One could tell it had been a magnificent hall door in its day, but that was a long time ago. Made of solid oak, it needed not only the two arms, but also the shoulder of a child to push it open. At first glance it looked as if the wood worm had enjoyed many a feast on it but, on closer inspection this did not prove to be the case. The game of darts, and rings beloved by the boys of the street had left their mark on its once beautiful surface. Like an evil open mouth, the long gone letterbox left a gaping hole causing the wind to rush through the wide hall like a train passing through a tunnel. More often than not it was stuffed with an old jumper by the tenant of the ground floor rooms as she muttered “Ja—s, sure its like living in Siberia” Somehow, the “Lions head” door knocker had survived but never again would its “roar” echo throughout the large house bringing a maid to open the door and inform the caller, “Madam/Sir is not home today but if you would care to leave your card?” The lions head was now rusted to the under plate and if the boys in our street had not managed to remove it nobody could! How long I wondered, since it was last painted? A long time, many years ago, back to a time when the gentry occupied these once grand houses in the very heart of Dublin. The once gleaming paintwork had long since worn away down to the actual wood, gone, just as the wealthy owners had fled to their country estates or back to their second homes in England. The houses had been sold to unscrupulous absent landlords who, over the years had turned the many rooms into individual flats, cramming as many families as they could into each house. From salon to saloon these houses now constituted the infamous slums of North Dublin, my childhood home. While the odd one or two owners would make the effort to do repairs, even they, in the long run gave up.
With sometimes as many as six families sharing a house the constant complaints of the (one) toilet blocking up and the cold water tap in the back yard freezing over, they choose to ignore the complaints and look the other way! The family occupying the top flat always fared the worse. Not only did they share the hardship and indignities of their fellow tenants but also had to contend with rain pouring into their rooms from leaky roofs causing wallpaper to peel away from walls and bedding to become sodden with rainwater. While many tenants referred to the rent collector as the landlord he was, in reality just an agent for the owner, collecting rents and listening to the ever constant barrage of complaints. To be an agent, one needed a pair of strong shoulders, a skin as thick as hide and a heart made of stone.
