Lady of the Dance

by Duffy, Marie; Rowley, Eddie;

  The kids who went to St Agnes’s all played together after school, and the pupils in the Terenure area had their own little groups where they lived.

  Meanwhile, I was commuting by bus between both suburbs, so I didn’t get the chance to have friends in either community.

  I became an outsider, which is a lonely place to be, particularly as a child. I didn’t even have Beryl around at the weekends. She was in a similar situation to me – not having local friends – because she went to a school outside our area.

  At this stage, Beryl and I went in totally different directions when she began spending weekends with her cousins on the other side of the city.

  My mother no doubt thought she was doing her best by me, but she could have started me in school earlier. I was half reared when I entered the Presentation Convent at the age of six and, probably since I’d had very little interaction with other children up to that point, I was incredibly quiet and introverted.

  To get me to speak was really hard. I had so many disadvantages starting out in the education system, not least being the fact that the other children in my class had settled in to their daily routine six months ahead of me.

  Mother sent me to school on my sixth birthday, which fell in the month of December, so I was a long way behind the rest of the class who’d been there since the end of the summer holidays.

  I had a lot of catching up to do.

  On my first day in the school, the nun who was teaching us began by reading out everyone’s name from a book. I would later learn that this was the roll call. As each child answered, I thought they said, ‘I’m sorry.’

  When I heard my name called out I stayed silent, because as far as I was concerned I had nothing to be sorry about. The nun moved on to another name. This happened over a couple of days until the nun eventually realised that I was in the room but not responding.

  ‘Will somebody answer for that child,’ she roared.

  Then one girl nudged me with a bony elbow and whispered, ‘Say “anseo”!’

  I had no idea what that was. It would be some time before the message got through to me.

  What I was hearing was not ‘I’m sorry’, but the Irish word ‘anseo’, meaning present or here.

  I hadn’t learned any Irish at that stage and had obviously missed all the introductory instruction in the class six months earlier.

  The nuns and teachers in the Presentation College were quite tough and strict at the time. I didn’t embrace school life because I simply didn’t like it. Any chance I got, I would have an excuse to avoid going into school.

  Strangely, my mother aided and abetted me. She allowed me to stay at home quite a lot. As the only girl and the last child, I guess she liked having me around the house.

  Of course, there was a price to be paid for my truancy.

  When the time came for me to go into third class, the nun in charge took four of us aside and dropped the bombshell: we were being held back to repeat second class again.

  I was devastated and immediately burst into tears. I’m sure you could have heard me wailing all over the school, and the other three were no better. We were like an out of tune choral group.

  Needless to say, there was no sympathy from the nun. ‘What do you expect with the amount of time you’ve missed?’ she sternly announced.

  The wiry old nun, with a voice that would pierce your ears, was right of course, but I felt ill with the shame of being kept back a year. However, after I recovered from the shock it dawned on me, even at that young age, that in order to achieve you have to be dedicated to what you’re doing, and you have to work hard at it.

  That day changed my life. As I looked to the future, I was determined that I was going to be the best in my class. I resolved to listen and learn, and to study whatever came my way.

  Without realising it, I used the hurt and disgrace I felt that day as motivation to make the most of any opportunity that came my way throughout my life.

  I got a hunger for learning.

  I’d learnt my lesson, and I hardly ever missed a day in school again.

  My Dad took a Bullet

  My father often told me that I came at the wrong end of the family. By then, Dad was battling through very poor health – even to this day I can still hear the terrible cough that afflicted him – and struggling to make a decent living. I think it troubled Dad greatly that he wasn’t in a position to provide me with the material things of life. But that beautiful man, Joe Duffy, probably didn’t realise he was giving me the greatest gifts of all: love and security.

  I always felt loved by my father, even though he wasn’t a tactile sort of person. In those times most men didn’t hug and kiss their children or spend endless amounts of time playing with them like the young fathers of today. Well, at least my dad didn’t. He wasn’t very hands-on, but I guess his bad health had a lot to do with that as well.

  Dad had a very colourful life behind him by the time I came into his world, not least due to his active role as a volunteer fighter during the Irish War of Independence. This led to him being wounded during a major event in Irish history: the burning of the Custom House in Dublin on 25 May 1921. The Custom House was then the centre of local government in the British administration in Ireland. The Irish Republican Army occupied and burnt it in an operation that involved over 100 volunteers, including my father.

  Dad was shot in a lane around the Liberty Hall area as he was running away from the scene.

  While he survived the shooting, the bullet lodged close to his ribs and couldn’t be removed, so he carried it around for the rest of his life.

  Both sides of my family were active in the War of Independence. My uncle, Michael O’Kelly, was a Lieutenant Colonel in E. Company, 2nd Battalion of the Dublin Brigade of the Irish Republican Army, and also played an active role in the burning of the Custom House. He was captured and sentenced to death, but was later released from prison after the signing of the Treaty.

  When I knew him, Uncle Michael, who had two children, Maurice and June, was living at Parkmore Drive in Terenure, which, as I mentioned, is the address my mother used to get me into the local convent school.

  I’m told that my grandfather, Joseph O’Kelly, was also a personal bodyguard to Michael Collins. My mother, who was a middle child, had five brothers and five sisters, and I think that most of them played some role in the struggle and received medals for their service. I remember hearing them tell stories about the Black and Tans – as the British soldiers were called because of their uniforms – and how they came raiding houses in the Drumcondra area of Dublin. My aunts were running from house to house raising the alarm to get their brothers safely out of the district. They raided my grandfather’s house on Carlton Road, smashing the piano and pulling up floorboards looking for arms.

  Aunt Em is also famous in the family for playing her part in fighting the old enemy. Legend has it that she knew how to handle a gun and took out a few of them in her time, but she never owned up to it. Aunt Em had quite a reputation; although she was four-foot-nothing you’d be terrified to cross her.

  Later in life I would hear stories about Aunt Em attending gatherings of the Old IRA. On those occasions the men would assemble in one room, while the women got together separately. However, Aunt Em was always invited to join the men, and was exceptionally popular among them. One of my relatives informed me that this was because she had been ‘a shooter’ for the Irish Republican Army, ‘and those men were glad to have Emily covering their backs at the time’.

  Both my father and mother were awarded medals for their service with the Irish Volunteers during that turbulent period. And my father received a disability allowance for his injury.

  That injury, however, changed the course of Dad’s life, and probably my own. I remember my brother Tony recalling one time that my father wanted to emigrate to Australia and take the whole family Down Under. This would have been before I was born. However, Dad failed his medical test, which meant he wasn’t allowed to bec
ome a resident in Australia, where, otherwise, I might have been born and reared. Tony said he felt there was a great change in my father after that. He became very quiet in the house.

  Growing up I was always aware of the fact that Dad was exceptionally popular among the people in our area. It seemed to me that everybody loved Joe Duffy. My impression is that they thought my mum was the hard one in the relationship, but, as I explained, she had to run the home and keep the boys in check. My mother did the ruling and barked out the orders, and you obeyed her.

  I remember my dad being a quiet, gentle man with a head of lush silver hair. He was of average height, but very thin. Although he had done his bit for Irish independence, my recollection of him is that he was a frail man, so it is hard for me to envisage Dad as a freedom fighter or soldier back in the day.

  My parents continued to be active in politics and were supporters of Fine Gael, with Dad becoming secretary of the local branch. During election time our house would be full of propaganda leaflets of every shape and size. You couldn’t see out the windows of our home due to the billboards that were plastered all over them, shutting out the light and the world outside.

  Although my mother supported Fine Gael, it drove her mad when party workers would take over her house and use it as their centre of operations. And when they got into full canvassing mode you’d think we had a revolving door with the number of people arriving in to pick up or drop off their electioneering paraphernalia.

  I remember one of the Fine Gael luminaries at that time was a guy called Richie Ryan. Later, as the Minister for Finance in the crisis years of the Irish economy between 1973 and 1977, he was lampooned on the satirical Hall’s Pictorial Weekly TV show in Ireland. They called him ‘Richie Ruin, the Minister for Hardship’, because of the savage taxes he introduced as his government struggled to sort out the nation’s financial woes. Richie spent a lot of time in our house plotting his campaign the first time he went up for election.

  As there was nobody to mind me when my mum and dad went out canvassing for the Fine Gael candidates, I tagged along, hanging on to their coat tails. Then election days were spent in the polling hall with them; I would always be so bored having to hang around from early morning till late at night. My father really was very dedicated to the party and spent a lot of time as a general dogsbody for them for no personal gain whatsoever, as it was voluntary work. His loyalty was all the more commendable when you consider the fact that he had the constant worry of finding work to support us.

  For many years after I was born, I slept in my parents’ bedroom with them. The four remaining boys were in the second room. But I recall one time my father emigrated to England in search of work, leaving us behind. The older brothers who had left home were already working in different factories there, so they always found a job for him. And I missed him terribly when he was away.

  When he returned home, I remember him being sick quite a lot with infections. But Dad was a worker and provider and he pushed on, taking whatever employment that came along.

  When I was about ten years of age, he got a job as a night watchman on a building site during the construction of corporation houses in the Ballyfermot area of Dublin. Around seven in the evening I would set off with my mother, taking a couple of bus rides over to the buildings to bring him his supper. I’ll never forget the sadness I felt on dark nights with the rain pouring down, seeing Dad all alone in the little hut on the eerie expanse of land amidst the shells of half-built houses, and then leaving him there all night on his own when we returned home. It was heartbreaking to witness the life he lived as a worker and the hardship he endured.

  The last day of the month is etched in my memory because that’s when Dad would get his disability pension. I’d go with my mum to meet him when he got the cash, so that she’d get her monthly allowance. Mum knew that Dad was a soft touch and he’d have plenty of so-called friends to help him spend his earnings in the pub. Then there was the danger that we’d be left with nothing for the rest of the month. He was a very generous man; he’d give away every penny he had.

  Like the other men in the area, my father’s only leisure activity was a trip to the local pubs whenever he could afford it. He went for companionship rather than to get drunk.

  When I was a child we had a mongrel dog called Tiny, so called because he was so little. Tiny was very attached to my father and would tag along with him wherever he went, including on his occasional outings to the local bars. Whenever we wanted to find Dad all we had to do was go on a little trip from pub to pub until we came to the one with Tiny sitting outside, waiting patiently for his master to emerge. There was no hiding place for Dad with that lovable, miniature hairy mutt giving the game away.

  * * *

  I’m sure my parents really felt the pressure of their dire financial circumstances when Christmas came around. There were no jingle bells or glitter in my childhood during that festive season. Our Christmases were very frugal. You never wrote to Santa asking for a particular toy or present; you just hoped that he’d bring you something, and you took what you got without complaint.

  Sometimes Santa would come up trumps. One toy I remember being thrilled with was a tiny doll’s pram that said ‘Mama!’ when you pressed the handles. That was a very unusual present for the times that were in it.

  However, there were often times when Santa left me feeling disappointed and sad. One of those years was when we spent Christmas at my brother Joe and his wife Bett’s home in the English town of Didcot, Oxfordshire. My father had been working there in a factory with my brother, so my mother took us over to join him for Christmas. On Christmas Day I opened my present from Santa and found a tiny easel and stand, which was only a foot high. My nephews and nieces, who were close in age to me, got much more exciting toys. I couldn’t take my eyes off their gifts and I was so envious, but I didn’t dare complain. Inside, I felt like crying, but I put on a brave face. Then my sister-in-law, Bett, gave me a present that brought a huge smile to my face. It was a sewing set. I thought it was the bee’s knees and I treasured it for years and years afterwards.

  My brothers and their wives were very good to me as a child. One time when Tony, who lived in Harlesden, London, went into the army in England to do his two years’ compulsory service and was away in Singapore, we minded his child, Joan. She had so many lovely toys. I took a shine to a gorgeous bridal doll that was one of many she owned. Joan’s mother Lena spotted my fascination with the beautiful doll and she persuaded Joan to give her to me as a gift. I was absolutely thrilled, and that doll became a childhood treasure that I took with me into my adult life.

  I don’t recall ever seeing a roast turkey on our table at Christmas. Instead, it would be a chicken dinner. One time, when we were really hard up, Aunt Em invited us over to her home for a festive meal. There were just my parents and myself living at home at the time. For some reason that I never discovered, my father had an issue with this and refused to go. Perhaps he felt embarrassed that he couldn’t provide for us and didn’t want to take Aunt Em’s charity. He was a very proud man in his own way. I heard my mother arguing with him, saying, ‘Well, I don’t have any money to get Christmas food in.’

  There was no talking to my father. He just wouldn’t come with us. So my mother and myself deserted him that Christmas Day as we headed off to Aunt Em’s for our feast. I was really upset leaving my poor old dote of a dad at home alone and without a decent meal to celebrate that special day of the year.

  Despite Aunt Em’s hospitality and generosity, I didn’t enjoy a moment of the get-together or the lovely spread she laid on for us that Christmas.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about my father being alone.

  I just wanted to be with him – food or no food I didn’t really care.

  The heartbreak of that Christmas Day has always stayed with me.

  The Communion Dress

  My little heart beat wildly against my chest as the white dress was lowered over my head.

 
Long before the fairy-tale wedding of every woman’s dream, first holy communion was a girl’s first love affair with an iconic dress. Even though we were just seven years old, it was the centre of our world in the weeks leading up to the day we would receive the sacrament of Holy Communion for the very first time. Thoughts of the formalities around that religious ceremony in the church scared me, but I just couldn’t wait for my amazing dress.

  My mother slipped the creation down over my body, tucked it in here and there, and gently slid up the zip at the back. Then I turned around and I felt like I was going to faint with excitement as I skipped over to the full-length mirror to admire what I imagined to be this most beautiful of beautiful dresses that my mother had engaged a local dressmaker to make for me.

  I almost burst into floods of tears when I saw my reflection in the mirror. To my young eyes, the dress was a disaster. It was ragged and uneven; too high on one side, too low on the other. My mother was still doing her best to beat it into shape as she tugged and pulled at it, but the magic was gone for me. I didn’t let on to her how upset I felt over this huge letdown, but I’m sure Mum could see through my feeble attempt to conceal my feelings.

  On the morning of my first holy communion she tried to reassure me that I looked like a little princess. I smiled and hugged her, and then I nervously slipped away to join the army of girls in white before we paraded up the aisle of St Joseph’s Church in Terenure.

  I was mortified and I didn’t dare glance at the faces of people in the congregation that morning because I felt they were all staring at my inferior dress that dipped below my coat. Even a coat couldn’t hide all its imperfections. There was no doubt in my mind that they were feeling sorry for the poor child that was wearing it.