I seem to remember – or perhaps I’ve been told – that at first my whole family would come to visit, then each parent separately, with their own extended families, then just my dad, his mum and whoever of my siblings. This might be consistent with the stories of my parents’ marriage breakdown and Mum’s sudden disappearance. In any case, my strongest memory of that time is of a student nurse whose surname was Brown. These were the days when hospital staff were ‘Nurse So-and-So’ or ‘Doctor-Somebody’ – the idea of calling medical people by their first names was a long way into the future. So Nurse Brown came into my life and I immediately fell in love with her. She had short brown hair and the face and temperament of an angel. In my eyes she was beautiful, and I recall her boyfriend coming to pick her up one evening. I became very jealous and sulked for a few days afterwards.
I decided that if my own mother was no longer coming to visit, Nurse Brown would have to be my foster mum. My face would light up when she arrived on duty and crumble when she finished her shift.
One day she appeared in the ward in her ‘civilian’ clothing. I was surprised because she’d already told me that today was her day off.
‘Surprise!’ she shouted as she arrived at my bedside.
‘Why are you here?’ I asked, beaming.
‘To see you, silly,’ she replied. ‘I’m taking you out of here this morning. Would you like that?’
The other kids on the ward sat up in their beds to see what was going on. Nurse Brown lifted me out of my bed and into a wheelchair. I felt like royalty as I spied all those little faces looking across the ward, wondering what treats were in store for me.
‘I think I’ll push you round the park today,’ she said. ‘I bought some bird food from up the pet shop, and we can feed the squirrels too. That sound good?’
It sounded more than good to me, who’d been stuck inside for so long. For a couple of hours we trundled around Musgrave Park, an oasis of peace and calm amid a city that was tearing itself to pieces. Nurse Brown pointed out various species of birds and persuaded a few of the cheekier squirrels to take the food directly from my outstretched hand. I didn’t want the day to finish and was delighted when she offered to take me back to her student nurse accommodation for tea and sandwiches.
These little outings happened regularly and I became deeply attached to this warm, understanding human being – so much so that when I was allowed home for weekends to see my family I would scream the place down and demand to stay with my nurse friend. Whether I was her favourite, or whether she knew about the break-up of my family and had taken pity on me, I guess I’ll never know. But for a few crucial years in and out of hospital she became my mainstay, and I can’t thank her enough for what she did for me during those painful times.
During this period it dawned on me that my mother’s non-appearance at hospital was something serious. This was a little troubling to me. I saw other mums and dads visiting their sick kids and I wondered why it was that only my dad and his side of the family were coming to see me. At first, I pretended to myself that Mum was at home but was too busy to visit. Eventually, I accepted this wasn’t the case and I guess that even in my childish mind I knew the truth: that she wouldn’t be coming to visit, ever, because she was no longer here. Where she’d gone, I’d no idea, and no one was telling me anything. Mum’s family quickly stopped coming to visit – much later, I was told that Dad had banned them from contact with any of us, even though their poorly nephew was in the hospital. Again, like so much of my early childhood the mists of time have descended on the truth of this. If it is true, I suppose it makes sense that Dad would want a clean break from Mum’s family, especially at a time when the trust between Catholics and Protestants was at rock bottom. Maybe he felt it was easier to shut them out for good and raise us solely in the Protestant tradition in a family that was close-knit, and loyal in every sense of the word.
My early years in hospital coincided with several moves in and around West Belfast. We went from place to place in the hope we wouldn’t be forced to move because our home had been attacked. We tried a couple of places in Roden Street and around Selby Street but the tension in this flashpoint area was too much for Dad to bear. For the sake of his family, he needed to be embedded among his own kind in an exclusively Protestant enclave. Fortunately, a solution was just around the corner (give or take a couple of miles).
After four years in and out of hospital my osteomyelitis was given the all-clear. My poor old leg wasn’t in the best of shape and I would always walk with a limp, but the disease had at least subsided. There would be many more hospital visits and operations to come but for now I was a free kid. In floods of tears I bade Nurse Brown goodbye, secretly wishing she could come home with me.
‘Well,’ she said brightly, ‘it’d be nice to see you again, but hopefully when you’re much better. Anyway, your da tells me you have a new home to go to.’
I looked at my dad, standing beside me holding the suitcase that contained a few meagre possessions.
‘Do we, Daddy?’ I said. ‘Do we have a new house?’
‘Ah, John, it was going to be a surprise,’ he said, winking at Nurse Brown, ‘but I think the cat’s out of the bag now. We’re going up to Glencairn. Ever heard of it?’
I hadn’t, so Dad told me that it was a new estate up beyond the Shankill. He said that my granny and granda had already moved up there, along with a couple of uncles and their families. ‘It’s gonna be great,’ he said. ‘We’ll all be together in one place, and no worries about anything.’
I smiled as he hugged me. I believed him, because I knew that he was going to make everything all right as he always did.
CHAPTER 2
T
aking my hand, Dad hauled me and David up the short, steep grassy bank, with Shep, my dad’s beloved Alsatian, following behind. My two sisters were already at the top, shouting and squealing in excitement. ‘We’ve got a new house, we’ve got a new house!’ they chorused.
The new place lay at the bottom of a small hill that overlooked Forthriver Road, the main thoroughfare in and out of Glencairn. It was bigger than the houses we’d previously lived in and for the first time we had an inside toilet and bathroom.
It wasn’t huge – just a two-bedroomed maisonette – but it was ours, and no longer would we need to leave it at a moment’s notice because of the threat from neighbouring Catholics or Republicans – because there were no neighbouring Catholics or Republicans, not that we knew of anyway. Glencairn was (and is) exclusively Protestant, and if there were any Catholics living up here they were keeping very, very quiet about it.
However, it wasn’t the view of our house, nor that of the shops just beyond the block of single-storey flats, that was exciting us this bright spring day of 1972 (ironically, the worse year for deaths in the Troubles with almost five hundred killed). Dad signalled to a point in the distance, way beyond the Crumlin Road and right across the other side of Belfast.
‘What do youse see?’ he said.
‘Goliath!’ we shouted in unison. Even as wee kids we all knew the name of the giant yellow crane that had dominated the East Belfast skyline since 1969, towering above the Harland and Wolff shipyard. Within a couple of years Goliath would be joined by ‘Samson’, who would be even bigger than his twin brother. For all Belfast people these are a symbol of the city but for us Protestants they have special significance because they overlook the dockyards that made the place what it is, thanks largely to the hard work of the mainly Protestant workforce. And it was, of course, where the legendarily unsinkable Titanic was built and set forth on her ill-fated maiden voyage and a place in the history books. Like most Belfast folk I am very proud of the fact she was built in Belfast and when cruel people say, ‘But didn’t she sink?’ I reply, ‘She was all right when she left Belfast,’ and that normally shuts them up.
‘Well spotted,’ said Dad. ‘Now, you see this place right behind us?’ Dad pointed to an old and imposing big house up the top end of a driveway
in Glencairn Park. ‘This is Fernhill House, and it’s where Lord Carson inspected the UVF men before they went off to war.’
‘To fight the Provies?’ I asked. I was only six, but already the language of the Troubles had begun to filter through my vocabulary. The ‘Provies’ were the Provisional Irish Republican Army – the enemy currently engaged in warfare with the British Army and bombing buildings in Belfast, Londonderry and many other places, killing soldiers, police officers and innocent civilians alike, and the UVF stood for the Ulster Volunteer Force, which was better known as a Loyalist paramilitary group during the Troubles.
‘Nah,’ said Dad, laughing, ‘not them. The UVF went off to fight the Germans in the First World War. Have you heard of the Thirty-Sixth?’
I hadn’t, so Dad gave me a quick history lesson. The 36th Ulster Division were the pride of Protestant Belfast (although many Catholics fought in the First World War too) and distinguished itself on the first day of the Battle of the Somme. Dad used to quote the words of Captain Wilfred Spender, who watched as the 36th Division went over the top: ‘I am not an Ulsterman but yesterday, the first of July, as I followed their amazing attack, I felt that I would rather be an Ulsterman than anything else in the world.’
Even today, I feel an enormous sense of pride when I hear those words.
I loved these kinds of stories, especially about our grandfathers and great-grandfathers who’d been so brave in the face of almost certain death. In fact, my great-uncle Robert fought and tragically died two weeks before the end of the war.
‘Are the UVF still around, Da?’ I asked, wide-eyed. I hoped they were, as I recalled the rioting and burning I was told was the work of Catholics out to get us.
‘So they are, son,’ Dad said, ‘but hey, let’s not talk about all that now. C’mon with me now and we’ll get a pastie supper.’
I jumped up and down with delight. Pastie suppers were (and still are) my favourite. Only Northern Ireland people can appreciate the delights of this deep-fried delicacy of minced pork, onions and spuds, all coated in delicious batter, with chips on the side and a Belfast Bap (a bread roll).
As we walked from the brow of the hill down to the chippy, Dad told me a few more stories about Fernhill House. It was owned by a family called Cunningham, he said, and it had stables attached to it. In one of these was housed a racehorse called Tipperary Tim. According to legend, the horse’s jockey, William Dutton was told by a friend, ‘Billy boy, you’ll only win if all the others fall.’
‘Sure enough,’ said Dad, ‘yer man Dutton took the horse into the Grand National in Liverpool and all the other horses fell down. And so Tipperary Tim won the race.’
‘That’s amazing!’ I shouted. ‘Does he still live in the stables? Can we go and see him? Please, Da . . .’
In response, my dad laughed. ‘You’re a bit late, son,’ he said. ‘The race was won in 1928!’
In time, Fernhill House and the surrounding area would become my childhood playground and I’d spend hours playing in the park and exploring the empty mansion and its cavernous cellars. Years later, when the Loyalists called their ceasefire as part of the Good Friday Agreement, legendary Loyalist leader Gusty Spence and the ‘Combined Loyalist Military Command’ choose Fernhill House to tell the world their war was at an end and offer abject and sincere remorse to their victims.
Dad seemed much happier than he had been for a while. He was working as a porter in Belfast City Hospital and he would bring us stationery – pens, pencils, typewriter rubbers and drawing paper – which he probably swiped from offices throughout the hospital. Up here, the troubles our family had endured seemed a long way off. Granted, our maisonette, though newly built, was cold in the winter because we only had an electric fire and it wasn’t what you’d call roomy, but it was much better than where we’d lived previously. At this stage I was still wearing a calliper on my right leg and was allowed to share the big double bed with Dad while everyone else was in the other bedroom. It wasn’t ideal but we were happy, especially Dad. He was a committed Christian and was now attending St Andrew’s Church, just across the road. We were all encouraged to attend too, and I went twice on a Sunday and to Bible study during the week, plus Beavers and the Boys’ Brigade. The minister, the Reverend Walter Lewis, became a family friend. He had a short beard and moustache and wore big-framed glasses. He had a friendly and welcoming face that was always ready with a smile whenever you met him. He was kind and considerate and tried to teach us about love and forgiveness, but we often drove him to distraction as we verbalised our hatred of all things Catholic and their ‘evil’ religion.
Also, we had family all around us now. Granny and Granddad were here, along with Dad’s brother Rab and his wife Jacky and their children, plus Uncle Jim and Aunt Maureen and their kids. Dad’s sister, Anne, was just down the road. Susie Chambers, my granny, was a formidable Northern Irish woman with a large bosom who took it on herself to clothe and feed us, put us to bed, discipline us when necessary and generally play the role of a mum now that ours was gone. We all loved her beyond words. She played a big part in our lives from this point onwards because Dad was working here and there and Margaret was still too young to manage the household chores.
Like most women in Glencairn, Granny took great pride in having a clean house and well-turned-out children. She was obsessed with cleaning and there wasn’t a speck of dirt to be found in her home. Every year she invested in a new settee and carpets, and when the settee arrived it would be ritually covered with dust sheets, which stayed on for the full year. Even then we weren’t allowed to sit on it – we had to squat on the floor instead to watch TV. This cleaning fetish even extended to our bath time, which Granny relished. She’d fill the bath with warm water and top it up with Flash floor cleaner before dropping us in. She’d probably be arrested for that now but at the time we were the best-scrubbed kids on the estate – although never for long as we rolled about in muck and grass and were always dirty when we came in from playing. To this day, when I smell Flash powder I think of my wee Granny Chambers.
Her cooking was generally good. She made us liver and onions with mashed spuds and gravy and I loved it. Once a week she would buy a single Fray Bentos steak ’n’ kidney pie and split it between the four of us. Shep got to lick the tin clean as he chased it round the kitchen floor. However, I dreaded the days she’d decide to make ‘champ’. This is an Irish dish made of mashed potatoes, scallions (otherwise known as spring onions, but we’ve always got another name for everything in Northern Ireland), butter, milk and salt and pepper. I never liked this for some reason and when my granny used to make it I’d wait until she’d left the room and throw it in the bin or at the dog, whichever was closer, as I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Also, Dad would bring home pigs’ trotters every week from a butcher’s down the Shankill, and when they were cooked we had them as a Friday night treat. I have to say that the thought of eating one of those now makes me feel violently ill.
I loved my granny and granddad and was pleased they lived so close to us. But there were still nagging questions about my mum which, even as a small child, I felt weren’t being answered. Not long after we arrived in Glencairn, Granny called round and Dad summoned the four of us to the living room. Once we were crowded together on the settee, Granny leaned forward from the comfort of the armchair and put on her serious voice.
‘Now listen to me,’ she said, ‘because this is the first and last time I’ll say it. Now then, your ma has gone away and I’m sorry to say she won’t be coming back.’
I looked at Dad. He glanced at me and smiled briefly, but didn’t speak. Obviously, he was letting Granny do the talking.
‘You’re not to mention her again,’ she continued. ‘Understood? And if anybody asks, you’re to say she’s died.’
‘Died . . .’ So Mum was dead. That’s why she stopped coming to the hospital to see me. I felt numb. David started to cry but was quickly hushed into silence by Granny.
‘How did she die?
’ asked Margaret with a hint of suspicion in her voice. She was only ten, but as sharp as a tack. ‘When was it? Was there a funeral? Why didn’t we go, Granny?’
Due to recent events, we all knew about death and dying, and we’d witnessed the funerals of some of those who’d been killed. They were big events, with attendees running into the hundreds. If our mum was dead, surely she’d have had a big funeral too?
‘She was killed in a crash,’ Granny said finally. ‘That’s it. You don’t need to know any more. Do they, Daddy?’
She gestured to my father, who nodded his agreement. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘It’s all in the past now. And we’re having a good time living up here, eh?’
Well, we couldn’t deny that. And if Mum was dead and gone, we couldn’t do anything about it. In my young mind I felt I had no choice other than to accept it. People died all the time. It was no good squealing about it. Even so, when I sneaked a glance at Margaret, I could tell by her face she wasn’t completely convinced by this news. But she, like the rest of us, said nothing and for the next few years at least, we did as we were told and never mentioned her.
Now I see why. Glencairn was ultra-Loyalist and even an accident of birth – such as having a Catholic mother – would be the excuse for teasing, taunting and maybe worse. If the news got out, we’d always be known as ‘the Taigs down the road’ and that would do all of us, Dad and his siblings included, no favours at all. What Granny was doing – in a brutal Belfast fashion, I guess – was protecting us against our new environment. Up here we were Protestant to our boots, and all traces of the Catholic in us had to be erased.
This included re-naming the two of us who had originally started life with Catholic names. In a way, this was somewhat harder to comprehend than the news of my mother’s death. Now, two of us had to become ‘different’ people, and would be called by their new names both in private and public. In the early days of the name-change we would occasionally forget and shout out the old names, prompting hisses and the flapping of hands. In time, we got used to it and the new names became established, remaining to this day.
A Belfast Child Page 3