Ballykeel

 We went to live in Ballykeel 2 sometime in the mid-eighties. It was predominantly a Protestant estate with few Catholic families living there. The people in our square were friendly enough. The neighbour on one side was housework mad, her home and children were spotless. She washed her wheelie bin inside and out every single week. She cleared up after every meal and straight away set the table for the next one. Every night at eleven o’clock sharp the hoover came out. Bert and I used to lie in bed and laugh about it. Being newly partnered up we had far better things to be at than vacuuming floors.

Dotty’s vacuum cleaner was not the only thing that disturbed our nights. One night I heard the clink of glass coming from outside and peeked through the window. There were young fellows all over the place, masked with scarves and balaclavas, for those were pre-hoodie days. They were gathering up armfuls of empty milk bottles from all our doorsteps. Soon after the RUC were in the estate and the young fellows were pitching petrol bombs at them. This was what the empty bottles were for. There was a tremendous commotion just outside our house and I had to look out. The other next door neighbour’s son (not Dotty’s) was being pursued by two burly members of the DMSU and I heard them shouting, “Come here ye wee bastard!” He made it to his mother’s house and I don’t know whether they trailed him out of it or not but if they did there was damn all they could do about it for he was only about fifteen at the time. This young boy never spoke to me because he knew I was Catholic. That was the thing about Ballykeel 2 – the older people were friendly enough, the young girls and the children were fine with us but teenage boys rarely spoke to us. They were too hard and too loyal to take to do with one of the other sort. That wee hard boy had a cross to bear himself for his mother had foolishly landed him with a Fenian name. He insisted he was ‘Raymond’ to his friends, but when his name appeared in the papers, which it did with some regularity when he got a bit older, he was ‘Eamon’.

The picture above brought back some memories. It was taken on a hot, hot day in midsummer. The man on the right was a quiet wee widower who gave nobody any bother. That young lad leaning on my bin? I cannot remember who he was at all. Hannah is to the left of the picture sucking her thumb, a great hobby of hers in those days and many a day since. The picture is in rough shape but there is something about it that I like. Most of those houses are gone now, bulldozed to the ground by the NIHE.  In the background, you can see Crebilly Chapel looking down over that big Protestant estate.

We left Ballykeel after an incendiary device was placed on my doorstep. The police were keen to prosecute the person responsible and went out of their way to move us to a safer area. This process took five months during which time I lived among my Ballykeel neighbours and came to no further harm. We moved to Dunclug, which was, at that time, a pleasant estate. Its dark days were yet to come.

Many years later whilst working in the hostel we had a couple of Ballykeel men come in to give the place a lick of paint. They were connected to an organisation with Ulster in its name and were carrying out work for the community.

I asked one of them, “Tell me this. Are there any Catholics living in Ballykeel now?” His reply, a trifle indignant, “Indeed there are! We take very good care of our Catholics in Ballykeel!” I didn’t like to say that no one took much care of my kids when they were getting verbally abused on their way to and from school. Maybe it was their kids who were doing it.

 In case you were wondering…

NIHE – Northern Ireland Housing Executive. Province-wide housing authority established in the early seventies. It was a reaction to the civil disturbances in the country in the sixties many of which related to the unfair distribution of public housing run by the local councils. It soaked up a lot of my peers who graduated from the University of Ulster in the seventies.

RUC – Royal Ulster Constabulary. Has since been rebranded Police Service of Northern Ireland. It was perceived as ‘a Protestant Force for a Protestant People’ but by the time the eighties came around nobody liked them. Hence the rebranding.

DMSU – Divisional Mobile Support Units. These were very scarey policemen brought out to riot situations. They were very well-armed and wore full face visors which made them scarier still. They were often hyped-up to the max and not to be messed with.

Fenian – used by Protestants as a derogatory term for Catholics, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fenian

More Apple Dumpling

I am finding it hard to settle to fresh blogging. So back to the trusty stopgap - a recycled post. This one is almost 20 years old. Some things have changed since I wrote it, some things haven't. Swisser is still annoying me, and I have not gotten any fatter. The big change is that Matty's not here any more. She will be gone thirteen years tomorrow.

Apple Dumpling

Mother and I went to the Hospice shop in Magherafelt yesterday where I picked up a denim skirt and pink stripy cheesecloth blouse both size 20. That shop is damn good as there is little competition in the area and there are lots of rich people (good quality cast offs) about. There are also loads of large well-fed people too as there were plenty of XL sizes. I am building up an extensive wardrobe of size 20 (and above) garments since getting amazingly fat. Sometimes I console myself that I’ve only gone up one dress size and that I was only kidding myself I was size 16 anyway.

Whilst putting on the denim skirt this morning I noticed that my waist appears to have risen. Let me explain. You know ladies that a huge amount of us wear the wrong bra size and that the starting point of measuring up for the proper size is underneath the bosom. Well that is where my waist has crept up to. My under-bust measurement and my waist are the same and in the same place. Nelly is now the shape of an apple with little arms and legs sticking out – and is that a cherry on the top?

A wise woman once told me that I shouldn’t worry about putting on weight as a result of stopping smoking. She said that after about a year the weight would go down again. Oh God I hope she is right.

Then another wise woman told me that a menopausal woman turns into an apple with little arms and legs sticking out, and then she gets diabetes. Thanks for that Swisser.

On Reading & Cooking

I finished two books this morning. The first was In the Castle of My Skin by George Lamming which I immediately wanted to reread. That is a rare feeling for me but I felt as if there was something there that I really needed to understand better. I will read it again.

The second book was Elisabeth Strout's Amy & Isabelle, a recommendation from London Sister. This one I didn't feel inclined to reread it but it did make me want to read another Strout. World Books on eBay here I come.

And speaking of World Books - I recently bought a pre-owned copy of Bee Wison's The Secret of Cooking. I paid top dollar for it, only a few quid less than a new copy and was very disappointed to discover that the previous owner had left some cooking splodges on it, in the form of stuck-together pages.  Of course, this meant that the book obviously encouraged cooking and if it had cost me a fiver I wouldn't have cared.  World Books were great about it and gave me a full refund which I have already spent on buying even more books from them. 

Tonight I made Mushroom Noodles with Peanut Dressing from Bee Wilson's book and it was superb. Probably the best salad dressing I've ever made in my life. It was the very definition of umami. Cannot wait to make it again. 

The Jeep has been in for a service this past day and a half. I've missed it. This must be how Vee feels all the time. No wheels. The car came back today and I was straight into town to buy all the special ingredients for the Mushroom Noodles etc. It was pension day yesterday and I longed to spend but had no wheels. I cracked around nine pm and replenished my spices from my online spice supplier. And I bought a book from World Books, The Trees by Percival Everett recommended by The Guardian and Ganching. I will probably buy Everett's James tomorrow if I can persuade Vee to Waterstone's.

PS This post should be more accurately be titled On Reading & Cooking & Drinking Wine for there was a really good offer in Tescos this evening.

Watching Blue Lights and Baby Reindeer. Gardening? Afraid not. It's far too cold and wet. Worst Spring in 70 years.

Catching Up

 

Who is that fellow sitting (some time ago) with all those young women? These days he is a retired solicitor, and two of the women are his sisters. I'm the one in the middle wearing a red dressing gown, my favourite outfit back in the day. I'm sitting next to my youngest sister who was always up for a night out. One girl I don't remember but the friend who took the original photograph will know for she knows everybody and everything.

These past couple of months have found me reconnecting with old friends.  First, it was Vee who I've been taking out a bit for she had to give up driving for a while. We get our goods in, go visit garden centres, cemeteries and coffee shops. We even went to Ikea! Just like regular old ladies. I'm finding it all most enjoyable. There was a lot of catching up and lots of stories to be told. 

Then about a week and a half ago I got a call from another old friend Cici. I'd bumped into her about a month before and we'd exchanged numbers. It was the usual thing. Must get together, the sort of thing that is often said and then not acted upon. But I was delighted to hear from her. She suggested meeting up with her and another friend two days hence. I was so excited. Thought about what I was going to wear even! Obviously not the red dressing gown for even though I still have it it doesn't fit too well these days. Our mutual friend, Ari - I've known her since she was twelve. She was London Sister's friend in first year at grammar school but after LS left town we became closer. 

As life goes on we take different paths, meet other friends, develop new interests and I hadn't seen Ari in nineteen years. I was nervous. I needn't have been. The craic was mighty, the catching up began. We had all changed so much yet it seemed we hadn't changed at all.  There will be a next time. I'm looking forward to it.

Cici took the original photograph and Ari is sitting next to me. It must have been taken in the latter half of the 1970s. Cici will know, she knows everything.  

Durty Danny

This past couple of years have seen us get two kittens and a pup. This has been cheering and has brought a bit of youthful high spirits to the house. This is all very well except that ten years from now they are going to catch up with us in decrepitude and it seems unfair, it's already unfair to foist our old selves on young animals. We might be wiser these days but we're nowhere near as much fun and Cleo hasn't had a tenth of the experiences that Danny and Rosie had being the beloved dogs of far younger people.

Danny travelled. He was never away from beaches, was all around Ireland, and even went to Manchester to visit Katy when she was at Uni. He loved the Dingle peninsula and had great times in Sligo and Galway. He was part of the County Antrim rave scene and attended many open-air music gatherings of an informal sort. We were party animals and so was he. Rosie might not have been as sociable or as far-travelled but she enjoyed her outings too as did Paddy. 

It helped that Nellybert were outrageously irresponsible. We let the dogs loose and assumed that all would be well. Once, at the Omagh Bluegrass Festival, we lost Danny and Rosie. We were staying (big crowd of us) in two holiday cottages. The two dogs were soon found, at a barbecue, to which they had not been invited. Danny was damnable for joining other people's picnics and barbecues and somehow he always got away with it. As did we.

One of Danny's more memorable trips was to Galway City. We had rooms somewhere and Danny was to sleep in the van. No bother to him as the van was his second home. Before we turned in for the night we took him for a walk. On a lead, but he was OK about it. A small van passed us with one of the back doors open. Something flew out. Partially cooked chicken pieces. Danny started to munch.  He ate as much as he could and then gathered in his mouth what he could carry back to the van. I told you we were irresponsible. We retired to our lodgings which were cheap but not cheerful. There is nothing cheerful about slugs crawling up the bathroom tiles. 

The next morning our darling dog was still alive, very much so but for the entirety of that day, the farts coming out of him were abominable. Served us right. 

And that was just one of Danny's many adventures. Poor Cleo is already over a year old and hasn't gone a step further than Waterfoot Beach. No off-lead adventures for her either as we are responsible pet-owners now. About time.

Cleo at Waterfoot

A Late Start

Blogging-wise April has got off to a slow start - all the usual excuses. Firstly, I was too busy, secondly, too tired. 

Katy and family arrived on the second day of the month, on a visit that was far too short yet very sweet. 

I managed to get a stinking cold which set in when the fam went back to Norfolk, so that's all I'm fit for tonight apart from posting the following pictures.