Even on Days when it Rains

by Julia O'Donnell

  My wedding day was the most exciting and emotional of my young life. The year was 1947. I was 28 years old, while Francie was a year younger. I suppose if it had been today they’d be calling him my ‘toy boy’. But toy boys hadn’t been invented then. Just a couple of weeks earlier, Francie and myself had gone off together to buy the ring. There was no big excursion down to Dublin to go browsing in some of the fancy jewellery stores there. Instead, the two of us went up to the local chemist’s shop in Dungloe and picked out a ring. It was a very simple gold band. Although he was by my side at the time, like most men Francie took a back seat when I was making my selection. Once I was happy, that’s all that mattered as far as he was concerned. Oh, I wouldn’t have been more excited if the ring had come from Tiffany’s. Back home on the island, every day in the run-up to the wedding I’d open the box just to have a look at it. It gave me such a thrill. I so loved that ring.

  Although my mother and father had never met Francie – and wouldn’t do so until the day of the wedding – they were both very happy to see me getting married. I suppose they accepted that their work had been done and they were glad to see me settling down. Seeing a daughter married off was a great relief for most parents in those times. ‘Well, God bless you, and the best of luck’ is what my father said to me when I broke the news to them.

  On the eve of my wedding, I packed a small case and prepared to leave Owey. I was going to stay with my cousin, Bridget Sharkey, over on the mainland in case a storm blew up overnight and prevented me from getting to the church on time the following morning. My excitement over the wedding was tinged with sadness. I was leaving my mother and father and flying the nest to start the next chapter in my life. Despite the harshness of life on Owey, I had loved living there. And my mother and father had meant everything to me. I would still see them, of course, but now I was about to make my own way in the world as a wife and, if God granted me the gift, as a mother.

  I was upset as I bid farewell to Mammy. Daddy was over by the school mending fishing nets.

  ‘Go over now and say good-bye to your father,’ my mother said to me.

  I went over to my father, and we talked about the progress he was making with his work.

  ‘You’ll be marrying in the morning,’ Daddy remarked as he fiddled with the net.

  ‘I will,’ I said. ‘I’m off now.’

  I just couldn’t bring myself to say the word goodbye.

  My cousin was all excited to see me. She was playing a big role in my wedding. As Margaret had emigrated to America, I had asked Bridget to be my bridesmaid. Bridget was a dressmaker, and she had made my wedding outfit. It was a lovely blue, two-piece suit – a jacket and skirt – and she’d got me a little navy hat to match. Bridget and myself chatted that night for a couple of hours while drinking cocoa. We were reminiscing about our youth, and the time I’d spent in Derry with the Foleys when I’d gone to visit her sometimes in the evenings. Eventually it was time to go to bed. With all the excitement, I thought I’d never close my eyes that night. Despite this, I slept soundly.

  The next day I awoke early, around 6 a.m., and got up and made myself a cup of tea. It was a lovely September dawn. There was still a hint of summer in the air and no sign of the leaves departing the trees. Bridget came out of her bedroom with a smile on her face. ‘Looks like you’re going to have good weather for your big day,’ she remarked. Indeed, it looked like the sun was going to split the stones. The wedding ceremony had been set for 11 a.m. and I waited until the last moment before putting on my lovely new suit as I didn’t want anything to spoil it.

  There were twenty guests, including family members, and just four motor-cars at the wedding. Neither Francie’s widowed mother nor my mother and father were there for my big occasion. That wasn’t unusual in those times. The older people often didn’t go to weddings. Francie’s mother was looking after her grandchildren, as his brothers and sisters were at the wedding.

  When I arrived, Francie and his best man – his older brother, Dinny, whom I’d only met once very briefly when we were in Scotland – were already waiting at the altar. When I reached that spot and turned to Francie, he looked like a prince to me in his dark suit and white shirt with blue tie. I could see that he was a little nervous, but he was still smiling. I was nervous too, standing there in front of the local priest, but it was a very quick ceremony. ‘I now pronounce you man and wife,’ the priest said at the end. And that was it. I was now Julia O’Donnell. It was a simple affair with no music or flowers, and no photographer to capture that special moment in our lives. At the end of the Mass, as we filed out of the church and into the sunlight, the men lit up their cigarettes, and one by one they came and shook hands with us. The women, all dressed in their Sunday best, hugged me and shook Francie’s hand. ‘The best of luck now,’ I heard ringing in my ears as we left the grounds of the little country church.

  Francie and I got into the back seat of one of the cars, and we were driven the short journey to Campbell’s Hotel in Dungloe for breakfast. The entire wedding party followed, and we all sat around a big table, tucking into bacon, egg and sausage. A big fry-up sealed the marriage. I remember how the bill was £2 12s 6d!

  But the wedding celebrations were just starting. We sat around chatting for the remainder of the morning. Then we were off again, this time to the village of Dunfanaghey, where we had lunch in a local hotel. We were really pushing the boat out.

  Later in the evening we returned to Logue’s pub in Kincasslagh. Little did I know what awaited me. The wedding festivities were just starting in earnest. My father and two other men were down at the pier and standing by a boat, waiting to take us back to Owey.

  ‘That’s my father,’ I said to Francie when I spotted him. ‘I hope everything is all right back on the island. C’mon over and meet him.’

  It was the first time for those two great men in my life to meet.

  ‘You got a good girl, there,’ my father remarked to Francie as they shook hands.

  ‘Indeed I know it,’ Francie replied.

  There wasn’t an awkward moment between the two of them. Both were very relaxed in each other’s company. I knew that my father would like Francie. You couldn’t not like Francie, it’s just the kind of man he was.

  It was 9 p.m. when we arrived on the island, and Francie and myself went straight to my family home. There was a big meal laid on for us – as if we needed more food with the day we’d just had! – but it was lovely to see everyone so excited and making a fuss over us. My mother was delighted to finally meet the man I’d never stopped talking about when I was at home on the island. I could see that she too was charmed by him. ‘He’s a lovely man,’ she whispered to me amid the commotion in the house.

  Afterwards, we went over to the school, where all the islanders who were able to walk had gathered for a night of music and dance. There was poteen being handed around, and soon everyone was in high spirits. Inside, the schoolhouse was lit up with the tilley lamps from the island homes, and soon chalk was rising from the floor as the dancing got into full swing. Francie and myself were the first to take to the floor to great cheering from those gathered round us.

  I never doubted for a moment that everyone would like Francie. And I was right. He impressed all the islanders that night. All my family and neighbours on Owey assured me during the celebrations what a fine catch he was.

  ‘You got a good man there, Julia,’ one woman remarked.

  ‘I know it well. God blessed me,’ I replied.

  All through the night the compliments were flying. Every one of the islanders had a great welcome for Francie, and he was the life and soul of the party. He had a lovely singing voice and could play the flute as well. The dancing and singing continued until the sun came up, with Francie and myself in great demand out on the floor. Everyone wanted to have a dance with the bride and groom. It was one of the best wedding parties ever on Owey, even if I say so myself. I was wishing the celebrations could just go on and on. It was morning whe
n we finally got to bed. We stayed in my family home. Francie and myself were in my room, with James and Edward next door. It had been a long day and night, and we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  The following day we headed off to Francie’s family home, which was my first visit there. It was also the first time I met his mother. Her husband had died five years earlier from cancer. Francie was one of eight boys, including twins, and I got a great welcome in that house from their mother. Oh, she was a lovely woman. ‘I hope the pair of you will enjoy a long and happy life together,’ she whispered in my ear as she hugged me. We stayed in the O’Donnell house overnight, and then the following day we returned to Owey, where all the excitement had died down and it was back to normal day-today living.

  Even though we were still on our honeymoon, Francie and I had to chip in and lend a hand with the farm work. Within a few hours back on the island, I was out in my bare feet and on my hands and knees in the clay gathering the potatoes that Francie and my father were digging out with two spades. We spent the rest of the week doing that job. That was our honeymoon.

  After just a week together on Owey it was time to go out and earn our living. And, in what was to become the pattern of our married life, we were immediately separated. Francie had got a job in Scotland pulling beet on farms, while I joined a local crew who were off to Great Yarmouth on the north Norfolk coast in England to pack herring. It would be Christmas before I saw my husband again.

  I was heartbroken to be leaving Francie so soon into our marriage, and I pined for him every day that I was away. It didn’t help that I was doing hard labour in atrocious conditions. The work in Yarmouth was out in the open, and we had to put our heads down and do the job in driving wind and rain. There was little or no thought for the welfare of the workers. Nothing mattered except the fish being gutted and processed as fast as possible. The squawks of the seagulls that circled above the harbour were drowned out by the noise of the fishermen as they hoisted their baskets onto the quay, where all of us workers struggled to keep up with the hundreds of thousands of herring coming in each day.

  But while our job was tough, the poor fishermen’s was a lot worse, and far more dangerous. They could be at sea for weeks, struggling for dear life through storms and spending up to five hours at a time on deck hauling in the nets. Our earnings, of course, never reflected the long hours and the hardship we all had to endure. As always, it was someone else up the line who was reaping the rich rewards of our hard labour. The people turning over the money in Yarmouth were the wealthy merchants. The cramped rows where we lived were in the shadow of their houses. From their vantage point, the well-off could look out at the hive of industry below them and watch their money mount up. I doubt if they ever gave us a second thought.

  After a couple of months working in those terrible conditions, I got a reprieve when my sister-in-law Muriel, Owen’s wife, asked me to come up to their home in Dundee in Scotland and take over the housework while she went into hospital to have her first child. My brother James was working in Dundee and living with them at the time, so I had to go and look after the two men. I stayed on to help after Muriel arrived home with her little bundle of joy, a boy also called James, who today has a wife and family of his own. I was reunited with Francie in Dundee that Christmas, for the first time since we’d been parted just a week into our marriage. It was a lovely reunion. I was so happy to have him with me. I always said I didn’t care where I lived as long as I had my lovely husband with me. It’s just that the struggle to survive didn’t allow us to be together.

  My happiness didn’t last long as the search for work separated us again shortly after Christmas. Francie returned to Scotland, and I went back to the quay in Yarmouth. We were struggling to provide for our future, and the little money we were making was all going into the one purse, his and mine.

  One day a letter arrived in Yarmouth for me. It was from my mother, and she wrote that I was wanted back home. My brother James’s wife, Peggy, had had her first baby, a daughter called Margaret. My mother wrote how Peggy had developed a blood clot in her leg – they called it ‘white leg’ – and she was going to be in bed for the best part of a year. She had to keep her foot in a lobster pot to avoid movement because the clot could go to her brain. I was needed back home to look after baby Margaret. I folded the letter, stuffed it in my pocket and made immediate plans to return. Back home, it was a very busy time for me. I was milking the cow and doing all the washing and baking and cooking. My mother had a sore knee, and I was looking after her, helping her in and out of bed.

  As the months passed, Peggy recovered and Margaret blossomed into a fine, healthy child. She is also married today with children of her own. But as Peggy was recovering, I was being very foolish, even reckless, about my own health – as I was about to discover.

  chapter six

  * * *

  John Bosco and the Shoe Box

  FRANCIE WAS DELIGHTED when I wrote and told him my news: we had a baby on the way. Now we were going to be a real family. Like every woman, I regarded the prospect of becoming a mother as the greatest gift from God. Each day I prayed that we would be blessed with a healthy child. And Francie told me in his letters that he was praying for me too. In the latter stages of pregnancy I really needed the benefit of those prayers because I became very ill.

  My poor mother took a bad turn around that time, and we all feared the worst. She looked for all the world like she was at death’s door. My brother Owen and his wife, Muriel, came over from Dundee to see her. Muriel took one look at me as she came through the door, and I could see by her expression that she was shocked.

  ‘Are you not well yourself, Julia?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not myself, but sure I’m pregnant,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Julia, being pregnant is not an illness, and you don’t look very well to me,’ Muriel replied, and I could hear the concern in her tone.

  I didn’t know there was anything wrong with me. I didn’t feel great, but I’d put it down to my condition. After all, I was seven months gone at the time.

  ‘Your face is swollen, Julia. I think you should see the doctor,’ Muriel advised.

  ‘Ah, I’ll be just fine when I get a rest,’ I protested. When you’re young you think you can fight the world on your own.

  ‘You’re going to the doctor,’ she insisted. ‘You’re not well.’

  Mother was feeling a lot better, but I was now in trouble. I knew that by the expression on the doctor’s face when I went to visit him a few days later, after giving in to relentless coaxing from Muriel. He examined me and said, ‘Mrs O’Donnell, I think we should get you to the hospital straight away.’ The sombre tone of his voice wasn’t what I wanted to hear.

  Apparently my blood pressure was as high as it could go, and my kidneys were failing. I was rushed by ambulance to hospital in Donegal where I was immediately hooked up to all kinds of contraptions. I was gravely ill, they told my family. Francie was contacted and told about my condition. They informed him that I was going to have to be operated on when all the tests had been carried out, and there was a danger I might not come through it. Needless to say, poor Francie was in a terrible state.

  When Francie came home, he went up to the local priest, Father Glacken, and asked him to bless me. Poor Francie was distraught and in tears.

  ‘Francie, I thought you were a stronger man than this,’ Father Glacken said to him.

  ‘I don’t want to lose her,’ Francie sobbed.

  Father Glacken opened the drawer of his desk, took out a small portion of salt and gave it to Francie. ‘Go up to Julia straight away and give her a taste of this salt,’ he ordered him.

  Without question, Francie did as he was told. He arrived at the hospital and put a pinch of the salt on my lips. ‘Now taste that,’ he told me.

  ‘I’ve been fasting for thirteen days and you’re giving me salt,’ I said, managing a smile.

  ‘Take it, Julia. It’s from Father Glacken,’ he said softly. F
rancie had great faith in the priest.

  The following day, Francie arrived before they took me to the table to operate. He asked for the doctor to see how I was.

  ‘Mr O’Donnell, she’s doing very well. There’ll be no operation,’ said the doctor.

  Francie was delighted.

  ‘Where this change came from I don’t know, because your wife was in a critical condition last night,’ the doctor added.

  Francie crossed himself and thought of Father Glacken.

  There was still a lot of concern about my condition, however, and the medical staff decided that the best course of action was to induce the birth. They gave me injections, and I suffered for 19 hours in labour before my first son was born. Being two months premature, he was so small I could hold him in the palm of my hand.

  We called him John Bosco, and I’ll tell you now how he got his name. The night before John was born, there were a lot of visitors to the hospital, and the nuns asked them to pray for me. They said that I had a hard battle ahead of me, and it was a case of trying to save the mother, but there was no hope for the baby.

  John Bosco was born on a Saturday, and the following day the same people came to see me. They told me what the nuns had said to them, and how they had gone away, gathered in one house to pray, and made a novena to St John Bosco, praying that both myself and the baby would survive. They then suggested that I should call the newborn John Bosco after the saint who had intervened with the man above to let us come through the ordeal safe and well. To be honest with you, I didn’t even know at the time that there was a saint called John Bosco.

  Many years later, I read that St John Bosco was an Italian priest who came from a poor background. His father died when he was only two years old, leaving his mother, Margaret Bosco, to support three young boys on her own. Don Bosco went on to become a priest and founded the Salesian Society in 1859, in response to the poverty and desperation he saw among young people in his home town of Turin. He went on to found homes and schools to help them. Today the Salesians are the third-largest order in the Catholic Church, with more than 17,000 priests and brothers and 17,000 sisters in most countries in the world. They are recognized everywhere as leaders in the field of schooling for the poor, looking after the needs of abandoned and neglected children and youths. It was his unselfish dedication and work with the poor youngsters that earned Don Bosco a sainthood: he was beatified by Pope Pius XI in 1929.