Personal Recollections of a Dublin long since gone

[Bridget x]

She was not a dealer, (seller) but just sat there, the watery eyes in the wrinkled face looking out as the world passed her by. Why did she sit there day after day I wondered, was this preferable to sitting in some lonely tenement room on her own? I was sad for her, sure maybe all her little babies had died and there wasn’t even one to make her a bit of colcannon!  “Couldn’t we give her a “thrupenny” bit mammy?” I had asked the week before. “No, we better not, sure didn’t Auntie Bridget drop a sixpence into her lap one day and the auld one rounded on her and only ate her” (Dublin expression meaning turned on the person and told them off)  “Sure poor Bridget nearly died with embarrassment cause the auld one kept shouting after her”  “ I’m not a beggar, I’ll have ya know”  While I was used to seeing most of the auld women in their black shawls using snuff, I had never seen an old women smoke a pipe before. I loved to watch the ritual of the snuff snifters! A very small tin would be openly removed from dress or apron pockets. Using thumb and forefinger a pinch of the brown powder was carefully removed and placed on the back of the hand. The hand was then carefully raised to the nostril and with two deep inhalations it disappeared from view leaving a dusty brown residue along the upper lip. Within seconds, the user would be sneezing all over the place. The use of snuff was a common and accepted practice by older people way back then.
In my childhood nearly all the women of the poorer areas wore the fringed black shawls although occasionally, I sometimes spotted a fancy grey or fawn coloured one.
These were decorated with a ten inch band of embroidery with the obligatory fringing. I never knew if the wearers of these shawls were better off or perhaps, travelling people.  Auld ones, their shopping completed were already making their way into the snug of the corner pub to enjoy a bottle, (or two) of Guinness. How I wished they would take the pipe smoking auld one in with them but I never saw that happen, I consoled myself with the thought “Ah, well, sure maybe she’s a teetotaller” Maura Kelly had us young ones (girls) in stitches when she once told us her granny had gone down Moore Street shopping and had called in for a bottle of Guinness but stayed too long and only got stocious. (Drunk)  Ah Ja--s said she, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, sure didn’t she lose her auld shopping bag with all the week end shopping in it! Me granda went mad when he came home from the pub that night only to find there wasn’t  even a crubeen (pigs feet) in sight!! Sure there was only holy murder!!

“Bridget, will you come away out of that and stop staring” said ma as she approached me, a bunch of flowers in one hand while the other clasped the small hand of my wriggling three year old sister M.  “Honest to God mammy, she (old woman) did not see me looking, sure wasn’t I peeking out from behind one of the stalls”  We carried on up the street and even though it was early morning already the place was piled high with rubbish.  The outer leaves of cauliflowers, cabbages and discarded bruised fruit already littered the road. The now empty boxes that had contained apples, oranges, and bananas were pushed to one side, their contents now on display on the dealer’s stalls.  Pyramids of red rosy apples lined the front of the stalls with grapefruit and oranges lending even more colour to the rear. Bunches of bananas vied for space with plump juicy green grapes and strawberries when in season. Part of Moore Streets attraction was the calls and shouts of the dealers as they tried to attract customers to buy from them. Holding out handful of apples they would call out things like” There ya are missus, all them lovely apples for only sixpence, sure you’d make the auld fella four lovely pies with this lot” If a customer went too far looking for a reduction on a purchase of already cheap fruit they would get mad and sarcastically ask” Would you like me to bag them up and give ya them for nothing? Will you get off now out of that”   They were funny and witty and could more than “hold their own” with awkward customers.  We knew a lot of the dealers as they lived in our street. What hard working women they were.

[Bridget x]

When I was very small I would see them going out in the early morning on the way to the fruit market to collect their orders.  In those days they each owned and pushed a very deep wicker type pram with a wooden tray, similar to that of a baker’s delivery tray. Having collected the fruit, fish or vegetables they would then have to push this heavy load all the way to Moore Street ready to set up their stall.  The tray was used to display their goods.  If it was raining they would have to stand in the wet clothes all day trying to earn a few shillings. I don’t think they dared go home to change for fear of missing the early customers.  Years later, an enterprising young man who owned a horse and cart took over the job of collecting the orders from the fruit and fish markets. He would deliver them to the street.  Some of the women had sold on Moore Street for years having taken over where their mothers had left off. In most cases their own daughters would take over from them after they had retired but most choose to work into old age. The women of Moore Street were a community unto themselves always ready and willing to help each other in times of trouble, they were a grand lot never refusing to give generously to some cause or benefit.
Both sides of the street were always busy, each housewife making for their own favourite butchers or pork butchers shop. Apart form a couple of pubs and the Maypole dairy I cant remember any other type of shop in Moore Street; it was mainly made up of meat and poultry shops. Oh, yes, how could I have forgotten the sweet shops with glass jars lining every shelf with a wonderful selection of sweets. Bulls eyes, black and white mints, Nancy balls which we would lick and then smear  the outer brown coloured shell along our lips for “lipstick,” cinder toffee, coconut macaroons, (my favourite) tiny dolly mixture and last, but not least liquorice all sorts. I marvelled at the dexterity of the shopkeeper as she wet her thumb and removed a small square of paper from the pile already cut. A couple of twist of the wrist and there it was, a perfect paper cone ready to receive the sweets as they slid from the brass scoop of the weighing scales. How many times had I practised this manover, ready to show off to my little friends as we prepared to play “shop” in the street? I failed dismally, perhaps this was why I could still not turn the heel of that bl---y sock in sewing class at school and it was true what Sister Margaret Mary said, I was “ham fisted”
Large barrels of brine lined the pavement outside the butchers holding various sized chunks of corned beef, the traditional Sunday meal for most Dubliners served with cabbage, parsnips and potatoes.
To this day I maintain no women could haggle like the Dublin women of that era and my mammy was up there with the best of them! They would never, ever be guilty of “buying a pig in a poke” as the auld saying goes. Before entering the butchers shop they would peer into the barrel of brine, poking and examining the piece of corned beef from all angles before making the final choice.  Had someone mentioned “Health and Safety” checks in those days they would have been met with a blank stare!  Mammy went into the same butchers every week and had done so for years. Every week the same old battle of wits would be re-enacted but each week a different ploy would be used, sometimes I thought it was Maureen Potter’s skirt I was hanging onto! 

[Bridget x]

On entering the shop the usual pleasantries were gotten out of the way before they got down to the real business.

Ah, there ya are Pat, and how are ya today? How is the missus?

Ah, game ball, we are both game ball; (well) Mind ya we had to bring the young fella up to Temple Street hospital the other night. He got a right fall off the back wall and split his head open but, sure thank God he’s all right now.
“I’m telling ya, you would want eyes in the back of your head with the devilment they get up to”
“Ah, sure you never said a truer word missus. Right now, what can I get ya?”
Pointing to the outside barrel “Will you show me that piece of corned beef?” walking back outside with him, to show the piece she wanted.
“Ah, you have a good eye; sure that’s a grand bit of beef”
“Well then, will ya weigh it for me, then I’ll let you know if it’s a grand piece of beef or not!”
Placing the meat on the scales, “There ya are now, that will be four and six” (four old shillings and six pence)
(Mammy’s face instantly registers a look of shock (well practised) and her voice is raised by a couple of octaves)
“Four and six! Is it mad ya are? Sure there’s not the making of a good sandwich in that, do ya think I’m one of them fancy auld ones from Ballsbridge? (Wealthy area) I’ll give you three shillings for it” Huh, four and six indeed! Do ya think I’m made of money?”
“Ah, missus, I can’t let you have it for that, sure that would be more than me jobs worth”
Mammy’s (a wonderful actress) face now changes from pretended shock to one of indignity as she makes a pretence of walking out of the shop.
“Well now, you can please yourself, but just remember you’re not the only butchers in Moore Street, and after all the years I’ve been coming in here!” (Sniffing loudly for good effect!)
She almost reaches the outside pavement before the butcher calls her back.
“My God you’re a hard woman, Ah, go on then, I’ll let you have it for three and six”
“That’s grand, sure you’re a grand man, and I’ll not forget to say a little prayer that you’re young fella gets better, now tell him not to be climbing on any more walls”
My older sister had regaled us with the tale of the previous weeks shopping when mammy had told poor Pat the butcher, “Sure Mr Murphy, (late previous shop owner) would “only turn over in his grave if he knew the prices you are charging”
We left the butchers, the corned beef already leaking water despite being wrapped in several large sheets of white paper. Mammy was happy and smiling as we headed toward the Maypole to collect the sugar that came in a stout black paper bag. As always there was a queue but I held my sister Ms hand as we waited outside the shop.
We watched as the man they called “sailor” appeared on the opposite side of the road. We were not allowed to cross the road but it did not matter as we could see him from where we stood outside the shop. He was usually to be seen at the other end of the street but sure now, them auld police must have moved him on and him not doing a bit of harm to anyone.  He was old and shabby, wearing runners (plimsolls) from which the corns and bunions peeked through. I guessed he must have got his name from the small sailor’s hat he wore on the back of his bald head as I could see nothing else that would indicate he was a man of the sea. He was one of the many street entertainers of Dublin. He carried the plywood top of an old tea chest under his arm which, when he was ready to entertain he laid on the ground scattering a good few handfuls of sand on top. Without music he whistled as he carried out a soft shoe shuffle never once stepping outside of the limited space of the small square of plywood. Because of the lack of music or singing most people considered him to be a right auld amadaun. (Fool. The most famous street entertainers were a family whose name I have long since forgotten. They stood outside Todd Burns in Henry Street; the mother played a really large harp, the father the violin while the tall blonde handsome son sang to the crowds in the most amazing voice. They were truly talented and it was said they had offers to turn professional but had turned down all offers because they could earn more money from busking. (Does anyone out there remember them?)

[Bridget x]

Mammy had her hands full with the shopping so I had to hold on tightly to little Ms hand as we entered Coles Lane. It was always packed with people looking for bargains amongst the second hand stalls. The voice of auld Molly, one of the stall holders could be heard above all the rest, Ma always said “She does have lovely things, I’m sure she must get them from the big houses”  It was apparent Molly was not in a very good mood that day, business was slack and no eager hands could be seen raised to buy. She was reduced to berating the crowd with cries of, “In the name of the lord Je—s, what’s wrong with you lot, do youse want the things for nothing?”  At one point I wondered had she taken acting lessons from Ma as, with a sigh of forced resignation and a heave of her ample bosom she held up a jacket, asking, “Go on then, who will give me one and six for this lovely jacket?” (Silence from the crowd.)  “What? No takers?  (And yet another sigh of resignation)Ah, go on then, it breaks me heart but I’ll let it go for eighteen (old) pennies” Up would go the hand of yet another auld amadaun (fool) who obviously couldn’t count! We did not stay long as little M was getting tired.  I always hated leaving the hustle and bustle of Moore Street, for me it almost had a carnival atmosphere.
The shopping was almost completed, we only had to pick up the black and white pudding and a few pork sausages from Steins, just around the corner in Parnell Street.  Everyone said Haffners in Henry Street made the best sausages in the whole of Dublin but as far as our family was concerned nobody could come close to Steins for sausages and didn’t I know it!  Rather than go all the way to Steins for some sausages, as instructed, I had gone to the little pork butchers in Capel Street thinking mammy would never know the difference. How wrong I was. Even the youngest child turned her nose up at Sunday morning breakfast pushing the plate away crying, “Not lice”
She had trouble pronouncing her “Ns”   Today that child is an old age pensioner but family members are fond of asking her “Have you bought any lice dresses recently” and things to that effect!!  For my sins, I had to black-lead not only our fireplace but also the huge one upstairs in the rooms that had belonged to nana.   Bridget x

[Pat Reid]

Beautiful, Bridget, just beautiful! Thanks again for these marvelous stories.
Pat

[Bridget x]

Ah,   Thanks Pat, so glad you are enjoying the stories.   (Beautiful?)  You are of course referring to me
Emm,  aren't you?       LOL Bridget x

[Pat Reid]

But of course, A thaisce!   

Pat

[Bridget x]

.    An unravelled YARN

“Marie Lennord, come to the top of the class and show the pupils your work” Marie left her desk, a satisfied smirk on her face as she sallied forth clutching the needles and red coloured piece of knitting she was working on. Holding aloft the yard long scarf Sister Regis invited us, the class, to notice the perfect tension of the neat rows of plain and purl stitches and perfectly straight edges with not a dropped stitch in sight! I swear she looked directly at me as she uttered the words “dropped stitches”! The sewing class had already graduated from learning how to tack and hem stitch and now entered the puzzling world of knitting. The pupils were issued with small balls of various coloured wool and shown how to cast on stitches, continuing to the required length in rows of one line of plain and one line of purl, before finally casting off. The words domestic science had not yet entered our vocabulary.  I cowered even further down in my desk hopelessly endeavouring to hide what had commonly come to be known as “The bottle shaped scarf”  I had gotten off to a fairly good scarf (to my mind) even though it took all of my strength to get a needle between the stitches, I had cast them on so tightly!  Sadly, after about five inches of knitting (holes included) was completed I had somehow gone astray and dropped several stitches from both sides thereby leaving me with a piece of work that resulted in a perfect bottle shape, hence the name! I unravelled and re-knit that piece of work so often it looked as though every rat in our street had chewed on it. Sister Regis was not amused, as at the end of the class year all these pieces had to be unravelled ready for the following years pupils. Oh, the shame as it was pointed out to me what expert knitters and sewers my two sisters were, “a credit to your mammy”. I pondered over this as while mammy could cook and clean with the best of them she could not knit if it were to save her life! I heaved a sigh of relief as we left that class glad to see the back of my bottle shaped scarf although I liked Sister Regis, despite everything, she was great. Ah, had I but known what lay ahead of me!
Our next class up and I  inwardly shuddered as the voice of Sister Anthony, our new sewing teacher informed the class,” Now children, as you have learned how to knit in your last class and are familiar with the different stitches and terms, we are now going to learn how to knit socks. This will be done on four needles and you will be required to bring the following materials” I visibly paled recalling my difficultly with the simple scarf when I couldn’t manage two needles never mind four! Oh God, why couldn’t they lower the school leaving age to eleven instead of fourteen then I wouldn’t have to go through this torture? I timed my request for knitting needles and several ounces of wool, badly! My sister had just beaten me to it with a request for ingredients for the cookery class.
“Mammy, I have to have four knitting needles and some dark wool, Sister Anthony said so”
“You want needles and wool, the other one wants flour butter and sultanas, just what do them sh---ing nuns think I am, Rothschild?” (I didn’t dare ask who or what Rothschild was)
“But mammy-----“
“You can “but mammy” all you want, I haven’t got the money and that’s the end of it and tell the nun I said so”
“But I can’t go into school and say that to the nun”
Very crossly,” Well, would you like me to go over to the school; and I’ll tell her? I’ll soon tell them I don’t know where the next meal is coming from, never mind needles and wool!”

[Bridget x]

I started to cry and the ever present eccentric Auntie Bridget tried to console me.
“Hush now, your mammy hasn’t got the money to buy these things, sure we’ll try and get you them from somewhere”
Some days later she arrived at our house with the ever present shopping bag and a smile on her face. 
“Well now, Didn’t I tell you Saint Anthony was good?  You have nothing to worry about, I got you the wool”
This broken heart was instantly mended, I could not wait to see what colour wool she had bought and wondered, had she got me the needles as well? Oh God, was she never going to take off her hat and coat and couldn’t she wait to gossip with Ma until after she had shown me the precious wool? I waited patiently; she could be so awkward. I knew she could get on her high horse in an instant if I tried to hurry her! 
“Do you have little nail scissors?” she asked my mammy as she reached into her shopping bag withdrawing the largest khaki coloured jumper I had ever seen!
“Now, she said, as she looked towards my astonished face, we’ll start on the sleeves first, you unravel one while I do the other, I’ll start it off for you”
This then was my introduction to something that would haunt me for the rest of my school life! We unpicked, it broke, we knotted, we unpicked, again the wool broke and we knotted it yet again and so it went on and on until finally, late into the night we finished and were left with a ball of wool as big as a football!! I should mention here that by now, because of the huge number of knots sticking out all over the giant ball now looked like a giant hedgehog. You will have gathered that, Auntie Bridget, like mammy was not a knitter!    Why we never made it into small manageable balls I will never know but reasoned at least it would be an acceptable colour for socks, didn’t soldiers wear khaki socks? I had read somewhere that little girls in England were knitting socks and balaclavas for soldiers in the war. My imagination kicked in and a picture of a little girl working her fingers to the bone knitting socks to keep the troops warm emerged. Eyeing the huge ball of wool I reckoned, not only would I knit a pair of socks for my daddy but also a pair for Uncle John with enough wool left over to make socks for a whole garrison! I could almost visualise the headlines!  Little Irish girl breaks all records by knitting 200 pairs of socks for the troops!! Ah, but in my eagerness hadn’t I forgotten something?  Er--- if I hadn’t managed to complete one horrible little scarf how ever was I going to manage all those socks?  I can and I will sprang to mind, sure weren’t my sisters grand knitters, they would help me. I was yet to find out we were not allowed to take our work home from school. On that first day of sewing in our new class I watched as my fellow pupils removed the virgin balls of wool from their bags. Small balls of black, navy and assorted shades of browns, the paper seals, still unbroken, holding the wool in place. It took both of my hands to remove the huge ball of khaki wool from the bag Auntie Bridget had supplied me with. The eyes of Ann O’ Mally, the girl who shared my desk almost doubled in size when she caught sight of it. Her whispered Jea—s, Mary and Joseph turned into a loud snigger causing the rest of the class to turn around.  Gasps, followed by loud laughter caused Sister Anthony to call for silence. She approached my desk to find out the cause of the disruption in her class and I could discern a lifting of her eyebrows on catching sight of my wool. I had made up my mind to repeat (should she question me) what Ma had said about “Tell the nuns I haven’t got the money for wool and needles” of course, leaving out the bit about who did they think mammy was, as I couldn’t remember the name she had mentioned, (Rothschild)   Looking back now I think Sister Anthony was a wise old woman who at a glance took in the monstrous wavy ball of wool and probably guessed the reason behind it!  Saving me further embarrassment she loudly proclaimed, for the benefit of the class   “Sure that’s a grand big ball of wool Bridget, now I’m sure you’ll get several pairs of socks out of that”