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An updated selection of new and some old favourites from

local poet Tommy O' Hara.

Price £5-00. An ideal Christmas gift

For further details contact

Sailortown Places & Faces

 

 

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Photo Gallery of the official launch of "Tin Baths and Mangles"

Click on image above for gallery

 

"Tin Baths and Mangles"

Stop Press

"Tin Baths and Mangles"

now available Price £5-00

For details contact

Brendan Sharkie on 028 90293119

or

email Tin Baths and Mangles

Below is a copy from the Preface to the book

The Tin Bath Writers are based in the Sailortown district of Belfast and have been meeting regularly for about four years. Each week members try to submit a piece of written work possibly a short story, a poem or simply a personal reflection on life in general. People are given a theme or topic to muse on but this is usually discarded as the imagination is fired up by a mixture of experience, memory and creativity.

The idea of producing a book of the group’s work had been talked about over the past few years. The difficulty lay not on the creative side but rather on a way to finance the project. Initially, we referred to our collection simply as "the book". One evening we sat together to decide on a title; many were suggested and none of them seemed right. We felt that the title should reflect something of the group itself but also something which gave it a distinctly Belfast flavour. The title Tin Baths and Mangles seemed to come from nowhere but was accepted almost at once, it had a certain resonance to it that took most of us back to childhood. The book consists of a series of short stories and poems that reflect the varied memories and experiences of the members of the group. Some pieces are reflections on real life events while others are purely works of fiction. Although the group is based in Sailortown not all its members come from that district and this is reflected in the book. In general the book is as much a tapestry of Belfast life past and present sprinkled with a number of pieces specifically about the Sailortown district.

Thanks must go to Lily McWilliams our tutor for her ongoing support and encouragement, to her belief in all of our abilities especially on those cold winter evenings above the bar when it would have been so much easier to stay at home in the warmth. A word of thanks must also go to Paul McLaughlin for his diligent editing and proof reading of each contribution.

Gratitude is also due to Sean Baker for the various illustrations dotted throughout the collection. Thanks also to Awards for All who provided the necessary funding to make Tin Baths and Mangles a reality. Not least of all thanks to the members of the writers group who have had the courage to put their thoughts on paper for the public to comment on.

Tin Baths and Mangles is dedicated to the memory of Andy McKinney who died suddenly at the beginning of 2005 and it contains a number of pieces submitted by him. Many thanks Andy for making us all laugh at ourselves and life in general.

And finally ,if you are sitting comfortably you may begin………………….

 

 

                                                                                                               Andy McKinney RIP

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 The following poem was jointly composed by the members of The Tin Bath Writers Group. As such it has no name but has come to be known as the "Group Poem".

 

Where wander now the souls of Sailortown’s lost children,

Now that the tempest has passed.

The salt on my skin tastes of tides and tears

And the sea is calm

Where voices hold me in the stillness of time.

The truth will lead us forward

And the Lord holds me in his palm

As the spire is their welcome and farewell

Where wander now those lost souls of Sailortown?

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In search of magic wands

by

Paul McLaughlin

It was hard to say if this was the first time that Pat had felt a sense of loss.

A real sense of loss that is. Sure enough, dozens of precious marlies had been handed over to opponents, but usually in a fair game of ringsy and, sometimes, even big hurling matches had gone the wrong way. But those things seemed trivial now and, anyway, they were occasions when Pat had felt that he had, at least, tried his best to play his part in the making of those decisions. This time, the result had been taken out of his hands and that really was a first. It would change things forever in the way that only disappointment can.

Albert had come into Pat’s life by accident. He had been allocated to the eager 13-year-old by a staff nurse at Belfast’s City Hospital. No mention of a surname, just: "There’s wee Albert in the corner, young fella, go over and keep him company".

And that is how it had begun. The friendship, almost kinship, between the eighty something pensioner, a former member of the Orange and Black, and the wee Catholic boy from the Christian Brothers’ school; two individuals, separated by culture and age, who had been thrown together by fate.

Pat remembered their first meeting as he sat in the side ward waiting for Sister to attend to him.

He recalled the excitement of joining the Legion of Mary with its local Praesidium and its military style rules and regulations. Everyone at school had said that it was like being in the army with none of the dangers and all of the advantages. One simple task a week to be offered up for the holy souls in Purgatory and full access to the girls at the Sunday night dance in Derryvolgie Avenue. Even the word "Avenue" had sounded exotic and forbidden and, when Pat Drummond from the kitchen house on the big estate, heard that it was situated just off Belfast’s Malone Road, well, he promised to make the most of his new found opportunity.

Tonight, all that enthusiasm had been swept away in a welter of tears.

Everything and everybody else in the ward looked the same. The big clock over the little office door read 8pm, the usual swish of nurses tidied and ministered in their angelic but businesslike manner, even old Trevor, known to everyone as Trench Trevor and who shouted "Keep your heads down, the Huns are comin" about ever ten minutes, was in the best of voice. But things had changed.

Pat kneaded the grapes in the paper bag on his lap, crushing them with a new- found anger. "Bring those into wee Albert", his mother had said: "Tell him they’re the good ones and there’s no pips to worry his false teeth about and to enjoy his Halloween."

"I wonder what she’ll say when she finds out what’s happened", thought Pat; "Some Halloween for the wee man with maybe another operation on its way."

He knew that there had been several during their time together, each one more debilitating than the last.

He waited impatiently and fidgeted with the buttons of his school blazer to pass the time, the kind of frantic fidgeting that drove even his long-suffering father to distraction on Sunday afternoons when the new television in the corner held everyone’s attention. It felt just like the first time he had visited. The nervous small talk with the wee nurse from Strabane whom he could hardly understand but who smelt like the Quickies that mother used to clean her face and had a smile that competed with the fluorescent light in the hall. The trailing of his feet in their weighty Tuff shoes as he was escorted into the main ward and led to the bedside of his new friend.

"Albert, this is Pat, he’s come to read the paper to you. Isn’t that great".

Albert was flat on his back, eyes staring at the ceiling and, even if he could have managed to raise himself up, the heavy cataracts, obvious and evident to all, would have prevented him from seeing more than a shadow of the schoolboy.

"Hello there Albert", Pat had said, a slight trace of that dreaded stammer coming out with his words. "How are you doin"?

The boy had waited for a reply but got only a grunt for his trouble.

"There now, Albert likes you" said Sister: "Sure you’ve made a friend for life."

She turned away about her business and was back to checking the young ones for all the mighty list of things that she said they had not done or had not done properly, while Pat waited for the old man to react.

He didn’t have to wait long.

"What sort of a name’s that? Pat, sure that’s a Fenian name", the old man’s voice was reed-thin but hit the note he wanted as well as any of the woodwind family.

"What are they doin’ sending me a Fenian?"

" I’m only here to read the Ulster for you Albert", said Pat, red in the face and desperate that no-one else should share the embarrassment of their conversation. " And I’m not a Fenian, I’m from the Legion of Mary."

The tinkle of the old man’s laughter echoed through the ward and he rose like Lazarus onto an elbow with a smile as big as a banana.

"Aye, well anyway, sit down and get reading, you can start with the Hatchet Men, how did they do at the weekend?"

Pat sat as he was bid, unfolded the football paper and asked quietly: "Albert, who are the Hatchet Men?"

"My God, they’ve sent me a comedian as well as a Fenian. Crusaders wee lad, Crusaders."

Well, that had been the start and for nearly two seasons, Pat and Albert had shared the trials and tribulations of Irish League football, the highs and lows of his Shore Road favourites and the increasing success of the old man’s beloved Glasgow Rangers.

At first, conversation had been kept to a minimum of course because Albert had explained that he didn’t talk to Fenians as a rule, but would make an exception if they kept to business. But, on more than one occasion, he had asked the boy about his schoolwork and told him to "Work hard now and you won’t have to afterwards".

Even Sister had said that two more unlikely pals she had never met.

The first Christmas, the boy had brought chocolates and a greetings card while the old man had given him a prayer tract presented to him by the hospital’s Baptist Chaplin. Pat had felt hard done by, but his mother and father had said that "the oul so and so was mellowing, if only a wee bit".

"Within the past few weeks", thought Pat: "We’d talked about all sorts of things. How the Prods had saved us all from the Kaiser, how all Prods were round shouldered from carrying Fenians on their backs for so long and how Pat had better get good grades if he wanted to make something of himself.

He remembered the long talk about Miriam, given in disjointed sentences with long pauses between some words and the rolling thunder of others as they rattled from wrinkled lips. Miriam the daughter who had played wee houses in the front garden of York Crescent. How she had laid out kidney pavers as the four corners of her home and commandeered the sweeping brush for hours on end, tending the tufts of unruly grass more gently than a Royal Avenue hairdresser. A handful of jeweled, broken glass was her dowry, he said: And the chipped remains of a wedding tea-set the fortune of babby dishes that would see her into adulthood.

Miriam had come into this world as her mother had left, with squeals and pain and the breath of torment echoing through the first and last breaths of mother and child. But Albert never mentioned Mother again. Only Miriam. Miriam who had collected the Sunday School best attendance prize at Jennymount Church, Miriam with the dark, dolly-like eyes that opened and closed in time with the music of her voice. Miriam, the child of adversity, who promised so much after so much sorrow, the wee cratur who clip-clopped across the kitchen floor in high heels four sizes too big to hand over the weakest tea in Christendom.

Pat heard the stories many times and smiled with deference at the hearing, as he had been taught at home, often with the tawse, stifling a yawn into a hankie on other occasions as if his own mother had been watching scoldingly from the bed-end. But he had listened and an ear for a lonely voice is often the best medicine.

" Miriam died", said Albert one night matter-of-factly: "Died swinging on the lamp. Hit her wee head. Even the bruise on her temple looked like a wee beauty spot when they laid her out in the Co-op parlour." Pat noticed the glaze of fluid over the old man’s cataracts but the voice held firm.

"Probably for the best," said Albert: "Nothing good ever lasts in this world".

Pat had stayed silent and waited for the old man to continue. But he changed tack so quickly that any embarrassment was swallowed by talk of his beloved football.

" There’s no men in the game anymore," he said; "Not like my day. There’s too man Ginnyannes running about. Don’t’ know whether they’re blew up or stuffed, the half of them. ‘Cept for Geordie Best a course."

Pat had laughed as his hero brought them together, as he always did. The twinkle-toed dribbler from the Cregagh Estate always managed to help them to body-swerve ‘round any differences they might have had.

" I only saw the wee man once before my oul lamps went," said Albert; " But I’m tellin’ ye Patrick, he has feet like magic wands."

They had both stared into the distance, one sightless, the other a boy guiding a man down a well-walked road and any separation was a paper wall that disappeared in laughter and exaggeration. They were Bremner and Giles and Law and Best and understanding refereed their differences.

Tonight, all that counted for nothing as the boy’s concern made even the good grapes taste sour. Less than ten minutes previously, Pat had seen Joey, Albert’s canary, being pushed to the side of Trench Trevor’s bed and not a word of explanation.

"Just sit in there and I’ll be with you in a minute", said Sister to him as she swept off like a civilian nun to raise hell in another part of the ward.

Pat’s patience broke after more than half an hour and he went to speak to the canary. "Hello Joey, Hello wee man, where’s Albert tonight then?"

"He’s dead wee lad and keep you head down, the Huns are comin’". It was Trench Trevor, who hadn’t uttered a word of sense on one single Wednesday night in nearly two years, who shouted in his loudest ARP voice.

Pat turned from the cot, with its bars pulled high, and left bird and man caged and silent. He spoke to Sister as she sailed past with an armful of bedpans.

"Oh, sorry about all this, young man", she said curtly: "Albert was buried on Monday, but you can always read to one of the others."

Pat left the hospital in a daze and resigned from the Legion of Mary the following week, without explanation. The Holy Souls would have to fend for themselves and, anyway, he had clicked at his first dance in the downtown Plaza.

But Pat had learned a bit about Prods and Fenians over the previous two years, he’d accumulated a fair amount about the Hatchet Men and, as he would realize much later, more than a little about the intricacies of human nature.

© Paul McLaughlin 2003

 

 

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A Southern Fantasy

by

George Eagleson

The River Lagan was quiet here, reflecting the dazzling façade of the large, white house on the far bank. There were huge windows; a balcony all the way round at the top that led to a conservatory. An air of grandeur hung around the house. I found myself intrigued about the history of the place – who lived there and why? Slowly, step by step, I made my way along the bank to a rickety foot-bridge and crossed to the opposite side where my imagination began to run riot.

The house seemed to assume the appearance of an antebellum mansion of the type that was fairly common in the deep south of the United States prior to the Civil War.. I always had a passionate interest in that period of American history.

As I stepped off the footbridge, onto what was actually Co Down, in my fantasy I had stepped back in time and into the state of Georgia. I glanced furtively around, half expecting to see the beautiful Scarlet O’Hara or the handsome Rhett Butler walking in the grounds or conversing on the porch.

The sound of swishing water and raised voices caused me to turn around and witness yet another marvellous transformation; the Queen’s University boat, manned by its crew of eight, grew in size and changed in shape to become the "Mississippi Queen" – a huge paddle steamer. Smoke curled from its twin funnels and gigantic paddle wheels chugged rhythmically while a Dixieland Band blared out its music from the top deck.

All became quiet and from the fields at the back of the house came the faint sound of singing. I hastened in that direction and beheld an amazing scene. The waving corn vanished slowly from my gaze and gave way to fields of cotton. Gangs of Negro slaves moved up and down the rows of cotton plants, filling their huge sacks with the white blossoms while humming what I would describe as "plantation songs".

"God help them", I said to myself; "They haven’t much to sing about – torn from their native land and brought to this alien environment, to be bought and sold like animals. They work out their lives for absolutely no reward but merely to profit the owner of the mansion I’m looking at while they exist in hovels".

I decided to seek out the owner of the house but I had no need to knock on the door. One of the sturdy entrance doors was lying off its hinges. I stepped

inside to a scene of utter neglect. The stench of dampness and decay assailed my nostrils. A rat scuttled from under my feet. I climbed what must have been an ornate staircase, but which now was crumbling into ruin. I looked out of the windows and scanned the surroundings. I imagined well-manicured lawns later devastated by blue-clad Union troops battling for supremacy with grey uniformed Confederates. I made a slow and hazardous descent of the rotten staircase.

The depressing sight of empty beer cans strewn around and vulgar graffiti scrawled on the walls was slowly bringing me back to reality and the 21^st Century.

As I retraced my steps to the footbridge, I could swear I hear the sound of trumpets and cannon fire from the opposing armies. I crossed over the bridge and, in a moment, I left the state of Georgia, 1864, and was back in Co Antrim and year 2003 AD.

I looked once more across the river to the deserted house – nothing stirred, everyone, everything gone – Gone with the Wind.

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A little bit of Paradise

by

Sean Baker

Looking back over the years I’ve done a bit of travelling from the Mediterranean to the Great Lakes all over Britain but most of all Ireland and that my friends is where my heart lies in the land of Saints and Scholars, fairies and leprechauns of myths and legends nowhere in this world compares with it. It might seem to you that I am a bit of a romantic well I make no apologies for the way I feel. The yanks have their Statue of Liberty the French their Eiffel tower others include the Great Pyramids, Coral Reef, the Great Wall and many more but we have our stories and songs handed down through the centuries that not even the British could destroy no matter how they tried. The thing that will eventually destroy it will be ourselves through progress, which was the curse of most civilizations.

Leaving Belfast to live else where was a culture shock to me as this was my city and Sailortown my home or what was left of it I have to admit it tears were streaming down my face but what could I do circumstances dictated where I was to live. Crossing the border my first stop, was Dundalk, not a very pleasant town, I have to admit. So I didn’t linger to long after a couple of weeks I packed my bags and headed further south to Maynooth not too bad a place, people were easy going it was a market town as well as a college town for priests. You were made to feel at home here even collecting your dole at the local Garda station. But it wasn’t for me too many shifty looking characters in black suits running the place- Irelands own Mafia as I call them.

So I made a few phone calls back home and was informed of a job going on a ferry in Cork. Great I thought so my brother sent me the money for a haircut and fare down but to save money for a few pints I cut my own hair god what a sight. I also decided to go by shanks mare. I eventually got a lift- that’s a story on its own but for another time. Reaching Cork that evening I got out of the car thanked the driver took a good look around me and little did I know it was to be my home for the next twenty years. I intend to put pen to paper someday and tell of my life with the rednecks no but honestly they were great people and great times with a lot of hardship and also many happy memories.

Cork was a smashing place, especially West Cork, the wildness of this beautiful place always reminded me of the Glens of Antrim. Alas though the great tentacles of modern life is stretching out even here to spoil the way of life that the story tellers, poets and artists all loved. So take my advice go see it now before its all gone. Believe it or not, but one of my favorite places was not five minutes walk from where I lived in the city. I’d go out my front door and at the bottom of the street was the beginning of the Boreen. That’s what the locals called a pathway through the countryside. There were thousands of them criss-crossing the county, you could walk for miles without seeing any signs of civilization only the odd farmer and his tractor to interrupt your day dreaming. Once you cleared the pools of water and the razor sharp brambles you were in another world, the path was bordered on both sides with hedgerows of blackberries, sweet smelling woodbine and wild rose bushes; the aroma was overpowering especially on a hot summers day. September was my favourite month the colors of the fauna was glorious, red, orange deep purple mingling with the evergreens; the steam rising from the pools of rain water left there by the early morning downpour; the scent of the rotting leaves mixed with the manure spread on the fields. I just close my eyes and wish myself back there.

Well off I’d ramble down the boreen in no great hurry with my fishing tackle on my back accompanied by my two trusted companions Patch and Snowy, two little Jack Russells I brought everywhere with me. Snowy who died giving birth to her first litter and Patch who was stolen. Carrying my stout blackthorn one that I was very proud of as I picked it out myself. You see that’s how the locals got them they had their own secret little woods where they would mark out a couple of branches and check them every year until they were right for harvesting and God help anyone caught interfering with them- a serious business stealing some one else’s Blackthorn. Ambling on down you’d come to a break in the hedgerow where a wall would be built. It still mystifies me how they were able to do that as every stone seemed to fit like a glove and believe me its not easy I’ve tied it clambering over a wall knocking a stone loose and puzzling how it fitted back in place again. I’d rest here awhile take out my tobacco and roll one and let the dogs chase the rabbits around the field in and out of the cows legs with not a hope in hell of catching one but they enjoyed it as did I. Two sharp whistles and they knew it was time to move on chasing each other up and down the path while I’d pick a few blackberries to put in the bag throwing a couple to them which they sniffed and then turned up their noses at- they were too well looked after no wonder they couldn’t catch anything. On down a bit, a sight that also baffled me was two unused graveyards. The first was catholic, and as you know by the state of Milltown, it was a jungle but the difference in the Jewish cemetery was spectacular even though it hadn’t been used in years. It was immaculate; we pride ourselves on our Christian morals but when it comes to our dead the rest of the world show us up. Coming to an old ruined church, when you were on your own, you seemed to walk that little bit faster to pass, it gave you a few goose pimples, that old Irish imagination running wild again cursing your granny for all those ghost stories she told you.

Half a mile further on the woods came into view this was another resting place where among the fallen trees there was a little spring where people left jam jars hidden under the rocks so you could quench your thirst and rest for awhile. Taking the jar from under the rock I’d down two of them- the water was beautiful almost as good as a pint of Guinness, Taking out the blackberries washing them under the spring then popping a few at a time into my mouth juicy and fresh the way mother nature intended them to be. Lying back with my hands behind my head, listening to the sounds of the birds chirping in the trees, the odd screech of a pheasant and the rabbits darting about and making the dogs bark at every noise. Patch and Snowy didn’t like the woods too much ;I could tell that by the way they’d stick close to me and any strange sound got them scampering beneath my legs. Lighting up another roll thinking how lucky I was the peace and quiet with the smell of the countryside something which was totally alien to me coming from the dockside of Belfast and with thoughts of this is where I’d like to live out my life but that’s all it was wishful thinking.

Rising to my feet, and sauntering on, the next place you’d pass was the orchard knowing that on your way back you’d fill a bag up, It wasn’t stealing as this was one that was abandoned years ago but the trees still gave an abundant harvest and the fruit was beautiful no taste of herbicide from this forgotten orchard. Just before you came out of woods and through the gate the smell of freshly mown grass would waft up from below and the sight of the first bit of modern man came into view- an exclusive old peoples home set in magnificent scenery with a chapel at the end of it with the local young curate doing his daily chores. Then looking over the small winding road you’d get your first sight of the beautiful river Lee which is where I’d spend hours fishing and relaxing with no one to pester you only another angler telling you about the one that got away.

Casting my line out and throwing a few sticks for the dogs to retrieve then I’d pick the wild mushrooms that grew here, as they were a bit hard to locate in the dark on your way home.

Sitting there taking in the splendid settings looking back up the hill there it set. St Anne’s, the home for the mentally impaired, an awesome building rumoured to be one of the longest structures of its kind in Europe. Only part of it was used now and lately I heard speculators were interested in it for to turn it into a hotel with a golf course I hope they don’t succeed, but knowing the corruption of the local politicians, I doubt it. Then casting my eyes further along there was a beautiful Grotto set into the hillside with the stations of the cross stretching along the road for half a mile- what a magnificent sight. Finishing of I’d gather up my gear and start to head back home slower this time as it was all up hill and with a couple of trout in my bag along with the mushrooms and berries also the apples to carry and not getting any younger the old legs just weren’t what they used to be.

Well the day came, and as the song goes "I’ve been away now for too many years", it was time to come back home, to my roots back to Belfast or rather Sailortown. For you see it never left me its was always in my heart but what I saw when I got home devastated me. They completely destroyed my birth place and even now are trying to obliterate its very existence and call it by something they dreamed up themselves- LAGANSIDE- it sticks in my throat even uttering the word but no matter what they do it will always be Sailortown to me

 

Sean Baker

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The Fairy Child.

by

Paul McLaughlin

 

 

The shadow of the priest fell across the woman’s face as he stood with his back against the light of the bedside lamp. She mumbled her prayers, fiddling with her Rosary like comfort beads, waiting for his final word.

“ Dear woman, you must be very brave,” he said softly, breaking her litany into a thousand useless pieces.

“ The good Lord knows more than we. His choice we must accept.”

The woman buried her head in a veil of fingers and wept.    

 

The month of September burst upon the streets of Belfast that year

with an unexpected heat wave. It cooked the pavements and drew fierce reflections from the narrow windows of the terraced houses. The sun was as sharp and angular as the patience of a population that had waited patiently for the three months of summer that never came. Day after day, rain had washed away the children’s July and August holidays with mornings and afternoons that were cooped up in tiny kitchens.

Mothers had prayed for sunshine or school, whichever came first would be a holy relief. Now, the oul one’s were saying that the end of the world was coming with the Devil’s sunshine.

Paddy Cohan laughed at them in the corner shop as he bought ten woodbines on the way home from work, but his wife repeated their warnings over supper.

“ I tell you Paddy, it’s not natural to have this weather at this time of year,” she said: “ Even Father McSweeney says there’s a badness in the streets.”

“ Ach woman, that man sees a badness in ceidhle dancing for heaven’s sake, sure he won’t let the youngsters look out of their eyes. He should be stoppin’ all this superstition, not encouragin’ it”.

And with that, Paddy had undone his shirt stud and got down to his ribs and cabbage. Rene touched the Sacred Heart picture gently with her wedding finger and asked him to forgive all that he had heard in the house.

  

The front door knocked with a rat a tat tat and Rene rushed to answer.

“ Ribbons, missus, lovely ribbons, sure you’ll buy some of my lovely ribbons?

A gypsy woman, small and hunched beneath a plaid shawl, stood on the half moon and continued with her selling song before Rene could speak.

“ Every colour of the rainbow missus and cheap as bejasus, only a couple of coppers a piece.”

Rene blushed at the use of Our Lord’s name and spoke firmly: “ Get off with you from my door with your swearin’ and cursin’ and take your ribbons with you.”

She made to shut the door but the gypsy’s foot blocked the threshold.

“ Come on missus, give an old woman a penny and I’ll bless your unborn child.”

Rene, her forearms strong from the wringing out of blankets, pushed the gypsy hard and slammed the door in her face. She turned toward the kitchen table as the letterbox, opening with a clang, spilled in an abuse of words.

“ The Devil take your baby and your happiest day.”

The letterbox clanged shut and Rene fainted by the hearth.

 Paddy Cohan lifted his wife onto the single bed in the return room and comforted her in his own gentle and awkward way.

“There you are girl, a nice wee cup of tea and a lie down and you’ll feel as right as rain. And if that oul one comes back, I’ll loose me toe in her arse.”

Rene laughed out loud and called him a vulgar man but her tight hold on his hand never wavered.

Baby Patrick was born in March of the following year, when the heat from Hell had long abated and a late snow had given St Patrick a white head.

The boy was called after his patron and his father and, because of his sickly disposition, joined the family of the parish only four days after his birth.

“ He’s terrible delicate, wee Patrick,” moaned Mrs McAteer from next door as she picked up the clutch of toys she had hidden from her brood in the Cohan’s house.

“ I tell you Rene, you should have him touched with the relic, it done wonders for our Lizzie.”

Sure enough, thought Rene: Lizzie McAteer had been as fragile as any baby she had seen and now here she was, over nine year old and swinging on the lamp with the best of them.

“ Your right, Agnes. I’ll speak to Father McSweeney after Mass on Christmas morning. Sometimes, a blessing is the best medicine there is and heaven knows Doctor Campbell’s at his wits’ end.”

Both women went back to their baking and boiling and plucking and stuffing in their respective homes, where children were abed early as the last hours of Christmas Eve scurried past.

Rene rose as aunt Sarah’s Westminster clock chimed six in the kitchen, raked the ashes from the fire and set the kettle on the gas to boil.

Paddy was at her side within a couple of minutes and she thought well of the man.

“ Most men are lying in their beds and waiting for breakfast to be served,” she thought, “But not my Paddy. We’re like two shires in the same harness and she laughed to herself at the image as she watched her husband, thin as a ramrod, cover his long, thin face with shaving soap.

“ Look at me, Rene,” he shouted all over the scullery: “Get the youngsters up till they see the fine, white beard I have on me,” and he wrapped a red, checked tea towel round his head for a hood.

“ Tell them St Nicholas is staying for his tay.”

But Rene heard only the faint cries of baby Patrick from the return room

and rushed to the cot side, spoon in hand and gripe water bottle in the pocket of her pinny.

She lifted him gently into her arms and whispered a lullaby as she waltzed him to the fireside.

“ Husha, husha, Paddy my son,” she sang softly: “ This is the day that Jesus is born”. But the child would not be pacified and the crying reached a terrifying pitch as the baby’s pale, blue eyes reddened and shrank into pinholes of pain. His breathing caught and stuttered in the little throat

in gasps that peppered his screams.

“Paddy, Paddy, dear God get the doctor,” but Rene’s words were her last spoken on that Christmas Day.

The fine, embroidered, high necked, white blouse was washed and pressed by the nuns from the local convent and returned five days after funeral.

Doctor Campbell’s death certificate told how the child had died of a severe cerebral haemorrhage and the neighbours had ringed the house with a halo of help when it was most needed.

Rene stayed in bed under doctor’s orders when her baby was taken to a snow covered Milltown cemetery. She would not visit the grave until she was stronger. She cried as the clock chimed ten o’clock that morning, saying the requiem prayers into herself and remembering

Father McSweeney’s words: “ Dear woman, you must be very brave. Heaven is the only home for a fairy child.”

   

RECYCLING

by

Tommy O'Hara

 

All this recycling lark is nonsense

As my old granny used to say

We had our own refuse collector

And umpteen ragmen in our day

Even pubs washed out their bottles

Filled and sealed them up with cork

And the grub was much much nicer then

Sure I can nearly taste the pork

 

Every ragman had his handcart

That he pushed from street to street

Any rags or any woollens

He’d shout to anyone he’d meet

You always got a gift from him

A cup and saucer in those days

Nearly always you would find them cracked

Don’t worry son it’s just the glaze

 

Nothing was discarded then

Even newspapers were reusable

If you hadn’t got a tablecloth

They could cover up the table

Even if your fire burnt out

Then with paper you’d relight

The paper rolled up into sticks

Were easy to ignite

 

Have you never heard of dunnage

That’s salvaged wood turned into sticks

And bundled up in Gallopers

For the money for the flicks

Second hand and pawn shops

Cobblers just repairing shoes

Broken biscuits were on sale

And gossips spread the news

 

So listen to what I’m saying

This recycling just old hat

Environmentally friendly

And organic this and that

You might think that we’re passed it

And we haven’t got a clue

But remember what you’ve learned till now

That we taught it all to you.

 

ãTommy O’ Hara

 

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That thing he’d said

by

Paul McLaughlin

I remember many things that have been said to me over the years. I recall fragments of advice and warnings wrapped tightly as chastisements but I remember especially the little heart-tugging phrases that leap nearly five decades to bring a warmth to my chest and a wetness to my eyes.

Many of the words, maybe even the most important directions that could have signposted my way, have got lost somewhere in the ether between mouth and ear and I suppose I should think hard to try to bring them back or pluck them out. But I have always found it easier to play with those that have stayed the distance and refused to be out shouted. Sometimes they were whispers across time, almost inaudible, as the years go by they ring like chapel bells.

The people who said these things were friends and family, strangers and enemies though not of my choosing. They were adults and children, children who have grown up with their words echoing in my head as I too have grown. Their words have become welcome and I consider them enduring. Not, perhaps for their wisdom or foresight, their inherent goodness or charity, but simply because they have remained with me, and with me they have endured.

James Baird was four years old when I met him for the first time. Actually, he was four years and eight months old and quick to mention the eight months as if they carried extra weight, during our first conversation. I remember, particularly, because there were only a few days between our dates of birth. That seemed like something in common on our first day at school.

James was taller than me, but then everybody was that day, and dark-haired in a blue-black kind of way. Just like Superman in the comics. His hair was swept back straight as a rush with oil and the whiteness of his neck revealed the freshness of its cut. He had blue eyes like marbles under long lashes and, dressed in his navy, serge, short-trousered suit, white shirt and highly polished shoes, he looked the perfect pupil. I liked the cut of him and, like me, he refused to cry when it was time for mothers to leave their charges.

We talked or rather exchanged biographical details, for what else can five-year-olds discuss on a first encounter, as we were drilled into our lines in the schoolyard.

School was a typically Victorian two-storey building, red-bricked with two tall, imposing chimneys that scraped skywards toward the spire of the neighbouring church, that ran in the shape of an "L" to take the name of two streets. Austerity had stamped it inside and out, from the roofless toilet block that dominated the yard to the flaking paint of the brown coated walls that surrounded lines of forms divided into class areas, décor was classically Spartan. Wood and brick and brown and beige that coal-burning fires had turned the colour of toast. Two fires, in grates the size of Park gates, that were just far enough away from the seated areas for their heat to have dissipated long before it reached our bare legs. The green painted yard door had closed behind me with a clunk that shut out my other world with its little house, garden and street, its towering mountain that burst into flames every Spring, and shut in on a quadrangle of red brick and grey slate where fear was as sharp as either broken.

The previous night seemed a long way away but I remember now remembering it then. Early to bath and the smell of coal tar as my mother soaped away another day’s play. Prayers at the side of my bed because it was till only September. When winter came, I would be wrapped up in blankets before I even blessed myself. Jesus in rhyme on a wee, oval mat that was an island of flowers on the red squares of oilcloth. "Now I lay me down to sleep" and then a special prayer for Paul, me being prayed for in the third person, to make him a good boy on his first day at school.

I watched my toddler brother mouth the words, especially MY prayer, in his own prodigious way. "At least at school," I thought: " I’ll be getting away from him." The idea pleased me even as the dread of the unknown crept into the corners of my limited imagination.

" Yes, this school thing will give me hours of peace away from a twin brother who is four years my junior."

Morning had brought tea and toast and bites of a sharp-toothed comb that made sense of my unruly hair, after an unfair fight and fistful of my father’s Brylcreme that smelt of promises for a shining future.

I told James where I lived, about my Springer Spaniel "Bonzo", about my friends who had all gone to another school that was too far from my granny’s house to suit my parents, even about how my brother’s new found mobility was making him my second shadow. He listened maturely as I recollect and, then as in a game, took his turn. He lived in Turin Street, off the Grosvenor Road, with his mammy and sister and granny. He like football, hated his sister and, oh, his daddy was dead. I am sure that I felt none of the adult embarrassment that such an off-hand statement, made in such a matter of fact way, would elicit today. But, I remember it vividly and have carried it with me.

School was established quickly as the home of St Paul, the great scholar and founding father of the Church.

" Scholars, you will become," boomed the headmaster Mister O’Carroll, his gimlety eyes darting from boy to boy over half-rimmed spectacles, his paddy hat tipped back to reveal a forehead of intelligence.

" Scholars, one and all and today is the start of your great adventure. Today, you will start to learn and learn to start as you mean to go on, wearing your faith like a shield." His parade-ground words went over our head like warning shots but his look struck deep and stayed.

" Learning is discipline," he said: " And discipline will help you to learn." He never spoke a truer word, as my poor hands would testify during my six years in his keeping.

James and I did not sit together that day or any day thereafter. New friends were made, as desks were allocated and new alliances forged. But we remained friendly in the bustle of a class of 56 boys.

I told my mother about him that evening after I got home in the care of my older sister. She was a fierce girl of ten who, twice a day for the rest of my time at St Paul’s, would drag me, terrified and hanging on for grim death, to and from the top-deck of an open doored bus. He new found responsibility brought out the worst in her. My mother said we should pray for James’ father who was in heaven. I thought it strange to pray for someone who was already sitting at God’s right hand but said nothing. After all, God was mystery to us all as my mother kept intoning. And, nothing was what I remembered until three years ago when, quite by chance, I met James again for the first time in nearly forty years.

He had been transformed into a 47-year-old Jimmy with an English wife, two children and a grandchild, as we, and three locals, packed the snug of a small Cushendall pub. Once recognised, and that took at least an hour of small talk and tall stories, the banter flowed like the stout and my memories of HIS first day at school were seen to be much stronger than his own and, surprisingly, more vivid than any of myself.

 

A SIGH IN SMITHFIELD MARKET

by

Sean Baker

Its Saturday again the kids are of school they are in town in their thousands with their parents all with plenty of money to throw away on their little darlings I hope ,but its strange there was a time when my till would never stop ringing at the weekends but alas times are changing the kids don’t want what I have to offer as I’m a Joke shop owner the last one left in Smithfield. I remember the good old days everybody headed for here you could have gotten anything from antiques to old clothes, pets even exotic ones African parrots, lizards and snakes, there was carpets and rugs from the Orient or so they told you. Then you had the famous Joe Kavanagh I Buy Anything a tight fisted old git. Here was a man who got rich from the misery of others, people who bartered their few precious possessions away for a couple of coppers but times were hard and he was a necessary evil as people would say, thank God we weren’t all like that. Most of us just wanted to make an honest living without resorting to daylight robbery.

The shop used to open at 8am sharp every morning myself and auld Sarah who served with me faithfully for thirty years but who sadly passed away last year, I had kept her on for the last couple of years even though it was a struggle financially but I hadn’t the heart to let her go. Now I just open the shop when I feel like it as the crowds are drifting away to the big stores and the shops and stalls of old Smithfield are becoming a rare breed they say the developers are moving in so I’ll probably hold out for the best offer

It was a weird place, a sort of utopia, everybody mixed prods and taigs, rich and poor a melting pot of Belfast and beyond. No one bothered about religion you were here to shop and enjoy yourself. Some people came just to listen to the music. It would blare out from all directions and LPs were sold by the hundreds. Well it was the only place that most people could afford to buy them especially those long haired hippies who haunted the place, smelling of that funny tobacco they smoked asking for Led Zeppelin or Cream in that language they used like chill out man. And I thought dear god these are the people who’ll be running the country in years to come god help us all. But they weren’t a bad lot no real trouble the only bother we was from the odd drunk who passed through or a couple of kids on the beak from school they would try to knock something of that was part of everyday life here you had to have eyes in the back of your head.

The different aromas that wafted through the place made you glad you were here. An Ulster fry sizzling on the pan or the far of smell of some one making a stew would mingle with the stench of humanity who would be passing through on the day. It was over powering sometimes especially on a wet day steam could be seen rising above their heads as they pushed and shoved each other to get to the bargain they were after. Nobody seemed to notice they just got on with their business paid their money then moved on to the next stall listening to stall holders asking, "what can I do you for " and around here that was a possibility. It was mostly junk but most people went away happy thinking they had just got the bargain of the year well to them anyway.

 

My shop was called the Joke Shop no great imagination there, it had every thing false noses and moustaches, itching powder, invisible ink, fake lighters and chewing gum that turned your mouth black but the two most famous of all time were stink bombs and doggy poo what a strange sense of humour people had. Now its all coming to an end with all these new fangled toys that are out now I’m hearing they’re bringing a hand held computer to the public Gameboy or something its called with each game costing between 50 and 60 pounds I remember when that would have fed a family for a year times really have changed. With time on my hands I’d close up early for lunch and head round to the Bakers club to watch a few games of snooker. It always amazed me to watch the bus drivers every week losing their hard earned money to the local sharks.-a blind man could have seen what was going on. It used to bring a smile to my face to watch these lads at their craft, they weren’t crooks as such just a few lads down on their luck and doing what they knew best.

It was getting later every day trying to get myself motivated and move from this comfortable place you’d get one of the wise guys shouting over did I fancy a game not on your life son I thought I’d just tell him I’d to get back to work maybe some other time. Down the dark stairs I’d go matching the mood I was in not wanting to go back just yet thinking I’ll head round to the other stalls for awhile to say hello to some of the many friends I’d made through the years trading here. A lot of them had passed away and some had just decided to call it a day but a few of the diehards were still hanging in there hoping against hope but realizing that modern day ways of life would soon overtake them. It was sad to see them struggling to get by, not knowing when it was time for them to pull down the shutters for the last time.

Enough time was wasted there was still a living to be made three more hours to go before closing time. I was behind the counter twiddling my thumbs when the door would open and the jingle of the little doorbell would disturb my thoughts. Two little boys standing with their ma and da, they wanted something special for their grannies birthday. They’d hmm and hah for a while pointing to different things but the mother would step in, no stink bombs no itching powder and definitely no dog poo. I don’t know why she brought them but then again they still got something. They were after a Whoopee cushion with a little help from dad who asked his wife to lighten up a bit. Well of they went with a titter and snigger they were happy but not so their parents. There was a definite frostiness between them .I was going to offer him some chewing gum for her but thought better not.

Well it was closing time the best part of the day, pulling on my old grey overcoat and cap I’d head of up the street to Peters bar for a few jars and a natter with my old mates. The place would be packed with punters and traders and a few of the country folk waiting to catch the last bus home. No matter how crowded it was, there was always a seat for the regulars. I’d sit down and stick my old pipe between my teeth that hadn’t been lit for over ten years, look around the smoked filled room and wondered why bother. Then the pint of Guinness would mysteriously appear on the table in front of me. Looking up you still couldn’t tell who to thank as everybody was greeting you. So putting the creamy head to my mouth you mumbled your thanks and hoped who ever it was could hear you. All too soon it was time to go, people ordering taxis or shouting their farewells, shaking hands and hoping god spare us see you Monday and out into the cold winters night they’d depart. I’d sit around for awhile staring into the empty glass pondering on what life had in store for us then the shout of time gentlemen please would awake me from my thoughts and then I’d sigh Ah things can only get better.

Sean Baker

 

 

 

Members of the Tin Bath Writers Co-op

pictured outside The Clarendon Bar

(formerly O'Rourke's Bar) at the corner

of Dock St. and Garmoyle St. on 7th April 2002.

They had just returned from The Folk Museum

at Cultra with a successful production of George

Eagleson's  play "Among the Fishes"

 

Members of the Tin Bath Writers Co-op pictured at the

Northern Visions Studios in Belfast during the sound recording

of the Titanic play "Among the Fishes" by George  Eagleson.

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Down by the Docks

by          

Gerry Gallagher

In the back streets of Belfast- a city of ill renown

Once stood a place everyone knew by the name of Sailortown.

Now a big concrete flyover runs along what was once your street

The planners called it progress, other voices spoke of lies and deceit.

 

But of its memory we strive to preserve,

Surely that, is the least that we deserve.

The people and those old streets are now a place apart

But then the real Sailortown lies within the heart.

 

 

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