‘I’d cycle over to Coolnaboy. The children were small but growing fast. There was Joan, then Johnny; Jim, I think, was next; then Paddy, Matt, Liam and Breda, and then Eilish was the youngest. It was a big family. Nobody could bake apple and rhubarb tarts like Aunt Katie. They were packed with fruit. The juice used to blend with the sugar and, in places, it seeped out and a lovely toffee formed on the sides. If there’d been an Oscar for tart-making, Katie would have won it. I can still taste them. One day, I remember I cycled back to Kilmuckridge from Coolnaboy, full to the gills with apple tart. When I was telling Bessie about the events of my day – I’d left Kilmuckridge early, to cycle the fourteen or so miles to Coolnaboy – I told her about the wonderful apple tart, the juice, and the toffee on the sides. Silence for a minute, then, “She mustn’t seal her tarts properly. Juice should not leak out of tarts if they are properly sealed.” That remark has gone down in family history. Ever the diplomat, I heaped praise on Bessie’s tarts and scones from then on.
‘My Uncle John lived in a place called Pouldearg, in the townland of Balnaslaney, not far from Oilgate. The farm had belonged to my grandmother’s family, the Whittys. The lease was dated 1660.* The farm was beautifully situated; the River Slaney ran at the end of the orchard. John was a bachelor, and quite shy with us, but, I believe, he took umbrage easily. I can remember, when I was a young child, visiting John. He had tea set out on a big mahogany table with a white cloth and lovely china. We had bread and jam, brack and shop-bought cake. I thought it was great. John fussed around, telling us to eat up – which we did. I loved the jam. I had never tasted jam like it before.† That day, I remember, John had a boat in the water. Joe got into it and pushed off, and was floating down the river when he was spotted. There was consternation but, with the help of a hook, he was hauled in. Joe was quite unperturbed, but my father was in a state of collapse. I gather John was not much of a farmer. I never did hear the exact details but, anyway, the house burned down and the land was taken over by the Land Commission. John went to live with Katie and Watt until he died.
‘I remember Bessie telling me that when she was a little girl, her mother had told her that when she, the mother – Johanna – was a little girl, living on the farm in Pouldearg, a horse had died. The men dug a hole to bury the horse, and the ground caved in. She saw a set of steps leading down into the ground. The men were frightened; they just filled the hole again, and buried the horse elsewhere.‡
‘Now and again, Bessie mentioned the time she spent in school. Aunt Una* went to secondary school, but Bessie finished after national school. She was an avid reader and had beautiful handwriting. One day, she said, they had a lesson on the Ten Commandments. She was walking home later with two friends.† They were discussing the commandment “Thou shalt not commit adultery.” They just couldn’t understand what adultery was and, if they didn’t know what it was, how could they avoid committing it? Suddenly, said Bessie, she saw the light and told her friends: “I know what adultery is. It’s watering the milk.” She also added that it was quite some years before she knew that that particular sin was not about watering milk.’
‘I wasn’t really going to go at all, but Noeleen was very keen to go because, the week before, she’d met this handsome man who’d danced with her for the night. She was really keen to meet him again but she wouldn’t go on her own, so I said I’d go. So, off we set. We went in, and the dancing started. Noeleen’s handsome fellow was there, and he never came near her for the night. He ignored her, and she was very upset. She was very nice looking, and tall, and she got plenty of dances, but she was terribly upset that this fellow didn’t dance with her.
‘About halfway through the dance, this tall man came over and asked me to dance. He was the worse for wear. I didn’t like him one bit. I thought, “There’s nothing here, and I won’t be dancing with this fellow again.” I just didn’t like him. I decided that that was it; I’d have no more to do with him. I remember telling Noeleen about this awful fellow and she commiserated with me and I commiserated with her, about the fact that her handsome fellow had ignored her. She’d had a disappointing night and, as far as I was concerned, I’d drawn a blank. We straightened our backs and decided we’d “start from scratch”.
‘One of the girls we were friendly with in Templeogue was Joan Flynn. One night, a man she fancied, called Tom O’Reilly, danced with her quite a lot, and then asked her would she like some fresh air. Off she went, smiling. She was back again in about ten minutes. We asked the usual question, “How did you get on?” “The dirty-looking eejit.” she said. “Instead of just going ahead and kissing me, he asked me could he kiss me. Then, of course, I had to say No.” Joan would have been delighted to be kissed but, at that time, well-brought-up girls had to make a pretence of being badly shocked at such a suggestion.
‘Anyway, the following Sunday myself and Noeleen went along again, and Rory appeared bright and early, stone-cold sober, a completely different man. He asked me to dance straight away. He was very nice and we got on very well. We danced a lot that night.* I can’t remember if another week went by, or if it was that time, when he asked me out. That was the usual thing; if a man liked a girl, he asked her to meet him in town. Men always did the asking. We met at the Metropole† the first night. And afterwards, on other dates, we’d meet at either the Metropole or the Pillar‡ – they were very popular places to meet. There’d be lots of boys and girls waiting. Another waiting place was under Clery’s clock,§ or outside the Savoy.¶
‘I remember once, meeting this guy in Templeogue, a very handsome fellow altogether, and making a date with him. This was before Rory. I thought this was great but, while he was very good-looking, I was a bit dubious about him. I told Chris Lynch, my friend from work, about him and the date; we were to meet at the Metropole at eight o’clock. Chris said, “I’ll be over at the Pillar and I’ll be watching, and if he’s not there – we’ll give him about a quarter of an hour – then I’ll meet you and we’ll go off somewhere.” So, he didn’t turn up – well, not by a quarter past, anyway – and I was beginning to feel a bit of a fool, but Chris came over and we went off to the pictures, and I wasn’t a bit upset. I never saw him again afterwards; he didn’t come back to Templeogue. So, that was it. But Rory was never late. And he always had a box of chocolates.’
* Ita: ‘I saw her death in the paper, some years ago, and she was deeply regretted by her brother-in-law, and I thought that was very sad.’
† Ita: ‘Although the dances were more usually on a Sunday night.’
* County Wicklow.
* Ita: ‘My Uncle Watt gave Rory this piece of information.’
† Ita: ‘Years later – I was married – I bought a pot of jam in my local shop. It was marked “Mixed Fruit;” it was nice and cheap. The minute I tasted it, I remembered my tea with Uncle John. It was the same-flavoured jam. Cheap or not cheap, I still thought it was lovely.’
‡ Ita: ‘Some years ago, my cousin, Johnny Bolger, brought Rory, Máire and myself for a drive, and we visited Pouldearg. You would have thought that there’d never been a house there. Everything was gone. It was sad.’
* Una married Robert Brennan.
† Ita: ‘One of them I knew later as Mrs Ryan, and the other as Mrs Mernagh.’
* Ita: ‘Noeleen and Jim Algar had met some weeks before our New Year’s Eve let-down. They had danced quite a lot together, had had one date, but had seemed uncertain about each other. However, the following Sunday, the same night I met Rory again, Jim danced the night away with Noeleen and, shortly after that, they were an item.’
† Cinema, ballroom and restaurant, on O’Connell Street.
‡ Nelson’s Pillar, O’Connell Street.
§ Department store, also on O’Connell Street.
¶ Cinema and restaurant, also on O’Connell Street.
Chapter Twelve – Rory
‘I had enough sense, even though I was half-sozzled, to realise that a different approach was necessary. Something told me t
hat there was something I liked about this lassie. I thought about it all week, and I came back the following Sunday stone-cold sober, to see if she’d be around – and she was.
‘We danced, after a fashion. And we talked. I probably told a whole lot of lies. The music was just drums and a piano. “Whispering while I cuddle you”. “Red Sails in the Sunset”. “The Isle of Capri”. I liked the way she spoke. I liked the way she looked, her face and her shape.
‘I don’t think I was nervous when I asked her out for a date; I was prepared to chance my arm. But I was nervous that she wouldn’t turn up. I hadn’t really asked many other girls out. I’d had a few “brief encounters” between about 1944 and 47, when I had a few pounds in my pocket but no intention of hanging around. They were brief, mutually enjoyable – or, at least, I enjoyed them – singing and dancing, but none of “that”. A brief kiss and cuddle and happy memories. And I’d met a red-haired girl in Juverna Press. She was delivering copy and proofs for a magazine. She turned up at a dance in Tallaght, and myself and Des Sharkey walked herself and her friend home, to Annamoe Road; it’s quite a considerable distance.* But we enjoyed ourselves and got home at dawn. Myself and this girl made a date, and I booked two tickets for the revival of Handel’s Messiah; I thought it would impress her. I think it nearly killed her. It wasn’t a bright idea. I suspect that she was frozen with boredom. I never saw her again. Two telephone calls were unproductive, and I got the message. After that, I went on my own. I remember going to the Gate Theatre, to Lord Longford’s productions. The one I remember best is Molière’s The School for Wives. The acting and the crystal-clear accents of the actors were very attractive. About this time, I also rediscovered Rathmines Library; I hadn’t been there since I was in school. I borrowed and read Dickens, Galsworthy, Conrad and a host of other writers. I also read an autobiographical work by Clemençeau, the French politician. It was called, I think, In the Evening of My Thoughts. At the end of his days, he had nothing to offer or to look forward to. The book was so devoid of any hope or feeling for the future, or any sense of belonging to human fraternity, that it quite cured me of a budding agnosticism.
‘I was there first, outside the Metropole. I don’t really remember the day, only the season. I was wearing an overcoat, and the light was fading; I watched people appearing through the street lighting. I remember being enormously relieved and delighted when she arrived. And elated. I know that we went to the pictures’ – he doesn’t remember the film – ‘and that we went to the Savoy for tea and she ate a whole plateful of cakes.’*
* * *
‘Independent Newspapers was founded by William Martin Murphy,* of 1913 General Strike fame, and when I worked for the firm, the Chairman of the Board was T.V. Murphy, son of William Martin. Now, the Murphys took a lofty view of the ethics of newspaper publishing, and an occasional ukase would come down from on high, from the Great Presence. He was particularly vigilant that the editorial content was very respectful of the clergy of any denominaton; no critical reporting of any nature was ever tolerated. On one dreadful occasion, the report on the death of a much-respected Presbyterian minister included the line: “He is survived by three sisters and two brothels.” And occasional howlers occurred, generally in the Sports section. In a report on a jockey’s wedding, it said that “he hoped to get his first ride in France in the New Year”.
‘Now, the editorial board decided that the cartoon, Curly Wee, was old hat, and they promptly dropped it from the paper. All hell broke loose among the general readership.† Many of the complaints went directly to T.V. Murphy, who was perturbed that some of his eminent friends were discommoded. He issued an ukase, and Curly Wee was reinstated.
‘Early one night, it was discovered that the Curly Wee plates hadn’t been delivered from Liverpool. There was consternation among the powers-that-be and some amusement among the lower orders. Urgent telephone calls were made and a special plane was hired to transport the plates to Dublin in time for the edition. Meanwhile, people held their breath or crossed their fingers, or maybe prayed. And, in the general lull, temptation entered my head. I got a large sheet of paper and drew a likeness of Count Curly Wee, and a reward of a considerable amount for the return of the lost hero, who, of course, was a pig, a famous pig. I slipped upstairs to the stone room during “cut time”* and fixed it to the wall. When it was discovered, there was pandemonium, and managers, editorial staff and overseers were ordered to find the culprit. My immediate overseer, Harry Stephenson, vehemently denied any knowledge of the outrage. He had a fair idea, but he wasn’t going to talk. He probably guessed that he’d be included in the sanctions that were awaiting the culprit. As a matter of great urgency, news of the outrage was conveyed to T.V. Murphy, who had to be disturbed from whatever it was that gentlemen of that status did at that time of day. He arrived in full dinner regalia and assumed overall charge of the situation. It sounds funny now, but it had all the trappings of a constitutional crisis. It was even rumoured that T.V. had actually spoken to his good friend, the Garda Commissioner. Whether he did or not was never verified, for, in the midst of all the hullabaloo, the plates arrived by taxi from Baldonnell Aerodrome and all was suddenly right on the night. While there was a continuation of the search for the perpetrator of the poster outrage, it gradually subsided – to my relief. All the best fun and games happened on the night shift.
‘Among the matters to engage the attention of T.V. was the quality of the illustrations for the advertisement for Madame Nora, who sold corsets and sundry other articles of feminine underwear. Discreet alterations to the illustrations were requested or demanded from time to time, to comply with T.V.’s sense of decency. He also conducted a long running argument with Clery’s advertising department about the description of boys’ short trousers as “Boys’ Knickers”. T.V. didn’t like it, but Clery’s full-page advertisement was big business and their old-fashioned drapery description prevailed. Money talked, as always.
‘The editor of the Woman’s Page was Ita Mallon, a very competent North of Ireland journalist whom I’d previously met at Juverna Press when she edited the retail grocer’s paper, the RGDATA Review. There was an article written for the page by a teacher in the National College of Art, Mary Frances Keating, who specialised in embroidery and needlework. This particular article was concerned with the transferring of the design to the cloth, for embroidering. Jack Spain, the stone man, received the typematter, and duly inserted it in the place planned for on the page. Next, the heading arrived. The wording caused Jack some anxiety – after proofreaders, sub-editors and others had processed stories, it was very often the stone man who copped the overlooked howler. The wording read: “Tracing By Prick and Pounce”. You can imagine what the ignorant and uncouth would do with that heading. Jack held his fire until O’Connor, the assistant editor, a tall, laconic North of Ireland man, strolled down to see how the paper was progressing. I should say here that the editorial staff either strolled to the stone room or rushed excitedly. Jack casually pointed out that the Woman’s Page was almost complete. O’Connor took one look at the heading, said he had urgent business in the Prince’s Bar, and promptly disappeared. He could smell potential trouble; he wasn’t assistant editor by chance. Later, the other assistant editor, Michael Rooney, another North of Ireland man, but peppery, bounced down to the stone room, to survey progress. Jack Spain casually waved his hand over the page of type, and remarked that the paper was almost complete. Rooney glanced at the page, saw the heading, and hit the roof. He demanded that the word “Prick” be changed to “Pricker”. Jack duly complied with the order, and Rooney went back to his office. Shortly afterwards, Ita Mallon strolled in, to oversee the completion of the page. She got extremely vexed and off she went to the night overseer, Paddy Masterson, and demanded that the original wording be reinstated. The journalist, of course, had the absolute right to decide the word-content, and Paddy Masterson bustled down to the stone room and ordered Jack Spain to alter the heading. He said, “If Miss Mallon wants ‘
Prick’, she’ll have to get ‘Prick’.” Jack changed the wording. Shortly afterwards, Rooney bounced back to the stone room and casually remarked, “That was a close thing.” And then he caught sight of the offending word again and he went incandescent with rage. He said the bloody woman would have to be told the facts of life, and Jack said, sorry, but he wasn’t going to be the person to do it. Eventually, the wording was changed again, the edition went to press, and Miss Mallon, who was a lady, wasn’t seen in the stone room for several weeks.’
* * *
‘We went to the pictures a lot; it was the thing to do. I actually liked the films, except for those musicals with Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, with their interminable lines of dancing girls, and Gene Kelly dancing up the walls. No plot, no story and, to me, utter boredom. But there’s one I remember, with Betty Hutton – Incendiary Blonde – the life of Texas Guinan, a famous torch singer, and quite a girl. It was a particularly good film.* And Greer Garson, in Mrs Miniver;† she made quite an impression on me. And I particularly liked Dorothy Dandridge in Carmen Jones,‡ I liked the way she spit the sunflower seeds.