The Foleys were a well-to-do family, and all of their children were adults with good jobs. Tommy, Margaret and Molly were teachers, while Jack worked in a chemist’s. Everyone in the family had a great sense of humour. The first day I met them, Jack asked, ‘Are you able to paint?’
I thought he was being serious, but he was just pulling my leg.
As well as taking care of Mrs Foley, I had to do all the household chores on my own. There were floors to be scrubbed; clothes to be washed by hand and then ironed; sweeping, dusting and, of course, cooking the family meals. But because I felt so loved and appreciated, I did all of my chores with a light heart.
At that time, the local Derry Journal was published three times a week – on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Mrs Foley loved the newspaper and always looked forward to it coming into the house. As she was unable to get out and about, the paper gave her all the news on what was happening out in her locality and the greater county. It provided her with many hours of reading enjoyment. We’d be taking her down the stairs on the morning a new Journal was out and Mr Foley would say, ‘The Derry rag is here today again.’ She’d smile. You could see that they were such a united couple.
Mr Foley was always good-humoured. He was sitting at the breakfast table one morning tucking into the sausages and bacon I had served up. A chunk of a sausage fell off his fork and on to the floor as he was about to eat it. He peered over his glasses and glanced down at the floor. Looking up, he said, ‘Do ye know, Julia, you can never be sure of the bite you’re puttin’ into your mouth.’ We all laughed.
There was a big apple tree out in the garden, and when the apples were ripe and ready to be harvested, Mr Foley would climb up on a ladder and shake them down for me to collect. It was idyllic in many ways. They had such a comfortable life compared to the one I’d known back on the island. And they were very rich by our standards. But the Foleys never made me feel inferior.
I went to Mass at 9 a.m. every Sunday with Mr Foley. As Mrs Foley wasn’t able to attend church, her brother, the Bishop, would occasionally say a Mass in the house. He came one time while I was out shopping for groceries, and the Mass was over by the time I returned. Just so I wouldn’t be upset, Bishop Farren gave me a special blessing. They all treated me like a lady.
Owey and my family were always in my thoughts, though. Every single week I wrote a letter to my mother and father back home, telling them all about my work and the daily happenings in the Foley household. In that way, I felt that I still had my parents in my life. There were no telephones, so I couldn’t make contact with them that way. But I knew my letters would be welcomed. I gave them lots of news because this was a new world for me and I had plenty to tell. I’m sure everyone on the island heard all about the goings-on in Derry.
I had other distractions as well. My cousin Bridget Sharkey from home had come to work in Derry, along with a girl called Maggie Gillespie, who was from Kincasslagh. Some evenings for a break I would go down and meet up with them to have a chat. They were great company, and, even though I had settled into the Foley household, I was delighted to have someone to visit while I was in Derry.
After six months with the Foleys, it was time for me to go back to Owey as I was needed to help out with all the spring work around the farm. It took me a long time to pluck up the courage to break the news to Mr and Mrs Foley because I knew they would be upset to see me go. I was performing an important role in their family, and they had also become attached to me on a personal level. However, I didn’t realize just how badly they would take the news.
‘Ah, Julia, we can’t lose you. I’ll give you more wages if that will change your mind,’ Mr Foley pleaded.
‘It’s not the money at all, Mr Foley. I really am needed back home to help with the spring work,’ I insisted.
‘Ah, Julia, you’ll not leave us,’ Mr Foley begged, and I felt so sorry for him as I could see the look of desperation in his face.
‘Mr Foley, sure you’ll get some other girl,’ I said, trying to reassure him.
Mr Foley began to cry. ‘We’ll never get another Julia,’ he sobbed, cupping his face in his hands. I could see that he was terribly upset.
I had been heartbroken the first day I arrived at the Foleys’ to start my job, and I was just as upset the day I was leaving them. The tears ran down my cheeks as I bade them farewell. It cut me to the bone to see them so sad. Two wonderful people, they were. I never forgot them.
Six months was a long time to be away from home, especially as it was the first occasion. It was good for me, though. I had experienced a different kind of life through the Foley family. I had become a bit more confident from having to deal with new people. I had probably grown up a bit. My homesickness had gone away after a few weeks, but as I returned to Owey the excitement started to build up. By the time I reached the island I was ready to explode.
My father was down at the shore to meet me, and he had a big smile on his face.
‘God, Julia you’re after shooting up. What were they feeding you in Derry?’ he laughed.
My mother had the tea ready when I stepped through the door. ‘It’s lovely to have you back in our wee house,’ she said. ‘I never missed anyone as much.’
My mother and father missed every one of us when we went away, of course.
James and Edward were away picking potatoes, but Owenie and Maggie were in the house. And they wanted to hear everything about my time with the Foleys.
I was surprised that it took me a few days to settle back on Owey. It was strange at first going back into my old life. And working on the farm again, that was the hardest part. I’d been softened up during my employment with the Foleys because it was housework. It was a lot more genteel. Now I had to become a farmer again.
I remember the first time a radio arrived on Owey – what excitement that caused! A man by the name of John Gallagher, a relative of mine who lived across from our house, was the proud owner of the box, which was fascinating to look at with its knobs and dials. We all watched, adults included, with childish fascination as John switched it on, and it crackled, whistled and hummed as he searched for a station. As he tuned it in and voices came through, we were staring at it in wonderment.
From then on, John’s humble cottage was the most visited home on Owey. Everybody made a nightly pilgrimage to the Gallaghers’ to hear whatever was on the radio, which had only one station, Radio Eireann. John was an easy-going man who possessed a great sense of humour and was always laughing at something or other. His wife, Peggy, who was a native of Scotland, was equally good-humoured and good-natured; they were a very hospitable couple. Everyone who visited that house was given a cup of tea by Peggy.
We all became addicted to the radio. Later I would enjoy a programme called The School around the Corner, which was presented by Paddy Crosbie. It was very funny. Paddy was a tall, skinny Dublin man who always dressed in a smart suit and drew great humour out of the schoolchildren he interviewed. The mind of a child thinks much differently from an adult’s, so their responses to Paddy’s questions were unpredictable, and sometimes they were hilarious.
I remember how Paddy asked one young lad one night if he had any animals at home.
‘We had a horse, sir, but he got sick,’ the boy replied.
‘And is he better now?’ Paddy enquired.
‘No, sir,’ the boy responded.
‘How is he?’ Paddy asked.
‘He’s dead, sir,’ said the boy.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. And how did he die?’ Paddy probed.
‘Me father shot him, sir,’ replied the boy.
‘Shot him?’ Paddy said with astonishment.
‘Yes, sir. Me father dug a hole and shot him.’
‘In the hole?’ asked Paddy.
‘No, sir, in the head,’ replied the boy.
Well, I thought Paddy Crosbie was going to die laughing. It was one of the funniest moments on the show.
The Irish country-music star Maisie McDaniel from Sligo w
as very popular at that time on the radio as well. We used to tune in to listen to her.
As there was no electricity, the radio was run on a battery, and whenever it ran down John would have to go over to the mainland to get it charged up again. Every household on the island contributed thruppence to this expense because we were all enjoying the entertainment it provided. That was one of the first real gadgets we came across as we crept out of the Dark Ages.
Our own house later became a popular place of entertainment when my father picked up a gramophone cheaply in a market one day, along with some old records. It didn’t take long for news of this to spread around the island, and everyone wanted to see and hear this wonderful music machine. Later, when one of the island’s teachers, Paddy Kelly, took digs at our house while my brothers were away working in Scotland, he gave my father Bridie Gallagher’s first record. Bridie was from Donegal, and she was a big singing star in Ireland.
New inventions gradually made their way onto the island. There was one old woman who had a frightening experience with a battery-operated flash lamp when they first came out. The house she was visiting had just recently got the lamp, and one night as she was leaving late to go home they gave it to her so that she wouldn’t trip and hurt herself in the dark. She was very wary of this strange light but agreed to take it with her. When the little old lady arrived home at her own house, she tried to blow out the light like you would an oil lamp or a candle. She blew and blew, but the light, needless to say, wouldn’t go out. Exasperated, the old lady finally gave up trying, and, fearful that it would burn her house down as she slept, she left the lamp sitting outside in a ditch overnight. God bless her innocence.
The people on Owey were very superstitious in those times. There were lots of old wives’ tales. If you were dressing in the morning and you happened to put on a cardigan or jumper inside out, you wouldn’t dare take it off and turn it right side out because that was said to bring you bad luck. You had to leave it on for the day, and only at night, when you were preparing for bed, could you take it off.
If two teaspoons were accidentally placed on your saucer, it was the sign of a wedding.
You’d be terrified of breaking a mirror because it apparently meant you were going to experience six years of bad luck, and nobody wanted that!
And if it rained on 15 July, folklore said it would then rain for 40 days and 40 nights. Wasn’t I born on a bad day!
It was also said that no one ever saw a donkey dying because donkeys are holy animals. They have a cross on the back of their neck. One day our donkey was dying on Owey. I decided to keep a vigil beside my beloved animal as I wanted to be the first person to see a donkey dying. I sat beside the sick pet all day. Eventually I ran into the house for a cup of tea, and when I came out the donkey was dead. And that’s a true story!
Any spare moment I’d have at home was spent doing knitting, which I’d mastered as a child, taught by a neighbour called Mary Boyle. I was too young at the start to use needles, as they were considered to be dangerous in the hands of children. Instead, I used feathers from a rooster’s wings. My father had honed and shaped them with his pocket knife. Later I graduated to proper needles. At night the women would gather in one house knitting and chatting, while the men would go to a separate house to pass the hours by playing cards and telling yarns. On the way home the men would look at the night sky, and somehow they could predict the weather for the following day. They could tell by the appearance of the sky, the moon and the stars.
When I got older, I discovered the joy of dancing. It became a real passion, even an obsession, to the point where I would deceive my mother and father by pretending that I was going off to houses to knit with some of my friends, when really I was going off dancing with them on the island. On those days, I’d knit as fast as I could while I was away looking after the cows. If I felt that it was less than I’d be expected to achieve at a night’s knitting session, I’d stretch the sock to make it look longer. Then I’d hide my handiwork in a hole in the ditch so that my mother wouldn’t see it. That night on my way home from my dancing, I’d return to the hole in the ditch, retrieve the woollen sock and then confidently enter the house. If my mother woke up, she wouldn’t be bothered as to where I’d been because I had knitting to show for my night’s escapade. At other times after the rosary was said at night, and my mother and father had gone to sleep, I’d go out to meet some of the other teenagers to chat and dance. The clock in our house used to strike on the hour every hour, so while my mother and father were sleeping I’d put it back two hours in case they awoke when I was coming in late. Then I’d get up in the morning before them and put it forward again. I didn’t see any harm in it as we weren’t doing anything untoward.
chapter four
* * *
Guttin’ and Tattie Howkin’
AS THE PACKED train chugged through the pleasing landscape of Gweedore in the Donegal Gaeltacht, where the native Irish language is spoken, I didn’t dare blink for fear of losing sight of Owey.
My heart was full of sorrow and my face a soggy mass from crying as the island became smaller and smaller in the distance.
I let out a big sob as it shrank to a mere dot on the horizon. I was taking the train to the boat, which in turn would take me far away from the island. It would be several months before I’d set foot on Owey again, not until Hallowe’en.
My poor mother and father hadn’t been able to conceal their heartbreak as I’d headed down to the currach on the shore. My father would never cry, but I could see in his eyes that he was suffering pain. Three of the family were leaving that day. My older brothers, James and Edward, were travelling with me, as they had got jobs to do with fishing too. My sister, Maggie, and younger brother, Owenie, were the only ones left behind. And Maggie would soon be going off to work in a Scottish hotel.
Emigration, no matter for how short a time, always brought pain to families. It tore loved ones apart in the struggle to survive and put food on the table. After my first experience away in Derry with Mr and Mrs Foley, I thought it wouldn’t be such a wrench. But it was much worse. I was now nearly 16 and a new job awaited me at Lerwick, one of the Shetland Islands off Scotland. This time it wasn’t housekeeping at the other end of the journey but the daily grind of fish gutting. It was a lovely summer’s day in June as I set off, but there was no sunshine in my heart. I was filled with foreboding as I had no notion of what lay in store for me, other than being guaranteed hard work and lots of it.
As the boat journey neared an end, the outline of the houses and the church spire around Lerwick harbour came into view. Lerwick, Shetland’s only town and Britain’s most northerly one, was a hive of industry at the time thanks to the wealth the herring fishing brought to the local community. One of the community’s most notable features was its fine town hall.
I didn’t have time to take full stock of my surroundings because I was immediately introduced to my new ‘family’ – the ‘herring girls’, as we were known – and given a demonstration of the work that was required. Growing up on an island, I was no stranger to fish gutting, but doing it as part of a team of girls who came from Scotland and many parts of Ireland was a strange, new experience and a lot more demanding. I set about working in a crew of three people, with two of us frantically gutting the fish and the third girl packing them into barrels between layers of coarse salt. As it is an oily fish, herring deteriorates quickly, so it was essential that we swiftly removed the insides with a razor-sharp knife and preserved the fish in the salt. The target was to gut and pack a minimum of 30 barrels a day. Each barrel contained 80 to 100 herring, depending on their size, so you really had to concentrate on getting the job done and there was no slacking off.
As we diligently sliced open the fish and scooped out their insides, we wore oilskin skirts with bibs over our own clothing to save our bodies from the mess of the entrails, the water and the salt. The protective layers of clothes had to be long enough to cover the tops of our boots so as to p
revent fish scales and raw pieces of gutted fish slipping down inside our footwear. Our tall rubber boots had wooden soles to cope with greasy surfaces and the corrosive effects of the salt.
Unbleached cotton which came from empty flour sacks was cut into strips, wound round our fingers and fastened with cotton thread in a desperate and mostly useless attempt to protect our hands from the sharp knives and stinging salt. During our dinner break we’d replace the strips, but they were a poor source of protection, and I regularly got excruciating cuts as I went about my business. After a couple of months, my hands looked like they’d been through a bloody battle. The marks of the knife carved out a pattern. Raw wounds were a torture when the coarse salt got into them. I had no choice but to endure the stinging pain and get on with the job. Otherwise I wouldn’t get paid.
We did our work out in the open on the quayside in all kinds of weather. The stench from the innards of the fish was often overpowering. This was one of the fishing industry’s most gruelling jobs. Our contracts committed us to begin work when required and to continue as long as we wanted; if you put in the extra hours you’d get more pay. We’d normally start at 7 a.m. and finish at 6 p.m., with just a one-hour break for our dinner. In the busiest time you could end up doing 14 or 15 hours and working by lamplight until all the fresh fish had been processed. Standing in the same spot working with the fish at night is hardship I’ll never forget. In particular, the cold I experienced was almost beyond human endurance. The only source of heat was a wee lantern with hot coals in it. Every now and then we’d take turns going to the lantern to warm our hands. But that only made the work harder because once you put your hands into the cold fish again it was torture. At the end of a hard day you’d only be fit for bed. At night we slept in basic wooden huts.
Even on Days when it Rains Page 5