing had changed for decades. The farmers called their dairy cows in from the fields for milking every evening and brought the sheep to lower pastures. The fisher men landed their catch and sold their fish from door to door or in the market. The pubs were full of people drinking stout and whisky and it was as if nothing has changed. (Well I guess at that point nothing yet had changed in Northern Ireland) and although the mainland was at war since September, nothing much had yet affected Northern Ireland. A few of the local boys, just young boys ready for an adventure egged on my national pride volunteered for the Irish Rangers to go fight the Nazi’s while the rest of us just lived our day to day lives. All this normality made it seem like we were too far away for anything to happen. After all, what could a small, isolated province of an island have, that Hitler could possibly want? There was nothing here but livestock, grazing pastures, mountains, rivers, and ocean. There was nothing of any real commercial value and we were not even a strategic location).

By early 1943 the wireless brought us news that Germany was now at war with Russia, Stalingrad was under siege and Japan who had entered the war much earlier with a surprise attacked on American forces at Pearl Harbour, was now bombing Darwin in northern Australia. The world had gone completely crazy, with virtually nowhere untouched by the horrors of war.

Despite world events, Northern Ireland kept producing for the British war effort and as such the economy was not too bad and my father’s business was doing very well, in fact the war was proving very profitable time for him, and his business interests and deals would occasionally take him to Dublin.  Dublin city was also a place I loved to travel to, it had its own history and unique Irish character and was for me so different from home.

Chapter 8

Dublin Bound

In the spring of 1943, I got a chance to go down to Dublin when my father asked me to complete a deal on some antiques he intended to purchase. There was no need to ask me twice. I had my bags packed that night and the following morning off I went with my best mate at the time, Bradley who I had been to boarding school with, and we both thought to make the journey to Dublin  a fun break and have an adventure. The plan was check to out the antiques, make an offer, close the deal, then enjoy a night in Dublin at the bars and dance spots.

The Republic of Ireland had taken the stance of neutrality during World War two, although in reality nearly a quarter of a million travel passes and Identity Cards were issued to allow Irish citizens to work in Britain and a further fifty thousand Irish men joined the British forces to fight the Nazi’s (and there was an underlying support and sympathy with Britain, especially for the Northern Irish people).

Southern Ireland or the republic was still a very young country, so neutrality was paramount to safeguard its citizens. Smuggling and contraband crossing between north and south over the border was rife and the border was very relaxed. Stretching through fields, over lakes and across mountains, marshes, and forests as well as towns and numerous little lanes, the border became practically impossible to police. As a result, not much effort was made. Roads going to and from the republic had the occasional check point as a token gesture, but they we not very effective for the professional smuggler. With a strong camaraderie feeling between both nations of the north and south, the boarder was very cordial and often easy to pass through without needing to stop or just giving a wave from the window of the car or stopping for a bit of a chat.  

So it was for us and once we had passed the Garda (Irish police) check point, which consisted of two men, one standing next to a wooden shed painted with check point signs, while another wrote down our car number plate. We were briefly stopped and when they heard our accents and our purpose of visit, we were quickly waved on our way and down the rocky road to Dublin. With no motor way, we weaved through farm lanes and towns, stopping only for petrol and occasionally directions, until we entered the outskirts of Dublin city where we were to view the antiques.  They consisted of a beautiful silver Victorian dinner set. All piece’s pure silver, housed in an extravagant handmade sliver chest. You can always tell real silver since it has a silver stamp in the metal called a hallmark, usually on the base or on a handle. Each piece was silver stamped and after negotiation I got the lot for two hundred- and fifty-pounds cash (with the real value maybe being six or seven hundred pounds). There was also a Victorian corner table, a wake table, and a Victorian fire guard. Prices were discussed on all and an agreement was struck. It is common in Irish dealings to receive what is referred to as “a luck penny”, a little extra for luck, so in the end we paid fifty-five pounds for the additional furniture and the owners threw into the deal a Chinese vase as our luck penny.

Deals were done in those days by shaking hands, but I forgot in the south they fist spat in the palm of their hand before shaking, this meant the deal was solid. So we both spat and shook hands and loaded the silver into the trunk where our luggage was. We would send a van a few days later to pick up the furniture. With a smile and wave counting their money the sellers bid us farewell as we continued our journey to Dublin. We always tried to do business, so that both parties were happy. We could make money on the silver set and the sellers needed the money quickly to pay off bills with a little left over. A fair price to all was the best outcome.

What a joy it was to see the buildings of Dublin in the distance and as we drew nearer, we could see a city getting on with every day normal life, no black out, no air balloons and no soldiers manning guns.  It was a great feeling of relief and lightness to be in a city free from the possibility of any influence from the war. The city roads were busy with cars and trams (nowhere near as busy as today, but busy for those days). We checked into the Gresham Hotel on O’Connell Street, which had been renovated a few years earlier after the Easter uprising in the 1920’s and because of this it had all the modern cons and up to date accommodation in the city. To allow us to have more spending money we both shared a twin room, and we also shared a bathroom with another couple in another separate bedroom. But that was already luxury in those days. We quickly unpacked, stored the silver away safely (yes, we took it to the room) and went down through reception and out into the city. Our first port of call was the Circle bar on Abbey Street, which was a very short walk from the hotel. Even in those days the Circle bar was old and at least a good hundred years old if not more  It had also got caught up in the 1916 revolutionary uprising and as a result there was the occasional bullet hole in the wall to wonder at and as a  talking point. The bar was full of history and character and also full of old characters drinking pints of stout. It was a haunt both Bradley and I enjoyed. Great craic, traditional live music, and all in all a good, honest, local pub grub. It was a great place to hang out in and so typical of Dublin. There were three floors of seating and a private bar area. Even though it was still only early afternoon, it was packed to the doors, but we both managed to squeeze in and as luck would have it, we found two guys leaving and managed to get the stools they had vacated at the bar. In southern Ireland, Guinness is treated and taken seriously and prepared with reverence. Kegs are kept in cool stone cellars and hand pumped to the bar where pints are pulled. Thick and black it flows into glasses forming a snow-white head.

The tradition was not to drink the draught Stout immediately, but instead let the glass rest on the bar after it (the pint) was pulled, so that the beer turned black and the head fully formed and the brown gassy stout cleared, before being consumed. A good pint would form white rings down the glass to show the stages of it being drunk. The Guinness here was sheer nectar. I’ve always said Guinness made with Liffey water has no comparison. You definitely need to go to the south of Ireland to get a good pint of Guinness; it must be the clear local river water that makes it taste so different. The both of us just sat drinking pint after pint of stout listening to the traditional Irish music, played on the bola, fiddle, tin flute and accordion as we chatted and laughed with the locals. Songs were sung and more and more stout was drunk. After about four hours, a few whiskies and about six pints each both I and Bradley were “well on our way” to another state of consciousness. That is to say we were visibly drunk and behaved in such a manner (all of it was well natured though) and even the locals enjoyed our company and we enjoyed theirs, but after a few hours we both decided to try somewhere different and not limit our night to one pub.  Before we left, I witnessed one of the funniest and most amazing things, I had seen in any pub. Next to me at the bar was a man, aged about 30 years old and he sat with his back to me talking to another man. I could overhear their conversation and it was really quite amazing. As they talked one said to the other, “You sound like you’re around here”. The other said he was, to which the other replied, “So am I”. He then asked,   “Where did you grow up?”,   to which the other replied” Lafferty Street”. “My god”, said the first man, “so did I”.  I was now getting very intrigued by the sheer coincidence they had grown up on the same street in Dublin. The man with his back to me went on “where did you go to school?”, to which the other replied, ”St Malachy’s High”, to which the first said in amazement, “so did I”. My god, what a small world I thought.  He then went on “So when did you graduated from school?” he asked the other, to which he replied 1931. The man facing away from me sat up in his chair and placed his pint on the table. He shouted, “it just can’t be? “Jesus must be looking down on us tonight. I also graduated from St Malachy’s High in 1931”.

The bar man, who was watching all this just sighed and shook his head in despair. I said to him what an amazing coincidence and what a wonderful reunion this was. The bar man just stared back at me and said, “No! Not really, but it’s going to be a long night tonight”. I was surprised and asked, “Why would you think that?” to which he replied, “I guess you can’t see clearly from where you are sitting , but the Mc Michael twins are drunk again”.

In those days pubs didn’t officially close until 11pm and on occasion you could even get a lock in, which meant the landlord locked all the customers in until 6am or 7am so they could drink all night and the Garda would not know since the pub seemed to be locked and closed from the outside.  It’s funny I have been in drinking dens where at 5am you could order your breakfast and still drink alcohol. The milkman would drop by the pub to deliver the milk and even the newspaper boy would go around the tables of drinkers at 6.30am to see if he could sell a few extra. It was our own weird and wonderful way of life but seemed so normal at that time.

We got a taxi almost immediately outside the Circle and asked the driver to take us somewhere very, very different to drink. With this new sense of adventure and stimulation from the alcohol both I and Bradley frankly had no idea where we were going or where we would end up. I guess that was part of the adventure. Dublin was well known for its all-night drinking dens and flexible landlords, especially down by the docks, where it was a whole different world, and this is where the taxi took us.

The docklands is definitely not a place either of us would have chosen or frequented if we had been sober, since it was a haunt for prostitutes, petty thieves, undesirables, and boat crews who had been at sea for months looking to get drunk quick and have a good fight, it was very much a lower end of the city where virtually anything goes and frequently did. It was defiantly not the best area of Dublin’s fair city.

The taxi pulled up alongside Devlin’s Dockside Tavern and out we got and in we staggered. “God Bless All in Here”, Bradley shouted as we rolled in, which was a customary greeting and after a brief lull in conversation while our arrival was scrutinized (as we walked in, more likely staggered) , the bar crowd went back to their conversations.  Again the place was buzzing with men in rough dungarees, cheap suites and with pints of stout in their fists. They were slamming whisky shots in Guinness which looked like a good idea to me, and Bradley and I guess since we were so drunk and in such good humour we were tolerated on their turf (we posed no threat and maybe we satisfied a need for drunken entertainment as well as being a couple of guys they could easily take advantage of)

Now whisky slamming is probably one of the fastest ways to get drunk. It involves dropping a shot of whisky in a shot glass into a full pint of stout and seeing who could drink down the pint with the whisky in it, the fastest. The loser must pay for his drink and the winner’s drink. Bradley and I challenged the locals I think three or four times (I really can’t remember) but we ended up paying for all the drinks. We were no competition to these hardened drinkers. But at least positively, no one had yet tried to fight with us or mug us.

Alcohol can remove all inhibitions and make you a confident singer even if your singing is appalling and a lot of alcohol can make you an overconfident, dramatic, singer. Especially if there was some good music being played. Even though we didn’t know all the words to these songs in the tavern, both Bradley and I would attempt to sing any song the band struck up in between slamming drinks.  We had lost our senses long ago and began milling around the tables seeing who would join in singing with us.  I think I was on the second verse of “Danny Boy”, which is my favourite songs and I would always sing it with such emotion and dramatic gestures to boot. It was a sad song, but a song of our country and the people in Dublin knew it well. It was at this point I stumbled up to a round table, half juggling and waving around a third of a pint of stout in a glass in my hand, singing my heart out to the six men sitting around it. They all smiled at me and taped the table with their hands as the music played and I sang. I thought this was a wonderful thing. I do even remember say ‘this is grand lads, come on and join in”, but none of them did. I got as far as the end of the third verse when Bradley who was perhaps marginally a little more sober than I, dug his elbow into my in the ribs and pulled me away saying lets “go back to the bar”.

Although unwilling, since my audience seemed so nice,  I was in no condition to argue,  as  I  begrudgingly half followed and was half dragged back to the bar by Bradley who had my  right arm in a firm grip. But not before I dramatically bid the table of six a farewell with a low exaggerated bow and a sweeping gracious arm gesture. On this semi-conscious and forced condition I left for the bar.

As we both leant against the bar maybe 14 ft away from the table our view was blocked by the crowd of people who  milled around drinking , chatting, and leaning against each other or anything solid they could find to keep their balance.  It was then Bradley with such a serious and pale look on his face, turn to me and said in a strong but subdued voice “Horace you’re a bloody fool”. “Well” I said, “steady on now”! “What’s the matter we are only having fun?” His face was so serious that even drunk I could tell there was no humour on him now.  So I leant forward and tried to listen a bit more closely. He said to me, “did you not see the men at the table” to which I replied with a big smile “yes, they enjoyed my singing, they loved me”. Bradley then asked, “did you not see what they were wearing”. “No “I said, “what does it matter”, knowing we were in the dock land and people were very working class and off the boats (I never judged people on their wealth or background). Bradley turned to me his head now close to my ear and said slowly. “We are leaving now. You turn to look at them as we leave. Horace, it’s now time to go”. I knew Bradley well and I knew there was no point in arguing so I said, “ok then, let’s go somewhere else”. We rose from the bar and as we stumbled passed the table on the way out, I smiled and waved, and the table of men all waved back bidding me ‘Auf Wiedersehn”. It was at this point I saw they were wearing grey German U-Boat uniforms; some wore white scarves others had leather coats and one wore an iron cross on his tunic. Suddenly my legs just felt like jelly, “Jesus!” I thought “that was a close one” I’ve been in a bar with Nazi’s. I stumbled and fell out the door since I was too busy looking behind at the table  that I missed the entrance step and my drunk, weak legs gave way. There was crash at the door and I landed on my knees. “I’m all right, I’m all right I shouted” and Bradley helped me up and all I could hear was laughter from the table as we stepped and stumbled out into the cold air. I was shaking perhaps with the cold and perhaps with the shock as we stood outside in the Dublin docks. I could see the harbour walls and the ocean beyond and wondered where their U-boat was located. By the time we caught another taxi, it really began to hit home what a weird world I was living in. In the north we were fighting the Nazi’s and a few hours away in the south because of its neutrality I had been sitting drinking Guinness with them.

I told or perhaps more accurately slurred to Bradley it was time to do something else instead of going to another bar. Which he agreed was a good idea. We stopped off at a roadside stall for some baked potatoes and cheese where in that street we managed to find a late night /early morning tailor shop with its lights on . Although closed the tailor was fixing garments and on hearing, we each wanted to have a designer, tailor fitted jacket made ( so much cheaper in the south), he open up for us. After getting measured,  we agreed to pick up the jackets the following afternoon. It did seem a grand idea at the time.

I do not remember getting back to the hotel or what we did after the tailor, but the following morning I awoke in the hotel room. I was lying on the bedroom floor with the blanket over me and my feet on a pillow. I was as stiff as a poker and my head was throbbed. Getting up onto one elbow I was about able to peer through the bottom of the large windows. The sky was grey and overcast. Focusing my eyes and checking my watch I could see it was just after 10am with neither of us making it to breakfast. We were both nursing hangovers and our clothes which lay in disarray around the room, smelt of alcohol and cigarette smoke. I knew I was very dehydrated from all the alcohol the night before and after drinking a few glasses of water I had begun to feel a bit better and  since the hotel had both hot and cold running water, I decide to also take a hot shower. It definitely woke me up and helped alleviate the throbbing hangover I had been carrying. Fully charged and clean, I decide we both had to make it down for lunch. I was starving, since I was sure the alcohol has stripped my blood of any sugar content.

Arriving in the lobby of the hotel we were greeted by smiles from the bell department, and I guess it related to our state of arrival the night before, of which I had still no recollection. I just hope I had not been dancing and singing in the lobby. I tried not to think of it.

Being seated at the hotel restaurant we were presented with a menu. We could choose from Steak Pie, Galway Salmon, Duck Pate, Roast Chicken, Boiled Ham, Atlantic Halibut and a whole range of local dishes, stews and game  were  on offer, with a range of vegetables and of course potatoes.  French sauces were the refined dining thing at this time, and we could choose from many. There was defiantly no rationing here.  We both started with vegetable soup and wheaten bread, thick with butter to help reline our stomachs and it really help us feel a bit more human again. I chose the steak and onion pie, and Bradley had the Salmon with boiled potatoes and vegetables. It was great. I washed it all down with a fruit drink locally produced which mimicked the taste of sarsaparilla from the USA. Full of sugar and I needed it and to the maître d’s surprise, no alcohol that day. We finished eating around 2pm. When I went to pay the bill I found a receipt from the night before from the tailor, slotted into the wallet sleeve along with my Irish Punts. I then realized I had ordered and paid for a made to measure jacket. “Oh well!” I thought, at least I got something useful to wear before we made the journey home in a couple of hours.

With our bellies full, headaches subdued and with a new stretch in our step we set out to the tailors, but neither of us could remember where it was. Hence another taxi was required to follow the address on the receipt and to get us there. On arrival Bradley was informed he had also paid for the jacket which he had ordered. The owner seemed so happy to see us and even though Bradley had no receipt the tailor remembered both of us from the night before ( I’m not surprised) . He told us we were very merry the night before and we were very instant on getting both the design and colour of fabric we had each chosen. We had been lucky to find him stock taking and fixing garments so late at night. This worried me a little since I just could not remember what I had chosen and told Bradley to go ahead to the fitting room and try his jacket on first and let me see. After a few minutes he came out with a lovely dark brown tweed jacket, and I could clearly see the quality of the material. It was so well made, and I knew this would be warm and last for years.  Tweed was also very fashionable at that time and we both agreed it was a great purchase.  I felt a bit easier; at least we were not that drunk to choose something stupid. Bradley had a fine fashionable jacket, and I was sure mine would be as equally good.

So I entered the fitting room to try on my jacket. It arrived in a carrier sleave which was unzipped, and the jacket held up for me to slide my arms in. It was a great fit. I could hear Bradley calling me from the room next door to come out and let him see. He was shouting if I had chosen tweed like him. But it was not until I found a mirror and stood in front of it that frankly my heart sank, I did not want to come out. Despite the jacket fitting perfectly, I for sure had not picked Tweed.  After about ten full minutes of staring and a lot of persuasion, I finally stepped out of the fitting room into the tailor shop.

I could see Bradley’s face. It was complete surprise. His eyes were wide, and his moth dropped open. He took in a deep breath and exclaimed:” In the name of Christ!” Then he began to laugh. The heartiest laugh you could imagine. His laugh was so strong and so infectious I couldn’t help but begin to laugh myself. The two of us were in roars of laughter until Bradley could pull himself together.

“Well Horace” he said, “you’ve out done yourself this time and you have indeed bought yourself very unique keep’s sake from Dublin”.

“All I can say is that I must have been really, really, drunk that evening”. I had chosen a dark green jacket with large purple harps and shamrock woven in the thread all over. Harps and shamrocks were on the back, the front and down both arms.  The lining was bright shiny purple (like something the pop singer prince would wear) . I guess enough said, though I can tell you that jacket hung in my wardrobe for decades in its new condition without ever being worn. I kept it as a reminder to never party so hard again (although as a reminder it failed in its purpose).

All packed up and sobered up, we left late afternoon for home. The car was loaded up with goods and food which were much cheaper than at home. All the way back Bradley would occasionally let out a laugh as he thought of me in the pub singing to one of Hitler’s Nazi U-boat crew and then the purple and green  jacket I had personally designed and bought. You know I couldn’t help but smile myself.

Chapter 9

Mother

The war raged on for another three years and I rarely ventured down to Dublin again. I guess the U-boat crew had really given me something to think about. Being born before the bordered ever existed, I had never thought of being northern or southern Irish. We were all the same, my father always told me it didn’t matter if people were from the north or south, Catholic or Protestant he would sell his products to all of them and he took any kind of legal tender they had. He was indeed a businessman, but we never thought of people’s religion or where abouts. We were all from the same island and all a larger community (sadly as we entered the 1960’s this was not to be the case for many in the north). During the war there was money to be made and we made it. Manufactured goods from all round the world would end up in my father’s retail business and sold on for a good profit. Bill the older of my brothers graduated from Queens University. My father was so proud. The first person in my family to ever get a full university education (even though Bill had just scraped through, it was a great achievement) and I was so happy for him.  He was in our eyes a true scholar and a pioneer in higher education in our family. Straight out of university he managed to get a job in Belfast for one of the country’s leading real estate agents and auctioneers. My father’s connections I am sure came in handy, but to all credit to Bill he was well on his way to being fully trained in the field of real estate and I was genuinely  happy for him. My youngest brother Drew also graduated from university in engineering, but he had no desire to enter the family business. In fact his ideas were much further afield and at an early stage of graduation he told my father he didn’t want to stay in Ireland. He believed there was a bigger world out there and didn’t want to live his life in a little town in the middle of nowhere. He asked my father to sponsor him to immigrate to USA or Canada. Maybe it was my father’s tales of America that made him curious or maybe his just needed to get away from the little insular community we lived in or maybe he just felt the world was open to him after graduations. Whatever the reason I will never know, but soon after my father agreed that he could go. He gave him a hefty lump sum of money to set him for success and he went on his way. Northern America needed people in those days and immigrating to USA or Canada was easy. He quickly got accepted and ended up in Canada.  Looking back I think it must have been difficult for my father, to lose his youngest son. But I know for sure it was very difficult for my mother. Somehow, she must have known deep down (call it motherly instinct) that she would never see him again. As such it was a very sad and difficult goodbye for her, but she knew he had his whole life ahead of him and his education and his sponsorship money that my father had given him, would create new and great opportunities for him to make a good, successful life for himself. In early 1945 the war was finally over, and we all sighed a huge sigh of relief. Even though Northern Ireland had only experienced a few air raids on Belfast which abruptly stopped around 1942 (perhaps Hitler did not want Irish American sympathy to bring the USA into the war at that time, who knows. But the raids were short lived.) Many families in Belfast had suffered from the aerial bombing. Throughout the nation many protestant and catholic families alike had sons who had joined up to fight for Britain or joined the Merchant Navy in the Atlantic Ocean to run the gauntlet of the  U Boat packs, many of which never returned. Our little market town was no different; fathers, sons and friends were all lost. Victory in Europe Day was indeed a victory, but one achieved at such a terrible cost. We also cried and laughed and celebrated. The whole town was draped in bunting, and we threw the biggest street party you could imagine. All our communities and societies came together, all religions, rich and poor and there was drinking,  there was music and there was dancing, and it was just wonderful. It was such a loving happy moment for all. We had all made it and there was now a safe and positive future ahead for all of us, or so we thought.

I was now 27 years old with 11 years in the family business under my belt and I felt as if I would be ready soon to takeover one of my father’s businesses to help him out even further or maybe even go into partnership with him which would allow me to branch out myself.  With the war over I too had grand ideas. It was an exciting time for opportunity, and I could see the neighbouring town Newtoncastle (where little Lily had come from) had a lot of business opportunities and we had the means to be able to fill that gap. Drew had just settled in Vancouver and my brother Bill was working to complete five years apprenticeship in Belfast. I really felt that nothing could stop the three of us (Bill, my father and I) . We could if we tried, even make our little family business  of real estate, auctioneering, carpets, and retail house furnishing a county wide business concern if we pulled all our education, “our know how” and our experience together. I really believe that post war Northern Ireland was going to be good for us. In fact I could see we had the means for county and country presence. For the next couple of years and I continued to work in the family business while Bill finished off the remaining years of his apprenticeship. My father travelled around the country more often now making deals to buy and selling antiques and real estate. We were so busy we never noticed my beloved mother’s health was deteriorating. Each day she grew paler and frailer.  Maybe it passed us since we were working so hard, or maybe we put it down to aging, I don’t know.   She was always loving, always positive and always caring. Since she continued to cook and clean and look after us as she had since I can remember, we had always thought she was alright. He her home cooking was great, and she was forever in great spirits and the best of humour. I always got that hug and smile as I left for work and when I arrived home at night. They were the best parts of the day and with my mother I always felt loved. But my life was about to come to a very drastic change.

It was late February 1947, and we were going through one of the coldest weather periods I have ever experienced. The early part of the winter was mild, but the last 3 weeks were a complete bitter disaster, with temperatures not rising above freezing. We had gale winds, heavy snow drifts and the fire in the house burnt night and day. It was so, so cold we even lit all the house fires in every room and kept them burring constantly around the clock. Snow was so thick on the roof and all windows were covered in a thick layer of ice. I didn’t want to think how the poor were faring or people living in those in more isolated locations. No doubt there would be some people in the county who would simply freeze to death, since I’d never experienced cold like this in my life and we lived in a big thick-walled house with fireplaces and we ate good hot food, every day. One morning in February I rose to see my breath in white clouds in the cold bedroom air. The windows inside the room had a fine sheet of frost and I rubbed it to try and look out. Another dark/grey morning while snow covered the road and trees. I quickly dressed and splashed the freezing tap water on my face as it chugged and spluttered with ice chunks as it spat out of the tap.  As I neared the kitchen, I could feel its warmth as it drifted towards me like a fine invisible sheet of silk. There was a smell of fresh baking, I could hear eggs frying and as I stepped in, I could see there was also a pot of porridge on the boil and a mug of tea poured out sitting on the breakfast table.

I don’t know how she did it. My mother was always first up and last to bed. She never seemed to sleep and never complained. In fact I know she loved looking after us and I guess since I was at home so often, I always felt special in her care, and I even felt like I was her favourite son.

I pulled a chair up to the table opposite the open fire and began to drink my tea as my father arrived down to join me and sat opposite. My mother laid the table with food and then sat on a chair between us. While we sat at breakfast, eating oatmeal, bread, butter, jam, and eggs, we talked about the day ahead and my father muttered about how business would not be good until the weather improved (as always, he was right). Frankly given the chance I would have stayed in the kitchen all day in front of the fire. It defiantly was not the kind of weather you would want to go out in. I asked to put the wireless (radio) on which was mostly used in the evening but that morning on the pretext of getting a weather report.  As I turned it on, I could hear the familiar tune of the The Coffee Song by Frank Sinatra, you know the one that goes, “There’s an awful lot of coffee in Brazil”. I knew the words but kept thinking we’ve a lot of snow in Castelwell in place of coffee and Brazil and hummed along. It was followed by “When Irish Eyes are Smiling”, by Bing Crosby, then the news. The temperature the night before in Bedfordshire England had dropped to as low as minus twenty-one degrees centigrade. The estimation in our county was minus eleven degrees and at 6am that morning I am sure it had not risen much.

There was also a coastal gale warning with wind estimated in southern England to hit 90 knots. Many coastal areas including ours just 4 miles away had suffered some form of serious storm damage.

Now despite all the distractions of the radio and the conversation and thoughts of the snow outside I did notice my mother was not eating very much and just nursed a mug of tea in her hands as she smiled across at me and I happily returned her smile and we connected in joint happiness for a few seconds until I got distracted by the wireless again.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see my mother’s half mug of tea gradually begin to shake in her hand, until it was shaking so much the warm tea began to slosh onto the wooden floor. She clung to the mug. Her face was very pale and even though she tried to assure us nothing was wrong I could see her body tense and she clenched her teeth in pain. She was still upright in her chair when her hand stopped shaking, but she had no power in her arm, as if she had just had a stroke. I was off my chair in no time as I jumped up, toppling the chair to the floor its back hitting the wooden with a crack. Half crouching to pick up the chair and half clambering to my mother, I looked up into her face in time to see her eyes roll up in her head as she fainted and slid down her chair toward the kitchen floor.

   ‘Ma! Ma!’ I shouted as I gently tapped my palm across her cheek, ‘are you alright’, I half whispered, and half cried. But there was no reply. I told my father to stock up the fire in the bedroom and I would carry her straight up and then go for the doctor. He ran up the stairs ahead of me and I bent down to lift my mother under her knees and around her back. She was so light, nothing but skin and bone. I was shocked at her frailty. How had I not noticed this? As I made my way up the stairs, I prayed to myself that she would be alright. I placed her in bed and had my father wipe her head with a cool damp cloth while I went to fetch the doctor.

My mind had only one objective and that was the doctor and nothing else mattered. I burst out through the front door with a leap, only wearing a waistcoat and no jacket or coat. It just didn’t matter to me. Now in my twenties I was an excellent athlete and a very good runner. The doctor only lived a short distance away and, in this weather,  I knew I could run there faster than drive.  I ran down the driveway as fast as the wind, skidding and nearly losing my balance at the bottom where it met the main road, but I kept my balance and pushed on.

Across the lawns shin deep in snow, I was like a one-man steam train, breathing in full lungs of frozen air and breathing out warm moist clouds. In a matter of just a few minutes I was at the doctor’s house banging on his front door and lower windows. He peered out of the top bedroom window and half gasping I shout up what had happened. My mother was a perfect lady and highly regarded in the local community, in that she had the nicest, kindest nature and always helped a soul in need. She never gossiped and never had a bad word for anyone and always did good, when she could. She was much loved by the town people.  On hearing what had happened the doctor shouted that he would be right down and got dressed immediately. I waited at the door now shaking and shivering, my hands and face red, my nose and ears burning with the cold. Then I was off again and being followed by the doctor who was half running half sliding, moving as fast as he could in an attempt to keep up with me.  When we got back home, I flung the door open and shook the snow off my shoes. In my rush my feet slipped and slide as I raced up the stairs taking two or three steps at a time. My mother was conscious as I entered the bedroom door followed by Dr. Gilsom. She was sitting up in bed talking to my father who sat beside her holding her hand.  The doctor followed me in and as he unpacked his small leather bag, he told both me and my father to leave the room, since he needed to examine my mother. We did as we were told and sat by the fire in the kitchen awaiting news.  Neither of us talked nor even really looking at each other since we had our own concerns and thoughts to cope with. Dr Gilsom seemed to be up there with her for hours as we stayed hunkered down in front of the kitchen fire to warm up. In reality the doctor was with her for about forty-five minutes and after he completed his examination he made his way down the stairs to the kitchen, where we were waiting.  He told us he feared it may be something serious but could not tell until he had results back from blood samples he had taken. We were told my mother had to rest and stay in bed for the next two or three days until he would return with the results of the samples, he would send to the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast.

My mother was not one who would easily stay in bed. But on my father’s insistence she uncharacteristically agreed quite easily which made me think she was really ill.  My father and I had never learnt to cook and for the following days we all lived on bread, cold meat, and pots of tea while my mother was confined to bed. I knew how to make porridge, so we had a hot breakfast, and  I did try to cook a soup,  one evening, which turned out  a moderate success and resembled thick Indian dal rather than soup, but it was warm and nutritious, so we all ate it. Those were the longest three days of my life, and I began to realize how much my mother really meant to all of us and how heavily we depended on her.

It was a Thursday afternoon when the doctor arrived back. The snow was melting and there was snow slush and flood water running down the surrounding hills and all the way down the town street along the street gullies and toward the river. The doctor had the results in his hand and went immediately  to speak with my mother  before he came down to see me and my father. We were both  told to sit in the lounge while he explained. He told us there was no delicate was to say it so he would just say it straight. He broke the news; my mother had tested positive for stage three cancer which was in the base of her stomach, and would no doubt develop to stage four soon at which stage it would spread through the rest of her body. In 1947 we had very little knowledge of cancer and its treatment. Cancer was incurable and we knew what that meant. I believe I mentioned earlier that my father was not a man who showed emotion. But on hearing this news, it was the one and only time I ever saw him cry. How he cried and cried just like a baby. He held his face in his hand as tears and saliva seeped through his fingers and he sobbed and his whole body shook, his face was scarlet, and his body burned like fire. He was inconsolable and wailed as if he had lost everything in the world.

I was in shock; I could feel the blood leaving my face. I could not believe what the doctor had said, it had to be wrong.

He went on to tell us he believed from his examination that the tumor was large in size and possibly connected to an artery ( but he could not be sure) .I kept telling the doctor that he had made a mistake that he needed to check again. But I think we all knew it was not a mistake and it definitely was cancer.

My father stopped crying after about twenty minutes and with a red puffy face looked across at me and put his coat on and went out for a walk in the hills and fields. He could not face us in his current despair, and I knew he needed to be alone.

The doctor then nodded then turned and went up to speak to my mother again while I just sat still in my chair  trying to take in what had just happened. After a few minutes the doctor came down and let himself out.  On hearing the door close firmly shut I tuned and made my way up to her bedroom. I slowly pushed the door open in case she was asleep so as not to wake her, but instead she was sitting up in bed and saw me at the doorway. She smiled at me and held open her thin frail arms for a hug. I ran across the room, and we embraced and held each other in that moment which felt like forever. I cried and she cried, and we still held each other tight so as to not look upon the others grief ( that would have been unbearable). Eventually we stopped crying and we were able to talk. I was confused how this could have happened, she was healthy, and she was a strong woman. How could this happen? I was full of confusion but had no answers. We sat holding each other until my father retuned.

I then went down to prepared dinner and my father went up to see her. It was a simple meal, bread, cold meat, and cheese. I never knew what my parents said to each other when I was making dinner, but they had time I think to find some peace. We all ate dinner in her bedroom that night sitting on her bed, and we talked for the first time in a long time together as a family. The following day my brothers were told of my mother’s condition. We called Bill on the phone, who was now back in Belfast, and we sent a telegram to Drew from the post office. Bill took it worse than Drew. Both however had busy lives and could no travel home at that time. Maybe deep in their heart they thought by a miracle she would recover, or perhaps they could not face her with their grief. They did not mention it again and neither did I. My mother’s deterioration was quick, we paid for a nurse to care for her, and she was confined to bed on morphine by the time the spring flowers had arrived. I remember she always loved the snow drops and bluebells from the forests. Spring was a time when the countryside came to life after the long cold winter, but to me it has since become a time of death and of sorry and loss. One April afternoon I was called home from work and on arrival went straight up to her room where my beloved mother lay on a big brass bed with an embroidered quilt draped across her. She was propped up on eight big feather pillows and a large fire had been made up in the hearth making the room as warm as toast. My father stood at the back of the bedroom with the doctor.  My mother now on the highest permitted amounts of morphine, was in and out of consciousness. I sat at her bedside, and I held her hand, which was now just skin and bone. Her hand was warm, and she turned her head toward me. I could see the pain in her deep dark eyes, but still she gave me the most beautiful smile. I smiled back through my tears and soft sobs. In a frail whispered voice she told me not to cry, that I would be ok, she promised and made me give my oath to look after my two younger brothers, to help them and not fall out with them and to be their caring big brother forever. I was the oldest and I knew I needed to do this for her. I unconditionally and immediately agreed.   Then she took, what was to be her final breath, deep and hesitant into her lungs. She smiled once more as she looked into my eyes, and I could see she was at peace with her world. As she breathed out, in her last exhaling breath she said quietly, “I will love you always” and with that her eyes glazed over, her hand went limp, and she was gone. At this point the pain in my heart and stomach told me my life would never be the same again. I believe on that day part of my soul died with her in her in that bedroom. I cannot talk about it any further since the memory of it is too painful for me.

My mother was laid in her coffin. It was the best that money could buy, dark solid ebony wood, gold plated handles, silk lining. She was dressed in a beautiful blue dress with white dots, which was one of her favorites. Her hair had been braided, the way she wore it when she was young and there was a serene almost biblical ora to her pale face.

Her coffin was laid on the dining table in the dining room of our home for two days. It is there she was laid in wake and where I slept and was by her side both night and day. I placed an armchair next to the table where her coffin lay  . I don’t think I ate at all for the two days. Frankly I had no appetite. I just needed to be with her and only her. 

As is the custom in Ireland when there was a death in the family, people would come to the house where the body was laid to show their respect to the family and to the departed person. Food and drink would be provided for all who came. Friends, relatives, neighbors, and townsfolk came to express their sadness and say a prayer for her. She was a much-loved lady.

But I think her real legacy was the vast amounts of people who came to show their respects, who we didn’t even know. That is the poor from surrounding villages, needy families, tramps, out of work fathers and poor fishermen’s wives. They told us stories of my mother’s kindness we had known nothing of. How she fed the begging tramps that passed by our house and gave them some of our old clothes to freshen up. How the local fishing fleet was stuck at sea and there was no money and no food for their families and the children would get hungry and sick. But not if  my mother could prevent it and she had spent the full days and weeks baking bread, pies, making stews and soup which she took to them and expected nothing back. The tales of her kindness were extensive and had positively affected many families over many years. She provided simple shelter at her own expense for the homeless, mended their clothes and even gave them a few shilling to help them on their way. We were told by many if it had not been for her, their families would have starved and their youngest would have surely perished or if not for her, they would never have got back on their feet. Some of these acts of love and kindness went back before I was born while others, she did just a few days before she fell sick.

For such a cluster of small towns and villages, it was truly surprising how many people’s hearts she had touched and how many she helped. Yet she had never talked about it. Not even once.

One of the last to show respect was a man who at one time had been homeless, but through being fed, clothes and given a few pennies from my mother , had managed to get out of poverty and now had a steady job and income. He simply said, “God would indeed have another angel by his side now she had gone”. I guess that is the best legacy anyone could wish for, the gratitude and respect from those who received your unconditional help and love when they needed it the most.

My mother received the best send off the village had ever seen travelling in a black hearse through the town. We were a small community, but literally hundreds if not thousands turned out to show their respect as her body travelled up the hill to the cemetery, to a burial place which faced towards the mountains. We had never seen such a procession of people.

She was carried to a family plot  (since my father had made up his mind, he could not be parted form her in death and he would when the time came, be buried alongside of her).

We buried her in the rain; it appeared that even the angels in heaven were crying the day of her funeral. I placed a small bouquet of white roses on her grave, which was my way of saying I would love her for eternity.  I stood there in the rain as the raindrops fell and rolled down my face and hiding my tears.  My father looked solemn, and Bill had made it back from Belfast for the funeral. The ceremony was in English with a couple of Latin prayers and as people began to leave after the ceremony I stayed on. Soon I was standing alone in the rain.  There was on old Irish custom originating in the nineteenth century which required someone to guard a new grave for three consecutive days and nights (people said to avoid anyone walking on her grave which was a sign of bad luck and would leave the dead persons soul in purgatory, but it was more likely to stop grave robbers in the 1800’s from taking the body from a new grave and selling it).

Anyway whatever the reason I prayed and cried at her grave and wondered what my life would be like without her. I sat in my mourning clothes on a wooden chair under a large umbrella. I didn’t move much form there for those three days and night, except to change clothing and keep dry and warm. Since I refused to move, my father and the minister would drop by and bring some warm food each morning, until I had finished.  Looking back it may have seemed a very foolish thing to do, but for me it was about closure. I needed to be with her, and I needed to say my own personal goodbyes. I needed to know how I would manage to go on without her. 

If you have ever been in a graveyard at night, it is probably one of the most peaceful places on earth. With the moon shining on the head stones and sculptures your mind can easily play tricks that you can see shapes and movement, but if there was any, it was more likely to be foxes and cats, rather than ghosts or specters. Each dawn brought rays of hope to my thinking and warmth to my body and after three days and nights I arrived home for a hot bath.  My brother Bill was home, and we drank hot tea together in the lounge until I fell into a heavy but unsound sleep.

I dreamt I was alone and poor, wondering a desolate white winter landscape. I had nothing. I was dressed in rags, I was dirty, but I was being chased for the very, very few belongings I possessed. I was bleeding from a chest wound and a leg wound, and crimson blood seeped through my raggedy clothes falling on the to virgin snow. As I lost blood, I became tired and faint and dropped to my knees before falling flat on the ground.  I began to crawl onto my stomach to get away from a back-shadow figure which closed in on me. Then it was standing over me holding a large sharp knife in its right hand. The knife glinted in the light of the full moon. As I lay there helpless, it crouched over me reaching its hand up high in order to bring the knife firmly down into my exposed back. Facing down into the snow I tensed my full body bracing myself ready for the sharp pain of death.

At that very moment in my slightly raised vision in the distance I could see a young woman dressed in a dark blue dress shouting. What was it she was shouting/ It sounded like my name !? No it then sounded like “wake up, wake up”. The knife plunged down towards me, when I heard my mother’s sweet voice, “you’ve got to wake up dear” and with a shake to my right shoulder I was awake (and glad of it).

My shirt was soaking wet with sweat, and my hair matted. I peel it off and put on a new shirt and combed my hair, as my father who had woken me, stood waiting. He then told me to follow him into the kitchen where Bill was seated.

Chapter 10

The Ultimatum

In the kitchen I was told to sit down. I reached for a kitchen stool and sat next to Bill. My father stood opposite both of us. He stared at me and began, ‘I’ve been thinking” he said. ”Now that your mother is dead and there is nothing, we can do about that.  Now she has gone there will need to be some big changes around here”, he continued” So I think I also need to make some changes”

He then spoke for about 5 minutes referring mostly to his trip to America and what he had seen and experienced there.  He told us it was then he realized we needed to modernize; we needed to do things differently. He had made his mind up. He was now going to change his business to a family company and set it up as John Wilton and son company. Wow!  It was yet another unexpected event, but at last I thought, I would be made a partner in the family business. It’s all I had ever wanted, but what about Bill?  What about him? Could he have perhaps meant John Wilton and sons? Yes, maybe that ws it I had picked him up wrong. The three of us would be going into business together.

He started again, “Horace you left school at sixteen and worked long and hard form me over the last thirteen years. You showed me you could work and even do heavy labour when needed. You helped develop the business and grow it with me”, he said. “Yes ! I thought so true father, but what about Bill, we need to recognize him too?” What about him? I looked at Bill as my father talked and he looked calm and relaxed. Maybe they had agreed another option for him or maybe he had meant to say, and sons.

He went on, “Horace, sadly working hard is just not enough in this day and age, and you need someone who is smart, with a proper background. Someone who has an education who can take the business places. That is why I will be making Bill my partner in the new company”.  The words hit me like a ton of bricks. I was frozen to the stool and not even sure I had heard him right.  Was I only cheap labour for my father and my younger brother? I had worked so hard to make money and educate Bill and now he was to get everything? Thoughts rushed into my mind and cluttered my thinking. I could not utter a word. My stomach had a sinking feeling and became painful, and my throat dried up and I had an emotional lump in my throat which was beginning to choke me. I could not speak or utter a sound of any kind.    The promise to my mother flashed into my mind and regaining my breath and with a shaky voice I congratulated my brother, though my heart and spirit was broken.  My father concluded” Since you have worked hard, I am putting five hundred pounds in the bank for you. You can either go as sponsored to another country like your brother Drew did, or stay and work for us, either way that is sufficient payment for your work”. I really can’t describe how I felt. It didn’t seem real. I just didn’t see this happening. I thought, I thought we were getting places together.  Now at nearly thirty years old with only junior high school education I now had a choice to live life as a labourer for my brother and father or to immigrate and try to find a new future.  What a choice to make.   I felt betrayed by both my father and my brother, but what could I do? I decided to get out of the house at this point and made my excuses. I headed down to the pub since I needed a drink to numb my brain. The pub was a place I did not frequent. In fact I rarely drank at home or in the town, only when I went to Belfast or Dublin for an overnight stay. But today I needed a drink.  I entered Mulligan’s and bid all well as I walked over and sat at the bar.  The owner Paddy Mulligan came over, he knew the family well and bid me welcome. I ordered a double whisky and downed it one. I called Paddy over and ordered another and as he poured, he asked “ Is everything alright Horace?”. What could I say? I didn’t want him to know what had just happened, so I simply replied, “I’m grand, I’m just missing my mother”, to which he nodded and replied, “we all do Horace, we all do”. I downed the second double and asked for another. Paddy came over and as he poured me another double, he said softly” You know Horace, you won’t find the answer to your problems in a bottle”. He was right of course, and I drank the last of the whisky and paid the bill and bid him goodnight. As I walked home my mind had settled a little with the alcohol numbing my thinking. The air was warm and still, it even was relatively bright with the sun sinking in the heavens at eight in the evening. Summer was definitely on the way and spring would soon be over. I walked down by the river and sat on a log. The sun’s deep orange rays and golden light rippled on the river as it flowed, and the night insects began to wake and make noise. I sat there by the river until the stars glistened in its reflection and I gazed up and the vastness of space. I felt freer and perhaps in this whole universal wisdom, my troubles were small in comparison to many.   I stood up and brushed off my trousers and made my way home. As I entered the house, I avoided the parlour where my father and brother still sat. I made my way quietly up the stairs and went straight to bed and into the nightmares of my sleep.  I awoke very early the next morning around 4.30am while my father and brother were still fast asleep. I made my way downstairs and got myself ready for work, not really sure what I would do with my life. I had no education so immigrating would not be a good option, since I would probably end up laboring wherever I went, but if I stayed at home, I would face the same fate. What could I do?  I made some tea and toast in fact I ended up eating about half a loaf of bread as I drank tea and ate toast staring into the flames of the fireplace. About 6am the postman dropped a letter through our letter box, and I went into the cold hallway to see what it was. Probably a bill I thought. But as I bent down to pick it up, I could see it was expensive stationary. It was a crispy, cream coloured envelope. I turned it over in my hand to see who it was addressed to. To my surprise it was addressed to me from McKenny and Campbell solicitors in Belfast.  I had no idea who they were and why they would write to me. I hadn’t done anything wrong to my knowledge, but the way my luck was going it could be anything. I quickly and quietly opened the envelope.  The letter simply read, please attend our offices at 10am on Thursday 13th June 1947. I looked it over and over but nothing else was written.  I could not think of anyone wanting to act against me or the family business, so I guess out of curiosity I decided to go. Thursday 13th June was the following day. I folded the envelope and put it in my jacket so my father and brother would not know of it.  All day Wednesday at work my mind was pre-occupied with why the solicitors would want to see me. I could not figure out why and concern was turning to curiosity. It was early to bed again that night since I wanted to catch the early bus the following morning to Belfast. I still felt  a confusing mix of hurt embarrassment, anger, betrayal, and sadness. I just could not face my father and brother after what had happened and did not want to spend any time in their presence. I was truly lost in my life. I rose at 5.30am and dressed and went straight out of the house to catch the first bus to Belfast.  I doubt I would be missed, however if I took the car, I knew it would be missed, so the bus was the best option.  Also I did not want my father or brother to know where I was going.   The 7am bus to Belfast arrived into the city at 8.30am. Now in Ireland in the 1940’s nearly everything travelled on buses, working folk , packages and occasionally some livestock such as chickens or piglets were put underneath in the luggage section or occasionally tied to the roof or back rack. Smoking was common and often a bus would have a smoke haze which got thicker as you moved further down towards the back. People chatted, ate home cooked items and sandwiches and occasionally if there was too much to eat, they would pass it around and offer you a bite. This was a typical journey of the time and by the time I left the bus, I had gotten to know the people who sat around me, what they did, who they were related to, and I even had two invites for tea. It was a wonderful social, friendly community back then.  Once at the bus station we all got off and made our separate ways.  For me it was 47 Alfred Street where the solicitor’s offices were located. Although it was only 15 minutes’ walk from the station, the city was busy and I was not familiar with the area and I got distracted by some of the mannequins in the ladies’ fashion shops, since the clothing was way different to our little town. Ladies in the city dressed so smart with their flower print dresses, square neck collars and over coats. It most certainly was one of the most  fashionable cities in my mind. Then a thought flashed into my mind, maybe I could get a job in Belfast. But it was short lived since the reality of a junior high school education, hit me again. After drifting in the general direction while window gazing, I was surprised how quickly I arrived at Alfred Street. Within a few minutes from the bus station, I was standing outside the solicitor’s front door. On the black painted door a brass plaque read Mr. Kenny & Campbell, Solicitors and Advocates. I straightened my tie, pulled up my trousers around my waist and brushed down my jacket and reached out my hand to ring the doorbell. The door slowly swung open to the sound of a buzzer, and I pushed until it was fully open and stepped in. Inside and to the right of the door was a desk where a secretary sat, behind one of those old black sold iron typewriters.  She looked at me in a polite but questioning way and I smiled back as I handed her my folded letter. She rose from her chair and stepped toward a door on the left which had another plaque reading Campbell Solicitor at Law.  She politely reconfirmed I was the name on the letter and then knocked on the door. I was announced and then with a hand gesture requested to enter. As I stepped into the office, I was greeted by a very portly man dressed in a black three-piece suite, with a white shirt and black tie. His trousers were not black but pinstriped morning suite style, the attire of barristers in those days.  He was smoking a beautifully polished dark wood pipe, even though it was still early in the morning and the rich, spicy, tobacco smoke aroma filled the office. He walked toward me reaching out his hand “Horace Wilton” he said, in a matter-of-fact way. “Yes”, I confirmed, and we shook hands. His grip was very strong, and I could tell he meant business, there was no messing around from him. He gestured for me to take a seat by his desk and when I had, he sat down and sat back in his chair smiling at me. “Horace” he stated, “Do you know why you are here”?  as he took a large puff on his pipe. “No” I replied. He then held up an old brown envelope, a bit stained and crumpled with age. He held it length ways and reached his hand inside, pulling out a letter written in beautiful, scripted handwriting. It looked like my mother’s handwriting, but a little different. “Do you know what this is?” he continued. “No “I said again. He opened the letter and began to read it to himself and as he did, he muttered aloud. I guessed he was looking for a particular part of the letter which I needed to know.  As he held it while reading, I stared at the writing on the back, and I could see it was indeed my mother’s handwriting.  Did we owe some money on her behalf? Was it a bill, did it relate to her funeral? I had no idea, what it contained. Mr Campbell, put the letter down and turned to me.  He leaned across his desk and addressed me in a whisper as if I was a confidant, ‘and in a low voice said “your mother had entrusted me with her will and the letter I possess is her final will and testimony” he said. I just sat silent but thought to myself that my mother didn’t own anything. Maybe it was just a formality.  He continued, “ In her will there is only one beneficiary”, he said. “Horace, that beneficiary is you”. I was again surprised, what could my mother possibly have to leave for me?  I couldn’t imagine. She stayed at home cooked and looked after us. We all knew what she had and that was nothing, except large amounts of love and compassion.  But my mother was also a private woman, and all private women have their little secrets, such as her kindness and good deeds to the poor. Her family had come from Newtoncastle a small coastal town about 4 miles from ours. I knew it well, since in my childhood Lily had also come from there and the town was now growing faster than Castelwell. So what could it be, a car, a trunk, maybe even a field or boat, I just didn’t know? As these thoughts raced through my head, Mr Campbell called in two witnesses to the office and began to read the will aloud.  It began with the proper legal formalities of sanity, witness’s etc  then continued “ I Sylvia K. Wilton being of sound mind leave to my eldest son Horace J Wilton, 248 main street Newtoncastle, Co Down”.  It became apparent as the will progressed, that 248 main street, was a very little, old, and dilapidated shop on the main road of the town. She had purchased it from a local family when I was still a young child at junior school since she felt it should be mine one day and knowing I had less formal education than my brothers she decided to leave it to me. For about 20 years she kept the secret. She hadn’t told anyone and now, it was to pass to me. Was this the lifeline I really so desperately needed? Even in death she was still looking after me. On hearing his words, perhaps it was relief, perhaps it was shock, or this kindness from my mother yet again. I don’t know really, but I put my face in my hands and I just sat and cried. I missed my mother so much I just sat and sobbed, until I could cry no more. Mr Campbell dismissed the witnesses and sat in silence waiting for me to stop. Once I had regained my composure, he then conclude the formalities by signing the will, after which he handed over the deed to the shop and told me it was now legally mine. He shook my hand vigorously again and wished me luck and I smiled back. I think that was the first time I had smiled since my mother had died.

I left his office with new hope, energized and positive about the future. I thanked Mr Campbell, and my mind was in such a scattered shape that I nearly left without taking the deeds and keys to the property. I decided to have a little celebration by having a good lunch at the Kelly’s Cellar in Royal Avenue. I thought why not go to the oldest pub in Belfast (I think it dates back to 1700’s) to celebrate my new beginning. Somehow that made sense to me at the time and to my Irish logic (celebrating a new beginning at the oldest Inn). Now Kelly’s cellar is famous for where the United Irish men would meet in the past to plan the 1798 rising against the British which in the end failed. But that didn’t matter to me at all since they served the best pint of Guinness and lamb stew in the city.

I only had one pint since, I was to get back to Newtoncastle that afternoon, I was curious and anxious to check what the little shop looked like, and the work needed to be done to get it in shape. I savored the food and the atmosphere of the pub. In my state of mind I had never eat such a tasty stew nor drank such a smooth pint of Guinness. I felt that I now truly belonged to the country as a property owner, no matter ever so small. I personally owned a little shop and a part of Ireland. I now had a legacy to build. I caught the next bus to Newtoncastle and looked out of the window most of the journey clutching the deeds in the brown, leather folder Mr Campbell had handed it over in. The sun was shining, and the air was fresh, and I felt like a free man released from a long prison sentence.  My heart was light, and my head was filled with ideas and dreams. We passed farms and houses, the old castle ruins in Clough and the beautiful stately home of Mount Panther just beyond. But my little shop seemed more valuable than any castle or stately home.

We trundled past the old dolman just outside Dumdrut and we came to where we could see the ocean from the main road. Newtoncastle would only be minutes away. As we got closer my hands began to sweat and my heart beat just that little bit faster. Was it a mixture of excitement and uncertainty of just not knowing what I would face?

We pulled into Newtoncastle bus terminal around 4pm.  I could see the main street (small as it was) stretch out in front of me and the large Mountains which rose beyond. Cars and the occasional horse and cart went about their business with no sense of urgency.  As was often the case the sky was a grey, blue mix as clouds blew across the top of the mountains and even in June and I could feel the occasional little drops of water as if it could not decide whether it was going to rain or not.

Well I though I’ll “put and inch to my stride “and see what my in heritance is to be. I headed down the main street at a fast-walking pace, past houses, small hotels, churches with graveyards, general stores, grocery shops, butchers, pubs, open fields, and a big post office building. The main street was indeed a mish mash of all kinds of buildings and open spaces. I guess looking back; the town was still in its’ infancy having yet to established itself as a major tourist destination and a place of natural outstanding beauty.

I counted down, 240, 242, 244, 246 (the odd numbered building being on one side of the street and the even numbers on my side), 248 here I was. I stopped and stood back to the curb of the foot path and stared at the building. It had two little windows, one of them about 4ft wide and the other slightly smaller at about 3 ft wide. They had been painted white so no one could see through the glass. In the middle between the windows was a black painted wooden door with a greenish coloured copper handle. Above the shop were two little windows which would indicate either storage or a flat was above.  I took the key out of my pocked and turned it around in my hand, and then slowly I firmly positioned it and fitted it into the lock. It entered easily but the lock was stiff, and it would not turn. With both hands around the key and steady pressure and effort it began to  turn with a grating noise. The wooden door had swollen a bit in its frame from lack of use and dampness in the air. But with a push from my shoulder and a kick at the bottom from my foot, the door began to move and creaked open as it swung on rusted hinges. Dust feel from above the door onto my eyes and my face and I as I stepped inside,  I walked straight into a large cobweb, which covered my face and wrapped around both of my ears. I blindly went into the darkness of the shop as I tried to clear the dust and cobwebs from my face. Almost immediately I could feel the floor give way and my left foot went through a floorboard and I ended up to my crouch in a hole. I had one leg well down into the whole and one leg out.  I stopped and waited but noting hurt, no sharp pain so I gradually pulled my leg out and just sat there on the dirty wooden floor and looked around through the dusty air at the shop I had just inherited. No sense in moving until I knew where I was and what I faced.

As daylight streamed through the open door, I could see old white shelves fitted to the walls, an old glass counter in the center of the shop, on which stool a pestle and mortar and some small boxes, there was a back door, a small toilet cubical on the left and an old circular light which hung form the centre of the ceiling. There were old glass jars of various sizes lying around the wooden floor and some old cardboard cutout signs. I could make out this was at one time perhaps a chemist shop or general store with apothecary , which would explain the old glass files and bottles items lying around. But this place had not been stepped into since my mother bought it in 1928, nearly twenty years ago. Why would she ever buy this for me I thought, why all that time ago would she have bought this shop for me? Even though I was very grateful, I was still confused.  I stood up and brushed the dust off my clothes and walked carefully towards the back door to avoid going through the floor again wondering all the time as to where the door lead or if there was just a brick wall directly behind. The back door handle was rusted, and the old heavy key left in the lock was stiff, but after a bit of shaking and a few kicks. pushes and pulls the door creaked open. At the bottom was an old letter covered in thick dust. I stooped down and picked it up shaking it against my trouser leg to remove the debris and dust covering the address.

It read to Mr Patrick McGill, Pharmacist, 248 main streets Newtoncastle, Co Down. It was an old electricity bill. So this shop was a pharmacy, I had guessed right. But then it hit me and boy did it hit me hard. McGill, Newtoncastle. The name was familiar since it was my precious little Lily’s name. “My God!” , my mother had bought Lily’s fathers business from him when Lily had died, and the family had decided to move away since the area reminded them of their terrible loss and sad memories. But my mother knowing how much I had dearly loved Lily had bought me the only permanent reminder of my love for her. She knew because of this there was no way I could let this business fail, not for Lily, her memory, and my mother. My mother in her wisdom knew exactly what was needed to motivate me and drive my future, the feelings I still had  for my lost childhood love, and I had no option but to succeed to keep both Lily and my mothers’ memories pure and alive.  I guess there were  no limits of my mother’s love for me, I was dumb struck. How fortunate I had been to have lived my childhood with such a wonderful ,caring, wise and precious human being.

Behind the door was a courtyard about twenty foot by ten foot. Apart from weeds which grew up through the concrete covered ground, there were a few more glass jars dotted around and a gate at the bottom leading to a back lane. As I turned around in the courtyard, I could see a small staircase at the back of the shop which led to a small second level. The steps were slippery made of old granite, but damp and  covered with lichen and moss. They obviously hadn’t been used in many years.

Again I negotiated the door of the upper level which opened freely nearly coming off its badly rusted hinges.  

It opened into what must have been an old kitchen, steel sink, water pump with handle and wooden table next to a hearth and chimney. To the left the apartment opened into a corridor and a bedroom. No bed, nothing just a large empty room. Dust, cobwebs, and signs of rats was everywhere. It looked like no one had lived or been there since the shop had been vacated twenty years ago. This was Lily’s home, this is where she lived, and this is where she died. In my heart I would make it beautiful again and honour her memory.

I climbed down and went back into the shop after locking everything on the way. Back in the shop I could see the floor was rotten, red brickwork exposed and plaster falling from the ceiling. The overall shop was about ten foot by about twenty foot plus the yard outside and flat above. It would take a lot of work to get it up and running, but I was young, and I had time. It would be a place I could call my own with no one to interfere, where I would benefit from all my hard work, and I would make my own success.  I stepped out of the shop into the light of the main street and locked the door. Dust fell from my jacket and hair, but that was ok, it was my dust. I looked like I had been rolling on the floor and I drew a few looks and stares of distain from passersby. But I just didn’t care and just bid them good day and smiled back at them  Walking back down the main street toward the bus station, my mind raced at the thought of all the possible business options I could open. I boarded the bus back to Castlewell a very different, confident man, no longer insecure, nor afraid or lost. No longer broken and depressed, but so much alive. Now that I had my own future, my own opportunity .Fate had now dealt me a different hand and one full of opportunities and possibilities. I would be going into business for myself.

Chapter 11

My Independence

Arriving home that evening, I told my father I would be taking the five hundred pounds he had offered for me to leave the family business and I told him directly that I would be ok. Now I had a plan of my own and was definitely leaving his business I vowed that I would never work there again. I did not tell him what I was planning or doing and instead let him assume that I was undecided or perhaps moving to Belfast far enough away so as not to be under their feet or in their way. He wrote me a cheque on the spot ( I guess before I changed my mind)  and wished me luck. I put it in my wallet and told him I would sort out my future in a few days, but until then I would bunk down at the family home. This was fine by him. We then went through to eat dinner. My father had hired a temporary cook, so we were all on hot food again. Dinner was pork and champ (champ is a mix of potatoes, butter, and spring onions, you can also add bacon) and another of my favourites. We didn’t speak much, except my father told Bill I had accepted the five hundred pounds and would stay a few weeks or months before moving out. That I no longer worked for James Wilton and son. Bill had the broadest smile on his face, and he leaned across the dinner table and said, “Good for You Horace, I ‘m sure you’ll be alright”. I just quickly smiled back, “I will I thought”. After dinner I sat quietly staring at the fire in the hearth and image of my mother and Lily seemed to flash in the flames. I thought of being a businessman and all the work ahead. Since I sat alone, my father and brother already in bed, I switched on the wireless, just in time to hear, “I’m always Chasing Rainbows”, by Perry Como and I listened to the soothing music and words. Chasing rainbows brought me back to the here and now, instead of fantasy land. I knew I had to be calm and not to get carried away by my thoughts. I had to go about things gradually, in a smart way and stop with my daydreaming. I quietly whispered, “Thank you God, I got your message” and switched off the wireless and went up to my room. Even though I planned to stay at home for a few weeks I began to pack my personal belongings, the beginning of the end at home and a new chapter in life. I slept soundly at home that night with no more nightmares, but instead with hope in my heart. Uncharacteristically I woke up late to the sound of an engine, I  peered out of the bedroom window just in time see my brother and father sitting in the family car, as it edged out onto the road with a splutter and a jerking action, then off onto the main  road heading to work.  I smiled; Bill was a terrible driver, and I am sure I would hear it from the old man. He had a lot to learn about driving and for that matter local business too. I went over to my jacket. I pulled out the cheque for five hundred pounds; I glanced at it and rubbed it with my fingers just to make sure it was real. Then put it back in my wallet and began to get dressed. I needed to think logically and in peace. Once I was dressed, I headed straight to the bank. I could eat later. Just wanted to make sure the money was available in my bank account. I knew my father had a lot of money. He had literally thousands of pounds at any time available. But after the shock on being let go I wanted to make sure I had the five hundred he had promised to me and that there were no more surprises.  I banked with the Allied Ulster Bank, and they passed the cheque with no issues and the money was immediately and directly transferred into my account. Ms Andrews the bank teller looked at me questioningly through the whole process expecting I would tell her what I was doing with that amount of money, but I didn’t. In the end she could not contain herself. She said “Horace, that’s a lot of money”, I replied “Yes, it is”. To which she replied, “I cashed a similar one for Drew some years ago” (I guess when he headed for Canada). Damn I thought in this town you cannot keep anything private and for a split second I really understood why Drew would leave a little town like this and move to Canada (and at that moment I felt like joining him).  “ Oh really I said, what a coincidence”. To which she asked “are you going anywhere soon “. To which I replied “Why, it’s funny you should ask, yes I am, I’m now going off to get breakfast” and left the bank, as she stared questioningly after me, until I was out of the door and down the street.

I headed to Hanrahan; they had a great bakery, and he had a simple but filling breakfast for the local market traders. It wasn’t a café as such but instead an arrangement of wooden chairs and tables behind a counter. The counter sold bakery items fresh from the ovens to take home or if you felt like it you could eat at the wooden tables. Baked items were wrapped in brown paper and that is what you ate off using your fingers. A bin in the corner was for leaving all used and dirty wrappers and next to the bin was a metal sink and tap for washing your hands. There was also a large tea urn next to the counter and they made what I would describe as an early version of three in one. Tea, fresh milk, and sugar mixed up and continually boiled and topped up. I can tell you the taste of the tea did not get better with time, it was always strong, dark, and sweet, but with the caffeine in the tea and the high sugar content it was a great energizer.  When I arrived it was already 10am and most of the baking had stopped and many breakfast items were already sold. Though I did manage to buy some boiled egg and onion filled bap rolls and a mug of the sweet thick tea.  I sat and ate at one of the wooden tables as far away from the counter as I could, but this did not stop Cynthia one of the bakery girls coming out to chat. She was quite pretty, with curly blond hair, slight rounded face, with rosy cheeks and a well-built body, not chubby, I guess I would say a healthy build and she loved gossip.  I was a pretty down to earth local guy and enjoyed to chat, but not today, with my absence from work and large bank deposit I’d just made, making local news in a matter of minutes. But as usual she did not care and began, ‘Hi Horace, not at work today?” questioningly. “Slept in “I said “now late for work, but needed breakfast, since I’m off going up to the city” (implying but not saying I was going to Belfast). I didn’t need gossip and no doubt the news of my where abouts would hit my father’s shops in no time. “Oh!” she replied, “not like you to sleep in” with a smile. “Going to the Dance on Saturday” she asked. “Maybe I replied. If so, I hope to see you there” I murmured, as I wolfed down the last roll and carried the mug of tea out to the roadside to finish. “Jesus” I though, it’s just like being tortured by the Spanish Inquisition being subject to simple small-town gossip. First the bank, then the bakery.  I realized in future I would need to set off early in the mornings to Newtoncastle and not hang around town. My absence from work was too obvious and the news of my five-hundred-pound payment would have travelled so fast it would probably be headline news in Belfast by now. Or at least it seemed that way.  I have always found that in small towns, the better the story the faster it travels. Whether it its accurate or even true is irrelevant, what people want to believe, they will believe to be true and the more fantastic it becomes the more they believe and spread the news. In no time I will have followers who would like to share in my new fortune. It was just incredible, and  my five hundred pounds would become an exaggerated five thousand and my late to work, would become a terminal illness; I headed off to Newtoncastle. I had a choice between bus and train and since the train station was closer, I opted for it and boarded the 11.15am train from Ballynah to Newtoncastle as it stopped in Castlewell.   It a was a matter of 20 minutes until we pulled in to Newtoncastle. I hopped off and made my way down the main street to number 248. I crossed the road to the opposite side to visually take in the whole of my shop. It looked like one of those old Dickens shops. I now noticed the large window was bow shaped from pavement level to ceiling. The other window was flat. Above in the accommodation there were two oblong windows. With two tiers, I could sleep above and even use some areas for storage.  I would need a skip or cart of some kind container to put the waste building material in and I would need, wood, nails, paint etc.  Two doors down was Nelson a hardware and general store where I could easily get paint, wood, nails. I walked over and entered Nelson’s shop for the first time. I thought no time like present to introduce myself as his neighbour.  The inside of the shop smelt like paint and lubricating oil. I introduced myself and told him I was going to  be his neighbor and customer. Not to worry since I would enter a different business and would not be in competition with him.  His beady eyes peered over his half rim glasses as he briefly analyzed me. Looking me up and down and then with a smile arranged all my needs, even a large cart for all the debris, which was dumped right outside the front door of the shop. It was a big metal and wood open top box, in which we placed old building material.  I then set about working on the ground floor, ripping up the floorboards and removing debris. All this time a young man, in black trousers, black jacket and dark shirt, stood looking at me from across the road. His hair was black, wavy, and tatty and he was unshaven and as he stood quietly watching he smoked frequently.   Every time I looked up, he was looking at me laboring and keeping his distance. I was under surveillance but who was he ? By early afternoon I could not resist his distant presence and called him over. As he crossed the road, I could see he was about ten years younger than me around 19 years old. He had cigarette-stained hands and I guessed since he had spent all morning watching me he was likely unemployed. “Fancy helping me”, I asked. He smiled back and replied “I don’t know, I don’t want to spoil all your fun, but if you want, I could help you for a price” he said. “What’s your name” I asked to which he replied “Mickey”. I liked him on the spot, apart from his cheeky reply; he looked a decent young man, in need of a job. We agreed a price right there and then and he became my first fulltime employee although neither of us knew this at the time. Taking off his jacket we both worked and sweated together that afternoon, uprooting the wooden floor and replacing rotten planks, removing the shelves, replacing the ceiling and back door, and cleaning the apartment thoroughly. We worked together for a week returning home each night looking like tramps and arriving in the morning for another day of hard graft. It wasn’t until the second week that I found out Mickey was the son of a gypsy mother and he had chosen not to move on with his parents when visiting Newtoncastle at the age of 17 years old.  His father was a drunkard and a gypsy fighter, and he would often get beaten when his father had too much to drink. But being regarded by the locals as a gypsy and drifter, he found it difficult to get work. I did not have such preconceptions or bias.  All I saw was a young man who needed a chance in life, and I needed help. It was a perfect match. Since he had a motorbike and could drive,  it would fit my plans later  since I intended to buy a van for deliveries, I would make him my general handy man, delivery boy and driver all in one.

After about a month of blood, sweat and tears,  the shop was fully repaired, painted and clean.  I had gone through about hundred and twenty pounds of my five hundred. Another two hundred pounds would need to go on stock, another one hundred and twenty on a delivery truck/van and the remaining on wages, office equipment and building start up needs. It was going to be a fine line, but I believed I could make it. I was not very academic, and I knew I needed a bookkeeper come sales assistant and put an advertisement in the local newspaper.   I found a middle-aged spinster called Florence. An older lady who agreed to work a five-day week, keep my accountancy books in order and help as a sales assistant. She was a Brethren Christian in her beliefs, which meant she believed only in the “New Testament” and was very conservative in her views. She would not work Sundays, did not believe people should drink alcohol. In fact she was the complete opposite of Mickey. She dressed as if it was still 1900 in long black dresses and dark clothing covering former neck to her toes. She was exactly the person I needed, someone who would not distract me.  So that was the team I created: A person of unique and extreme religiousness persuasion and a former gypsy boy who arrived at work looking like he had returned from a heavy night of drinking, but always well dressed and never late. I decided I would go into business with what I knew best, so we opened a small house furnishers and carpet shop. I had a sign made to place above the door with a pale blue background and white letters which read “Wilton’s House Furnisher, Newtoncastle” and the same for the side of my van. With all my stock arriving in late November 1947, we were in business. The apartment was also painted and decorated, and I decided to sleep in the smaller of the two bedrooms. I felt more comfortable there. All my belongings we quickly moved in. Three weeks before Christmas I decided to tell my father what I was doing  and as I pulled up to my father’s house in the van and that day it was pouring with rain. The name on the side of the van was very clear and I ran from the driver’s cabin to the front door and as I arrived the door opened.  I was met by my father and brother in a mixed state of humour, confusion, and surprise. They had seen the sign on the van. “So you’re opening your own place down the road?” my father asked, and I nodded to confirm.  “Very well good luck” he said, “I take it you’ll   be staying with us, and you’re always welcome at my home. “You know” he said “I did what I did for the family business. I hope you understand”. I just nodded my head.” Yes” father I said. I understood alright “Me Too. I am doing what I need to do “I said so they could also understand me. He laughed, but it was a dry laugh, and  I was not sure how much humour was in it. Thinking back, I would say he probably thought I would not make much of a success and that he would need to buy me out one day. I really don’t  know what he thought that evening, I guess he was surprised at me stepping out on my own but being his son and being so bold as to open close by, I think it appealed to his own business mind and I am sure he was amused to think I was prepared to take him, and my university educated brother on as a competitor in business. But he also acknowledged I was still family in assuming I would stay at his home and just for the hell of it I stayed that night but moved out the following day. I just needed my own space, and I needed my freedom.  

Chapter 12

The First Christmas

The first Christmas without my mother was very hard. On Christmas Day morning I rose early about 5.30am and dressed quickly. Although I had only been in business 5 weeks, I had a very urgent appointment. I grabbed the bunch of scarlet red roses I had left soaking overnight in the bathroom sink and wrapped some paper around them. I also wrapped myself in a thick camel coat and scarf before jumping into the driver’s seat of the van. It was a dammed cold morning (I think winters were that bit colder in the past then they are today) and I had to run the van engine for about 20 minutes to be able to clear the frost from the windscreen. I put on the headlights in the pre-dawn morning and drove from Newtoncastle to wards Castlewell and to the graveyard where my mother was buried. It was quite nearby, and I was there in a few minutes. The graveyard was locked, and I fumbled at the entrance gate, with the frost coated lock and chain. After a few minutes it was loose, and the gate swung open with a creak and crack in the frosty air. My breath came like clouds of smoke in the freezing air and the sharp cold frost bit at my nose and ears.  With a slow and purposeful step I set up the graveyard hill towards my mother’s grave. In the pale blue light of a winter’s morning the tall granite headstones rose out of the wet ground like ancient druidic standing stones surrounded by frosty mist. Frost covered dead tree branches which lay in piles at the bottom of the hill giving them  a magical sparkling silver glisten amongst white frozen grass. The ground was crisp and looked as if it had never been walked on; there was not a trace of any kind of footstep or track. A small red robin sat on one headstone watching me. His colours so bright against the grey and white. As I walked, he flew slightly ahead of me, every now and then stopping to watch me, to see what I was doing. At the top crescent of the hill,  stood my mother’s grave. “Sylvia K. Wilton, beloved wife and mother”, etched on the stone.  I knelt down and placed the scarlet roses next to her dark grey headstone. The small robin now perched on her headstone and sang a brief song, (as if it were my mother’s way of saying thank you, as if she had been watching me as I entered and walked to her grave).

Tears came to my eyes, and they rolled slowly down my cheeks freezing to a halt halfway before falling to the ground. “God, how I missed her” I thought. She had only been gone a few months, but it already felt like years. I knelt there with my left knee on the gravel surface of her grave and I spoke to her gently. I thanked her for the shop, I told her of the work I had put in and of the people I had employed. I told her of my deep insecurity and that I was scared, I didn’t know if I was doing the right thing, I told her I was all by myself and not sure of my future. I told her my most inner fears and secrets.  I cried, I spoke in a hushed voice, and I told her how much I missed her and how I would trade everything to have her back and finally I told her I loved her and wished her a Merry Christmas. All was quiet at 7.30am on a winter’s morning in a graveyard. In fact it’s probably the quietist place you can find on earth. I turned to go down the hill and as I turned, I saw beyond in the distance the dark silhouette of the Water Mountains, the view my father had picked out for my mother grave. The winter sun was just breaking on the mountain rim and its golden rays shone up into the sky and across the mountain ridge. It was majestic, it was bright, and I half expected an angel to appear, it was that kind of beautiful glory. I stood fixed to the spot as the rays emerged and they fell across my mother’s headstone.  I now know it was her way of telling me everything was going to be alright. I raise my arms into the air as high as I could as if I wanted to embrace the sun and its rays and said a private prayer to myself. Then I shouted in that silence “Yes everything is going to be alright”; in fact it was going to be great.

I walked back down the hill and as I did the granite headstones and tombs did not seem so foreboding, though  frost still clung to patches that had not begun to melt in the morning sun. I stepped out and locked the gate behind me and climbed into the driver’s seat of the van. I gave one final look around and could see the robin perched on the gate. He had done his duty and seen me safely off the premises. I smiled and pulled out onto the road, making my way to Castlewell. I shared the day with my father and brother at their home being just the three of us and the cook, who prepared lunch and left for the day. In the post we received a card from Drew who had secured a permanent job as an engineer in Vancouver, and he was doing well and was also courting a young Canadian girl. While my other brother Bill had just bought himself a new car and was now a proud business partner with my father and he certainly knew how to dress the part. Despite being my competitor, being only 4 miles away, he was still my brother. I was happy for him, and I remember my mother’s words about always loving my brothers and supporting them.  There was very little traffic on the road the following day and as I drove, I thought of the day ahead. Boxing Day could prove to be a busy day, since we had a whole range of big and small household items which could make great late Christmas presents, or as bargains for people who had been given Christmas money to buy what they wanted. I pulled the van up round the back of the shop and unlocking the back door, I turned the lights on and re-arranged some of the retail items in the shop, before unlocking the front door. It was damned cold, and I could still see my breath as frosty clouds inside the shop. I slapped and rubbed my hands together as I looked for an old gas heater, I had bought just a couple of months earlier to use during the winter months. Looking around I found it sitting against the toilet inner wall. I connected the gas cylinder and with a match it lit up, it spluttered for a few seconds then a blue flame appeared which quickly turned to orange. It was working. I stood by the heater soaking in the heat until I could feel the back of my legs beginning to burn. Ok!  I thought; time to put the kettle on. I was halfway through a Mug of tea and a full packet of biscuits when Mickey pulled up on his motor bike. (Young men and motor bikes are not a very good combination, I thought). Five weeks so far and he had never been late once , it’s good to give people a chance and especially so when others do not believe in them, since they could just surprise you and I smiled. Mickey walked in through the front door and made his way to the office. Looking in the office mirror he combed his hair and tidied his clothes, he looked through the office window at me and I gestured for him to pour himself a mug of tea. We both stood there chatting and cherishing the warm liquid. Florence arrived ( 9am on the dot, not late and not early, she was a woman of principles and gave no more and no less than work required) the sky had gone a dark grey again and small snowflakes were drifting in the winter air. By 11am the snow was beginning to lye, but business was brisk and despite the weather it continued to be a good day for us. I had brought some new products to the town, and they was new to the local community. My business principles were honesty and transparency. People knew our name from Castlewell and some even knew me since I had been kicking around the family business when I was 16 years old.  My approach was simply my nature, and it came automatic and naturally. I would enjoy the conversations, but I never spoke ill of anyone, nor wanted to hear it. I was always open and honest in my business dealings. I would try and help people out who had difficulty paying. I never was biased or proud in my business (all my customers were equal). I would accept any kind of legal currency in the world as payment and honestly in some instances where they had difficulty paying, I would also accept, chickens, potatoes, fresh fish as part or final payment. People began to trust me, and I became accepted.  By 5pm we had sold about 30% of all our stock ( for cash) , most being wrapped and taken home by customers, like paintings, lamps, individual chairs, mattress’, clocks, coat hangers , umbrella stands etc, just one big double bed to be delivered by 8pm that night. I banked the money and then we closed the shop a little earlier at 5pm. The snow had stopped but lay in thick blankets on the footpath. Both I and Mickey set out in the van to drop off the bed. The address was a hill farm not far from where I had crashed my father’s car all those years ago. The van slipped and slid as we travelled through the mountain lanes and gradually climbed the mountain gradient. Then there was one last steep slope to climb, and we could see the farmhouse at the end, where the bed was to be delivered. We decided the best way to approach this steep slope was to take a bit of a staring run at it, so I accelerate and got a good run at the slope which was covered in ice and snow. I got as far as two thirds of the way up the slope, when the van stopped moving. The problem was that my foot was still well down on the accelerator, the engine still roared, and the wheels still turned but the van stayed there motionless. Now when you get into this kind of situation there is not very much you can do, since with spinning wheels on ice you only have two outcomes, eventually you end up either going up the slope or down. The wheels sped like crazy for around 20 seconds until I felt the van gradually begin to slide backwards.( This is probably one of the worst feelings there is, to know you have no control over a sliding van going backwards downhill and my options being : stay for the ride or jump out). Mickey jumped out, but since I was the driver, I stayed in. I could see the van slowly heading backwards to a ridge from which there was a 4 ft drop to a mountain stream. I was heading right for it. When I thought all was lost and just before reaching the ridge, the back tiers gripped some gravel stones, and the van came to a halt. “Enough of this”, I thought. I shouted to Mickey that I was going to park the van and carry the bed the rest of the way up the hill. We made it to the farmhouse with the bed, but we wrestled and struggled with it all the way on that icy lane. A hot drink was offered at the farmhouse, whisky, sugar, and boiling water. A healthy toddy as the locals called it and it was just the job on such a cold night. Making sure the bed was fully fitted and assembled and bidding the farmer a Merry Christmas we slid down the hill toward the van and managed to maneuver if off the slope and onto the main farm lane. As slowly does it, we made our way back to the main road and returning back to the town I dropped Mickey at the shop and told him to drive home carefully in the snow. He agreed and with a smile he was gone, revving the engine of his motorbike as he left, I am sure just to see the distain on my face. Now I had noticed something when I left the lane and turned onto the main road, and I wanted to go back and investigate. So I headed back the way I had come to the small crossroad next to the harbor. This is where the lane I had taken lead up the mountain, met with the main road. At the crossroads I pulled over and switched off the lights. Opposite me about 30ft away were 5 small fishermen houses.  They almost looked empty since they were in the darkness, and they looked so bleak and lifeless. (Fishing in winter months was often difficult and weather dependent. Often ships would be either harbour grounded or stuck at sea for weeks. Most of these families had so much debt not just to banks but also loan sharks that they eked out a living as best they could. When fishing improved in Spring & Summer loans would be paid off and then the whole cycle would start again). I got out of the van and quietly walked around the houses, looking in through back windows. I could see in many that they burned small bundles of simple tree twigs and bits of old wooden boxes in the fireplace to get whatever heat they could offer. I saw children wrapped in blankets to keep warm, eating slices of dry bread. Mothers were going hungry staring with gaunt pale faces as the children eagerly devoured the bread. In one house a pot of water boiled on the hearth in the hope of offering some kind of inner warmth. Honestly it was so pitiful and couldn’t bear to see it. I don’t know if it was because I had been to my mother’s grave the previous morning, or if it was a result of drinking the whisky toddy, or if it was because of the little red redheaded girl I saw in the farthest cottage, but I knew I had to do something. I got into the van and heading back into town.  The grocers and the butcher were still open, with late sales. The hardware store was just closing as I caught him. Since I had experienced a very good business day and could afford to do something positive and meaningful for these people, I decided to do so. I made up five big parcels, one for each house. Each parcel contained a whole chicken, stewing beef, sausages, fresh root vegetables, potatoes, onions, bread, cakes, pudding, tea, milk, flour, sugar. In five other bags were placed turf and coal for the fire. I even managed to get some toys for the kids. With each food parcel fixed in a large bag and the turf & coal in another, I loaded them into the back of the van. All the way to the fishermen cottages I smiled and sang Christmas carols until I reached the crossroads. Since my intention was to do this incognito, I wrapped a scarf around the bottom half of my face, pulled my coat collar up round my neck and pulled my hat down over my face. Now no-one could identify me I thought. I got out of the van and went to the back, carefully carrying each of the parcels to each front door and then knocked each in turn. The first the door opened only slightly and with caution as the pale face of one of the mothers peered out. I guess I looked suspicious but carrying a sack I could probably do-little harm. I bid the lady of the house a Very Merry Christmas. I was greeted with a mixture of surprise, suspicion, and shock as I passed one of the packages over the door threshold to her. The kids behind should excitedly as to who it was, what it was.  Each time I was asked as to who I was and remembering my mother I told each in turn “I was just a friend, passing by at Christmas and after all it’s a time for giving and for receiving. My accent was local and my voice soft, they knew I was probably not a stranger and each in turn thanked me with tears in their eyes. It felt good and I knew I had done something in my mother’s memory to really help these poor people out. They stood briefly at their doors as I made my way back the van. I turned and smiled and wave both arms in the air and shouted, “Merry Christmas”, they waved back and then each closed their doors. As the last doors closed, I could see smoke begin to rise in thicker plumes from their chimneys and I knew they would soon be warm. I climbed in the front seat and turned on the van engine and made for home. It’s not until I got about halfway home that I realized, and I began to laugh so loud that people outside on the street must have through I was crazy. The whole intention was to do a good deed on behalf of my mother’s memory (as a thank you to her for all she had done for me), but to be incognito and that no one should know who I was. I thought I had pulled it off until I realized, I had written down the side of the van in big letters Wilton House furnishers, Newtoncastle. “Oh well”, I thought. “Too late now”, maybe they hadn’t noticed. Arriving at my father’s home I took the two final parcels from the van. One was a business diary with gold plated pens for my brother and the other was a couple of fancy bow ties, which my father loved to wear. I put each parcel by a small Christmas tree they had in the lounge. We traditionally gave an extra present on Boxing Day. I then jumped back into the van and drove back to my apartment above the shop. I pulled a big armchair up as close as I could to the fire, went through to the kitchen and made a couple of corned beef sandwiches and a mug of tea. Turned on the radio and settled down to a cozy snack and a good rest. On the radio was an interview with Bing Crosby about his recent movie Holiday Inn and they later played one song from it, which was called “White Christmas” and this was the first time I heard it, not realizing what an institution this song would one day become. Bing Crosby was my favourite singer, and this was just perfect. It was followed by Peggy Lee and “The Christmas Song”, followed by Frank Sinatra   “Christmas Dreaming.  It had been a good day. I know my father would be complaining about the weather and I guess it may not have gone so well for both of them. I was happy and I poured out and drank some homemade Christmas punch I had bought, then after a few more songs on the radio I made my way to bed around 12 midnight just after Perry Como had sung “Silent Night” Christmas Sunday (the Sunday after Christmas) was always a church tradition for my family. It was a must, even though we were not particularly religious. My mother had always insisted we go that Sunday to give thanks and remember those less fortunate. Although religion was a big issue in our little community in Northern Ireland, we were always brought up to never care what religion anyone was and on Christmas Day the Protestants went to a version of the Presbyterian Church, Methodist, Gospel, Brethren or other while the Catholics were less complicated, they just went to the Chapel. Again each sizeable town had two or three churches and a couple of Chapels, to ensure there was enough room for all the town folk to go and worship and enough people for a collection. I was never one for church despite a myriad of churches available all offering a different interpretation of Christian belief.   I felt it’s what you do in life that makes you who you are and not going through a routine or systematic practice or being what you pretend to be.  All too often I would see townsfolk dress up in their Sunday best, parade around the church and pretend to be someone they obviously were not.  On Sunday they were more holy than you could believe and then during the rest of the week they would sin without care or embarrassment. I also found hypocrisy with Ministers and Priests who had their own bias points of view in the pulpit and on occasion town politics became the sermon rather than a message of love. Personal agendas were often at play, and I felt the whole experience staged and contrived. Don’t get me wrong I have met several wonderful, caring, loving, peaceful religious leaders. But sadly this was not always the case.

I grant we are all human with our own failings, and I accept that I just have little patience with those who try to appear to be something they are not. So you can image how receptive to any sermon I would have been.

Despite this, off we would go each Christmas Sunday to church (and I went for the sake of my mother and father and did my best to fit in during the two-hour sermon) .  I met up with my father at his home and we set off in his car to the church, leaving my brothers brand new car parked at home. I was asked to drive, which made me smile to myself. All three of us dressed in black suites, white shirts and dark ties; we had black shiny shoes and black coats. You could have been forgiven to think we were a mafia hit squad rather than a family en route to church.   

I’ve always found it a bit strange that in small towns in Northern Ireland, you often find the protestant church next to or opposite the catholic church/chapel. Quite often one tried to exceed or out match the other in grandeur, height of spire, size of stain glass windows, size of doors, building footprint, design etc etc. As if they were in a competition to beat each other in capturing the souls of the local community rather than focusing on their needs.

My father and brother exited the car and made their way into the church even though we were twenty minutes early. Perhaps they thought it would make them better Christians to be there before the rest of the congregation. I drove on to park the car nearby. It was only matter of minutes until I found a space near the back of the chapel. As I made my way to the front (across from the protestant church) I ran into Father Loughlan, the parish priest. He was a lovely man and I always enjoyed chatting with him. We warmly greeted each other, and we stood there chattering about the town and the local news. As we chatted, I would stop as he did to say hello to the congregation entering the chapel. I didn’t notice on the opposite side of the road I was getting glaring glances from the Protestant congregation entering the church. About ten minutes into our conversation I could hear my father calling me to come over to the church. I said goodbye to Father Loughlan and made my way across toward my father. “What are you doing?’ he asked. “Talking with Father Loughlan”, I replied. He whispered to me. That’s fine, that we don’t have an issue on religion, but the people in the church won’t’ understand. They will think you have gone over to the other side”. “What I replied. Is it trench warfare? Was I branded a spy or traitor for speaking with the priest” I guess that was probably the best way to sum it up. There were sadly two sides, which rarely met, rarely talked, and rarely helped or understood each other. I was lucky to grow up in a household where it didn’t matter. But I guess on that Sunday it actually did matter. How sad !

As I entered the church the general conversation died down and I made my way to my seat in silence and under watchful eyes. I was so tempted to say something, but my father’s  look told me to be quite and sit down. The Christmas sermon was rather uneventful with the telling of Christ’s birth, the three wise men and the usual array of hymns. “I thought to myself if it were at all possible to find three wise men in this church or even this county, if push came to shove, and perhaps that why Christ wasn’t born in Northern Ireland “and I just smiled to myself. Hopefully the sermon in the chapel across the road had been more eventful, at least they had a statue of the Virgin Mary, unlike us. The chapels decoration looked considerably better, especially heir nativity scene. I knew my thoughts were not very religious, but looking around the congregation, I could see many were not here in spirit anyway, but rather it was peer and town community pressure if they did not dress in their finest and attend. The last hymn was silent night and as we got to the second verse, I could hear the first verse being played loud across the road in the chapel. It was like we were finally united in one of those songs moving in cycles, where people start singing at different stages so as one starts another ends. On hearing the chapel across the road our organist began to play louder and our choir higher and the chapel  followed almost immediately to match us. It was simply amazing and crazy at the same time, and I am sure between us we had one of the best “loudest”  Silent Nights the town had ever experienced, and far from silent. It indeed was quit a thing to have witnesses and sadly I was the only one who found it amusing. We all ended on the same verse, I’m not sure who omitted what sequence as we culminated into simultaneous prayer. Just before leaving donations or better known as “the collection”, was taken with a plate passed around for the offering of money. I used to hate this, at least a bag gave some privacy, and no one saw what you gave, but a plate was open for everyone to silently criticize. Again I felt another face issue to live up to. Little David Marking had the best answer and gave us all a show, when he put his sixpence on the plate and then rummaged around with all the chinking pennies and half pennies to get his change. This to me was poetic justice and no matter what his father did he insisted on getting his change. As you can see, church although a holy institution was indeed a drama to witness on a Sunday morning.  Once collection was taken and the final blessing made, we all exited the church after the minister, slowly, heads bowed in reverence as we made our way toward the exit and to then go about our sinful ways for another week. Once home the rest of Christmas Sunday was spent at my father’s house, eating lunch, and talking about business. I was way too cautious of my father’s business reputation and only told him a small percentage of my sales and success over the previous five weeks. To which he replied, “ Well my boy, it will take time to build a business up”, Bill just glanced at me, and I knew by his look he felt I  was no competition, and  I was happy to let him keep thinking that.  Being family I guess it was all cordial despite being in direct competition. As the afternoon grey sky turned black, I drove back to Newtoncastle and my real home now. Sleet fell and the road was slippery and dirty with snowy slush. The van slid from side to side but was heavy enough to stay on the road within the tyre ruts and it wasn’t until a mile outside the town that the sleet turned to snow and began to fall heavily. I could just make out what looked like a car lying in the ditch and the outline of a young man and young lady standing beside it. It was no night for anyone to be standing outside in this weather so I pulled the van over to see if I could give them a lift into town and to find a garage. As I pulled up just past them, I looked out of my rear mirror and could just make from the silhouette that one looked like a man tall and thin almost exactly my build and the other a lady who was slightly shorter with a neat figure and,” was that? was that? crimson red hair showing from under her hat”? “No it couldn’t be”, I though and eagerly opened the driver’s door and jumped out into the heavy blizzard. I half walked and half slid to the back of the van to meet the two and see how I could help. But when I go there, to my surprise there was nothing there. I walked back down the road in the snow blizzard for about a hundred yards but no sign of anyone, no car, no man nor woman and no tyre tracks.  As I walked back to the van, I began to think my mind had been playing tricks on me. Ireland was known for pooka’s which were magical creatures from Celtic folklore. They could bring both bad and good fortune and could help or hinder someone’s work. They were said to be able to shape shift and take on human or animal form or even something in-between.  But these pooka’s were just children’s stories and this was the late 1940’s I reasoned. It cannot be!  Perhaps the vision was a result of my unconstructive thoughts at church? Or perhaps I had been daydreaming as I drove.  I couldn’t tell. But our old beliefs and local teachings do not fade easily, and I somehow felt I had just had a magical encounter and wondered what the message was that this vision had brought me

I drove very slowly back home with my eyes focus on the blizzard and anything that moved. Arriving home I parked the van at the back of the shop and climbed the granite steps to the apartment. I made sure the back door was double locked, poured myself a stiff whisky and peered out the window down the dark main street, lit by a random array of streetlights. The snow continued and the shadows of trees and building played in the lamp light. There was no one around and the street was empty and after about ten minutes of peering into snow and blackness I gave up and sat back in my chair. I pondered the day’s events and my sinful thinking and wondered what the encounter on the road had meant. Maybe I was just tired or a little crazy. I dismissed it as being my imagination. It had all been in my mind and I went to bed.

I was woken by a banging on the back door. Straining my eyes and focusing I reached for my watch. “Who could be waking me up I thought”.  It read 10 o’clock. The banging on the door continued and I made way through the kitchen to the front door of the apartment. I opened the door and   Mickey stood in front of me. He smiled back at me and in a cheeky voice asked, “Are you going to sleep all day?” I was still tired, but ten o’clock. I had never slept so late. I nodded to him and said, “Give me 15 minutes and I’ll be down. Is it busy?” I asked, to which he laughed and shouted back “Noooo”!

I went back to the bedroom to get changed and reached up to open the curtains to let the morning light in. As I dressed, I thought of the road incident from the previous night. It was all very strange and still nagging at me.  Sitting on the edge of the bed to put on my shoes and I don’t know what possessed me, but I looked across the room at the opposite wall and the skirting board below. The skirting board looked a little irregular and loose. I got up and walked across and bent down on to my hands and knees to feel around the skirting. My fingers felt the skirting board ridge and it wiggled as if it would fall out. I continued to maneuver this loose skirting until it made a slight crack noise and a section about ten inches long came away in my hand to reveal a recessed area in the lower part of the wall. As I looked into this dark space, I could see there was a hollow in the wall with neat piles of paper stacked in the crevice space.

I reached in and pulled them out carefully since they were dry and fragile. Covered in dust I guess they had been there un-noticed for decades. As a reflect action I blew the dust off which formed a brown cloud in the bedrooms which floated in the rays of the morning sun. From the upper piece of paper, I could make out it was a drawing, no it was a painting. I blew on it again to clear the remaining debris and I could make out it was indeed a painting; it was a child’s painting.  I held it steady in both hands. It was a painting of a little girl and boy. The girl had red hair. They were holding hands and climbing a hill. The next sheet of paper was another painting again of a little girl with red hair and a little boy, this time they were in a classroom. As I turned the paper sheets over each painting was of the same girl and boy followed by another and another.   They were chatting, playing climbing, walking. Simple everyday stuff. Within the sheets was a small writing pad which hand boldly printed on the outside, “Strictly Private, Do Not Open, the Notes of Lily McGill”.  My hands shook as I held it and opened the first page. This must have been well over twenty years ago. In the notebook Lily wrote of her love for the ocean and playing on the beach, just behind her apartment. She described how she climbed the mountains next to the town and wrote of her life at school. I featured as her best friend ever and she spoke of how we would get married one day when she grew up. It was heart wrenching to read, and I can tell you I paused every now and then to choke back a tear and rub my eyes. My only peace of mind was to know she had been a happy, innocent little girl, with no pain or upset, right up to the time she fell sick. She had, had a wonderful childhood and was positively looking to the future and was deeply loved by her parents and myself. For me the painting and the book it wasn’t closure, since I have never had closure. I have thought of her every now and then all my life to this day. It was a more an understanding that she had lived a happy life and was now at peace and had never experienced any regrets or tragedy in her short, but love filled life.

Perhaps this was what the apparition in the snow was beaconing for me to find?  Who knows, but I connect the two incidents as being guided and joined. Was I mean to stay up most of the previous night looking out of the window, only to oversleep and find the loose skirting board in the morning light? “Again. Who knows!

My thoughts were broken by Mickey shouting up the stairs “Are you coming in to work today?”

Damn, it was now 11.18am.”I’m coming, I’m coming “,I shouted back and put the papers back neatly, where I found them and fitted the skirting back in place. I felt it was only right to leave them as they had been, undisturbed since Lily had placed them there all those years ago. They had a certain sacredness to me; private feelings left untouched and  left deep in my heart for twenty years.,  I knew that they were meant to rest where they had been found.   Grabbing my jacket I ran out of the apartment closing the door behind me.

1948 passed into 1949 and then came 1950. Business was good and my business practices and honest approach had gained me repeat and referral business. I was doing well and decided to expand the shop into the yard to double its size. I could then sell a wide selection of beds, sofas, and other household furnishing. We had however kept the same small team Mickey, Florence, and me. In fact I was doing so well my brother Bill was beginning to take notice and was worried that he may lose customers to me. (Little did he know he had lost many). On purpose I would not stock the same items as he had, but offer something different, since families should not be in competition with each other. We should cherish and help each other. But the local community for one reason or other tended to prefer the service as well as brands and quality I stocked.

Chapter 13

Local Business

I sold all sorts of things to all kinds of people, but my most amazing and strange  requests usually came from the farming community. One day a lady came into my shop and asked if I could custom make a mattress for her. Of course anything was possible if the cost could be met. I asked her how big she wanted it made, “eight foot by ten foot” was her reply. I asked her had she checked her measurements and she confirmed she had, and it had to be exactly as she said.  Now I was intrigued and told her I would have it custom made in Belfast for her, it would take around four weeks and  she would need to pay in full first and I told her she could not return it if it was too big. This was not a problem, and she took out a large roll of cash and paid me on the spot for the mattress. I said “you know this is much bigger than any bed I have ever seen or ever sold, even bigger than a king size or oversize king size bed. In fact there has never been bed made this size in Ireland”. She nodded and smiled and gave me the address to deliver it to when it was ready. 

The day came when the mattress was made, and it arrived at the shop. It was so big I could not get it into the van. Instead I had to  wrap it around and over the van and cabin and tied it there. It looked for all the world like I was trying to wrap the van in a giant size, slice of bread.  It looked ridiculous but properly secured it was ready to deliver.  Curiosity got the best of me, and I decide to go along with Mickey to see where the mattress was going to go.

We drove for miles into the countryside, down gravel lanes and alongside roads lined by stone walls, right into the heart of the mountain region. Luckily it was the summer of 1950 and there was no sign of rain. I would hate to think how much the mattress would weight even if it got only slightly damp. We followed the address details she had written down for us occasionally stopping at farms along the way to get realigned and head the right direction. Finally we could see what looked to be an extended croft house sitting on hill slope across from a small stream. I got out of the van and knocked the small green door and when it opened there stood the lady who had purchased the mattress. She beamed from ear to ear when she saw the mattress draped over the van. She ran out and ran her hand along the tied-up mattress. “Yes, that’s exactly it”, she said and gestured for me and Mickey to untie it and take it into the house. It was a devil to balance between us. Like a giant sail, the slightest breeze had both of us moving in different directions. We literally wrestled the mattress all the way to the front door.  Little did I know that was going to be the easy part!  The corridor needed to be emptied and we spent roughly the next hour moving everything into the sitting room.  Fitting an eight foot by ten-foot matters into a corridor seven-foot-high and four-foot-wide is like trying to pass a donkey off as a black stallion, damned near impossible. But we pushed and we shoved, and we bent, and we crawled, we dragged, we pulled, we squeezed, and we humped and tried every possible angle, every way of manipulation to move this mattress down the corridor. Finally we got it into the bedroom, and it just fitted. I was at the door side and could step out easily, but Mickey was at the far side and had to crawl and squeeze himself from under the 90-degree turned mattress. With a final push and shove the mattress fell directly onto the bedroom floor. It filled the floor from skirting board to skirting board, from wall to wall. In fact there was no floor left; the only standing space left was on the mattress. It was an exact measurement of the bedroom floor and it fitted perfectly. I turned to the lady and said “Well, you measured that exactly it fits perfectly”, she smiled back. But I continued, “I am confused, where you are going to hang your clothes?”” Oh that’s the easy part she replied” and pointed to a row of nails on the bedroom walls. “We will hang our clothes on these” she said. This was a first for me, but the local mountain ways were different, and I was not there to judge them, I was there to serve them and meet their needs. I smiled back happy we had made her happy. In her own wonderful world this was practical and useful, and we had another satisfied customer.  I knew then that no matter how strange or outrageous I would do my best to keep my customers happy. She offers us each a keep’s sake and reaching out both hands as she held up two jars with tight fitting lids each filled with a clear liquid which looked like water. Potchine, she said, drink it when you get home or you won’t get home, it’s that strong and with that and a laugh she bid us goodbye and closed the door. Mickey was happy no doubt he had drank Potchine before, but I never had and was curious if this potato liquor was as strong as they said it was.  I set mine carefully next to the driving seat wrapped in an old blanket to avoid it rolling and breaking as we both drove back to the shop and to finish work. That night I took the Potchine to my apartment and after dinner decide to give it a try. You have to be careful with Potchine (it’s like moonshine or any illegal distilled alcohol, if they distill it wrong you can get the wrong alcohols and drinking it could make you blind or even kill you, so it’s a fine line in getting it right. Though I guessed from their remote location, their still had been working for many generations and they had probably perfected the blend long, long ago.  I held the jar up and it looked just like water, nothing much in that I thought. Unscrewing the lid I leant over to take a sniff. It smelt like pure alcohol and paint thinner mixed. It brought tears to my eyes, and I hesitate as to whether I should pour myself a glass or not. But curiosity got the best of me, and I carefully poured some into a shot glass, thinking to take a small measure in one go and hope for the best. Holding it steady in my hand I counted down. 5,4,3,2,1 and downed the Potchine in one deep gulp. I can only describe my reaction as follows. My throat went dry, so dry I could hardly take any breath; I was literally suffocating from the cold sensation and dryness. Next my throat began to burn like a hot coal, my gums were burning and stinging as if my teeth would fall out at any minute. My tongue had shriveled on to the base of my mouth and my taste buds and tongue were numb. My face began to burn, and I began to gasp for breath. Gasping and coughing I could feel the liquid travelling down my throat and into my stomach where it continued to burn. I was rolling on the ground. It hurt, it really hurt. I am sure if I had been smoking a cigarette or lit a match my breath would have ignited. It was so crude and rough; it was almost like pure alcohol, and it may have been better suited as a good disinfectant. When the pain stopped, I go onto my knees and turned the jar cap on tightly. Placing the jar in the back of the cupboard in case I ever needed to strip paint or clean a drain in future. Newtoncastle grew and so did my business.  By the mid 50’s I had become quite comfortable, and my business had bloomed in way my brothers hadn’t, though guided by my father, he became more focused on auctioneering and real estate, only keeping a small concern in house furnishing. I guess to still give me some competition, which was fine. I loved my job and the unusual people I would meet in the town or when delivering items to their houses. Now in my late thirties, I had become quite a bachelor and was popular at the local dances. Despite being past its hay day, big band music was still popular in our little town and most local dances were to this kind of music.  Rock and roll hadn’t quite made it yet but was becoming popular on the wireless.  I had managed to develop and excel at a dance style called the foxtrot, which had long continuous movements. Since it was one of the few dances I could do very well, I tended to do it to everything. Funny enough no one minded, I guess it kept me off their feet. So by 1954, my life was a mixture of working hard, weekend dances and a weekly trip to Belfast to meet suppliers and look around. Sunday was my day off and I usually visited my father, visited my mother’s grave, went for a drive, or checked over my inventory. My life had fallen into a small-town routine, which was difficult to break. In fact it was very easy to follow since the town had a population of about six thousand people in the winter and triple that in the summer months. I had become to know everyone, and everyone had grown to know me. I guess life was good as an eligible bachelor in a small town and owning a small business. I was like a medium sized fish in a small pond, never bothering to explore the big ocean or beyond those confines of the pond, just happy in his puddle.

Journeys were never simple and in Ireland, what would start out as a simple trip from one place to another could result in a whole new adventure. So one spring morning in 1954 started out much like any other, I had to travel to a business meeting in Dundeck, just across the border in the Irish Republic and the quickest way to get there was of course the train. I could sit in peace and relax in the train carriage, without having to worry about the dangerous, winding mountain roads needing navigation when driving a car. So I bought my 8am train ticket and set off, expecting to arrive in Dundeck at 9.50 am.

The train pulled out of Newtoncastle on a misty April morning and was soon racing down the coast towards the border and Irish republic. Light rain splattered against the carriage window and trickled down. Silhouettes of cows and sheep could just be made out from those which stood at the end of fields as opposed to next to the train track.

The good thing about train travel was that you could buy breakfast on the go and not worry about any spillages or delays. Soon the purser was at our carriage checking on tickets and selling tea and sliced sausage baps.

The tea came ready mixed with milk and sugar and the big flat dough baps oozed butter and sliced sausage meat. I bought a bap and a mug of tea and sat eating it while I stared out of the window. The grey damp of the morning was beginning to lift as the butter and sausage grease trickled off the bap and onto my chin. I had no longer finished the bap and tea when the train began to slow down. Slower and slower it got, until it finally came to a halt. I shared the carriage with a minister, a young lady and another businessman dressed in a brown suite.

We just stared at each other and then out of the window and said nothing. In time we could see the train driver and some mechanics running up and down along the track. After a brief conversation between them, one was seen leaving and running across the open fields towards a road which looked to wind along the fields in the distance.

From what I could make out the train was sitting on the track among farmland somewhere along the Irish border. Seconds turned into minutes and then almost an hour. Finally the railway purser appeared at our carriage. He announced, “I have some bad news and I have some good news”. The bad news is they had blown engine valves and could not move the train until a spares arrived from Belfast and were fitted,  which will take at least  three or four hours.

“What about the good news I asked?” “Oh yes”,  said the purser “I nearly forgot. At the far end of this potato filed (as he pointed directly out of our carriage window) our engineer fortunately, found a little local pub: ‘Finnegan’s”, and he has agreed to open to sell refreshments for all stranded on the train. Well I thought, it’s either sitting in a cold carriage for three hours or sitting in a warm pub. Not much of a contest. So most of us in the carriage helped each other down onto the track level and then down over barbed wire and through a muddy potato filed towards the direction of the pub.  There were dozens of us making our way through the fields some dragging cases, others carrying bags and bundles. It looked as if we were a band of refugees.

The businessman, minister and his daughter had decided to join me, and we waded ankle deep in soft soil as we sank and stepped around and across the ploughed field.

Having delivered furniture to many a country location I knew the soil should dry off in the pub and I could brush it off  my shoes and trouser bottoms later.

When we reached the end of the field, we were met by a little single-track road. Looking down the road I could see a small, thatched pub, with the chimney smoking, I could smell a peat fire burning and hear the chinking of glasses as drinks were being poured. We made our way in and since it was a small local pub, it was tight fit, but we all got a pew or a corner seat or stool to sit on. The pub was packed to the entrance door and the conversation was grand. The owner I guess, who stood behind the bar looked as if he had just woken up ,was pouring drinks, his shirt tail hanging out over his brown trousers. A plump woman who I could only guess was his wife ran between the kitchen and the bar with bowls of vegetable soup and thick slices of bread, her face bright red and she had a laugh which cut through the conversation in the pub, like a knife through butter. It was a lovely little spot and as we relaxed and chatted. I could see locals walking by some dropping in for an early morning drink ( since the pub was open) and even the local Garda officer ( Irish police) parked his bicycle on the way past and put his head in. Someone bought him a Guinness, and all was ok. After all he announced, “we are only doing the right thing in delivering our sincere Irish Hospitality to stranded travelers”. In those days, there was always a way to rationalize the decisions made to compromise on all situations.

Time flew and Guinness flowed, and it was 4pm before we even realized, and the train was fixed.

There was a call to all to re-board the train and as I left the pub, I could just make out the two train drivers downing their last pint to join me on the way to the track across the potato field. Funnily no one seemed disturbed by this, I guess because we believe the train being on tracks was safe enough, even if the drivers were rather intoxicated.

Shaking mud form my shoes, I steadied myself on the train carriage railings before climbing the steps to board. I could see the landlord and his wife smiling and waving to us and standing next to them with a smile on his face was the local Garda who also waved us off . Well we had made it into the Irish Republic, and I always found  their way of life was less complicated and more flexible. Three long blasts were sounded on the trains whistle to ensure all were on board and off we went, gaining pace as we trundle along. It was 5.30pm by the time we arrived in Dundeck, and I just decided to book a B&B for the night and to conclude business the following day. That and the fact due to our stop over I had consumed 4 Guinness and 7 whiskies, it was perhaps best I had an early night.

This truly memorable railway ride was one of the last I would take from Newtoncastle since sadly in 1955 the local railway station, the one I had taken for so many years finally  closed. Ulster transport authority in their wisdom felt it was unprofitable, with the rise of motorcars. As a result, the station remained empty and transport of good to the town suddenly became more expensive. New bus services started to replace the train but were not as regular or accommodating at first. The town also began to grow and around the same time competition, opened in the main street slightly down the road from me (which was not a bad thing, since it made me keep my focus).  The pace of change  for such a little town was moving much faster now and the main street became more developed, and more people moved to the town to live. Though the biggest change I had not expected or planned for was to come. That was a change in my small team of employees.

Chapter 14

Mickey

Mickey was young and carefree. He had found some stability in his life working with me and I had really grown very fond of him. With his single status, good looks, and carefree life, he would often drink too much, he would party too much and occasionally turned up worse for wear at work on a Monday morning after a weekend of celebration and indulgence. Sometimes I would need to send him out to get coffee and take a good wash and shave to “straighten himself out”, before coming to work. Given that he would never object to any kind of hard work and was always in good humour and willing to support me at all times and help me at any time of the day, even if it meant working very long hours,  his values and his own form commitment and loyalty had a place in my heart. He was just a very likeable rouge of young man, despite his occasional drawbacks. On the way to and from work he would race around on his beloved triumph motor bike. This was his pride and joy and the reckless part in his nature meant he would go at speeds way beyond any rational safety and take risks to show off, especially if there was a young attractive lady  looking on. I remember it was a rainy autumn evening in 1955 when I received a telephone call at home one evening. It must have been about eight o’clock. It was a call from the police asking if Mickey worked for me. I replied in the affirmative, that he did indeed and added that he was a decent young man (just in case he had been drinking again). They then asked me had he been working with me that day. I looked at my watch and replied that he had finished about 45minutes prior to their call. They told me they had found Mickey in Magherar (a small hamlet three miles from Newtoncastle). Oh I thought there is a good pub there hopefully he hadn’t caused any problems. The police went on to say Mickey was at the main crossroads and that is where he lay awaiting an ambulance. He had been in a serious motor accident.

Without thinking, I answered “I’ll be right there”, and hung up the telephone. Grabbing the van keys I ran downstairs to where I was parked behind the shop. It was raining quite heavily as I fumbled with the car keys in the door lock of the ford van. I jumped into the drivers’ seat, started up the engineer put the wipers on and slid into first gear. I was on the Newtoncastle to Castlewell road in no time and at the turn off to Magherar in a matter of 8 minutes. As I approached the crossroads, I could see a police car blocking the road and an ambulance from Downterrick some 15 miles away had just arrived. I pulled the van over to the grassy verge and got out.

In my rush I had not put on a coat. The rain was still falling heavily, and my suite was little protection from the deluge.  Soon my thinning hair was plastered to my face and my shirt was soaked through and semitransparent.

As I neared, the crossroads I could see the soaking wet body of Mickey lying on a stretcher with heart massage and assisted breathing being administered by the police and the ambulance team. Mickey’s face was a pale white colour and blood flowed from a wound beneath his hairline. His shoulder was clearly dislocated, and it looked like his legs were broken. I froze and just stared as the ambulance men administered their life support treatment. This continued for about another 15 minutes, but all their effort was in vain.

As they tried to resuscitate him, I walked over and held his head, I talked to him softly and told him he would be ok. I told him I would look after him. I held him as close to me as I could.  But poor Mickey face expression was blank and his skin pure white and stone cold. Once the heart massage stopped there was a faint gurgle and release of air from his mouth as he passed away in front of my eyes at 8.38pm on a cold and wet autumn night. He was only 27 years old.

I was in shock and as his body was lifted on to the ambulance I walked slowly back to my car. I was soaked through and through, but I did not feel the cold. I was mentally numb and as I drove back. My cold hands kept slipping on the steering wheel. I turned on the car heater to thaw my cold fingers and after a few minutes my grip on the steering wheel became hard and dry with no chance of slipping. But I didn’t notice this strange change and could see nothing in the darkness.  A few minute later I was home, out of the car and making my way up to my shop apartment.  I went to the bedroom to change out of my wet clothes and as I glanced at the mirror, I could not believe my eyes. I stopped and turned to stare.

My shirt was no longer white but was red and pink. My hair was caked in blood and my hands were caked and crusted in dried blood. My dark suite was plastered to my body, and I had to peel all my clothing off. Even my white underpants had tuned a crimson colour from Mickey’s blood.

I put all in the clothes in a basket and stepped into the shower. As the warm water fell over me, I could see the lower shower tray turn red with the blood and water mix. I stood in the heat of the shower for about 15 minutes rubbing soap into my hair and body to wash away all traces of what I had been through and to try and get the cold numbness out of my body.

Stepping out I wrapped a big bath towel around myself and went to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil water for a  pot of strong tea. I took the biggest mug I could find and filled it with milky brewed tea.

I had thought I was fine up to this point.  But when I finally sat down and went to raise the mug of tea to my lips; my hands began to shake uncontrollably. I guess the adrenaline had worked its way out of my body and I was suffering from mild shock.

My hands shook, then my body shook, and I then broke into uncontrollable sobbing and tears as I thought of what had just happened. Mickey, a young man with a heart of gold, trying to make good in his life, would have made a wonderful father and husband, but instead he lay in the cold autumn rain of 1955 in a little country village, bleeding to death from multiple wounds from his crushed fragile body.

Some days later during enquiries, the police informed me that a witness to Mickey’s accident had come forward. It appears that Mickey had been innocently sitting on his stationary motorbike at the crossroads when a speeding drunk driver hit him. The driver never stopped and drove on leaving Mickey’s twisted body and motorcycle where the police found him.   I heard they later caught the driver, but with only one witness, who did not have a good clear view, no sustainable evidence and a good defense lawyer, the drunk driver got off with a suspended sentence. While sadly poor Mickey ended up with a death sentence. I have never liked motorbikes ever since and have always viewed them as dangerous. Other road users do not give them the respect they deserve on the road and even a helmet offers little protection against a serious impact.

Mickey’s funeral was a simple one. A dark oak coffin with brass handles, fresh red roses, and a handful of mourners. I paid for it all since he had no savings and most of his family had long since left the county, joining other traveling folk spread far and wide across Ireland. He deserved a much better send off, he was genuinely a good young man and any innocent life lost is a heart break

For some time after it was just me and Florence at work. I could not bear to hire another young man. I got help in the evenings to deliver goods from some older men who needed the part-time work and extra cash, humping furniture ( as we called it in those days, which simply meant carrying, delivering furniture and goods to houses) .

On such deliveries I continued to come across extraordinary things in the old rural farmlands of county down in the 1950’s.

One farm lady insisted on paying cash, but only when we delivered her sofa. So up went with the van, through mountain roads and farm lanes, until we arrived at her cottage. On seeing us she came out to meet us and closely over saw the offloading and delivery of the sofa into her sitting room, at which point she bid us to sit down and wait. Off she went to the bedroom, and I could not help but glance her way. I could see from the refection in the hall mirror that she kept all her cash stuffed into the bed mattress. Talk about sleeping on your money. Out she came with the exact and full payment. God knows how many thousands of pounds she had stuffed into the bed, but many rural people did not trust banks and always found a safe place at home to keep savings.

On another visit not far from her at a neighboring farm, they had bought two twin beds. I remember the discussion in the shop. Both beds were slightly different sizes one 6ft 4 inches long the other 6ft. They were obviously not twin beds (which should be the same size). But they convinced each other because the man was taller than the woman, they needed different sizes and to them they were in fact twin beds. I never argue when I have the chance of a sale, so I just agreed and smiled. Again it was cash on delivery.

Whisky was used for everything in the countryside. It is called in Gaelic “ the water of life”,  When we had colds, we would drink it, when our animals were sick, we would give it to them, when we had illness symptoms, we would often apply it to affected area. We would use it as an antiseptic and a cultural relaxant. In fact whisky was a huge part of life and even used in trade.

Often there would be the home distilled whisky being manufactured when we delivered furniture to properties, and we would often be handed a couple of bottles as a tip or keep sake. 

With cash payment , credit and barter, my business continued to thrive, and I extended my shop to twice the size, but still lived above. My brother was not doing as well as me and grew a bit more jealous over time, which is sad, since I was not jealous, and I loved him. My father would drop by every now and then and I could see in his eyes he was happy as to how successful I had become.

We all still attended the same church and we sat on the same family pew, which we had done for generations. But I felt a coldness grow from my brother as my success grew. My father was still very involved in running his business  and my brother helped him perform even better and in the late 1950’ John Wilton Estate Agents finally became John Wilton and son. It’s strange since all I had ever wanted was to be the partner in it. But when the sign was erected of his partnership with my brother, I was already a successful man, and it did not upset me. I guess my local success coupled with my brother looking so miserable made it ok.

Chapter 16

An Unexpected Event

So life went on. It consisted largely of work, purchase deliveries, weekend dances and the weekly trip to Belfast. Small town business routines which I had become accustomed to and become comfortable with.

I was still seen as one of the most eligible bachelors in the town and although I had many female friends, I could not say any were girlfriends. Call it being too fussy, too apprehensive, too much committed to single life, too wrapped up in work. I don’ t really know the exact reason, but I was content in my late thirties to trundle along with what life had to offer me and was not particularly concerned at time ticking away.

Now, not many interesting or surprising things really occurred at the dances. Men still sat at one end of the dance hall and women the other. Then a man would approach a woman and ask for a dance if he liked her and if the tune was right. It was all very formal and very traditional in its comfortable backward way. But I guess Newtoncastle was like this with its own intro-perspective culture. No one form outside the town ever really ventured in . Someone arriving to settle down in the town from a neighbouring county was seen very much as someone bringing with them their own strange ways and they were viewed either with suspicion or as exotic.

It was late 1958 and I had just turned fourty years old, when I decided to attended Saturday dance just before Harvest  Thanksgiving in the town hall. It was autumn so not unusual for heavy rain and cold winds and the weather was typical for that evening, wet and windy. I ran from the car to the town hall and managed to stay relatively damp free from the down pour. It was early in the evening and not too many people there, but I had just finished work and felt like an early drink and catch up with friends before the dancing began.  I could see Bradley was already at the bar and a few local men were gathered around listening to what he was saying.  I smiled over, ordered a Guinness, and made my way over to him. I hadn’t seen Bradley for a few months and we both exchanged glances and I could see from his look he has some devilment or interesting news to tell me.  I pulled a chair over to his table and wondered what the crowds were gossiping about. Well it wasn’t long before I found out. It was a bit of a paradigm shift for the town since an English lady with Scottish parents was moving to the town from London. “My god!”, I thought. This is enough gossip to keep the town going for months. For the town it was as sensational as man landing on the moon. I listened further. It appeared her father was renting a small general store near the harbour and the daughter was some kind of fancy London hairdresser. Well that enough to keep the local population , curious, jealous, and just plain defensive for weeks to come. It appears the daughter was in her mid-twenties and in addition to being a hairdresser she was also a part time model. “Oh !” perfect  I thought. This is enough intrigue to keep the local female population occupied and jealous. It was getting better and better as the news was told. This was defiantly going to shake up this little town. I felt a mixture of excitement to meet them and pity knowing how hard it would be for them to fit in to a town full of locals. Bradley kept the bombshell to last; she was apparently coming to the dance that evening. “Wow!”. I would definitely have to meet her and if she was pretty, I needed a dance with her, then I though came to mind “What am I thinking if she is pretty, she is a part time model of course she is pretty”. With that thought I downed my pint and decided to go home and get changed into something better than work clothes. I made an excuse of a forgotten delivery and bid my farewell and told them I would see them all in a couple of hours.

I made straight for home and went up to my room to carefully check what was clean and ironed in my wardrobe. I had a dark blue suite made for a special occasion and never worn; this was now a perfect time. I selected a snow-white shirt, dark blue tie, white pocket handkerchief and black shiny shoes.  I Brylee creamed my hair back and gave an extra splash of aftershave and checked I had nothing stuck in my teeth. I looked pretty good, even if I say so myself. I was a bit like an Irish town version of James Bond, with a twist or Carey Grant and a rural kind of swagger and Northern Irish accent. I even had the cigarette case but not the red carnation ( though Bond would not make an entrance to the cinema or people’s awareness for another  four years in 1962, with Dr No). As I dressed, I thought and wondered how I would compare to the London boys. But I gave myself ten out ten for effort and with a quick glance, a wink, and a smile in the mirror I made my way back to the van ( damn I thought I really need to buy a car).

It was 7.30pm when I arrived back at the hall and as I entered, I was met with jeers, whistles and clapping from Bradley and my friends. They had been drinking for a good two hours, but none the less; they all knew I was dressed to impress the new mysterious lady.  Bradley shouted across   to me “Horace, you are no Cary Grant. But you wash and polish up just fine, and his cheeky laugh filling the hall.  I caught a few glances from the ladies sitting across the hall, some questioningly, some in surprise and others more admiring. I felt a good even though I had been a point for joviality. The suite fitted perfectly and gave me a little more confidence, which I needed.

I kept my seat as the early dancers took to the floor and drank beer rather than hard liquor. I had my eyes fixed on the door and wanted to be among the first to see this exotic lady enter. No the problem with drinking beer rather than whisky or other spirits is that you drink a large volume of liquid which eventually needs to be expelled and after a couple of pints of beer I was desperate for the toilet. I had no choice but to leave my vantage point and go to the toilet. With a bladder so full it was ready to burst I walk as cool and suave as I could across the hall to the bathroom door.

Inside I rushed to the toilet, shouldered open the cubicle door and unzipped my flies. I made it just in time. The relief was wonderful, and I stood over the toilet until the last drop had fallen and my bladder was completely empty. Shaking it three times (since I was told as a kid any more shakes was playing with it), re-zipped my trousers and went over to the bathroom sink.  I washed my hands, splashed my face with water and re-combed my hair.  All fresh I made my way out into the hall.  The dance floor was empty, but the hall was a complete buzz or conversation. What had just happened I wondered. Then as I gazed across the dance floor, there the mystery lady stood with her back to me talking to some of the town ladies, the shape and dress of a woman the likes I had never seen before. She was curved in all the right places and wore a dress which showed it in an elegant but sophisticated way. Defiantly not a dress she would have been able to buy in  our locality. The dress was a complete colour match to my dark blue suite and she wore black high heel shoes, although she was in fact tall, making her presence even more alluring. Her hair was raven black, and it cascades down around her shoulders, like Susan Hayward, no, no, more like Jane Fonda, no in fact it had its own style but not like anything I have ever seen before. I just stood and stared, since if this was the back of this new lady, what was the front like, and I wondered if I could handle it.

I stood watching and was literally frozen to the spot. She did look from the back like a Hollywood movie star, and I could hear her voice which compared to mine sounded so educated and high class.  I decided to make my way across the dance floor towards her. Maybe I was out of my league, maybe I would make a fool of myself, “ But Hell”, I thought you don’t often get this kind of opportunity in your life, at least not in Newtoncastle.

As I approached her, I could hear for the first time, my shoes clicking and squeaking on the wooden dance floor. To me each squeaky step was an embarrassment, even though no one else reacted, I felt like Charlie Chaplin and a fool as I squeaked every step across the dance floor towards her.

I must have been maybe 12 foot away when she heard me approaching and turned around to face me.  It was then I stopped. I was frozen to the spot and lost in her stare.

There was an unexplainable radiance from her face. Her dark hair combed back from dark perfectly formed eyebrows above the most amazing and penetrating eyes. Eyes filled with intelligence, kindness, and life. Her nose was perfectly formed and her lips rich and full. She smiled at me, and it was the kind of smile that could melt the coldest of hearts. Her teeth were pearly white, and her neck was long and elegant.  My legs felt weak at the knees and my throat went dry.

I was in complete awe of this angel that stood before me. Never in my life or in my dreams had I seen or imagined such a beautiful, elegant, refined lady. She was unlike anything I had seen growing up in the county and I immediately understood why there had been such a buzz around the town.

She spoke in a soft, polite, English accent, which was like music to my ears. “I am Rose Marie”, she said with a smile and a sparkle in her eyes. I was immediately enchanted and hypnotized by her beauty and grace. “I, I, I am Horace”, I stammered. “Thank God I didn’t say Horse,  since my mind was preoccupied by her, and I was completely lost in her presence. Then after a briefly staring in silence, it dawned on me why I had walked across the dance floor to her.

I began again “Well, we both look to have the same taste in our choice of dress colour tonight”, lifting my jacket lapel to emphasize we were each wearing a dark blue outfit. I felt it was a bit foolish and thought to myself “OK, OK Horace don’t do anything stupid, so far so good”.  She smiled again. It was amazing and just melted my heart. Pulling myself together I began again.  “Would you like to dance “I asked?  “Horace, I would love to” she replied. Even though at this time no music was being played and the hall was in complete silence as everyone stare at us. I reached out my hand for hers and bowed slightly. She gave me her hand and I lead her out into the middle of the dance floor. It was quiet, in fact all you could hear was the squeak from my shoes, in every step I took.

Once in place I glanced over to the band, which then began a slow tune, but despite this I knew what dance I would do. It had to be the foxtrot. I reached my hand around her delicate waist and held her other hand in mine as I pulled her a little closer. She smiled towards me, and I smiled the biggest smile I had right back at her. The music struck up and I stepped forward. What happened next, as they say, is a whole other story.