Living in the Past: A Northern Irish Memoir Read Free

morning of the 4th May,
90 years ago today,
The Black and Tans came to the door
and took your dad away.
They rounded up every man
from the river to Ardbo
And marched them all three miles or more
to a field beside Clanoe
‘Who brought this man?’ the Captain said,
‘A sorry sight indeed.
Go home again, the way you came,
your sort we do not need.’
So back he went upon his sticks,
as fast as he was able,
Which wasn’t very fast, at all,
to see his wife and baby.

    The Black and Tans had arrived in Ireland in March, 1920. A year earlier the British government had advertised for men for a “rough and dangerous task”. Former British Army soldiers had come back home from the Great War to unemployment and happily joined the Black and Tans for ten shillings a day. There weren’t enough uniforms to go round and they wore khaki jackets and Royal Irish Constabulary dark trousers, hence the name.
    They set about a programme of terrorism and their atrocities were legendary, so my father would have known not to protest or he would have been shot.
    As in England, the upper classes were in agreement about one thing: keep the lower classes uneducated, unable to read and write, otherwise they will be able to see through the myth that they are inferior beings. The cut glass accent was part of this and people respected it as a voice of authority that could be trusted. Not anymore, though. At the time of the troubles in Northern Ireland the press boys coined the phrase, “Please leave your message after the high moral tone,” which they said was recorded on the answering machines in London.
    My father hadn’t much education, apart from reading and writing, but he went to night school later on. When we brought home mathematical problems from school, he would do them in his head, but he couldn’t tell us how it was done.
    He was easy-going and a figure of authority in the background. If the girls wanted to go to dances when they were young, they would go to Daddy first and he would promise to do his best for them, as my mother was very strict.
    I never knew my father as a young man who could kick a ball around with his son, although his contemporaries would often tell me that, in his younger days, he could run like a hare. And one woman called Nellie, to whom I used to deliver flour, would smile at me and say, “Oh, you’re like your dad. Your dad was a bit of lad.”
    He looked after the shop all day, every day, and had a man to do the farm work, giving him instructions each morning. Alongside the usual groceries, he supplied the local farmers with cattle, horse and pig feed, as well as sacks of flour as everyone made soda bread. It was delicious and I can still taste it.
    He stocked animal medicines and ointments and advised the farmers what to use. He also stocked farming implements, like spades, forks and anything a farmer needed: medicine, knitting wool, paraffin, treacle, salted herrings. These are some of the things I remember. Of course, cigarettes and tobacco were the biggest sellers as everyone smoked. And the sales continued even after the shop closed, for people came down to the house for cigarettes almost until bedtime.
    When we were sitting around the fireside at night and a knock came to the door, whoever happened to be nearest would go out into the dark hall and open the door. We could never see who it was, but we could usually guess from the voice and call them by name. It was always cigarettes. “Give us ten Players, Arthur,” a voice would say. I’d go in, get the Players, take the money, drop it into a silver gravy boat that sat on the sideboard and resume my seat. If my father went to the door he would say the same to everyone – “Hello, Juh” – that way he covered fifty percent of the names.
    On Saturday, Charlie, our farm man, would deliver loads of animal feed around the country. I went with him, of course, and I got to know about every house and its occupier in the area.
    When the cart stopped I’d