IB Chapter 2

Both of my parents had been brought up very strictly in relatively large working class families. Both lost their Mother at an early age and both had Fathers who I think it is safe to say could not be described as being kind and caring. They did however not suffer too greatly in terms of how they turned out as people. Though of an era where they were not opposed to applying corporal punishment, they were not brutal and were in fact both caring, if not overly loving parents. They both had a strong work ethic and both had a desire to succeed, though perhaps with different views of what success was and whilst an awful lot of effort was put into keeping their heads above water, they never neglected us and always encouraged us to do well. I am sure they did love us all deeply, but in our earlier years it was perhaps just a time when it was hard to show that given how hard they were working and perhaps also because of their own experiences of childhood.1

My Mother was never happy on a council estate. I honestly don’t know if that was simple snobbery or just a will to rise above the fact that the Irish were always deemed to be the lowest of the low. Dad was as happy to be living there as anywhere else other than ‘home’ and even though it was a subsidised rent, it was still difficult enough to make ends meet. He did therefore not want to even consider the implications of buying a house and I suspect that his long term aim was always to be able to return to Lurgan if and when it ever became practicable. 2

As children we had no thoughts of moving. Barry and I had lots of friends on the Broomwood Estate and were always able to keep ourselves occupied, though burning down gardens sheds and forgetting to return borrowed bikes was very much from his repertoire rather than mine. Our younger brother Geoff, who was named after Mum’s Dad after a reconciliation not long before he died, was also born during our years on the Brewie, though he was very much in his infancy and was still not attending school. 3

Mum was adamant that we should move off the Estate and into our own home as soon as finances would allow and was always ready to cite some unsavoury happening that took place in the neighbourhood to bolster her argument. There was an old lady robbed before our eyes on the corner of our road, which was immediately followed by a brave and heroic local butcher boy, flying down the street, jumping off his bike, wrestling the thief to the ground and holding him until the police arrived. There were numerous fights outside the local pub which was within sight of our front door and many commotions in the front rooms and gardens of people returning from drinking in that establishment. However, I think the straw that broke the camel’s back came after an incident where Dad was attacked in the launderette across the road from our house.4

Mum was the ‘Manageress’ of the launderette, opening it early, closing it late and keeping it clean in between. She was basically a skivvy with a fancy title but the title made it bearable. On a Friday or Saturday night she would occasionally ask Dad to close up for her because there would often be a gang of young locals hanging out after the pubs had closed, keeping warm, drinking a ‘take out’ and maybe courting. 5

One particular Friday night when closing time came, one of the lads, a ‘hard case’ from the estate, obviously thought a bit of bravado was in order and asked ‘paddy’ to make him leave. Buoyed by the beer and safety in numbers he struck out when Dad tried to push him out the door and when Dad fought back the five lads gave him a kicking. 6

This was in an era when there was still a local bobby on the beat (though I am not sure where he was that night) and the next day Dad went to see him for a chat. Apparently he told him what had happened but also told him that he wanted to ‘sort it out’ himself, without any interference from the police. I would imagine the he was warned not to do anything silly but with Dad being a Fireman, there would have been an element of respect between the two and not much more was said. Then, one Sunday evening, a couple of weeks later, as we were coming home from Six o’clock Mass, Dad suddenly became agitated. Words were spoken between him and Mum and then he was gone. I was packed off to bed almost as soon as we were home, which was ridiculously early. Suddenly there was a big commotion in our sitting room and I sneaked downstairs to see what was happening. 7

The local copper had brought Dad and the ‘tough guy’ from the launderette in off the street, where Dad had set about him, and was trying to prevent further damage. The lad had obviously been given a good dig and he didn’t want another. There was plenty of blood and my Dad wanted more, but the copper held him back and whatever was said, he managed to calm the situation and the two combatants shook hands and the lad went off looking very sheepish. 8

Closing the launderette was never a problem again, but as usual the major problem to my Mother was not Dad being attacked, or him getting his revenge, just that he did it openly in front of the neighbours. To her, he was showing the world we were just savages. I, though I didn’t know why at the time, was proud of him. Now I know I was proud because he fought back, not taking any shit from some racist vermin who thought he could score big points with his mates and the local girls by taking the piss out of the ‘mick’ who runs the place, all the while in the safe knowledge that there we five of them.9

Not too long after, we moved off the council estate to a private house, which was even further away from my school. My Mother’s dream. The fact that it meant that Dad had to increase his ‘window round’ between his fire brigade shifts and had to take up odd jobs for neighbours decorating or fixing roof’s in addition didn’t matter to her. The fact that I, and soon my younger brother Geoff too, would have to travel an extra couple of miles to school every day was of no concern. She had gone up in the world, fewer people could look down on her now, or so she thought.10