Yesterdays post was rather nostalgic and was greeted enthusiastically.
Since I have nothing new to offer today I thought I would link to a previous post from a year ago that I know was a favourite of Nancy’s.
It told a story of Gus and Nora who were regular visitors to our house. As an added bonus I have a photo to go along with it.
From Left: Gus, Mammy, Nora & Daddy
Remember to visit Conrad, Ashok, Ramana, Magpie 11 and Marianna for their take on the topic that I have chosen ~
MURDER
My uncle did not like a curfew. Well, when a young man’s heart turns to romance….
My Granny grew weary sitting up waiting and listening to the slowly ticking clock until all her brood had returned to the nest. Go easy on my Granny if you don’t mind, this was long before the days of mobile phones, Twitter & Television; and the radio in Ireland was in its infancy.
Granny had a shop to run and needed to rise early and open up with everything ready for her first customers before 7am each morning. So Granny gave in and handed my uncle a house key. He was warned not to abuse the privilege, and with that Granny went back to her normal bed time routine & sleep pattern.
One night my uncle returned very late and silently slipped the key into the keyhole and gingerly opened the front door….
MURDER! MURDER! MURDER!
was the roar that greeted his ears and he froze with one foot over the threshold. It was his mother’s voice. With the return of her normal sleeping pattern, came her usual vivid dreams. I don’t think my uncle stayed out late after that.
Confession is good for the soul, or so my father told me. I can get away with my secret no more.
It is time to come clean.
I am a MURDERER!
I have been burdened down with this secret for a long time now. I was behind the wheel of the car when it happened. It all seemed so quick, that I had no time to take evasive action. I heard the bump and felt the wheel go over the body.
I didn’t stop!
I made no attempt to stop.
I just kept on going until I reached home where I checked the car for damage, but there were no tell-tale signs. Sighing softly I went indoors.
It was a late April morning and I was returning home alone from completing a task that required my signature. The envelope of officially Certified papers slipped from the passenger seat beside me on to the foot-well of the car as I braked. I was travelling downhill and slowing from 40 MPH as I was about to enter a 30MPH zone. There was a car on my tail, the driver paying no heed to his surroundings, if I had opened the boot/trunk he might have driven right into it. He was a known ‘dog lover’ yet he had several animals loose on the back seat of his car? I was aware of them from my rear view mirror.
I had a split second to make my decision… take a hit at the front or have a car with a driver and several dogs dig right into me. Technically he would have been at fault and no doubt the Insurance companies would have sorted it out… EVENTUALLY.
I had enough to contend with as it was.
I was returning from doing something that was down to me as next of kin, I had just Registered Jack’s death and now had funeral details to finalise.
I had killed a cat!
So in this instance it was I, and not curiosity, that killed the cat!
Am I forgiven?
Sometimes I write a post and it ends right there! No comment is added.
Thankfully that is not usually the case. Most days the comments come rolling in with the conversation continuing throughout the day. There are times where the banter goes forward and backward over a few days. There is no telling what subject or topic will grab the attention of those who pause to read the mutterings here.
There are the regulars for whom a visit is as normal as daily breakfast, some catch up at a weekend, and there are the surprises - those who accidentally land here while searching for a topic, phrase or word. It is something that always fascinates me.
One such post written over a year ago is a case in point. The Radio was a journey back into my young life and the part the radio played during those far off times. It stirred many memories and acted as a memory jog to other radio programmes down the years. The chat lasted three days and then fell silent until a short revival in July, with another burst in October when Declan Hayden asked:
Does anyone know where I might track down the theme tune to Harbour Hotel, a radio programme on RTE Radio 1 in the 1970’s and finished about 1986 I think?
Alas nobody did and I suggested that Declan contact RTE. I have no idea if he did try that suggestion and since he left no URL I am unable to make contact.
Suddenly the post livened up again in December with several comments added to the discussion, again they were not Bloggers and I am not sure if the are lurking about still or have moved on to greener pastures.
Again silence.
Until yesterday!
When a fresh comment arrived..
SK (alas no URL) asked:
Declan
Did you manage to get the Harbour Hotel theme?
I have it if you want it
So Declan, if you are lurking please get in touch by leaving a comment either here or on the original post and I will try to pass your details to SK. I normally only keep these details for a couple of days,
‘Gus’ whose given name was Owen Augustus; lived along the avenue he was a contemporary of my parents. He always dressed in a Magee three piece single-breasted suit with turn-ups on the trousers and black soft Lee boots. Originally from Ballydehob near Skibbereen in County Cork, he was the youngest child in a household of women. Already established in Dublin when my father arrived he took daddy under his wing, they worked together and stayed in the same digs for a number of years.
Once married, Gus brought his sweetheart from Cork to join him in Dublin. They lived in the same house for all their married life. I was well into my teens before I discovered that their childless existence was not one of choice. There were in fact four or five babies in the early years, all ‘blue’ and nearly 70 years ago with no knowledge of the cause or how to deal with this situation all the infants died soon after birth.
We became their family; Gus and his wife were regulars at our fireside at least twice a week, and for all high days and holidays. Once supper was over Gus produced his pipe and all the paraphernalia that went with it. The ritual of preparing the straight stemmed short bowl pipe for smoking began. The upturned bowl was tapped on his hand, scraped with the little silver gadget, tapped once more before blowing through the stem. Only when he was satisfied that all was clear did Gus produce the envelope of St Bruno. A strip was removed from the tobacco and rubbed between his hands, then slowly and gently packed into the bowl. There followed the striking and lighting of several matches with deep sucking and inhaling before Gus was satisfied the tobacco had taken light. Once lit, the pipe remained in his mouth for the rest of the night, caught in his teeth as he added to a conversation.
Being the pre-television era, the entertainment around the fire often turned to song. Nothing pleased Gus as much as joining in as his wife sang for Ireland. She had at least one song for each county and knew all 32 verses of each one! While his wife sang like a bird, alas Gus oblivious to the fact that he had only one note, hummed along off key from the ‘Banks of my own lovely Lee’ through the ‘Gold Galtee Mountains’, round ‘Galway Bay’ to ‘Ballyjamesduff’ and on for some ‘Londonderry Air’, turning through the ‘Green Glens of Antrim’ to where ‘The Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the Sea’ past the ‘County of Armagh’, before returning to ‘Dublin’s Fair City’!
Suddenly he would realise the time and jump up calling to his wife “Nora, the bed, the bed! The bed will be on fire!” In winter time before the days of central heating they switched on the electric blanket and set it to low before going out for the evening! Thankfully they never required the services of the Fire Brigade.
Once the coats were donned it took at least half an hour for them to leave. There were always a few last thoughts or arrangements to be sorted before they walked to their little Ford Anglia parked outside on the road. We all stood at the door to wave them on their way. At this stage my brothers started to make revving noises reminiscent of those heard at the beginning of a Grand Prix Motor race. They were only echoing those from the car as Gus put his foot on the accelerator and pressed it to the floor, revving several times before taking a couple of kangaroo jumps and finally waving and heading off down the road!
I am always amazed how blog posts awaken a memory.
Lottie’s post about being mugged brought back two.
The first happened while I was on holiday in England at the age of twelve. Always underweight and small for my age I would have easily passed as a ten year old. Until now I had forgotten or buried the episode deep down in order not to remember.
While walking along a quiet country road two boys pushed me to the ground with a bicycle. They held me on the ground and although I struggled, they managed to remove my panties.
I won’t go into details but as I think about it today with a shiver, I suppose they were only checking out and testing what they had learned or talked about behind the bike shed at school. Those were days long before sex education was introduced into the school curriculum. It was a terrible experience and one I would not wish happen any girl, young or old. I was in tears when I reached my Aunts house and she called the police. There were endless interviews and questions, in a way I was glad the boys were never found because if they were I would have had to go through it all again in court. After that holiday the topic was never raised. My parents never spoke about it and to this day I have no idea if my aunt ever told them.
The second was when I lived in Germany in the early 1970’s. My apartment had a communal front entrance with a buzzer system of entry. The Penthouse suite contained an apartment and offices for the owner. A gentleman I met through friends became infatuated without reason. Our paths crossed several times at social gatherings, I was courteous but gave no encouragement. Somehow he discovered where I lived and he began to stalk me. One evening the internal doorbell to my apartment rang. Thankfully it had a peephole viewer and when I looked through it I saw it was my ‘stalker’ I didn’t open the door. It was before we had mobile phones and I did not have a land-line phone installed at the time.
Needless to say sleep evaded me that night and indeed for several weeks. He was still sitting there in the carpeted hallway outside my door all warm and cosy when I went to bed. I have no idea how long he stayed as I resisted the urge to get out of my bed to check. Thankfully in the morning he was gone. I knew the time my neighbours left for work, so I made sure I was walking down the hall at the same time. Several nights later the same thing happened. I followed the same procedure and when I returned from work that evening I made it my business to speak to the caretaker. He said he would have the owners send a note to all residents reminding them not to let anyone in as they opened the front door. All visitors were supposed to buzz the person they had come to visit and only gain access on invitation.
Originally I had gone to see about a ground floor apartment and was surprised that the owners would not let me rent it. They explained that they would not rent a ground floor apartment to a lady living on her own and showed me around an empty one on the first floor which I agreed to take. Many times later I was to feel thankful for that decision. It was a lovely compact home for me in a nice area and I walked through the park to work each day. I did not want to move and nobody was going to push me out. After the third visit I reported my uninvited guest, who had a wife, and I then discovered a history of this kind of behaviour. The last I heard he was admitted as a patient to the Psychiatric Ward of the hospital where I worked.
Thankfully that was the only down point of my time in Germany and there were so many happy times to make up for it. Like the first incident above I buried it deep and moved on.
Now that apartment living is so prevalent in Ireland, just stop for a moment and think before you hold open a door for a stranger. If they are a genuine visitor they will understand why you ask them to press the buzzer!
This topic has buzzed about inside my head like a nagging tooth for several months now. Lying in bed the other night during a power cut I listened to the radio through tiny earphones attached to my mobile phone. It was the jolt needed to pull it together.
My mobile is a Nokia 6610i, still giving faithful service after three years. It measures 10.5 x 4.5 x 2cms. I tucked it under my pillow to stop it slipping down the back of my bed, Tissues, reading glasses - the spare ones for reading in bed, my phone and medication have at times found their way through that tiny space. The bed is heavy and pulling it out is an activity endured only when necessary.
It is a far cry from the radio we listened to when I was growing up many years ago. That radio was a piece of furniture, an unmoveable feast! The first time I actually realised this was at secondary school, one of my class mates was talking about how she lost the radio. She searched the house for it before finding it under the bed! Our radio was larger and heavier than a family sized Microwave. It lived on top of Daddy’s desk in the alcove beside the fire. Daddy’s chair was always within arms reach of it. No way could you lose it or fit it under a bed!
The radio is still about although it has not worked for years. Brother No.2 took it when Daddy died with the hope of finding parts and getting it going once more. Unable to find the items required and not wanting to part with this token of our /his past, it sat in his mini museum alongside his other treasures of an earlier life. Slowly over the years it has moved along the shelf until finally it was relegated to a high shelf in the utility room where it sits today looking forlorn and unloved.
This radio arrived all bright and shining to our home as a wedding present for my mum and dad in 1941. There was a choice of wavelengths; long, medium and short. My earliest memories are of Radio Eireann and BBC Home Service. Daddy had the habit of tuning in to BBC Home Service for the 7am Morning News programme and switching over to Radio Eireann for the 8am news. Mammy loved to listen to the afternoon play on BBC as she waded through a mountain of ironing, with the help of a bar of Cleeves Toffee. On Christmas Eve we followed Santa’s preparations with the elves checking the gifts for all the children before leaving the North Pole. Somehow it never registered that all the names called out were Irish or had an Irish touch to them!
Lunchtime listening in our school years brought regular episodes of the Kennedy’s of Castleross and a very staid version of Hospital’s Requests on a Wednesday. The latter seemed to play only classical music, Irish diddlie di, or hymns. John McCormack’s recordings were regularly requested The messages of greeting for patients were delivered in very sombre or grave tones, enough to add pain rather than bring comfort. Then a young Bank Clerk from Limerick called Terry Wogan arrived like a tornado blowing fresh air across the airwaves. He spoke irreverently of Matrons, bedpans and pills and the ludicrous reality of lunch at 11am. The programme changed Tempo and we were introduced to the music of the day. I am sure it had a very positive effect on patients who in those days had longer spells in hospital. A simple appendix operation meant a week in bed followed by a week up and about on the ward. That is how it still was in 1966 when my appendix was removed.
Most of that happened before TV began in Ireland. We listened to the radio and made our own pictures inside our heads.
Paddy Crosbie was Question Master of The School around the Corner, where each week, two teams from different Primary schools battled it out to show their knowledge. The programme always finished with the ‘Hard Word’, when Paddy asked each member to write down the meaning of a multi-syllable word. The answers were then read out to the listeners and everyone shared the prize of a box of sweets.
Question Time, for the adults was watched over by our other dad patent leather hairdo Joe Linnane. My mother dated him before she met my dad. We never actually met him, but were glad she chose dad. It didn’t stop us teasing her every time we heard him or saw him in later years on Radio Telifis Eireann.
We had a weekly series of the Foley Family, an early attempt at radio soap. There was Cheili House, a programme of traditional Irish music, and Take the Floor with Dingo – did he have another name? Dingo was the compère; he introduced the musicians and dancers and was caller for the dance steps just like at a barn dance. As a child I thought it was silly having dancing on the radio as you couldn’t see the steps, mind you I feel the same about cooking on the radio today. Joe Lynch, from Cork was another entertainer, who grew-up within Radio Eireann as an actor, singer and comedian, but really came into his own with his Living with Lynch.
I remember a detective series where the story built over several weeks. One week there was a car chase through the streets of Dublin, ending with the criminal crashing into a railing near the Four Courts. We were on the edges of our seats and chewing our fingernails with the tension and excitement. It was all the more believable when the following day; Daddy piled us into the car and took us to see the crash site. There was the car stuck in the railings! Daddy had heard of a crash on the news but let on to us that it was the car from the programme. Somehow I don’t think that would pass the children of today.
My older brothers graduated to Radio Caroline and Radio Luxembourg and we became interested in the Top Twenty and all the hits of the day. If mammy and daddy were out we played about with the dials and wavelengths, sometimes we managed to eavesdrop on ship to shore telephone calls. Usually it was one side of a conversation, but if we managed to get both sides we felt we were very clever.
Now we have digital this and digital that, instant satellite connections across the globe. We hear and see the news as it happens and at times before it happens. Journalists today are in such a hurry to be the first with the news that they they tell us what they think will unfold. Does the fast pace make the news any better or make us happier?
What ever happened to the words of good old W. H. Davies
WHAT is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?—
No time to stand beneath the boughs,
And stare as long as sheep and cows:
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
Yesterday I tried to answer a few questions. With one of my answers I gave away a snippet from my past. Mention was made of the good old days of Radio Luxembourg. The DJ who joined us for Christmas 1971 in Wiesbaden was Bob Stewart. The stories he told certainly made us laugh and the time passed in a flash. Alas, he had to leave us early on Boxing Day to drive back and open up the Station at 6pm. A tuck box was filled with tasty goodies and there was a special request for some of my Christmas pudding. (I plan to include it for a Food Monday in the autumn.)
In the picture above is Bob Stewart on the left with Mark Wesley and Peter Powell. I think it is from around 1977. The one below of Bob is how I like to remember him.
So what were we listening to all those years ago?
Ernie the Fastest Milkman in the West, Sung by Benny Hill was the No.1 for several weeksaround that Christmas.
Top Twenty August 1 1965, the year I left school.
1. Help! Beatles (Parlophone)
2. You’ve got your troubles Fortunes (Decca)
3. We gotta get out of this place Animals (Columbia)
4. Mr. Tambourine man Byrds (CBS)
5. Catches if you can Dave Clark Five (Columbia)
6. Tossing and turning Ivy League (Piccadilly)
7. There but for fortune Joan Baez (Fontana)
8. Heart full of soul Yardbirds (Columbia)
9. With these hands Tom Jones (Decca)
10. Wooly Bully Sam the Sham (MGM)
11. In the middle of nowhere Dusty Springfield (Philips)
12. Summer nights Marian Faithfull (Decca)
13. Everyone’s gone to the moon Jonathan King (Decca)
14. He’s got no love Searchers (Decca)
16. Zorba’s dance Marcello Minerbi (Durium)
17. A walk in the black forest Horst Jankowski (Mercury)
18. Too many rivers Brenda Lee (Brunswick)
19. Say you’re my girl Roy Orbison (London)
20. I’m alive Hollies (Parlophone)
Weekend Chart New Musical Express (Saturday, July 31, 1965).
And almost a year later:
Top Twenty from Sunday June 26 1966.
1. Paperback Writer Beatles (Parlophone)
2. Strangers In The Night Frank Sinatra (Reprise)
3. Monday, Monday Mama’s and Papa’s (RCA)
4. Sunny Afternoon Kinks (Pye)
5. Don’t Answer Me Cilla Black (Parlophone)
6. River Deep-Mountain High Ike and Tina Turner (London)
7. Nobody Needs Your Love Gene Pitney (Statesite)
8. When A Man Loves A Woman Percy Sledge (Atlantic)
9. Promises Ken Dodd (Columbia)
10. Sorrow Merseys (Fontana)
11. Paint It Black Rolling Stones (Decca)
12. Don’t Bring Me Down Animals (Decca)
13. Over Under Sideways Down Yardbirds (Columbia)
14. Hideaway Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky Mick and Tich (Fontana)
15. Wild Thing Troggs (Fontana)
16. Sloop John B Beach Boys (Capitol)
17. It’s A Man’s World James Brown (Pye Int.)
18. Get Away Georgie Fame (Columbia)
19. Bus Stop Hollies (Parlophone)
20. Lana Roy Orbison (London)
New Musical Express (Wednesday, June 22, 1966).
So how many of these do you remember?
The very first time daddy brought us to see a round tower it seemed to touch the sky and you needed a rope ladder to reach the door which was a long way off the ground. The window holes were like slits and had no glass in them, so it must have been very draughty and dark inside. A round tower was like a round room and it was not as wide as our house. In my head it seemed only as wide as our toilet, well that was the smallest room in our house (separate to the bathroom) and I needed to get things in proportion.
I seem to remember being told then that round towers were originally built to protect our ancestors from raiders such as Vikings.
My childish mind worked overtime when I thought about it. To begin with I was small for my age when I was young, my father and uncles were all over 6ft tall. If they were standing when they spoke to me I had to look a long way up to see their faces. When we were near the tower daddy didn’t reach the bottom of the door. I hoped there would be no more Vikings. I didn’t want to climb up there.
Anyway, if we did manage to get inside how could we all fit? Maybe I would be lifted up onto someone’s shoulders. The round room went way up to the sky remember, so there would be lots of people standing on other peoples shoulders! What would I do if a heavy person was standing on my shoulders? It would be terrible if their feet were dirty and smelly. Again I hoped there would be no more raiders.
What brought this on?
You may well ask!
At the weekend I went out for a walk in the sunshine and on my travels I saw this round tower:
In 1866 James Chaine, the son of a prosperous linen merchant from Co Antrim, bought the Larne harbour with a down payment of £9,000. He repaired the existing pier and quays and had them extended and developed a rail link to the Port. In 1871 the Larne and Stranraer Steamboat Company was formed and a new paddle steamer the Princess Louise commenced a regular service between the two ports on 1st July 1872.
A mail route was established in 1875 and a trans-Atlantic service between Glasgow, Larne and New York began in 1873. Using the renowned State Line vessels, this service continued until December 1889 and many hundreds of emigrants left Larne to start a new life in America.
James Chaine died from pneumonia in 1885 at the age of 44 and as a mark of respect the people of Larne and district raised funds by public subscription to build the Chaine Memorial Tower which dominates the entrance to the harbour.
When you think of your mother, how and where do you imagine her? For me it has to be in the kitchen wearing a pinafore with hands covered in flour while baking, or standing at the cooker stirring or checking a saucepan or casserole dish before moving on to the next stage of preparation of a meal.
While reading a post from Betty the other day called Sorry, wrong number, it reminded me of some calls I answered over the years. It gave me the idea to share some of them with you. Here I go stealing ideas again!
Back in the days when ‘The Telephone’ was a fixture like an immoveable feast, a time mentioned in a Podcast I made way back last February, I mentioned the fact that the phone was in the Hallway of our house near the foot of the stairs. No matter what hour it was or where you were when it started to ring, there was a charge of the Light Brigade to answer it. My mother was often heard to say “You sound like Guinness’s Horses!”
I actually remember the heavy rhythmic sound of the large Dray Horses from the Guinness’s Brewery as they pulled the heavy trailers over cobbled streets back to the Brewery at night. It was a comforting sound, heard as I lay in a great big bed at my (
Now back to my subject and the sample of calls to our house. We were taught to answer the phone with the number and not a name.
11.40p.m. Ring-ring, ring-ring…
Me: ****** (Number)
Caller: The Gardai are outside. Click.
11.41p.m. Ring-ring, ring-ring…
Me: ****** (Number)
Caller: Close the Bar, CLOSE THE BAR! Click.
11.42p.m. Ring-ring, ring-ring…
Me: ****** (Number)
Caller: Close the Bar the Gardai are outside. Click
We got calls for a Pub that was at least two miles away on a regular basis half an hour after the official closing time at night. Our phones numbers had the same digits but in a different order. There was no point in complaining, as the callers never stayed on the line long enough to find out their mistake.
Ring-ring, ring-ring…
Me: ****** (Number)
Caller: Is that **+**+?
Me: No, you have a wrong number.
Caller: Well if it is a wrong number, why did you answer it? Click.
Then there was the night…
Ring-ring, ring-ring…
Brother No.2: ****** (Number).
Caller: Blah-de-blah-de-blah. I only heard one side of this conversation!
Brother No.2: I’m fine, how are you?
Caller: Blah-de-blah-de-blah.
Brother No 2: When did that happen?
Caller: Blah-de-blah-de-blah.
Brother No.2: Were you very late?
Caller: Blah-de-blah-de-blah.
Brother No.2: How did it go?
Caller: Blah-de-blah-de-blah.
Brother No.2: You miss me. Really!
Caller: Blah-de-blah-de-blah.
Brother No.2: How much?
Caller: Blah-de-blah-de-blah.
Brother No.2: Mmmm! I think I better get my Brother before you tell me any more secrets. Nice talking to you!
Caller: I will NEVER phone that house again!
That call actually went on for 45 minutes without the young lady realising she was talking to the wrong brother. She and brother No.1 celebrated 40 years of marriage last week. Well done both of you and I wish you bliss and trouble free phone calls for the next forty years!
Nowadays when I get an incoming call for a number that is not my own, it might go something like this:
Ring-ring, ring-ring…
Me: Hello
Caller: Would Joe be there?
Me: I think you have the wrong number.
Caller: Oh! I am very sorry for disturbing you. Click.
Ring-ring, ring-ring…
Me: Hello
Caller: Would Joe be there?
Me: Well I hope not, or my husband might not be well pleased! (I never tell them my husband died)
Ring-ring, ring-ring…
Me: Hello
Caller: Can I speak to Joe?
Me: Hold on while I check, I set the receiver down and walk deliberately and noisily away……
Minutes later
Me: Are you still there?
Caller: Yes, is Joe there?
Me: I checked under the bed and there is no sign of him!
Caller: Click.
Ring-ring, ring-ring…
Me: Hello
Caller: Would Frank be there?
Me: Is he good-looking?
Caller: Why?
Me: Well if he is good-looking and a toy-boy he can stay!
I bet you are glad you don’t ring my number!
