Personal Recollections of a Dublin long since gone

[Bridget x]

Morning prayers were over and we children had made our way back to our respective class rooms ready to begin yet, another day at school.  I just can’t remember how old I was. We stood up from our desks as Sister Mary B----p entered the room and resumed sitting only when we were given the nod to do so. She carried a large stack of exercise books which she then placed on the table in front of her. Placing her two forefingers to the side of her face, (the only part of her showing) she pushed the white wimple back from where it was biting into her skin. She was a very tall, heavy set woman dressed from head to toe in the black habit of the Presentation Sisters, the heavy skirts reaching down to her ankles just allowing a glimpse of the thick black stockings and heavy black shoes peeking from beneath its folds.  Even from my desk at the back of the class I recognized my own exercise book on top of the pile. I loved to get a new book and would take great care lovingly covering its outer cover with nice brown paper before carefully writing my name on it.  I would flick through the empty book, promising myself never to get an ink blot or finger mark on its virgin pages. I felt really proud of this particular book, feeling I had really excelled myself. In this instance, not for me any old common or garden brown paper, oh no!.  After our room was decorated how delighted I was to find there was some wallpaper left over, enough to cover mine and my sisters school books. And there, atop the teachers table, the great big cabbage roses of the wall paper shone out (to me) like the beam of a lighthouse at sea.  In those far off days we would be given an English exercise to do and be expected to fulfill the required four or five hundred words.  A title such as “I am a plane”   I am a motor car” or such like would be given and we would be expected to carry on from there. How I loved doing these, having a vivid imagination I never had any trouble finding things to write about.   I would rush home from school and go straight to Nana’s room where I would sit at her polished round table and in the glow of the gas light I would put my head down and as in the case of   “I am a plane” enter a world of metal, rivets, screws and workforces.  Not for me, “I am a plane, I fly in the sky and carry passengers all over the world” Oh no, that was too easy!  My particular plane had to be “born” from scratch its progress accounted for from start to finish!  I would describe the new plush seats, its interior, and yes, even down to the uniforms of the pilot and air hostesses.  Of course in the end, my plane would eventually crash but not before it had given great service as a passenger plane and, eventually a war plane after a huge conversion!  I could not write the words down fast enough, the ides tumbling from my child’s mind as fast as water from a tap!
Sister Mary Bi---p   raised her eyes from the table carefully studying each face before finally coming to rest on mine.
“Bridget, come to the top of the class.” I felt my face go red, I hated being brought to the front of the class feeling the eyes of my school friends bore into my back as I reluctantly made my way there. I reached her table just as she reached out and removed my book from the top of the pile.
“Is this your book?”
“Yes Sister, it is” 
  (I wondered was I in trouble on account of my beautiful wallpaper covering.
“How long did it take you to write this exercise?”

[Bridget x]

“Err, I don’t really know, I went home but my brothers were sat at our kitchen table doing their homework so I went upstairs to Nana’s rooms to do mine. Nana gave me some hot cocoa and after that I started writing and did not stop until I had finished my exercise”
“Pray tell me who helped you with your homework?”
“Why, nobody helped me Sister, I did it by myself”
“Don’t lie to me, I want the truth”
“I am telling the truth”
“If nobody helped you then where did you copy it from?”
“I did not copy it from anyone, I did it by myself, just ask my Nana”
“Why did you exceed the five hundred words I set?”
“Er, I’m not sure what you mean Sister”
I mean why did you go over five hundred words?”
“Sister, I just could not fit in all I wanted to write in five hundred words”
(In a raised voice)  “I want the truth”
At this point and almost in tears I proceeded to do what every Dublin child did when they were trying to convince someone they were telling the truth.  Wetting my forefinger against my tongue I placed the finger against my “Adams apple” and making the sign of the cross said
“I swear to God, I am telling the truth”
“Not only lying but taking the Lords name in vain”
Opening the table drawer she removed the “slapper” which was almost identical to the butter pats the dairies used to pat butter into shape.
“Hold out your hand” 
I held out my right hand, palm upwards and winced as the “slapper” came down heavily three times!
“Now the other one”
Holding out my left hand I received another “three of the best” By now, the tears I had tried to suppress came rolling down my cheeks and I was ordered back to my desk. I walked slowly back, a hand under each armpit trying to ease the pain in my stinging palms.
Mammy was ironing, as usual when I arrived home from school.
“Oh mammy I got “killed” (childish Dublin expression) today in school by Sister Mary Bi—op.
“And what did you get “killed” for?”
“For nothing mammy, I did nothing”
“Will you go on out of that, you must have done something, the good sisters don’t slap you for nothing?”
 I went up to Nana’s room but got no sympathy there either
“You must have done something wrong, were you a  bold (naughty )girl?”
Our family were sent to school clean and tidy every day, me with two long plaits pulled back so tightly it resulted in an instant facelift LOL!  Our attendance was excellent (apart form sickness) in all, we were well behaved knowing we would have Da to answer to if it were otherwise!  Time after time it was impressed upon us how important it was to learn the Irish language. “You will never get a job in any government department or the Post Office unless you learn the Irish language” we were constantly told.  On passing the exam for the Irish language one was presented with a gold coloured lapel pin in the shape of a ring. It was called a “Fainne” Alas, the nearest I ever got to this was my own wedding ring. No matter how hard I tried I simply could not grasp the Irish language and likewise, arithmetic. I was doing all right until I got to decimal points and again, could not grasp it.  . History, geography and English I loved, that was, until the above related incident regarding my exercise.

[Bridget x]

I lost all confidence, frightened to submit work in case I was accused of cheating or copying from books.  Even at that young age, I had no illusions about getting a grand job in some government department or the post office; I just was not clever enough.
Because of one stupid incident, my greatest passion, English was snatched away from me. Never again would I be able to open my book and lose myself in a world of my own making with the aid of my trusty pen and bottle of ink. We were short of material things because of circumstances.  Had not my late brother, Michael lost his dream to go on to further education because the family could not afford the books and uniform? While his dream had been snatched away I knew that I would never have to face such a dilema, his  had been a brilliant mindI. I was very happy in my own way, (apart from Irish and maths)  knowing I could take myself off to Nanas room and lose myself in a book or writing.  And so,I regressed, rather than progressed and lost a lot of tuition along the way, afraid to stand up in class or even put my hand up to answer questions I knew the answers to. I would sadly have yet another “run-in” with Sister Mary Bi---p.  I was in the classroom of Miss M when she ran out of chalk for the blackboard. She picked on me to go to the next door classroom and get some chalk from the teacher there.  I went and politely knocked on the door until a voice bid me, “come in” On entering, to my horror I found the teacher was Sister M.B.  I approached her and said” Please Sister, can Miss M have some” and that was as far as I got! She lifted her hand striking me so hard across the face I ended up on the other side of the room!  “You will never approach me without first saying “Excuse me” I was mortified this had happened in front of a classroom full of younger pupils! Even now, in old age these two incidents are embedded in my mind as plain as the handprint she left on my face.  I am at pains here to impress upon anyone reading this that all the Sisters did not have the cruel streak possessed by Sister M.B. Who knows what caused her to be like this? Did she have worries and problems we knew nothing about?  In what would be my last year I would be lucky to have the most wonderful Sister Paul as my teacher. This lady dedicated her life to teaching the children from the slums of North Dublin, her patience, tenacity and ongoing enthusiasm lighting up the whole school. She must have seen some little spark in me, encouraging me no end especially in English, but by then, it was too late. I would leave school just before my 14th birthday and start work as a machinist in a factory where they made raincoats.  I would never lose touch with her writing and telling her of my marriage and children and all the events happening in my life. I managed to visit her at the retirement home for nuns on one of my rare visits home.  How sad I was to see she was now badly crippled with arthritis and could only shuffle along with the help of a walking frame. Some years later, on yet another visit I wrote and told her I would be again visiting her on the twelfth of May.  She passed away on the tenth of that month.  She was then ninety years of age.
Making my way to the retirement home, I was directed to the small cemetery where the nuns were buried.  I stood looking down at the still new mound of earth before placing the flowers on top. As I stood there thinking of this gentle soul who had changed the lives of so many of the pupils who had passed through her hands over the years I whispered a prayer of thanks.  How grateful I was that the strands of her life had interwoven with mine, a child of the tenements, even for a short time.   Bridget
.

[moscan]

Well done Bridget,

wonderful stories.... I love each and every one... have felt the slapper too... also got a blackboard eraser thrown at me... how did they get away with it...

Like you I had a couple of wonderful and dedicated nuns that saw something in me that obviously was hiding lol...

keep the stories coming..

Best wishes

Mo

[Bridget x]

Thank's Mo,  Whilst not a clever pupil, I was an obedient and well behaved one!  Perhaps the story of Sister M.B. was a blessing in disguise, I can now blame her for my poor grammer and spelling. LOL  Bridget

[Bridget x]

 

To emphasis the point, I folded my hands under my arms and again shook my head as I informed my older sister yet again, 
“No, I won’t do it” it’s a stupid idea”
“Why not? If I am willing to try it then it’s no skin off your nose”
“Oh yeah! No skin off my nose? Have you considered what a right auld eejit I am going to look like, walking through town with a pair of crutches stuck under my arm and me with not a thing wrong with me?”
“That’s all right then, forget I even asked,” and then, casually, just as an after thought.
“I’ll remember that the next time you want to borrow one of my dresses to go to a dance”
That soon put a stop to my gallop and a mental image of me; turning up to a dance in jeans, gaudy shirt and “flatties” somehow did not seem to “fit the bill!” This was out and out blackmail!
“Oh all right then, I’ll do it” I told her reluctantly but only if you’ll let me wear your new yellow dress next Saturday night. I had no intentions of giving in that easily!
Like all sisters, we had our petty quarrels, fighting over anything from underwear (THEY ARE My knickers!) to whose turn it was to black-lead the old gas cooker.   I was going through my tomboy stage, and having at last obtained a second-hand bicycle I was in seventh heaven spending every spare moment out cycling with my friends. Most of what I was given back from my wages went on repairs to this bicycle and my beloved dancing!   My sister did not dance and never did learn to ride a bike.  Her hobbies were going to the pictures and live shows and her passion was clothes!  She really did have some lovely dresses and was most generous in sharing them with me, indeed, were it not for her generosity; I could not have gone to a dance.  I was happy slogging around, much to mum’s horror in jeans and brightly coloured “Hawaiian” type shirts, a gift from a pen-friend in America. A fall had left my sister with a badly broken leg and she was now on crutches.  She was going on a train journey to visit an old school friend and in her words “Would not be seen dead on these crutches” I was therefore roped in to accompany her to the station, see her onto the train and take the “offending” crutches back home. How she was going to manage on the other end was anyone’s guess!  A cold wet dark afternoon saw me complete my (reluctant) good deed as promised, even waiting for the guard to blow his whistle before turning away to make my way home.  I made my way to the bus stop which was on a bend in the road. I was the only one there and, to my chagrin, soon realized I must have missed the half hourly bus. Tired and bored, I threaded my arms through the crutches casually leaning on them for support as I watched other people join the queue.  The bus swung around the corner taking me by surprise and while I was still trying to detangle myself from the crutches the people from the back of the queue were already on board!  Even above the noise of the traffic I could hear the broad Dublin accent of the conductor as he bellowed out, “In the name of the Lord Jaysus, what sort of animals are ya that you would almost knock a poor invalid down to get on the bus, shame on yous” Strange, I thought, I was first here and had not noticed a crippled person join the queue! The conductor addressed a male passenger, “Give us a hand mate” In the blink of an eye my crutches were removed and two pairs of strong arms gently lifted and placed me on the long seat near to  the back of the bus, no mean feat I can tell you! I had always considered myself a “bonny girl” but if truth be known I looked as though I had swallowed Robbie Coltrane!

[Bridget x]

(Conducting a casual affair with the truth)   My several attempts to explain the situation were overridden by the loud voice of the conductor still berating the now guilty and ashamed passengers.  One or two even had the grace to turn around and mouth the word “sorry” in my direction!  By now, I had died a thousand deaths! Dear God I thought to myself, what am I to do? The situation had developed beyond my control; it was out of my hands!  There was nothing for it but to carry on with the charade that had been forced upon me. Think! Think! I sucked in my very plump cheeks, trying to appear all pale and wan, not easy while trying to answer the concerns (All right love?) of the solicitous friendly conductor!  While he is away upstairs collecting the fares I casually sort of rearrange my legs to make them appear weak and badly shaped. I did not have to work to hard on the latter, LOL By now my poor jaws were aching from (still) trying to suck in my cheeks. Somehow my embarrassment was watered down as I tried to justify my actions, “Well, it’s not my fault, I did not say I was an invalid, they assumed it so how can I take the blame for that?  Cockiness and arrogance had also edged there way into the situation and my mind was now racing ahead! Now, who was it told me I would make a great actress,? Er, now is that a career I should give some thought to?  Had I not managed to convince a whole busload of people I was someone I was not?  Yes, I was indeed worthy of an Oscar. I was reaching for the stars, Garbo had nothing on me, and to think, this was my very first performance! I soon came back to earth with a bump. Having overcome one obstacle, yet another loomed on the horizon, how was I to get off this bus?  As if reading my mind, my friendly conductor assured me of his continued help when I alighted.  I informed him the next stop was mine. Again the assistance of a fellow male passenger was called upon. When the bus stopped I was once more gently lifted and with great care placed safely upon the pavement.  While one Sir Galahad supported me my other friendly knight retrieved my crutches from beneath the stairs and placed one beneath each arm.  With my lovely helpers still watching from the platform I was stuck there wondering (a) Do I swing forth on both crutches? Or (b) right leg, right crutch forward and then the same with the left leg?  I tried both and failed dismally!  By now I was desperate and felt there was nothing for it but to run which I did placing both crutches under my right arm as I made my swift getaway! A quick glance back saw two open-mouthed males following my progress as though they had just witnessed a miracle!  I hope I never shattered their beliefs. Of course this happened many years ago in a time when men gave up their seats to old or pregnant ladies on the bus. Yes, I did get to wear the lovely dress the following Saturday.

[Bridget x]

Recollections and Reminiscences.

Clutching my mammy’s hand we left our home passing the five houses before reaching the pub on the corner and turning into Parnell Street. I think the pub was called Mc Coy’s but was known to everyone as “The Beamish” Secretly, and behind mammy’s back I stuck my tongue out at the building as we passed.  The previous week daddy had promised mammy he would take us all out to Dollymount, a rare visit to the seaside. Mammy had the sandwiches all packed as well as an array of mismatched cups, the teapot, milk and sugar, in fact everything required to keep her large family going on their day out.  On that glorious sunny day we had waited, and waited until losing patience, mammy had dispatched my brother to “The Beamish” to see what was keeping daddy.  “Tell your mammy I will not be long, tell her to go on out on the bus and I will follow and catch up with you” Poor mammy collected her large brood and made her was to O’Connell St where we caught the bus out to Dollymount. What a sight we must have made with our towels, and an assortment of shopping bags with teapot and cups peeking from the tops! Alighting from the bus, we walked along the long road leading to the beach.  We passed the lady who sold boiling water for making tea.  Even standing yards away the heat from the fire under the very large container holding the water could be felt making our already sun kissed faces even redder. For a deposit, one could even “hire” the teapot with the water but, supplying your own loose tea, no teabags in those days! 
Our first job on arriving was to collect enough kindling to make a fire ready for our tea later in the day. We children undressed, the girls young enough just to wear our knickers as we did not possess bathing costumes.  How we loved splashing in and out of the water trying to outrun yet another large wave as it headed inwards toward the beach.  Mammy’s cry’s of “Don’t go out too far, or hold the hands of the younger ones” went unheeded, we were too busy enjoying our rare treat out. Later, the boys would get the fire started amidst much puffing and blowing and mammy made the tea when the water finally boiled. Nothing tasted as good as those sandwiches despite the grains of sand that had somehow found there way between the thick slices!  From our low vantage point on the beach her eyes would constantly turn to the upper road watching for signs of daddy’s arrival, but, daddy never came, thus my childish reason for sticking my tongue out as we passed the “Beamish” on our way to Moor Street.
We passed the small drapers shop called "Kenny's" where Nana had bought my older sister a pair of button up boots that reached half way up her legs, and I cried because she had not bought me a pair. They had lots of little hooks and eyelets and very long laces that had to be wrapped around each one before being tied in a neat bow when the top was finally reached.  I knew all these little shops like the back of my hand. We passed the next street to ours, which was Jervis St. At the far end, divided by Mary Street was Jervis street hospital where we would go for attention for minor to major illnesses. Now we were passing Nellie Hoban’s small shop which only sold vegetables, this was where my mammy shopped, instructing us to “Go round to Mrs Hoban’s and fetch a stone of potatoes, “Make sure they are King Edwards and big ones” and a Savoy cabbage and feel it and make sure its got a good firm heart”   On past the large grey stone house with the large flight of steps leading to it’s front door.  This was known to us children as “The Old maids home” I can never recall seeing anyone go in or out of this place.  When I was older I was informed it was a retirement home for “Genteel ladies of the Protestant Faith” Almost next to the home, and many years later come “Peat’s,” an electrical shop where we would get our very first television set. I was at my happiest clutching mammy’s hand and going shopping

[Bridget x]

. I could not help noticing the gaping buttonholes on mammy’s dress.  Oh God, please don’t let my mammy get too fat, if I got into a fight in the street sure wouldn’t all the young ones (little girls) be shouting “Na na na na na, your mammy has a big fat belly and then I would have to give them a slap and probably get into trouble with the nuns at school!!  We were now outside of Mrs Crowley’s second hand shop, directly opposite Noyeke’s wood merchants, (in 1972 Noyeks would become the scene of a tragic fire in which eight people lost their lives. R.I.P.)  I knew we would enter as mammy loved going in there. How can I now describe Mrs Crowley’s shop compared to the second hand stalls of Coles Lane with their mountains of clothes piled high in no order?  Think Harrods versus Woolworth’s and there you have it! The “cream” of second hand shops! A small shop, Mrs Crowley washed and starched everything before placing them in their respective places on tables and shelves around the shop, doilies, christening robes, baby gowns and binders as well as beautiful quilts and tablecloths.   “There you are, how are ya? (A Dublin greeting) she called out to mammy as we entered the shop. “ Ah sure I’m grand thanks, I just popped in to see if you had got anything nice in since I was in last time” replied mammy.
 “As a matter of fact I did get something in that I thought you might be interested in and put it to one side until you came by”  Bending, and reaching under the counter she straightened up and in her hand was a shawl of pale blue as delicate and intricate as a spiders web. Soft and silky with long silk fringes falling from its four sides it looked as though it would have passed through a wedding band!  Mammy loved it on sight and without hesitation paid a deposit to secure it promising Mrs Crowley she would come in the following week to pay off the balance.  “Oh mammy, its gorgeous, Are you going to put it on Nana’s round polished table?” I asked as we left the shop.  Maybe, we’ll see she replied, a smile on her face. On we went, stopping to gaze into the window of Stanley’s dairy and cake shop, We looked in at the display of fresh cream cakes, cream buns, flaky cones, the fresh cream oozing from their centres, alongside the sugared doughnuts, crispy on the outside but mouth-watering fluffy on the inside. I never think of Stanley’s shop but am reminded of Mondays and washday. We always knew it would be a fry up from Sunday’s leftover mashed potatoes and cabbage as mammy had mountains of washing to do.  On arriving home from school, we would find her in the back yard up to her elbows in soap suds as she rubbed the clothes against the scrubbing board in the old tin bath.  Flushed and hot she would send one of us down to Stanley’s with a jug for a pint of buttermilk. On our return she would place it to her mouth and greedily drink until it was all gone.  She maintained there was nothing like buttermilk for “cooling you off”  Still we carried on walking down Parnell Street until we came to Steins pork butchers where mammy always bought her black and white pudding, half a pound of brawn for Saturday nights sandwiches and of course, a couple of pigs feet/trotters for Da. Steins was without doubt the cleanest shop I had ever been in. Its large window boasted silver trays full of an assortment of links of shiny skinned sausages, pork, and beef, thick ones and thin ones. Rings of pudding, lean or fatty black ones and the delicious fine textured white.  Mammy said no one shop produced pudding or sausages like Steins and I agreed with her, of course she told me, they were made to a secret recipe! “What’s the secret recipe?” I asked. “Ah, sure if I knew that wouldn’t I be a millionaire. It has been handed down from one generation of the family to the next and when they all die out the secret will die with them”  
“What’s a generation mean mammy?”
Ah, whist, (quiet) and go on into the shop”