Group Memories

My parents had fourteen children. I am very conscious that I am telling only a small part of our story. I have consulted only with those older than myself. There is a larger story to be told after this. I am not the one to relate it. I have deliberately determined to end my tale on that fateful night of 1/2 June 1962 when our dad died. Then - and as if for the first time it seemed to many of us - the cold and harsh reality of the outside world impinged upon our lives. A heavy burden of responsibility was placed on the shoulders of “the big ones” of our family. We may not have had to do much more in the nature of household chores, but we were left feeling responsible for each other, and especially for all our younger siblings.

I am aware that some of these younger siblings will be reading this account. I hope you can accept that no slight is intended by not including your story here, or not consulting you about your memories. I would like to read your story. It will chiefly refer to the years after our father's death, and that is outside the remit I have here imposed upon myself. One intention of the five eldest McCullaghs on these following pages is to give a picture of some aspects of the personality of our father, our mother, granny and grandad McKeown and some uncles and aunts: aspects that you may not have been aware of before.

When my elder sisters were assembled I asked them to recount their memories freely. I will try to put these in some order but I will also relate them - much as they were told.

Reminiscences of growing up the Meadow 1950s-1960s

Conversation involving Patricia, Mary, Rita, Bernadette & John - 25th April 1996

Dad was a baker and then, after he'd lost some joints off the two middle fingers of his right hand, a labourer. A dough-mixing machine stopped at work and he reached in to release some trapped dough. He himself jerked the machine into operation, instead of the “off” position. Hugh Courtenay (later of Killeavey Road, father of Tommy, former proprietor of the Cavern) who worked along with him took him home. They had to walk together to Daisy Hill Hospital. Mum recalls that the blood was still evident on the pavement the next day. He lost his job as a baker and much, much later received £96 compensation. As a labourer he worked for Joe McCullough for a long time. He also laboured to Joe Donnelly who was a bricklayer. He once worked for a man called Cole, Phyllis Cole's grandfather. One time he drove a lorry from Omeath to Newry as part of his work. Dad never had a licence nor learned to drive properly. Mum had us all kneeling before the Sacred Heart lamp saying the rosary for his safe deliverance. She was especially nervous because that road has the ship canal running alongside it.

My first cousin once removed, Bridget (Loy) Daly informed me that neither Granny Bridget nor Aunt Dolly were at the wedding of my parents in Cullyhanna. Kassy was there as a bridesmaid. Bridget also thought the murder of her grandfather Francis Loy happened in 1883.

When she was just a few years old, Rita suffered a terrible scalding accident in the hallway at Monaghan Street. A workman was carrying out a can of hot tea when he didn't see the child beneath his feet. The boiling liquid fell over her chest. Luckily her face escaped its ravages! Rita was several weeks in hospital and still came out badly scarred.

Dad and Dolly were very close. He was always doing small jobs for her. Bernadette remembers watching dad laying a new floor in the front room of the eating-house. She talked to him through the window. “Is that it finished?” “No! That's just the sub-floor!”

Some of the girls remembered granny's pigs in Monaghan Street. They'd be slaughtered, boned, cleaned out and cut into sides and hung to cure in the yard. This would last the whole winter. There were rats in the yard, due to the proximity of the railway drain. Dolly used to tell Rita, when she was going out to use the toilet in the yard, to rattle the door before she went out “to scurry off the rats”. Some of the girls remember vermin inside the house too. Dolly was unconcerned. “Ah look!” she'd say calmly, almost affectionately, “There's that wee mouse again!”

Memories of Dolly's at Monaghan Street were evoked. The girls spoke of the decor and furniture in the house. Patricia has an abiding memory of the two large tables in the dining room, with two men of an evening poring over a jigsaw puzzle before the roaring fire! Mary used to work in Dolly's every Thursday after school. Dolly wasn't exactly organised! A farmer would call in for a meal. Out would come the purse. “Go down Mary, as far as Powell's and get me a half pound of bacon.” A few minutes later another would call. “Go down Mary and get me another half pound of bacon.”

There was a meat-safe in the back yard. It was a soft, apple green colour and it had a mesh door. It was near the coalhouse. There was also a food container with a dome-shaped cover there. At the bottom of the yard near the toilet there was a blackberry bush. There was a marble-topped stand in the front hall and another in the front room. The wallpaper in the hall was gloss painted. The kitchen had a black range, a wooden table and chairs and some cupboards around. Robert Emmett looked down on proceedings. He was flanked, above the hearth, by two large china dogs.

Patricia says there was always a bag of flour on the first turn of the stairs. This was after granny's death. Dolly couldn't bake so it must have been for mum to bake bread with. Mary was always mooching. Bernadette would keep nick at that turn of the stairs while she climbed to the top of the house to explore. Rita was too nervous to participate in these illicit forays. Once Mary found several beautiful silk scarves in the drawers in Dolly's room. She gathered them in a fold of her dress and lifted the hem to her chest to contain them - as a young girl would. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, Dolly confronted her.

“What have you got there?” she roared.

Mary's hands dropped instinctively and the silk scarves fluttered slowly to the floor.

Dolly had the old way of pronouncing many words. The RUC was the “Po -lis” (dad said the same): she worked in the “ aws -pit-al”: Patricia met her once there and asked what department she was going to. “I'm going to clean the Insultant's Office”, she was told. Mary remembers once a week Dolly would boil a kettle, fill a large bucket and then lock the door. Behind the door she'd wash herself from head to toe.

Everyone became conscious that his or her comments might be interpreted as negative. They hastened to correct this by pledging their love for Dolly. “I often dream I am in Dolly's house”, said Rita. This struck a chord. The others had done also. “But I dream I own it now!” It was wondered then if this was a common, sub-conscious expression of appreciation for one's first home, the scene of one's greatest happiness.

Bernadette had two stories to illustrate Dolly's kindness. She was riding her bike to school one day when she was knocked off and the bike's wheel was buckled. Bernadette was terrified of telling mum. She called at Dolly's. She was told to go on to school and not to worry. Dolly took the bike to McArdle's on Monaghan Street. When Bernadette returned after school, the bike was waiting for her as good as new. “You don't have to tell your mother anything about it!” said Dolly.

Another time, when Bernadette was in Foster's on Hill Street she was taken suddenly faint (with women's trouble). She was about seventeen. She went to the men's department (because it was the quietest place in the shop) and sat down to rest where she could. It happened to be the window ledge. She fainted and fell into the window display! Foster's had a new dummy in their window! When she came round again, she was surrounded by comforting men. This was exactly what she didn't want. She saw a face in the crowd. Dolly came to her rescue. Bernadette was put in a taxi and the fare to the Meadow was paid for her. Again nothing was said to mum.

Dolly gave occasional signs of a longing for motherhood. Even when Mary's children were attending school in Edward Street, Dolly would occasionally be there to meet them at home time, without bidding. In Lent, when they were abstaining from luxuries, Dolly would have a packet of sweets for them. “Ach Mary, sure they're only children!” she'd say. She was more than appreciative of the efforts of the hospital nurses who attended her. “If I had a daughter, I wouldn't want her to be a nurse. It's too hard!” she'd say.

Patricia recalled that often after a disagreement at home, or just to get away from the crowd, she'd go down and sit and talk to Dolly. Fiery Mary sometimes threatened to leave and move permanently to Dolly's. It's not known whether Dolly was to be given any say in this arrangement!

Dolly had a host of friends. Among them were Eileen McGuigan, one of the Rodgers', Josie Rafferty and Delia D'Arcy. Delia, the woman next door, was a dressmaker. She was an aunt of Marie and the boys, and reared them after their mother's death. Dolly had many suitors too. When Bernadette was at Our Lady's School and doing a geography project about England, Dolly gave her an old picture postcard she could use. It was a love missive, and it was addressed to Miss Dolly McGarvey!

Rita is convinced that Dolly was several times proposed to, but refused. Rita remembers her kissing and canoodling under the stairs when she (Rita) was a child. Mary wondered if that Peter Collins, who always came to Dolly's for a meal, had an ulterior motive. This was long before John. Mary remembers Dolly and John kissing and courting on the chaise longue. We all loved Dolly. We remember our mum did too. She was always consulted about Dolly's major decisions. So it was before her marriage. Dolly had been to our house for a meal and while they were both washing up, the subject was raised.

“What do you think, Eileen? Isn't yer man after asking me to marry him!

What do you think I should do? Should I marry him... or should I bother?”

All the fine furniture and ornaments went to McCabes, courtesy of John Donaldson, Dolly's new husband, in the mid 1960's. The girls present (Patricia etc.) got a little something from the old house. Patricia cleaned out the house in Murphy Crescent for John after Dolly's death. In recompense she received Dolly's wedding ring.

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Mary remembers the day we moved from Monaghan Street to Slieve Gullion Road. She was only four years old. Part of Orior Road was constructed then and just part of Slieve Gullion Road was complete. You could look across to the railway line below the Armagh Road. In fact, the Bessbrook tram line ran in parallel track and on the Meadow side of the railway. It closed down that same year of 1948.

We walked out to our new home. Mary was on a tricycle. Paddy Vickers was with us as ever. Mum pushed the pram with the 8-month-old child John in it. Mary remembers being amazed at how big the house was. This was emphasised by the emptiness and the echo. The bathroom was especially impressive. Not just an inside flush toilet, but a separate bathroom, with bath and a wash-hand basin. It must have seemed like a mansion to our parents. The bare walls were of pink plaster.

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In the early years in the Meadow, Mary and Patricia had the side room to themselves. Rita and Bernadette and the rest of the girls had the back bedroom. From the late fifties, Bernadette remembers Saturday morning lie-ins (mum and dad probably needed the rest and encouraged us not to rise too early!) when dad would shout out quiz questions for the children to answer. Many were about current affairs and geography. Dad must have been well versed himself to know all the answers.

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Patricia declared herself the original “big one” of the family. We wondered then when one graduated to become a “big one”: It brought major privileges, like staying up late and getting more pocket money. None knew the answer or who determined for certain when one graduated. [It was probably mum. She made most of the smaller decisions - those concerning the home and family. Dad decided major issues - like war and peace in the world!! ] Promotions probably came thick and fast later when the older ones left home (Patricia and Mary to nursing: Bernadette and John to higher education in Belfast: later Kathleen, then Michael also made their homes in Belfast).

The side room became Rita's. It was unheard of till then that one person could have a bedroom all to herself!

Memories of holidays were usually of Sheetrim or Kilkeel. The personalities of Granny and Grandad were compared. The girls remember mum warning them not to get on the wrong side of granny. Rita felt she was standoffish. There was some agreement about this but the consensus was that granny was usually friendly and pleasant. Mary remembers accidentally breaking one of her precious plates. She took the pieces to the garden to bury them lest she get caught. Granny was quite religious and always said the rosary at night. Grandad would clown around sometimes. To amuse the children he would lift his leg and pretend to break wind during the prayers. Granny would be raging at him and at anyone who played to him by smiling or laughing.

When she was still at college Bernadette was sent to “the country” to nurse Grandad who was dying. She stayed more than a week and in that time she developed a friendship with our first cousin John McKeown that has endured to this day. Bernadette was quite shocked when granny laid out on the dressing table in full view of grandad the “Happy Death” set of candles, candlesticks, icons etc. He took it in his stride and was still full of craic and teasing. Bernadette wore a dress that buttoned up the front.

“That's some dress you're wearing! You're just a tease, Bernadette! I bet the fellows like that dress!”

and...

Do you drink? No. Do you smoke? No. Do you chew grass? No. You're company for neither man nor beast!

Mary remembers that she nursed him when he was admitted to Newry General Hospital.

“Look at her!” he'd say. “She's a trained nurse and a married woman and she only looks like a wee girl!”

The time was recalled when John, after a holiday in Rita Flynns, returned with her valuable watch secreted about his person. Out of curiosity he had prised it open and could not put it back together again. Instead of owning up he had taken it away, hoping it wouldn't be missed. It was, and poor aunt Rita finally got her watch back in bits. It had been hidden where we all hid things - behind the hot water tank in the bathroom. That was John's first and last residential holiday with relatives!

Mum had learned many skills from her mother. She was a great knitter. When sloppy jumpers were the fashion she knitted a special large one for Bernadette on request. Des Fox wore that jumper for five or six years after they were married. John inherited a sloppy green Aran jumper of dad's that was in service until quite recently. Mum made almost all the girls' clothes. She would hold the Belfast Telegraph against a child and pencil out a pattern. With this she would cut out the cloth that soon became a beautiful dress. The height of fashion for next to nothing! Deprived?? We were privileged! In fact we lacked nothing, only money. There is a photograph of the children in mum's lounge, from Patricia down to Gerard. The girls are wearing striped and dotted bolero outfits. Mum bought Patricia's and Mary's and used these to make patterns for the rest. Angela's dress in this photo belonged to Maureen Fearon (still my friend today) from Iveagh Crescent. Nothing wrong with sharing!! After all, Maria Fearon used to compete with the rest of us for her place at our dinner table. We got free orange juice, with coupons, from the clinic. In those days we thought it was lovely.

Everyone had his or her own chores. Inevitably the older girls were given more than their fair share. John's job was to polish and shine all the shoes on Saturday evening to be ready for Sunday mass. Sometimes he was allowed to cook. Mum had a knack of getting everyone to do some task in particular by explaining that no one else could do it quite so well: flattery which inevitably worked. John made soup and custard (not necessarily as the one meal!) He was short-tempered. No one was allowed in the kitchen when he was cooking! Mary was fiery also. No door stood a chance when her temper was up! Although his sisters were kind and protective, John was less than grateful. Mum once cautioned the girls to be careful in horseplay, lest his eyes be damaged. From that day onwards if anyone struck him, or kicked him on the ankle, he'd roar “Oh, my eye!”

The girls got their own back, one summer evening. In the late fifties, street games were still in fashion. The final game of the day was always “Tig Around The Block”. This was the normal game of tag, but played by large numbers of boys and girls in their early teens over a huge area - including all of the Meadow, Derrybeg, Sandy's fields, the Camlough Road, the paupers' graveyard and other people's back gardens. Even the coming of darkness after 11 p.m. didn't flush out the really determined participants. Anyway, John was spotted from a distance finally returning and all the house lights were doused. Everyone pretended to be fast asleep in bed. No one answered his knock or his calling even when he used pebbles to rattle against the bedroom windows. Finally the letterbox opened and a small voice could be heard softly calling --

“Open up, mammy! It's me, mammy! It's John. It's your son! Let me in, mammy!”

The older girls had most of the housework to do but dad would gladly help too. With so many girls there was a lot of long hair to be dried on bath night, Saturdays. “Number one!” he'd call, and the hair would be rubbed vigorously with the towel. - “Number two!” - Dad loved the girls' long hair and wouldn't allow them to have it cut short. The actual bathing of the children fell to the older girls. As they grew older they would have dates on Saturday nights. Then they had the dilemma of completing the bathing before they could go out. Mary remembers one night in particular she was told it was her “turn” but she was all ready to go out to meet a fellow at the bottom of the Meadow Road. It was ten to eight. The date was for eight. The children were hastily lined up at the sink. The washed child was plonked on the draining board for drying. Then it was number two - three - four - and so on. Mary was particularly fond of Mickey Doran. “I thought I'd have married him!” She was an hour late when she reached the bottom of the Meadow Road.

“Hello, Mary. Where are you going?” called Dad, who was standing there talking to a few friends.

It was a favourite gathering place for the men.

“To the Novena”.

“Well, if you hurry, you might catch him. He's a good looking, dark haired young fellow, and he went that way”, he said, pointing.

He had watched Mickey waiting, anxiously glancing up the road. Mary didn't catch him and never set eyes on him again.

Bernadette too remembers similar exasperation when having to bathe children while her “date” waited for her. Angela used to get poked and prodded to speed up her ablutions!

Mary and Bernadette looked alike. One evening Mary had a date with Francis Morney when at the last minute she decided she didn't want to go out with him. Approaching the house he had seen her sitting in the window wearing a red jumper. Mary made Bernadette put on the red jumper and sit in the window of the side bedroom. Whoever answered the door told Francie that Mary wasn't at home.

“Don't be silly! I saw her in the window as I arrived.” He looked up. “Look! She's still sitting there!”

“Don't you be silly! That's our Bernadette! Hi, Bernadette! Look down this way!”

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We had a cot that seemed to last for all the children. Each year it would get a coat of paint and a new colour for the inevitable new arrival. Mary had a friend named June Clegg. Her mum could get clothes “on tick” in Moorheads shop in Bessbrook. One day Mary was asked to accompany them on the bus to Bessbrook. This was a rare treat, indeed. Mary raced home to ask permission. The new child was almost due. Mum was in the back yard watching dad paint the cot blue. Mary raced out but in her excitement she tripped and kicked the paint pot. Even mum's famous elastic stockings were covered in paint. Mary didn't get to go to Bessbrook.

Wherever there was danger or trouble, Mary would be in the middle of it. She remembers climbing up a cliff face with the loose stones falling round her and catching in her frock. There was a lot more wasteland and bogland around then. June and Mary got caught fast in bogs on more than one occasion. One time they escaped but their shoes remained stuck fast. The other girls remember trying to clean June's shoes and socks (when these were retrieved) - before her mum could find out.

Dad had that laconic sense of humour that is so typical of many of his descendents. “Would some of you fetch my shoes for me?” Nobody moved. “Don't go blocking the door in your rush!” he'd remark.

Our dad told great stories. Some really happened. He was working one day putting a new floor in a house on Francis Street. It was facing the Council yard. At lunch time he and Joe Donnelly who was working with him retired to Felix Larkin's for refreshments. Some locals there talking about that house warned the men to be careful if they came across a green sealed bottle. According to local legend this bottle contained an exorcised spirit that a priest had thus confined. Anyone who would release it would be haunted by it for the rest of his or her life. When Sonny and Joe went back to work they were twice as careful as before. Sure enough they found the sealed green bottle. Carefully they encased it in the concrete of the new floor they were laying.

Many of dad's ghost stories were true. He once passed a recently deceased friend as he walked along Chapel Street. When he looked around, that friend had disappeared. This story, coming from one's own dad, was impressive. If dad thought it could happen, then it could happen! The strangest story was of some workmates or former employees of McCann's Bakery. There was “troubles” at the time and a curfew. Everyone had to be off the streets by eleven o'clock at night. The only exception was essential workers who carried a pass. This group was making its way home along Monaghan Street after curfew (as bakers they were essential workers) when one of their number was confronted at the corner of Bell's Row by the ghost of his long-dead mother. The spirit was much larger than life and blocked his way. He could not get round her. She pointed with her left hand down the Dead Pad (Lower Catherine Street) as if indicating that he continue home by that route. He did. When he woke up the next morning he learned that a short while later, some people walking further along Monaghan Street were shot by the Black and Tans.

Patricia remembers dad's story of having to call a priest to exorcise a ghost from a house in Castle Street where he had been working. Once again, a glass bottle was used to confine the evil spirit.

The Quinns, Tom and Rita moved in next door to us after the Pattersons left. While the latter family lived at number eighteen, old Mrs Patterson died and was buried out of the house. One day Rita Quinn came into our home, terrified, and told my mother she had seen a ghost in her house. She was asked to describe the ghost's appearance. The description matched that of old Mrs Patterson exactly, although Rita Quinn had never set eyes on that woman in her life!

Dad was fascinated by the night sky and reports of UFO sightings. John said he too is curious about the possibility of intelligent life elsewhere in the universe (as was Michael). The late fifties was a great time to pursue this interest. For the first time, man was reaching beyond his own little planet. When the USSR launched the first man-made satellites, Dad became obsessed with following their progress, - not just on news broadcasts but in the night sky. We would stand for hours at the front door, searching for a moving light in the sky, like a star, - but slowly moving across the sky. When we couldn't see it, we'd count falling stars instead. “They're not “falling stars” they're meteorites!” dad told us. There was great excitement when one of us spotted a satellite and the others were encouraged to confirm the sighting. Dad would tell us, “There's a dog on board that! He's called Leika. They're testing to see whether man can go into space and be brought back alive!” A year later it was confirmed, when Yuri Gagarin became the first man in space! Dad's excitement was infectious.

Dad was completely obsessed with news and current affairs. When he finally could afford to buy a radio he would listen to one news broadcast after another. He tried to argue that there was a difference in the coverage or that one station might not have got the most recent broadcast. He was very well versed in political affairs and liberal and socialist in his outlook. We wouldn't have known this until we acquired some political awareness ourselves.

In those decades the African countries were trying to throw off the imperialist yoke and assert their independence and nationhood. On 17 January 1961 Patrice Lumumba , former Premier of the Congo was killed under mysterious circumstances. He was both a socialist and a freedom fighter. Moscow suspected Western involvement in his death and charged the UN Secretary General Dag Hammarskjold with complicity. This would have meant nothing to any of us including mum, then. Dad seemed genuinely upset by this news. We feigned sympathy and the cry of “Poor Lumumba. Poor, poor Lumumba” went up.

I didn't like dad being teased. I was determined to find out who Lumumba was, so that I could converse on dad's own level. My brother Michael, much later, got into trouble with the law over his own socialist beliefs. I doubt whether he knew much of dad's political outlook. He wasn't yet ten when dad died. [John]

In the context of the politics of Ireland, dad had distinct Republican sympathies. The newspaper “The United Irishman” was banned. There was an underground distribution network that ensured that sympathisers could get their copy inside the folds of the Ireland's Saturday Night. Dad wasn't such a great sports fan, but he'd never miss buying that paper! I'd remember the painting of Robert Emmett, the Irish patriot, hanging in the kitchen of Monaghan Street! Although dad was ever the gentleman, his sympathies would come out when he had drink taken. When he said too much to a Mr McDowall (ex B Special) of Killeavey Road he suffered a severe kicking from him. This caused great distress to mother and to all of us. His face was badly cut. We were extremely angry but eventually dad made peace with McDowall. None other of his family could! A son was very keen on our Patricia, but he had no chance! Years later, McDowall came to Rita's door, when she lived in Killeavey Road, to make some complaint about the child Mark. He got short shrift indeed!

Sonny was fond of a bet on the horses. He shared this interest with most of his pals, especially Sticks Morgan with whom he grew up. He explained to Bernadette the difference between a straight and an each-way bet. He had a distinctive way of marking his chosen horses in the newspaper. He always had only a stump of a pencil. A horizontal mark would be crossed, at a slight diagonal, with another mark. He'd bet a shilling each way. It was all he could afford. He had a ready reckoner to work out returns on winning combinations: doubles, trebles and Yankees. This fascinated Bernadette because of the mathematics involved.

Rita recalled dad teaching us all to ride a bicycle. In fact it wasn't just us. He taught half the street as well! Marie Vickers recalls he taught her when she was on holiday in our house. Rita also remembers dad recounting to mum a story of the workmen in the Council yard saying the rosary before they knocked off on Friday evening. He said his decade as he thought he heard us say it at home. We would say alternate decades. Dad thought the two parts of the Hail Mary also alternated so he had begun - “Holy Mary, mother of God ..”.

He couldn't understand why they all laughed at him!

Rita remembered also hearing dad tell mum about his own christening. He remembered having to learn the prayers because he was fourteen years of age. His mother hadn't explained why he was being baptised at this age. Perhaps he never learned his prayers properly because he wasn't taught them until he was that age!

Bernadette was bought a bicycle for being the first in the house to pass the 11+. Mum took her to Hutchinsons to choose it. Bernadette remembers the most important thing was that it fitted mum! She intended using it to do the shopping. Patricia remembers mum riding the bike and protecting herself from the rain with an umbrella at the same time. This was the only time she ever saw anyone do this! Bernadette would leave for 8.00 a.m. mass in the Dominican chapel on her bike. Dad would accompany her as far as the Council yard at Francis Street. Dad had to clock on there before cycling to whatever house he was working in that day. This shared time was precious to Bernadette.

There was a large metal case stored under the stairs of our house. It fastened with a clasp and a padlock. Sometimes it was left unfastened. This wasn't wise, with us around. We soon learned that our parents' personal effects were kept there. There was a bundle of love letters tied with a blue ribbon. There was also a diary. Bernadette thinks there were medals of Franks' in that chest. Nobody knows where the chest or its contents went. However the older girls got a look at some of the reading materials. Rita memorised two lines from mum's diary. They said --

It was on the Camlough Road that I first met my Sonny.
He never would have kissed me but I often wished he would.

Dad was useful about the house. He had a thick “Do It Yourself” book. It was his bible. Mary said she still has in her home the Sewing Book our mother once used. The most used book in the house was mum's famous buff-coloured Cookery Book. We would all try recipes from it.

Dad was a real magpie, collecting all sorts of strange objects. “It'll come in handy sometime!” he'd say. “What's that?” someone would ask. “It's a hookumsneddy for a garden gate!” he'd reply, to deter further questions. I grew up thinking garden gates were very complicated things indeed! Mum thought it was mostly rubbish he collected but she tolerated this because she loved him. Rita remembers once how pleased he was with a present he had brought home to mum.

It was only a set of needles but he was pleased because it included a needle-threader, something we'd never seen before and he thought it would be especially useful because mum's eyesight was deteriorating. All the girls remember some knives Sonny acquired from an old house he was clearing out in the Doran's Hill area. One knife in particular was remembered. It had a cream coloured Bakelite handle.

One day he came home with two rabbits. He had been out hunting with Ned Fearon who had a ferret. Everyone swore they would eat no dinner that day. When we sat down at the dinner table mum assured us we were eating chicken - but it didn't taste like chicken!

There was a crippled lady living on Monaghan Street who mum remained friendly with. She was Chrissie Mulholland, sister of Johnny and Jimmy. The girls would be brought to her to show off their communion dresses. The next call would be to Mary and Camille Warner in Church Street. They remained long time friends. Our Mary was given her full title of “Mary Teresa” there. Sometimes they'd be brought to visit Mabel Garvey (Quinn) on Ormeau Road, Belfast. There was a front garden with a green gate, and a long hall. The woman had grey hair and wore a shawl. Rita was there for her first communion (1951) and again in 1961. On the latter occasion, with several friends from Newry, Rita was sitting a Civil Service Entrance exam (she passed it and was offered a position in Oxford, England but mum wouldn't let her go there!) Mum insisted she'd take Rita herself to Belfast to sit this exam. Rita didn't want this in front of her friends, especially as mum was, as usual, pregnant. While Rita was sitting the exam, mum went to visit Mabel and James Garvey.

Although dad was very sociable and popular, he was painfully shy: a bit “backward about coming forward”. It was remembered that he'd often check through the window - to see whether anyone else he knew was there - before venturing on a walk into town. He was only comfortable walking to town with members of his own family and close friends. When Hugh John McConville who lived next door bought the first car in the Meadow, Sonny would go to extreme lengths to avoid the appearance that he was seeking a lift into town. If he knew Hugh John's routine, he'd wait until he had left before walking out himself!

Dad was “a bit odd” too about boyfriends calling. When Eddie Sherry first called, he'd say, “Gimme that child to hold, to take the bare look off me!” Eddie remembers being equally ill at ease. Sometimes the nuns (who were teaching our girls) would call on Sunday afternoons. They were more part of the whole community in those times! Dad would grab The People and The News of the World and run upstairs to read them. You couldn't let the nuns think a good Catholic household might read papers like that!

Dad had lovely thick hair (even if it was thinning at the front!) Bernadette described its colour as “salt-and-pepper” grey. Mary remembers tying a bow into it when he fell asleep in the chair. Rita recalls that it was obvious especially when they were at home and around the fire, how much in love mum and dad were. He would sing “My Eileen” to her. His other favourite songs were “Sonny Boy” and “The Cafe Continental”.. When he sang the latter, one of the girls would throw a handkerchief to the ground so he could act it out!

“At the Cafe Continental
    It was there I fell in love
    It was all so accidental
    Picking up a lady's glove”.
    

He was a real softie. He would give us anything we asked for, but he would be overruled by mum, the disciplinarian. (Someone had to be!) “Dad, can I go to the dance tonight?” “It's all right with me, but ask your mum.” He was always concerned that we would help mum. “Ask your mum what you can do to help her.” We'd often be put to bed early to give them a chance to be together. Then we'd kick up a racket and not sleep. “Sonny, shout up to those kids to be quiet!” He'd rattle something against the bannisters to make a fearful sound, and he'd shout - “Here comes Jericho!” Nobody knew what this meant but it worked. We loved him too much to upset him further. He had a leather belt to threaten us with but he wouldn't use it, except to whack the stairs and scare the life out of us. I imagined him boasting to Mum how it worked every time!

He was ever on the lookout for suitable jobs for his children. Rita remembers being told of a council employee, Maura McKeown, who was going on maternity leave. Rita was thought of as “delicate”. He thought this was an easy job that would suit her. This delicate Rita, by the way, has spent most of her life since working at a market stall - outside in all weathers!

He was always careful about his language in front of the children but he knew no other word for the back pocket of his trousers (where he kept notes etc.) than his “arse-pocket”. We loved to trick him into saying this rude word and then we'd pretend we hadn't heard so he had to repeat himself! Mum was not amused!

Dad was a good footballer. In his youth he had played for West End (Sticks Morgan's team), Needham Villa and occasionally Sweet Afton. Danny Doran (of Loughview Park) and Petie Rodgers (of Kiln Street) still speak of the prowess they witnessed. Dad played with the likes of Mr Fadden of Helen's Terrace. Jim McGrath (now of Church Street, formerly of Slieve Gullion Road) also talks of Sonny playing football. It's thought that his grandson David White (star of the current senior Newry Town team) takes after him. John remembers dad complementing the Chapel Street goalkeeper when the Meadow League first began in the Retaining Basin (now Jennings Park) in the late fifties. Pat Jennings went on to be the world's top keeper for many, many years. Sonny knew a keeper when he saw one for he was quite a competent one himself!

Dad had a host of other friends. Among those we remember are Pappy Rooney and Paddy McDonald. But his best friend was Felix McDonald. (He was the father of Jim McArdle's wife Margaret). Bernadette recalls that she found it hard meeting this man for years afterwards because he was so closely associated with dad. Rita remembers she was big enough to be embarrassed one night when she came sleep-walking (in a vest and knickers) into the living room where dad was entertaining Felie. (You were only a “wee one” then, interrupted Mary. I was there. Only Patricia and I were “big ones” then!) This was the only time Rita sleepwalked.

We were warned to be on our best behaviour when visitors called. Our parents were very proud of us and they didn't want us to let them down. Our beds were covered with old coats as we couldn't afford enough blankets. Sometimes the cry would go up, “She's pulling the coat off me!” “Don't say that”, we were told. “Call them eiderdowns”. Of course it wasn't long until the cry could clearly be heard, “She's pulling the sleeve out of the eiderdown!”

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Bernadette was good with figures and my parents gave her the job of managing the weekly budget in conjunction with them. She recalls sitting at that scrubbed deal table in the sitting room, with one parent at each side of her. Dad handed his unopened pay packet to mum. The calculations would be done and he'd receive a little back for a packet of cigarettes and a few drinks. Then it was total abstinence again until the following weekend. Bernadette remembers wages of between £5.30s and £8.30s depending on his overtime. If he received a £5 note among this (a rare occurrence) he'd unfold it dramatically and show it off! These were the large white £5 notes. He thought we might never see one again. Come to think of it, I don't think I did!

Mary thinks in spite of everything that mum and dad had some little savings. Perhaps this was from the little compensation dad received for the loss of his fingers. Mary says he was considering purchasing 43 Monaghan Street when it came on the market after Dolly vacated it. He thought it would make a good business premises for one of the girls who might take up hairdressing. He didn't buy it and an opportunity was lost!

If there was anything at all left over after immediate weekly necessities, it would go towards the purchase of a coat for whoever was next in line. Dad was several times overlooked (at his own insistence) when his turn came around. So it happened in the winter of 1961. After his early death, Bernadette commented to mum that “he never got his new winter coat”. Because she could write so small, Bernadette was also given the task of filling in the maintenance grant forms. Whoever devised these forms never expected anyone to have fourteen children to claim for. Although only one blank line was left, all fourteen names were fitted into it. Dad had to wear gloves to protect the finger stumps of his right hand that were particularly vulnerable. The girls remember massaging his fingers to bring the warmth back into them. He would often get phantom pains in the fingertips he no longer had. He once asked Patricia to cut the nails of the middle fingers of his right hand although these fingers (and nails) were missing.

They weren't penniless. Dad had got a new suit not long before. Also they had saved up and travelled to Cavendish's in Belfast to buy a new bedroom suite. Mum had a lovely leopard skin (not real!) handbag that was stuffed with her personal effects. She once shouted to John upstairs to “throw me down my handbag”. She didn't mean it literally, but he did throw it and it got cracked. She was heart-broken.

There was a wire hook hitched over the water pipes close to the ceiling of the kitchen. It contained all the electricity bills going way back. Most were yellow with age. John recalls a similar hook in Monaghan Street. An early filing cabinet, I suppose!

Besides the larder, there were two large cupboards in the kitchen. One was known as the Dirty Clothes Press and was used to store soiled garments until washday. Mum didn't like the name we called it and wanted it known as the linen cupboard. But that was the name for the clean clothes press on the landing. Our name, we felt, was more accurate and far more evocative!

In any case, John once got a large jar of frogspawn from a stagnant pool beside the railway (where St Patrick's school stands today) and hid it in there. By the time mum found it there were dozens of large tadpoles scurrying around in a desperate search for oxygen. She feigned terror (or was it real?)!

The conversation turned to Mondays in our house. How on earth did mum cope with washing and all the necessary daily tasks as well? By Monday evening mum's hands would be bleeding from rubbing the soap into - and the soil out of - the week's used clothes. Bernadette recalls she would boil many more potatoes on Sunday than she would need. These cold potatoes would be sliced and fried on the pan for Monday's dinner.

Often the frying pan would be placed on the table and we'd get a fork each. John would cheat and get a larger share by stabbing a hand with the fork, instead of the fried potatoes. Then he'd quickly take advantage of the resulting confusion!

There was precious little standing on ceremony there! We were told to “stretch or starve!” and we quickly learned that lesson. Flo loved to come to our house. She was surprised and delighted to find such a closely knit, loving and happy family. She'd sleep in with the girls - two to a bed - as it still was then in our overcrowded home. Mum would bake bread and serve mugs of tea with an enormous plate of freshly baked (and still warm) soda and wheaten. If we were lucky the bread would be spread with “good butter” (in the years before, when dad was alive this was reserved for him!). Otherwise it was just ordinary butter (margarine!). Out of politeness Flo would wait to be offered the plate. Well, she did the first time! Within seconds there was none left. This is when she learned to “stretch or starve!” Such incidents indicated that she would be treated like one of the family and she loved that! Pancakes on Shrove Tuesday were eaten faster than mum could cook them. She used to borrow a griddle from Mrs Clarke for the purpose. I remember marvelling that there existed a special cooker just to make pancakes and I felt envious of the Clarkes who owned such a wonderful machine.

The task most despised by all those present was being sent on Friday evenings to bring dad home from the pub. Mum would worry that too much of the weekly budget would be dissipated on the demon drink. She would become ever more anxious as the minutes ticked by past seven o'clock. By eight, one or more of the older ones would be sent to Barney Hughes to beg him to leave. We had to pretend we hadn't been sent - that we were just passing. Dad was so proud of all of us that he'd insist we show off our abilities to his friends. “Say something in French ... in Irish... read from the newspaper.. sing a song!” etc.

When we were old enough to babysit mum and dad would go out at the weekend to the cinema. Sometimes the eldest two, Patricia and Mary, would play in the living room with the child's pram. One would climb inside while the other pushed it, careering dangerously around the room. Once it couped and Mary gut stuck fast in the hood. We usually behaved better than this, wanting to impress mum on her return. We would work hard cleaning and polishing. The lino came in for special attention. Mansion polish would be spread. Then old cardigans with the buttons removed (they would cause scratching) were tied to our feet and we'd slide and glide across the floors until the lino was gleaming.

One night Mary and Patricia collided at speed. Mary was almost knocked unconscious! - The red lino in the front hallway got special attention. (At this point Bernadette complained that she'd be imprisoned in a cupboard by Patricia until it was all over. “That's because you were a nuisance”, retorted the latter!) Mum would be suitably impressed on returning. They always had a bag of chips for us. Then dad would tell us the whole story of the film. For us, this was as good as being there! Later of course, the older girls saw the opportunity to profit from our parents' trip to the cinema. Rita or Bernadette would be placed in charge and the older girls would slip out to see their friends or boyfriends! Patricia was the oldest and supposedly the most reliable of us. This was not always so.

Once when Eugene was the baby and crying on mum's bed, she bounced up and down on the mattress to soothe him. He fell head first to the floor! He was three months old. “Mummy, I think I killed the child”, she said. Years later Eugene fell backwards into the living room window, breaking it. Joe Patterson, a polio victim, next-door neighbour and friend had to hasten into our house to his aid. For some reason or other there were no parents or “big ones” in the house at the time! - But Joe, for all his incapacity, was ever willing to help. Mum remembers him lying at full stretch on his side [he was paralyzed down one side and walked with the aid of a crutch!] feeding a shilling piece into the gas meter slot beneath our stairs, to make tea for the children he was minding. - When he was seven Eugene fell from a kitchen chair and broke his arm. Luckily since he has reached adulthood he manages to stay mostly upright in waking hours!

We learned some swear words on the street but we dared not repeat any within our parents' earshot! However we were not always well informed as to which words were unrepeatable. Rita was brought by mum to a shop in Hill Street to purchase her new Holy Communion dress. My mother, as usual, asked for discount but the shop assistant refused. Rita told mum quite descriptively what she thought of this woman's meanness. Rita was the only one to suffer! Bernadette, hearing this tale, was less than sympathetic. “At least you got your own dress. I had to take your hand-me-down!”

Dad was not satisfied just with his hard day's labouring. He was ever on the lookout for a second job that would earn him a few bob. In the fifties he acted as night watchman at the construction of the aluminium bungalows at Clanrye Avenue. Mum was scared lest he get attacked. This was also the period when the IRA was exploding bombs in the town - their favourite target being electricity pylons. The one behind Monaghan Street (where Granny's pig-pen used to stand) was blown up around this time. We remember seeing the night sky above the town light up with blue lights and flashes! There was a curfew then too. Some of us must have stayed overnight in Dolly's during one curfew. We know this because Bernadette, John and Mary (with Ann Lawson) remember hanging out the upstairs window shouting down to the policemen on the darkened street below! We were chased, and chastised by Dolly. Ann Lawson visited us regularly then. Her mother was a Sheridan from South Armagh, as was Jack McKeown's wife Mary, our granny - but this was, according to mum, a different Sheridan family. Ann's parents came to Ireland and stayed in Granny's in Monaghan Street because her mother and Bridget Loy were old friends from Ummerinvore - so my mother believes. In any case I have been unable to relate Ann's mum Peggy Sheridan to the rest of our Sheridan family tree. Ann's father was English. She taught us how to play “jacks”.

Dad came home drunk once and told Bridie McConville, who was standing outside our house, how beautiful he thought she was. Bridie was the same age as his eldest daughter. All the girls were mortified and tried to drag him into the house before they could suffer further embarrassment.

Sonny had a small vegetable patch in the back garden of which he was very proud. He grew lettuce, cabbage, carrots, beetroot and the like. All these were thriving when one day grandad Jack McKeown came to visit. Dad showed them off proudly.

“For God's sake!” said Jack. “I'd dig that before my breakfast!”

From the garden mum would occasionally pull some beetroot and boil them for dinner. We enjoyed them. Later in married life, Patricia tried to emulate her. Patricia didn't know not to prick the beet before boiling. In fact she peeled them. What she got as a result was definitely inedible!

Dad had a very poor memory for people's names. He'd meet someone on the street, say hello, and remember their name two hundred yards later. John said he is the very same.

When our parents finally could afford to buy a radio we were thrilled. Now we could keep in touch with the latest in music! Only it didn't really work out that way! Dad was obsessed with the news. When one broadcast ended another began on a different station. But we always got to hear our favourite programme, the Top Twenty of the week on Radio Luxembourg from 11-12 on a Sunday night. When that old radio finally failed it was gutted and its cabinet used to store books. It would have been valuable had it been kept.

Mary said she used to have a lock of dad's hair but she has lost it. She still has a lock of Caroline's, as a child. Mary still has letters the younger ones wrote to her years ago. When she was on holiday in Kilkeel, she said, she sent a letter to mum, enclosing a stump of a pencil for mum to use in her reply. She was afraid mum wouldn't answer because she couldn't find a pencil!

The girls recalled long summers playing in Woods' fields, or the paupers' graveyard or Sandy's fields. There was a stream ran through the latter and Anthony Russell, who was a teacher in Newry Technical College and lived close to us on Slieve Gullion Road, would build a dam of stones across it and teach the Meadow children to swim. He was much admired and liked for this kindness. Street games for the girls included skipping, with street songs and rhymes, hopscotch and rounders: for the boys, “caddy”, conkers, marbles, making buggies and catapults, and “Tig around the Block”.

Mary remembers meeting dad on his way home from work on Fridays. Perhaps we were sent to waylay him from Barney Hughes' or Mallon's, next door to Doyle's. Mum would cajole her eldest daughters to beseech dad to come straight home. He had a beret on his bike-saddle to make the seat softer. His coat would be tied by a piece of string to the bike. He'd walk with his children, pushing the bike. His pride would shine out. (My friend Maria Mooney (Fearon) remembers this too.) We had our own ulterior motive. This was when we'd get our “pay”: 3d for a “wee one”: 6d for a “big one”. “Buy some jujubes for yourself!” he'd say.

Dad looked up to his brother Frank, as most people did. Paddy Vickers was more down-to-earth. They'd be out for a drink and Frank would expound one of his theories.

“Come back down here, to this stuff we're standing on!” said Paddy.

Sonny on the other hand was impressed by Frank's knowledge. Frank liked to learn too. Mary recalls that he asked her all she knew as a nurse about coronary thrombosis. Some time later she heard him repeat his new knowledge to an acquaintance, word for word (without attributing his source!).

We all had enormous pride in and respect for Uncle Frank. Mum and dad were the same. He inspired confidence and respect. In fact, he exuded these qualities. But we all loved him. He was a great character. He also loved and cared for us. We think he recognized our intellectual ability. Frank liked anyone who could understand him, for he loved to talk and show off his own knowledge. He had great pride in his appearance and his position. He would rarely, if ever, be seen out of uniform. This was very impressive, to adults as well as children, with gold braid and badges and a peaked cap. When we saw him, we knew we were somebody, to have an uncle like that! Frank's death, in 1987, of senile dementia, was sad and unbecoming to the man he was. Still, in his latter years, he came more and more to look like dad. This was uncanny and quite disturbing to us who had lost our beloved dad a quarter of a century before. Speaking of Frank, for all of us, Mary said, “He was a gorgeous man. I think we were all a little bit in love with him!”

We were all grateful for our parents' attention to our education. Mum's dedication to learning was especially committed. We noted that even eight decades after her own schooling ended - at the early age of twelve or so, she could recite from memory some of the poems she learned so long ago at Annamar School. This was one of her favourites:

A Noble Boy - Somebody's Mother

By Mary Dow Brine, 1878

The woman was old and feeble and grey, And bent with the chill of the winter's day, The street was wet with the recent snow, And the woman's feet were weary and slow, She stood at the crossing and waited long, Alone, uncared for, amid the throng, Down the street with laughter and shout, Glad in the freedom of 'school let out' Came the boys, like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow, piled white and deep. Past the woman, so old and grey, Hastened the children on their way, Nor offered a helping hand to her, So meek, so timid, afraid to stir. At last came one of the merry troop The gayest boy of all the group; He paused beside her and whispered low, 'I'll help you across if you wish to go' He guided the trembling feet along, Proud that his own were firm and strong, Then back again to his friends he went, His young heart happy and well content, 'She is somebody's mother boys you know, Although she is old and poor and slow, And I hope some fellow will lend a hand, To help my mother - you understand If e'er she be poor and old and grey, When her own dear boy is far away. And 'somebody's mother' bowed low her head, In her home that night and the prayer she said, Was 'God be kind to the noble boy, Who is somebody's son and pride and joy'.

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It was at Christmas 1961 that our parents first could afford to buy us a record player. Before that we leaned out of our windows to hear the neighbours' children play their new records at full volume. They were happy to oblige us since they were just showing off! A new single would be played with the record arm up: this meant it automatically restarted each time! It took up to ten consecutive plays before any of us tired of Elvis' latest release!

There were six teenagers at home and we were all mad about the new pop music. John especially. He'd finish his job quickly - scrubbing the concrete covered back hall - so that he could race to town for the New Musical Express. He knew every word of every song in the charts.

Our first twenty singles which were bought with the record player included Eden Kane (Well I Ask You), Brenda Lee (As Usual), Le Roy Van Dyke (Walk On By) Bobby Darin (La Mer) and most of the current Top Twenty. John remembers feeling cheated because Bing Crosby's White Christmas was included and two Christmas singles by Harry Belafonte (one of which was Mary's Boy Child). These were our parent's choice and seemed dull to us. Later we recognized they were probably the best of the bunch!

By then the older girls were attending ceilis and courting. Patricia had met Eddie Sherry. Mary was going out with Patsy Mooney. Patricia was training as a nurse at Belfast City Hospital: Mary was still a GNA (general nursing assistant) at Daisy Hill. Rita was starting as a librarian at Newry Library.

On the night of 1 June 1962 Mary and Patsy attended Camlough Carnival. Rita went also, but in a van with Anne Carragher and some others. Patricia was working in Belfast. Bernadette stayed at home with dad to mind the children. Mum was making one of her very infrequent visits to her parents at Sheetrim. Probably one or other was unwell and mum was needed. Bernadette was glad of the chance to have dad to herself for a chat about her future. On that night he advised that she aim to become a teacher (at the time of writing, Bernadette is a school Vice Principal).

Dad spent the day cutting the grass. At one point we felt unwell and rested on the low wall. He recovered and went to town for a few drinks for an hour. During that day, Mary had used some of her pay to buy a new record for the house. It was Brian Hyland's Ginny Come Lately. We all loved it and played it over and over. Dad sat on the back windowsill of the living room listening also. He liked it too.

John remembers also being pleased that dad showed him how to do the pools, and that dad shared his love for a particular record of that time: it was Kenny Ball's Midnight in Moscow.

Earlier one of the children had broken a pot of jam. In those days of stringency, dad tried to recover some of the jam before throwing out the rest. We all retired fairly early.

Bernadette remembers dad coming into her room in pain and rubbing his chest. He thought he had swallowed a piece of glass from the broken jam pot. Bernadette rubbed his chest for him and was surprised to notice he had some fat there. Dad had always been slim but he had put on weight since the Christmas before. The symptoms continued. Dad kept walking around, restless. Bernadette wanted some of the older ones to return, to share the responsibility.

Rita was escorted from the carnival by a lad called Smilie of Kilcoo. They couldn't find the van so she travelled with him and his companions. There were ten in the car! She was left off at the bottom of the Meadow Road. When she reached the house, Mary and Patsy had already arrived home. They tried to ring the doctor from the phone-box facing Donaghys. There was no answer. Bernadette, Mary and Patsy walked to Corry Square to try to rouse Dr McAteer. Eventually he leaned out of his upstairs window and refused to help. Mary begged, “Please, please come!” They crossed the road to the police station. A policeman tried to alert another doctor. Bernadette remembers him asking kindly and with concern about dad and that he said that putting on weight was a bad sign. He seemed to know a little about coronary conditions.

Doctor Rafferty wrote a hospital admittance letter and left. Mary opened it and called Rita into the toilet to share the bad news with her. It was a coronary attack. Mary decided not to wait for the ambulance but to take dad to hospital in Patsy's car. Dad had to go downstairs without the aid of a stretcher. Before he did he walked from room to room, looking at the sleeping children. He seemed to know he was dying for he had broken out in a cold sweat. “Who's going to look after all my wee children?” he repeated, over and over.

Bernadette remembers he called John to talk to him before he left the house. She listened. “You're the man of the house now, John. You have to look after all of these children.” John remembers mum repeating similar words a few days later. It was a very heavy responsibility for a fourteen year old to carry. John was very small and pale then and the girls always felt they had to protect him. In the hospital Mary remembers seeing Michael Durkin. The nurse was a woman from Mayobridge called Coulter. Dad was taken to what most people remember as the Old Fever Hospital. Mary knew where to go since she worked in Daisy Hill Hospital then.

It was seven o'clock in the morning when the police knocked us up out of bed. Mary, Rita and Bernadette were all sleeping in our parents' bed. Mary had just awoke from a nightmare in which dad had died.

The police told us that our father was very ill indeed and we'd have to hurry if we wanted to see him. Mary and Rita raced as fast as their legs could carry them up to Daisy Hill. Bernadette woke all the children and made them kneel in the living room and say rosaries till the others would return. When the dreadful news was carried back, she looked at the line of ten youngsters and despaired.

“There is no God!” she cried. “How could a God not hear the cry of these children?”

Of course dad was probably already dead when the police called to our house.

Mum returned from Sheetrim later that morning. She was beyond solace. Sonny had been her life. She was thirty-nine years old, widowed, with fourteen children to rear. The oldest was nineteen, the youngest just weeks old. She could not yet be sure she wasn’t pregnant again. Patricia got home from Belfast about noon.

The whole town of Newry was devastated. We would not know till much later of other people’s reactions. Dad had been working in a house on Courtenay Hill that week. He never worked anywhere except he left a lasting impression. Nine years ago (in 1987) my sister Lucia attended a wake where Cora Keenan recognised her on her looks alone as a child of Sonny’s. Cora has since told me she can never see one of us without thinking fondly of Sonny. She said the women of the street gathered to discuss the news of Sonny’s premature death that morning. Most of them were crying - herself included. He never got to finish the job in her home. In Dromalane, the Gormans report, there was a similar reaction. I suspect the scene was replayed at doorways and street corners all over the town.

Lucia and Michael (10 and 12 years old then) were sent to Murphy Crescent to tell Paddy Vickers. Through a mist of tears, they crossed the green, crossed the loanans to Derrybeg Drive and Killeavey Road and then to Murphy Crescent via the Brickey Loanan. Paddy was woken by Bridie with the awful news. My sister Lucia’s 11+ results arrived that morning. No one bothered to inquire. Some months later my mother paid for her to go to Our Lady’s Grammar School. This is mentioned just to show how much mum and dad thought of education.

Most well-to-do middle class parents would not have bothered. Later mum did the same for Eugene at St Colman’s College. When John turned seventeen, mum paid for a driving lesson course (20 lessons + first time failure of the test!) although there was to be no car in the family for many years to come. No sacrifice was too great where her children’s education was concerned.

Dad’s funeral was the largest the Meadow had ever seen. Tears flowed freely. It was especially hard to pass 43 Monaghan Street where he had been born and lived out most of his short life. No one could imagine how his young widow could cope with her terrible burden. But she did - with pride and distinction. Sonny had instilled his values in his children. They would not let him down.

We all found it hard to forgive Dr Seamus McAteer. It’s clear he too had difficulty later living with his decision. Sonny had been on Dr Rafferty’s books although McAteer had been doctor to mum and all the children. He came out later and abjectly apologised and asked could he help in any way. “Not now!” answered mum. Years later he brought a present for Michael who had to take Cod Liver Oil with Malt when he caught whooping cough. It was a football.

Forgiveness is our Christian duty. Perhaps his early intervention that night would have made no difference. Yet had Sonny survived he would be just in his early eighties today and all his children, his grandchildren and his great grandchildren would have known the wonderful man he was. He was fifty years and four months old when he died. Even thirty-four years later, these memories were traumatic for us to relate.

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In mitigation, and in tribute to the memory of the late Dr Seamus McAteer, I refer the reader back to the poem “Out of the bag” by Seamus Heaney

So ends my account of my family history.

I trust that someone will take up the challenge and complete the story from 1962 to the present day. Perhaps some determined family member will research even further back in history than I have.

I will be the most avid reader!