Personal Recollections of a Dublin long since gone

[Bridget x]

The above mentioned door was almost flung off its hinges as the very tall figure of Mrs C emerged. She stepped on to the flagged top of the four steps, one of the only two houses in the street which had steps leading up to its front door. Glancing upwards at the overcast sky she stretched her arms straight outwards, hands gripping the black fringed shawl ready to wrap it even more tightly  around her broad shoulders against the chill of the morning air. One was reminded of the figurehead on the prow of a ship but her enemies likened it to “more like a large black bat out of hell!” The movement exposed her very large pendulous breasts brought about by breast feeding her fifteen children. She had actually given birth to eighteen babies in all but lost two teenage girls to the dreaded tuberculosis and a still born baby. Large families were the norm in our street, usually ten or eleven children, I was one of eleven but only eight survived. The home made sack “apron” only emphasised the large belly even more as it reached down, almost touching the top of the large black boots she always wore. She was much feared and while she was capable of fighting any woman or man in the street, she was well respected as a “good knocker out” (meaning she would do anything legal or illegal to get the money to feed her large brood) She was then aged about 38 years but looked about 60.  As a child I always thought she was the granny and not the mammy! The once luxurious hair, now grey in parts, was pulled to the back of the head in a coil and held in place by large hairpins. I had often overheard the “auld ones” talk of the beauty she had once been. To hear them talk “Sure hadn’t she been a statuesque beauty in her day, her beautiful face set off by a mass of thick black hair and wearing her trademark gold gipsy earrings” “Sure every fella for miles around was daft after her, she could have had the pick of the crop, yes, even moneyed fellas and she goes and ends up with that little runt” The little runt they referred to was Mrs Cs husband P who apparently never did a days work from the day they married!  Mrs C would not hear a word said against him proclaiming to one and all “My poor P is of a delicate disposition, God love him, sure isn’t that why he has to depend on the dispensary money” While none of the streets women would dare to disagree with her one (brave) neighbour (out of earshot) would fold her hands beneath her arms as she sniffed loudly “Delicate my a—e! He’s not very delicate when he gets between the sheets churning out babies”

[Bridget x]

Mrs C stood on the top step clutching the stained rent book in her hand. She did not have a clear view to the top corner of the street from whence she knew the rent collector would appear. Clutching the railings by the side of the steps she heaved her large frame down until she was stood on the pavement. She wiped the rust she had collected from the railings from her hand by rubbing it against the side of the shawl.
She fretted and worried, furtively looking around to see if any one else had heard the news and, like her was waiting to catch the rent man. He would have four houses to visit before reaching hers, that was five families in the first, a small house, six in the next and eight in the next, but Holy Mother of Jesus (blessing herself) the next house was “The Buildings” a large double sided place that housed sixteen families in all!! Thirty five calls to make before he reached her! She consoled herself muttering “Sure Ja—s, half of them won’t answer the knock on the door holding their hands over the babies mouth until he gave up and moved on, sure how many times had she done that herself when she did not have the money to pay the rent?
Right on time Mr Cody the rent collector appeared around the corner. Even if one did not recognise him by the large ledger he inevitably carried his size and clothes made him easily identifiable. A Cork man, he was six foot four in height and always wore a tweed jacket with wide grey flannel trousers, white shirt and a tie. Like many of the men who worked behind desks for Dublin City Corporation he too always had a couple of fountain pens peeking from his breast pocket! I think they thought it impressed and indeed intimidated the slums people, giving us the impression that they were men of letters and well educated, sure what would we know?    Mrs C watched and waited as he entered the first house, it took him some time so she figured out he was in luck there and had collected the rents. She was impatient and could not bear to wait while he entered the next house.  Mr Cody spied the tall unmistakable figure of Mrs C rushing towards him. While he was amazed to spot the rent book appear from beneath the folds of the shawl he still had time to mutter under his breath, “Sweet Mary and Joseph, here comes trouble.
“Ah, sure there you are Mr. Cody, a bit chilly this morning isn’t it?” 
“Well now, it’s not to bad, I’ve seen it worse”
Pushing the rent book into his hands and smiling broadly she proclaimed for the benefit of those now passing by,
“There’s me rent and (with a flourish) a shilling off the arrears!
Mr Cody was certain now there was something afoot! No hassle getting the rent this week but the shilling off the arrears really had him worried! He took the book and entered the amount at the same time deducting a shilling off the five shillings already owed.

[Bridget x]

Lowering her voice she edged closer to him as she whispered,
“Have you heard about my poor Lilly?”
“No, I haven’t, why, what’s happened to her? He asked in the Cork accent, so different to that of our Dublin drawl.
“Sure God love her, she’s only gone and got herself in the family way and she only after turning sixteen!”
“Ah, missus, sure she wont be the first and she wont be the last will she now?”
“Well now, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. They are going to be married but have no place to live. I have no room to put another body up what with my lot! Sure three of them sleep over at me Ma’s and the eldest fella has gone to work down in the country and sure Ja—s, it’s still like living in a sardine tin with my young ones!
“Missus, sure I’m sorry to hear that but I don’t see how I can help you” (trying to edge away from her)
“Were you not aware Mr Cody that auld Mr. Shields from number fifteen was taken away last Sunday, God love him. He was taken to hospital but has since been put up into the Union (poorhouse) Sure he’s eighty if he’s a day and he won’t be coming home! Could you not see your way in letting my Lilly and her fella have his room?
“Ah, I’m sorry Mrs C but that room has already been “spoken” for”   (nervously)
Outraged voice.  “Spoken for! By who? I’ve been watching that place all week and saw no one go in or out”
“Mr Sheilds daughter has already asked for that room, the room she had in Ryder’s Row was condemned and she did not want to move out of this area so she is getting her Da’s room”
Tentatively, Eh, I do have a cellar vacant over in the South side, would she be interested in that?
“Are ya mad or what? Sure if she moved over there I would not see hide nor hair of her!
Snatching the rent book from his hand she turned and made her way back to her own door, her face red with anger not just at the fact that she had paid that extra shilling but at the thought of sixteen year old Lilly and her predicament. All the times she had warned her, “don’t end up like me” but that was exactly what she had done, poor cow. She thought of the lovely fellas she herself could have had, some with grand steady jobs, but then, how could she condemn Lilly for getting pregnant at sixteen? Had she not done just that? Yet, here she was begging for a room in a tenement house, a place where she would have to share a toilet with dozens of other people and have a baby every year just like me. Again the “hard” woman of the street pulled herself up the steps as she clutched the railings and on reaching the dimness of the first floor landing let the tears of disappointment fall as she buried her face in the shawl and muttered “But Lilly, I wanted so much more for you. Although her dreams disintegrated I guess she had hoped that those of her children would raise from the ashes like a Phoenix and become a reality.


P.S. While Mrs Cs children all married and some had large families none ever achieved their mothers quota! Times were starting to change for the women of Ireland No longer would they allow themselves to be treated as second class citizens and cowed down or be dictated to by state or church as their mothers before them had been. It was still a time of great poverty. They did eventually all managed to get rooms either in our or adjacent streets and were always there for her. Now her grandchildren on the other hand did really wonderfully well for themselves excelling at school and later University. Some would open their own businesses while others held top positions in their field in Ireland, England and America. They would take their grandmother on trips abroad and treat her like a queen.  Nothing but the best now from Arnotts and other such stores,the sack apron and big old boots but a distant memory, and rightly so, who deserved it more? How good that her last years were worry free.  Bless her, she had her share bringing up such a large family as had all the other mammy's and indeed grannies in our area.  The “very delicate” Mr. C outlived his wife by several years.  One wonders if there is a lesson to be learned there??  Bridget x

[Pat Reid]

Beautiful, Bridget, just beautiful! I am glad to see you back again. I have missed these wonderful stories.

Pat

[Bridget x]

It is strange when reflecting and looking back on one’s childhood how well one remembers the simple things that gave us so much pleasure. Halcyon summer days walking to the Phoenix park with a “borrowed” baby if the family did not have one of their own. What a sight we must have made! Even the prams left a lot to be desired having been passed down through the family, some, their buckled wheels determined to go their own way as we endeavoured to push them in a straight line. Yet, even these were better than the home made hand-carts made from a couple of old orange boxes with two long, home made handles, nailed to the sides to push themt! An old cushion or pillow would be placed in the box for the child’s comfort! As many as eight of us would take part in this “excursion” with our assortment of old prams and box-carts blocking up the whole footpath much to the annoyance of the auld ones making their way to Mass to the several churches along the Liffey. We went well prepared for our day out with bottles of water, a couple of jam sandwiches and, if we were very lucky a bag of broken biscuits from Mrs Ts corner shop. Not for our babies the fancy banana shaped feeding bottles of those times! Why spend precious coppers on those when an empty Chef’s sauce bottle, filled with milk would serve the same purpose. We walked along the path opposite as the one nearest the water was too narrow to accommodate our motley crew. We would listen out, hoping to hear the deafening warning hooter of a Guinness barge as it approached one of the many bridges. How we hoped we would not be “between bridges” otherwise it would involve a mad dash with our unreliable transport to make it to the bridge in time to watch the barge pass under it. We always made it, minus a wheel or two and oh, our joy as we stationed ourselves in the centre of the bridge watching and waiting as the barge came chugging up the river towards our vantage spot. None of us were tall enough to see over the bridge's parapet so dozens of little toes wedged themselves between the balustrades and small hands gripped the hard, cold stoned top of the bridge as we hauled ourselves up to rest our top halves on the wide ledge. Holding our breaths we would wait for the moment, silent, until we saw one of the bargees start to lower the huge funnel thus enabling the barge to pass under the bridge. Then it came, the huge cloud of steam and smoke enveloping us in its mist until we were lost from each other in the blackness of time. How I have relived these moments when one was thrown into a white world, smelling that peculiar smell of steam with only the shrill screams and giggles of my small playmates assuring me I was not, thankfully, on my own. Another mad dash across the road to the opposite side of the bridge and just in time to watch the barge emerge from its dark cavern! While the Guinness boats would give us children so much pleasure their contents would bring disruption and sadness to many as I would learn some years later, We would continue our journey to the park still talking of our “terrifying” experience. When we reached Collins Army barracks near Benburb Street we always stopped to admire the large cannon placed in the centre of the lawn.
We waited to hear the same old story from Chrissie as she related how “My Granda told me this was the gun they used to run the Tans out of Ireland”
While behind her back Esther mouthed silently “Dirty little liar” and then, to her face, “Sure, for J—us sake, that auld thing is so rusted it hasn’t been fired since Noah built his auld ark”
Chrissie, (red faced) “And what would you know? Sure wasn’t my Granda there during the “troubles” so he should know what he’s talking about!”
Esther.   “Your Granda my a—e! Aren’t ya forgetting I was the one who won the holy picture at school for me knowledge of Irish History?”
Chrissie.   “Yeah, and we all know ya would never have won it only Marie Lennord was off sick with them auld mumps. Sure, she’s miles better than you at the Irish history, clever clogs”
The pointless childish repetition only came to an end when it was suggested that we should eat now as “had we not travelled and pushed these prams for miles?” (One mile)  Nothing tasted better than those jam sandwiches and bottles of water. The babies were given their milk from the glass Chef bottles and for those who could eat, some broken biscuits. We would have eaten our “rations” before reaching the park but, unperturbed would carry on spending the day rolling down grassy hillocks and having competitions to see which one of us could race up the steps of Lord Gough's monument in the fastest time. Alas, for the poor ducks in the pond, we never had a crumb left to feed them!   Bridget x

[Bridget x]

As soon as one opened the door of the pub the nostrils were assailed by the smell of tobacco, beer, and indeed urine from the open door of the men’s toilets.  The room was long and the polished counter, its top stained with the ring marks of the many pint glasses, followed the shape of the room culminating at its end in what was known as the “snug”. A brass foot rail on which the men rested a foot as they leaned on the counter and drank numerous pints of beer was a stark contrast to the saw dust covered floor. The wall behind the bar was covered by large mirrors proclaiming in large print how “Guinness was good for you” and “Jameson’s whiskey was smooth to the taste” In the Dublin of the 1940/50s, the pubs (bars) really were bastions of male supremacy where the men socialised, most of them spending money they could ill afford while the mammy stayed at home fretting about how she was going to make ends meet. This Holy Grail was forbidden to women with the exception of the “Auld ones” as the streets grannies were affectionately known!!  Even then the auld ones were assigned to the snug, usually a small narrow room that would seat about ten. This retreat was partitioned from the main room by a wall of wood and frosted glass which did not reach the ceiling thus giving them access to the swearing, fights, and conversations taking place in the main room. Apart from the grannies, women did not enter pubs. I wondered were the auld ones afforded this privilege because they had reached the later years of their lives and, as many were widows and had no man to answer to?  The snug was where they gathered in their uniform of black fringed shawls covering the cross-over aprons and stout black shoes/boots. They would linger over their bottles of Guinness or, depending on funds or the generosity of a son in the main bar a small” Baby power” (whiskey) they would talk of the old days, their families and the latest gossip of the street. The grannies of Dublin played a huge part in its social structures. They were the ones who, having raised a large family of their own willingly took on the added responsibility of grandchildren, taking them to live with them in the many cases of overcrowding of their own offspring’s dwellings.  This was such a common practice that sometimes we children addressed the children with the grannies surname. Overcrowding amongst families in the tenement rooms was a major problem especially when the children became teenagers.
Grown up children could no longer be expected to share a bedroom and this is where most grannies came into their own taking as many as three boys or girls to live with them. Even meal times brought its own problems and the only solution was to feed the families separately which involved more stratagems than would be necessary in organising a Saint Patricks parade!  Grannies were highly respected by their children and grandchildren. They would get away with almost anything and indeed there were those who shamelessly revelled in the role of matriarch.. The auld ones were the ones called upon to sort out most of the problems which, if they could, they invariably did but with one exception. If a daughter or son wanted to return home due to martial problems the auld one was adamant in her refusal.  It was almost like a mantra, “You made your bed, now lie on it” and under no circumstances would they allow a son or daughter back home whatever the justification. I write of a time when divorce was unheard of, a time when even a separation would bring great shame on the family. They, the older generation were of a school who believed that when you married, it was for life whatever the pitfalls or circumstances. Sadly, the full breakdown of conventional gender role was still a very far off distant dream for many of the women who suffered obscene brutality at the hands of drunken husbands.

[Bridget x]

The expression, Macho Man” had not even entered our vocabulary way back then, had it done, I reckon the men in and around our area would have won first prize in the stakes for the title. As most of the men were Dockers, with the reputation for being a hard tough lot, to be seen pushing a pram, or indeed doing any type of “woman’s work” was unheard of, they would never have lived it down. It was considered unmasculine to look after children. I am perhaps being unfair here to the very few men who were brave enough to defy convention and help their wives. Looking back now, with hindsight, I applaud those men who had enough courage and compassion to recognise what a hard lot their women had to put up with and got on with the job of doing their bit even if in most cases it was behind closed doors. They suffered the jibes and derision of their neighbours and were referred to locally as Molly/Mary Anns. Of course I was not even aware of such matters then. For me and many others, the sight of men coming home very drunk and beating up their wives was the norm, something one got used to in our tenement environment.  In fact I am loath to say these, usually Saturday night fights between spouses became a form of diversion for the women of the street after their mundane day of washing, cooking and cleaning, something that broke the monotony and took them away from, (sad to say,)  their own worries and problems.  As soon as a fight broke out up would go the cry “Ruggy up, Ruggy up. the call sign to say a fight had broken out or was in progress. No peeking from behind curtains here! Every window in the street would be thrown open and propped up with some suitable object, a pillow or cushion placed on the hard outside window ledge and only then would the tenant kneel on the floor, elbows placed on the cushion for comfort lean out to get a better view!  During a lull in the fight, the wife or husband might catch sight of the “spectators” and would angrily shout “What are you lot looking at? Have ya had a good look now?” peppered with many expletives causing every cushion/pillow to be hastily withdrawn and the windows closed in record time. . The strange thing was nobody interfered or tried to pacify or ease the situation, not even family members! If on the rare occasion someone would try to break the row up they would be the ones to come out of it the worse for wear! There appeared to be an unwritten law, you don’t interfere even if at that point the woman or man involved in the fight was covered in blood and in need of medical attention. In the end the granny of the family was always called upon to ease the situation and because, as stated they were respected she was the one who could (using the sharp end of her tongue) bring the altercation to a close. I think the secret was no one could turn around and berate a granny as this would not be tolerated by any of the streets inhabitants, they were to be shown respect at all times no matter what the situation. I would be about sixteen years of age before I really began to notice and question the injustices that were happening all around me. Already two years into working and having learned the “Facts of life” from older girls/women in the factories where I worked, albeit second hand, this simple mind could not equate or come to terms with the inequality and injustices which I was beginning to notice. I was not educated or old enough to see the picture as a whole, had I been, I think I would have been first on the queue to join the suffragettes!

[Bridget x]

While my own dad never lifted a finger to my mum, I never knew him to really help out in the home. On the odd occasion when he would offer to clean the windows my mother would say it was more trouble than it was worth as he would be crying out for this cloth or that cloth, as Ma would say, “Sure he would want a whole sheet just to clean a few windows!!  I saw women waiting for men to return home with their dole money, waiting for the few shillings to feed their children.  They waited and waited, watching the clock and then, in desperation called at the pub in the hope of getting a few shillings before it was all spent on drink. What most of them got was a good beating for daring to call a man out in front of his mates to ask for money!!!  While I can appreciate jobs for casual labourers were in short supply and dole money was the only income, what entitled a man to think he could spend most of this inadequate payment (about thirty shillings) in a pub while his wife and children were wanting? Why, I asked myself were the mammies left to do all the worrying about meeting the cost of feeding, clothing and taking care of the children.  Were there not two parents in these marriages? The Catholic organizations of St. Vincent De Paul were called upon when times got really desperate. While many families were grateful for the small amount they received they were told to pawn anything of value before they could receive any type of help. Were they not aware there was nothing left to pawn?   In sheer desperation women had to turn to money lenders thus landing them even deeper into debt? Why did women in the obvious latter stages of pregnancy have to carry home large bags of (free) turf with several children hanging on to their skirts?  Oh, so many whys and always the same answer, “Well, sure isn’t that the way it’s always been?” Even to this young mind, such feeble justification did not ring true. I often wonder if and when some future writer comes to explore and dissect life in the Dublin tenements will they try and justify the vile living conditions, lack of work and poverty as an excuse for the love of drink enjoyed by men who could ill afford it? Will they say it was their way of getting away even for a short time from the appalling conditions of overcrowding, poverty and growing old and weary before their time? But what of the women of the tenements? Did they not share the same conditions and reluctantly bear children year after year, resulting in a break down of health, bowed and broken beyond their time? And what of their social life? Where did they go to get even a couple of hours away to themselves? No pub for them, if they were lucky enough to have a granny to keep an eye on the children for an hour or so their outing was usually to the woman’s sodality at the local church or sitting by the hall door knitting or gossiping to the neighbours on Summer evenings. I think back and wonder about the women of my street. Did they, as young girl’s dream of that knight in shining armour who would come and sweep them away from the squalor and poverty so familiar to them? What young girl in love for the first time did not dream such dreams but, alas, in the majority of their cases have them dashed brick by brick in the stark reality of life in the tenements? Would they carry on for years still dreaming and hoping for better times, a change in fortunes that never materialized?
My mother, a very modest woman never discussed the facts of life with us girls so we were, as I am sure many others of our generation were, ignorant in so many such matters. Many years later when I asked my mother of her reluctance to do so she coloured as she replied “Oh, I could never talk of things like that to you girls, I would have been too embarrassed” This from a lady who had borne eleven children!! So, there I was, not understanding half of what was going on all around me yet, knowing what I was seeing was wrong. Of course money was in short supply and times were so hard but even I, a young girl reasoned compassion did not cost anything.

[Bridget x]

In later life so many things would fall into place.  At last I would understand why Mrs O D always came crying to my mother because our local priest would not give her absolution in the confessional because she did not want any more children adding to the ten she already had. Refusing her husband “his rights” brought the wrath of the priest down on a head already bowed in despair. In effect the priest was sending her home to even more drunken beatings and for what, apart from the procreation of even more babies to add to the ones they could not feed. Or, maybe on her husbands part to bolster his drunken ego and reassure him of his performance and shore up his masculinity?  What then, I wondered had it been like for my Grandmother and, indeed G.Grandmother who had lived in this very same street before us? Dear God, had it been worse than this? It saddens me just to think about it!  Had the men of those generations perpetuated the myth that women’s prime reason for living was to service the wishes and desires of men? Even now, I look back on these times as a time of enslavement, women worn out and aged beyond their years, with no such things as washing machines nor any of today’s modern appliances but, even more important in so many cases without the help of loving husbands to make life in the tenements a little more bearable. Amazingly, these men would see their lives as the norm, I guess for them to show compassion or any kind of gentleness was looked upon as a type of weakness!!
I think one of the nicest things I have ever seen,(many years ago) was the sight of a young man pushing a baby in a pram while a toddler held on to the handle, a sight you would never see in the Dublin of my youth! How wonderful to know that State and Church has moved on but better still to see and know that young Irish women of today have not only asserted themselves but have contributed enormously not only to the country but to their fellow sisters in the matter of fair play and equality I can just imagine their Grannies and great Grandmothers smiling down from their celestial armchairs, nodding their wise old heads and rubbing their hands with glee as they mutter,  “Well Done, sure fair play and good on ya"               Bridget x