Memories of a Sailortown childhood
by
George Eagleson
Childhood Experiences 1 to 11 years
Child experts to day believe that a child’s personality is formed by the age of five years; well I must have been very slow as it is my belief that I was about 11 before I had a fully developed personality. I would like to share with you some of the experiences from my childhood that I believe, for better or worse, formed my personality.
Perhaps I, like many others of my age from Sailortown suffer from the ‘rose tinted glasses syndrome’ when reflecting on my childhood years. All my memories appear to be reasonably happy ones, except when death or illness came knocking on the door, or when drunken brawls that caused hardship within families broke out every now and again. Perhaps I was just lucky.
My father’s job brought him into daily contact with farmers throughout the six counties. As a result of these contacts, food rationing, that was in place during and after the war never made much of an impact on our diet. There were always eggs, milk, butter, sugar, tea and chicken meat in our house. The tea and sugar came from the Free State, smuggled across a yard wide stream that separated my uncle’s farm from Co Monaghan. All these precious food items were shared with my grandparents and members of my mother’s family as well as with some of our neighbours. Coal was not a problem either as there was plenty of turf and logs available on the farm owned by dad’s father in Tyrone. So with a roof over our head, food on the table and a fire in the grate life was bearable. Tragically he died in 1950 when I was eight years of age and my two sisters were much younger.
Taste
One of my earliest experiences was that of taste. I’m sure many of you remember the days of cod liver oil and orange juice, collectable from the health clinic on production of a coupon. I still shudder at the thought of cod liver being spooned into my gob every day, by a mother who kept assuring me that it would do me good. The taste of it was enough to ward off any disease contemplating invading my body space. Thank God my uncle’s greyhounds thrived on it. The orange juice was preferable but only just. The only thing that made the first two liquids acceptable was the table spoon full of malt that followed. Malt extract was a dark brown sticky substance. When the large spoon was inserted into the jar it was extremely difficult to retract it without making an unholy mess. The malt extract had to be wound round and round the spoon, as you stretched the substance to breaking point, once the spoon was in your mouth it was the devil’s own job to "clean the spoon" as people used to say. Another taste I detested from those days was tea made by my granny; it was so strong the spoon almost stood up in it, tea leaves floating around the mug like naval gunboats and laced with sweet tinned milk. You remember it I’m sure, the tin with a black and white cow printed on the wrapper, ugh. I had suffered from diphtheria as a young child and the local natural medicine gurus decided that I should have an egg, every day at noon without fail. Not boiled, fried or scrambled but raw, beat up in a glass with a table spoon full of brandy and a drop of sweet milk. What a disgusting sensation as the liquid slid slowly down you gullet. The slower you drank it the nastier it tasted. There were many of my relatives who would have given their back teeth had they have had any, for a daily drop of brandy, and still consider it, even to this day to have been wasted on me as I later developed a taste for all types of cooked eggs as well as milk, but left the brandy firmly in the bottle.
Fishing, swimming and diving.
My earliest recollection of fishing as a past time came when I was about six. I suppose diving could be incorporated in the same introduction. Where and how was I introduced to these two sports? I remember it well. We had been taken as was the custom in those days by some of the older girls in the street to Queen Mary’s gardens, to watch the tennis and draught players as well as enjoy the, chair swings, swing boats, slides, spiders’ web, maypole, hop scotch and other play themes. It was a brilliant summer’s day and a few of us wandered over to the lower pond to watch grown men sail their model sail boats. Launching them with a hefty shove and then galloping around the edge of the pond to rescue them as the wind filled the small sails and sent them speeding towards disaster, that was the raised concrete edges of the oblong pond. Often we were quicker than the men and enjoyed our moment of ecstasy as we re launched the sail boat much to the annoyance of the sweaty owner. As I sat on the edge of the pond I noticed a boy of about my own age and his mother busily engaged in trying to catch spricks, sticklebacks may be another name for this species. The boy carried a large jam jar complete with a cord fashioned handle and half filled with water, a long bamboo cane with a small white net at the business end attached to a wire hoop that he flashed in and out of the water without any success. This despite the thousands of spricks swimming in the pond. I became involved with the mother and son in their endeavour to put something in the jar other than water. Not having a net I had been attempting to catch the spricks by hand, having the same success as the other boy. In the excitement of the hunt for fish and utter frustration at my inability to land a sprick, all common sense was lost. Not willing to accept failure I spotted a shoal of perhaps several hundred of these spricks, so in best Johnny Weissmuller tradition, (he of Tarzan and Jungle Jim fame) in I went head first. I probably got 10 points for the dive but I still came up empty handed. Lucky for me the pond was only about 2 foot deep other wise I would have been a dead duck never mind dead wet. It’s a long walk home from the Gardens to our street when you are soaking wet and dripping with failure. My mother was enraged when I arrived home in this sodden state, "You could have been drowned in that pond;, it might have been six foot deep instead of only two. Where were was Mary and Greta when this was going on? It’s time you learned to swim" Later that week, I was despatched with the older boys in the street to Peter’s Hill swimming baths to learn how to swim. On paying the admission fee I was handed the standard issue swimming togs, a small red bikini bottom with Belfast Corporation Baths printed on a white waist band that tied at the side and kept the front and back of this garment together. The changing cubicles were situated at the pool side and our clothes were often soaked as swimmers bombed into the water. I must have had a death wish to drown at that time. Straight out of the cubicle, I watched my friends’ bomb into the corner of the pool, grab the railing and climb up the steps. In I jumped, but landed about six yards from the railing and discovered immediately that the pool was very deep for a six year old who could not swim. Lucky for me Henry O’ Prey my mentor was at hand and I had a mop of strong hair, as he grabbed a fist full of it and used it to drag me off the bottom of the pool to the surface.. I think that was the first time I heard the phrase "you stupid B******" but I and understood exactly what it meant. As a matter of self preservation I learnt to swim very quickly after that. Our summer swimming pool then became the jetty used by the Divis for mooring and loading purposes, I’m sure you all know what it loaded, and God only knows what was floating in the sea around that vessel.
Street Games and team work.
Large organisations spend fortunes each year to develop team work within their companies. We, in Sailortown, learnt the value and importance of teamwork and self advancement through simple street games. Many of these demanded teamwork others required one’s individual skills to be honed. Games came in their own season, Peiry and whip, marbles, skipping, rounders, handball, queenie, pussy in the four corners, skipping to the old Belfast street songs. It was while skipping that I learned how to spell that big American river and State, Mrs M, Mrs I, Mrs SSI, go on you can finish it yourself. We must have come from a very poor neighbourhood other kids got a complete bike we only got a spoke less rim and a wire cleek that you propelled and steered the rim with. I remember taking this contraption to the shop when I was sent a message and parking it outside, what would kids of today think about that? These were our self development skill games and were mostly enjoyed from Easter to September. Football was a team game played all year round. These games at times often lasted for hours and usually were played between the street lamp posts. Dock Street was a favourite pitch. Teams could have 12 or 13 a side with players joining or leaving all afternoon. Massive scores were recorded 40 to 38 was usual and matches that had go on for hours usually ended with the cry "next goal the winner". These games were played with passion and commitment. It is a matter of amazement to me that no one suffered a broken leg or some other such injury in any of these matches. A sharp lookout had to be kept for the peelers, who with little else to do took delight in enforcing the law against kids playing football in the street. Once I was arrested and fined five shillings while only watching a game, in court the peeler swore that I was a player. Lamp swinging was another spring and summertime pastime. Heads were split, fingers nipped and the rope cut deep into the flesh around backsides and hips, the lamplighter also had a few choice words to say when he arrived to light the gas lamp.. Card and pitch and toss schools flourished on street corners and on waste ground. We younger kids prospered and loved it when a policeman would appear and "Rip" was shouted, everyone playing scattered often leaving a few pennies behind on the ground as they ran.
Cricket was another summer game that we dabbled in. Three bricks in the middle of the street were the stumps and a hurling stick was as close as we got to having a cricket bat. Fierce arguments raged as to when a batsman was out, simply because we had no umpire and no one knew much about the rules. Games usually ended when the person who owned the hurl went home. Sunday night between six and nine was the favourite time for our winter street games. Rallyo, massy cock, leap frog, kick the can and thunder and lightning. One by one hall doors opened spilling light onto the darkened street and we were called home, the weekend was over.
Bad habits
I started drinking at the age of three in the company of a few cousins, sucking on half pints knocking back bottles of stout as quick as we could get our hands on them. A family party was in full swing in my grandparent’s house in Marine Street at the time, our parents were at the party and we were in the scullery draining the empty Guinness bottles. I had a snug position underneath the jaw box and was the last of the three to be caught. This was the closest I ever got to being drunk. My granda came at us like a Redemptorist missionary priest, breathing fire and brimstone about the evils of drink; it certainly made a lasting impression on me. In later years I remember asking Granda why it was wrong for me to drink when he enjoyed a bottle of stout. He knew immediately what I was referring to and gruffly told me that he didn’t start drinking until he was over 20 and that I had started far to early at three years of age. In those days everyone was your guardian, if an aunt or a neighbour saw you doing wrong they warmed your ear and told your mother, who also warmed your ear when you got home. No questions asked, just a thump as you stepped through the door. The stool pigeon, as we called them was never told "you must be mistaken; my wee Geordie or Mary would never do that". My smoking career started and ended in an hour. My, Aunt Katie caught me smoking, not a cigarette but a cinnamon stick one winters evening and cuffed my ears a couple of times, squashing the smoking weed under her foot. Then as I stepped through the door my ears were cuffed again by my mother, who uttered a word every time she slapped me, "Don’t", slap, "let" slap, "me" slap, hear about or see you smoking again they are bad for your health and will effect your growth. She was an all action, real live anti-smoking advert, yet someone who smoked all her life.. Thank God she didn’t make long speeches or the three puffs on the weed would have been the cause of my death. I tried to explain I was not smoking a cigarette, but this only served to lengthen her anti smoking speech and if nothing else I was a quick learner. I tried playing cards a few times but I never got the buzz from it that my other mates obviously did and quickly lost interest. I found it of more benefit to me to be in the whack with other mates who enjoyed the card games. I could watch the card games or go and do something else. This also developed trust among friends as winnings and losses were reported and always shared equally. There was always the safeguard that within minutes of a card school ending it was widespread knowledge who had won and lost, almost to the exact penny, maybe this safeguard had something to do with honesty.
Entertainment took many forms.
In these early years of my life I was a professional mourner, no matter where in the area a wake was taking place a crowd of us kids would turn up and ask to see the dead person. The fact that we didn’t know the corpse from Adam was neither here nor there. I suppose it was a tradition in the area. When invited in we would approach the coffin like a tidal wave and many times almost knocked the coffin and corpse off the trestles. Then like robots we would drop to our knees mutter a few hurried prayers and exit as quickly as we had entered. If we were offered a sweet on our way out of the wake house, the corpse was assured of another visit from us before he or she was carted off to the chapel.
We were spoiled for choice living almost in the centre of Belfast, most picture houses were within walking distance. The cheapest seats were in the Alhambra, Gaeity, Central, and you sat on wooden benches and the floor was a type of concrete. The Duncairn, Capitol, Troxy and Lyceum had plush seating and carpet on the isles.. The City centre had a multitude of cinemas that we sometimes visited but admittance was much dearer, Regent, Royal Cinema, Imperial, Ritz, Hippodrome and Coliseum. In all the cinemas the film programme changed every three days. Mon – Wed and Thurs – Sat. The City centre plush cinemas usually had queues outside waiting to gain admittance, and street entertainers such as Mc Nabb and others sang and collected money from those waiting for admittance. Often these street entertainers would provide entertainment of a fisticuff nature, if they encroached on each others patch. We went mostly to the Alhambra, Gaiety and Duncairn. My Aunt Maggie and a woman called Mrs Anna Dornan escorted a crowd of children from the half bap and surrounding area to the Alhambra every Monday and Thursday nights and I went with along them. The entertainment from the pit although distressing for some, was at times much better that the actual film. Even in those days there were child molesters about, that was why Maggie and Anna were there. Each child was well briefed as what to do should anything happened. Maggie and Anna were two formidable women who attacked first and sought evidence later. Suddenly in the middle of the film the cry would go up, "Where is the dirty Bastard? Where were you sitting? Point point him out child", all the other local women present would rally like baying hounds to the cry "some dirty oul'man dropped the hand on wee Mary or Jimmy. Justice was instant and painful; the crowd of women would set about the individual like starving cannibals unfed for a week seeing a pot of stew. A large spot light from the projection room would flood the area; everyone would stand on their seats and cheer, as the crap wasbeing beaten out of the dirty oul man. Husbands, who had been enjoying the film and a quiet drink at the cinema bar, lowered their pints menacingly, resting them on the bar and moved outside to administer additional punishment in the lane way beside Woolworth’s when the individual battered and bruised was eventually ejected. The men folk returned sipped their pints and the film continued from where it had been interrupted as if nothing had happened. Some evenings these interruptions would erupt a couple of times, with the same result. Life was never dull in the Alhambra. These molesters frequented other cinemas also, but I don’t think those cinemas had their own rapid reaction force.
Personalities of my early Childhood
My family and relatives all made a big an impact on me helping to develop my personality during my growing years. There were others, too many to mention, but here are a few that come to mind instantly. Jamesie O’ Prey, physically crippled for as long as I knew him but very much the mental leader of the gang, demonstrating to me on many occasions that brute strength was not always necessary, that often there was an alternative way to solve a problem. For dedication Malachy Scott and Jim Robinson would be hard to beat. Sunday after Sunday they spent hours on end at St Josephs. Robbie Hunter Alice Reynolds who swam every day no matter what the weather was like. Sadly I never followed his example. Alice Reynolds a faithful and very supportive neighbour, and guardian and at times my personal spiritual director.. Billy Turner, Maniam Stewart, Leo McGuigan, the Leonard’s and Rita Watters who patiently gave me time to spend my few pennies, as you can see I spent my money locally and also spread it around.. Mary Mayne for the effort she put in working with the young people of the area.
Environment
I enjoyed growing up in Sailortown. At times it was a place of rare beauty.; I still recall the swirling smoke drifting from blackened chimney pots that rested on frosted rooftops, making twirling patterns of black and grey against a weak winter sun, as I made my way to Earl Street School. Social housing is a sought after need for the people of North Belfast today, but in the days of my childhood housing was definitely anti social. Most houses had only one warm room, the kitchen, the other rooms were like ice boxes and the weight of bed blankets increased as winter progressed. I still shiver at the thought of my bare feet touching the cold oilcloth each morning as I tumbled out of bed. Like the Grand old Duke of York, once you were up you were up, no wandering about half dressed in those freezing bedrooms. Going to the yard, no not the shipyard but the WC as late autumn changed to winter, became a quicker and quicker operation. No lingering, no electric light and definitely no fancy quilted quality toilet paper was available, only quality newsprint painstakingly cut into squares. Personal hygiene was taken care of daily in the jaw box or the big tin bath in front of the fire on Saturday night. For extra special occasions the bath in the Seaman’s Institute in Dock Street could be rented. . How I hated it when the lifebuoy soap was finished and sunlight soap had to be used for personal hygiene.. Sunlight was used for household cleaning, washing clothes and floor scrubbing;, often there were little pieces of grit caked in it after a floor was scrubbed. When Sunlight soap had to be used for personal hygiene my mothers order, "Make sure and give your neck and behind your ears a good scrubbing," took on a whole new meaning. Still the year slowly moved along and one by one the mass of quilts and blankets were cast aside signalling that spring had arrived. Growing up in Sailortown was educational. From an early age I had learned to say please and thank you in several languages. This proved very helpful as we kids pestered the foreign seamen for pennies. This was an important lesson for later life, in that to achieve an end, communication with understanding was necessary. Our area provided us with a sense of adventure as we walked through the docks taking tea and sandwiches to fathers, brothers or uncles who loaded and unloaded the ocean going ships. We got the opportunity to watch our relatives and neighbours work with large and small Dockers hooks. We watched in awe as winch men swung heaves of timber high above the ship and dropped them quickly onto the dockside. Over a period of time Francie Quinn a neighbour and seaman took me on tours of the Headline boats he worked on while he and they were in port. From the engine room and ships cargo holds, to the bridge with all the polished brass instruments and steering wheel. Scams were passed on from generation to generation;, mining coal from a moving lorry is one that immediately springs to mind. Collecting waste paper from the many offices, warehouses and factories in the area and selling it to Cooke’s in Nelson Street. Chopping and selling sticks introduced us to the principle of supply and demand economics. The only problem being, we often got our supply and demand cycles mixed up. There were numerous other playgrounds on our doorstep, were the Buttermilk Hills, the Grove and Alexander parks, Queen Mary’s Gardens, the Waterworks, the Zoo at Bellevue, majestic Cave Hill, the first or second shore at Greencastle or Massy point and even the tip head, Alex’s bank and the Divis swimming pool. I’m glad no one had made a decision then that we all lived in a deprived area. Otherwise they might have moved us to one of the new housing estates that were being built around Belfast at the time, such as Ballymurphy or Rathcoole. Just look at what we would have missed.