First posted in December 2005

 

Dressed: One from nearly twenty years ago

Pearlie, Lizzie and Pepe

In the olden days, farming people had two sorts of clothes: their ‘good’ clothes and their ‘wearing’ clothes. Good clothes were for outings — high days, holidays and Sundays — while ‘wearing’ clothes were for working in. In our house, my father used to talk about ‘good’ clothes and ‘ould’ clothes. Usually, ‘wearing’ or ‘working’ clothes had once been good clothes. A farmer’s outfit would most likely have consisted of a pair of old tweed or heavy cloth trousers worn with an old suit jacket. These need not necessarily have matched, as trousers would wear out more quickly than jackets. Belts were uncommon, and trousers were held up with galluses. If the elastic in these wore out, the trousers could be secured with a length of baler twine — and no one would think any less of the wearer. The look would be finished off with a cloth ‘kep’, as there was no such thing as a heated tractor cab in those days.

Women who worked at home would wear an old skirt that had once been a good, church-going skirt, along with layers of jumpers and cardigans and a flowered apron. When outdoors, she would add a headscarf, an old coat and a pair of wellington boots. Trousers were never worn, as they were not considered ladylike.

Bert’s mother still adheres to these traditional dress codes. While at home, she wanders around in an assortment of mismatched garments, often including layers of polyester and acrylic skirts. She always wears a flowered apron and a pair of Bert’s old deck shoes. Many of her clothes date from the early acrylic years and are virtually indestructible — as long as they’re kept away from naked flames. Being both canny and from Cully, she sees no need to replace these vintage garments. Her better clothes are kept for special outings, Church and the like.

Last week, Pearlie asked Bert to take her to visit her sister Lizzie. Since it was only Lizzie she was going to see, she decided against changing out of her ‘wearing’ clothes. On the way, she asked Bert to stop at the local garage to stock up on wild bird seed. She gave him £10 and instructed him to spend £5. Meanwhile, she waited in the van. But then she changed her mind. Bert said he was gathering up her purchases when she suddenly appeared in the shop foyer, shouting:

‘Bertie! Bertie! Ye may spend the whole ten poond on the wee birds!’

This is what he told me.

God, it was strange to see her standing there in her old ‘wearing’ clothes. You know, I never give her clothes a thought when she’s at home, because I’m so used to the odd way she dresses. But to see her standing there among normal folk — it looked so strange. Back in the van, I was having a wee giggle to myself about it, and she said, ‘What are you laughing at?’ I said, ‘You! And the cut of you, standing in the shop with your apron and all the rest of it.’ And do you know what she said back?

‘Those that knows me, knows I hae better; and those that disnae, disnae matter!’

Off to a wedding in her best clothes

The Last Aunt

 

Lizzie 1930-2021

So that's it. Bert's last Aunt has gone and now he's the only only one still standing from that branch of the family tree. An era ended. No-one comes after him.

Lizzie loved dogs and dogs loved her. It was when she asked Bert a few months ago not to bring our two when he visited that he knew things weren't right with her. She had an underlying condition, and who hasn't at 90? But it was Covid-19 took her in the end.

Lizzie

We visited Bert's Aunt this afternoon. I'd always thought that, when this was all over, we'd be visiting Lizzie in a lovely care home where she'd live out her twilight years. But no. It seems that Covid and cancer mean that she will not be leaving the Robinson Memorial Hospital.  We spoke to her from outdoors through a window, slightly ajar. She couldn't seem to turn her head but appeared to acknowledge our presence by making hand gestures. Bert told her he wished he could hold her hand, but y'know, this old Covid. She turned her hand as if reaching out towards him. When we left her window he was close to tears. I don't think Lizzie will make it until March.

Before she went into hospital she was very fractious. No doubt, from the fear, anxiety and pain she was suffering. On one of the days Bert was looking after her she told him that he had no more sense than when he was six-years-old and that it was time he grew up. When he told me that I thought it was hilarious. Lizzie used to keep those sort of things to herself but by the time one is ninety years old, why not tell it like one sees it? Lucky for Bert, I like him being in touch with his inner child.

Because it was such a lovely day we went home by a scenic route, past Craig's Wood and the Moss where Bert's father used to cut turf and where we'd go help him bring it home. Lizzie was so often involved in that. Those were such carefree days, days when we were younger, so much younger than today.

Guess that's life.

Photo taken by me in 1988. Bert was 29, Lizzie was 57.

 

The Man Above

 First of all, I have to report that I didn't get very far with the novel. Just a few changes in the notes about how many illegitimate children the father had before he met the mother and some new thoughts on infant mortality.

For I was too busy paying heed to the Georgia run-offs. Got up early on Wednesday morning and positively whooped at the news that the Democrats had succeeded. That was a good feeling about US politics that didn't last the day. For, as everyone now knows, there was a bit of an insurrection on Capitol Hill. 

The day after Bert had to see the man up the road who is quite the Trump fan, and who believes the orange one to have been sent by God to turn around the evils of this world. No matter, that God's chosen one has a dubious grip on morals and decency, for He works in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform... as isn’t written in scripture.

The man up the road informed Bert that the rioters were most emphatically not supporters of Trump. They were in fact actors and Antifa. He maintains that in a months time the truth will out, Trump will be back in the White House and Biden will be in jail!

My thoughts? I have come to believe that those who take the bible literally are capable of believing anything.

Meanwhile, closer to home, Bert’s Aunt Lizzie was admitted to hospital on Monday. There was a day-long wait for the GP’s visit and then a five hour wait for an ambulance which, when it finally arrived, was staffed by volunteers all the way from County Fermanagh.

Anyway, the hospital did some tests and she has a serious problem. She refused a biopsy and they said she could go home, but not until the social workers had arranged some extra help at home – which is good. Then the hospital phoned to inform her next-of-kin that the hospital bay she’d been nursed in had a coronavirus case so now all those patients are in isolation for ten days. These are crazy times and not a good time to get sick.

But for now, I am looking forward to the Spring, the vaccine and a hair cut. And Bert is looking forward to receiving the £30 bet we put on the results of the American election. I said I wouldn’t pay up until inauguration day. For anything could happen. Anything.

Doing Christmas

I didn't make such a great fist of Christmas this year, no Christmas cake, no tree, no fairy lights, no three desserts. No shops.

The no shops shopping was the good part. I did Christmas present shopping online and it was OK except for around five of my gifts not arriving on time. And that was despite being ordered weeks in advance. It's a hard thing to admit but Amazon, no matter how wrong the company seems, is at least reliable. Note to self - more forward planning for 2021.

When it came down to it I missed not having a tree. 

Bert volunteered to be with his elderly Aunt on Christmas Day so I spent a good part of that day on my own. There was a family Zoom call planned for the morning which featured Martha and Evie, James and Emily showing us all their presents. I missed half of it due to connection problems and lack of forward planning and had a jolly good cry about it. Then of course, I had to cry about how sad Christmas is when we think of all the people (and dogs) that aren't with us any more then had to give myself a shake remembering that I have family members missing a child who, had she lived, would still be young enough to believe in Father Christmas. 

Boxing Day was better. Lockdown began but we did have Martha and Evie and their parents around. More Christmas food and then a round of Blind Man's Buff, Chinese Whispers and Charades. Is it just me, or are  Blind Man's Buff and Chinese Whispers maybe not terribly PC? If not, I've yet to receive the memo and anyway now that we are (apparently) no longer sophisticated Europeans these things don't matter. Who knows. Anyway - it was great fun and we laughed a lot which was heartening.

Bert spent today with Aunt Lizzie, I footered about doing little bits and pieces which included graping silage to cattle, a first for me. It is great to still be having new experiences in one's late sixties. I also watched the first episode of Bridgerton and cracked open a bottle of Malbec while it was still light outside.

Next year (if I'm spared) I'm Really Doing Christmas, fruit cake, plastic Santas, tinsel and everything. 

The Famine Memorial

One of the sweetest things about living in a rural area is not having neighbours or, at least, not having them live too near to one's own place. For years Lizzie had the quietest of neighbours then a family moved into the house that shares a boundary with her own. She had little truck with them but, lordy, were they noisy. Lots of shouting children and barking dogs.* In the days when Lizzie was fit to go out walking with her own wee dog, she might well have made friends with the children but that never happened. I wouldn't be surprised if those children thought she was a witch. That's what I used to think about very old ladies who lived on their own. Too many fairy tales y'see.

Another thing I thought when I was a child was that lords and ladies were special, and better than us. Too many stories about kings and queens, handsome princes and beautiful princesses y'see. What they do to impressionable young minds is so very wrong. I recall one particular occasion when my Uncle Vincent challenged this belief. It was when he had us out for a drive along the famed Antrim coast road and, as was usual for him, lecturing us on geology, philosophy and history as we travelled along. At one point, somewhere between Waterfoot and Carnlough, he stopped the car to show us something. This was the Famine Memorial carved into the limestone rock that had been commissioned the third Lady Londonderry after the Great Famine. I read it, as much as I could for some of it was scratched out, and thought it very fine sentiment. Uncle Vincent begged to differ. He pointed out that the fine lords and ladies, and queens had done very little to assist the Irish people during the famine times. This is the part that was removed,


“An imperishable memorial of Ireland’s affliction and England’s generosity in the year 1846-47.”


Vincent was scathing about Queen Victoria's generosity towards her Irish 'subjects' which amounted to £5,000. Yet still a good deal better than the Londonderry family contribution - £30 while, at the same time, they spent £150,000 refurbishing their Irish estate, Mount Stewart in County Down (which I was pleased to visit Sunday last).

It surprised me, back then, to realise that lords and ladies, kings and queens might not be the admirable beings I'd read about in storybooks. And for that, the very beginning of my wokeness, I'd like to call out Uncle Vincent, a true champion for social justice.

The Famine Memorial at Garron Point, County Antrim

*Those neighbours of Lizzie moved to our part of the world. Not that far from us but thankfully not within earshot.

Wednesday Day Out

It occurred to me a week or so ago that Bert and I are not spending enough quality time together. I have blogging, he has the clarinet and we come together for gardening and meals but it's not enough. We needed more us-time so we decided more days out. And this week, Wednesday.

But, as always, life gets in the way. Aunt Lizzie needed coal. Since we discovered that a despicable coal delivery man was cheating Aunt Lizzie by bringing crappy coal and charging for top quality, Bert has been bringing her fuel from his own supplier. But as his sore ribs are paining him and he's under strict orders (from me) not to overdo it, I had no option but to help him with the offloading. And we had to wait until midday as Lizzie is not an early riser.

That all went well. Offloaded twelve bags of coal. How fit must coal delivery persons be? That is a tough job. Brought three dogs with us to Lizzie's delight. She adores dogs but can no longer manage having her own. Eighty-eight years old and still living independently, she is very much to be admired. It was Ziggy's first visit and he had to be dragged away. He knows an ardent dog-lover when he sees one.

Before we left I was gifted two gorgeous pelargoniums grown from cuttings. Eighty-eight years old and Lizzie is still as green-fingered as ever she was.

So, coal delivery and plant collection complete it was time to embark on the day out proper. From Connor to Parkgate, to Antrim, then to Randalstown where we walked in the forest, once a deer park belonging to the Lords O'Neill. Ziggy did not approve of the deer. They were completely unfazed by him.

After the forest walk, we progressed to Toome.

I said to Bert,

Shall we stop at Cargin graveyard and visit the IRA graves?

He said,

No.

Which was OK.

We stopped for coffee in Toome and ran into the lovely Liddys who seemed delighted to see us or maybe it was the dogs they liked but it was a sweet encounter no matter the main attraction. I don't think Judy or Jess have ever been to the shores of Lough Neagh before but they liked it.

Whammling the Bantie

Bernie the bantam became a singleton when the fox took her sister Bianca. For over a year she wandered this yard a sad and lonesome bantie. Never an egg did we see. Then along came Attracta, Dympna and Patsy and she cheered up. This must be where the expression ‘chirpy’ comes from for Bernie chirped, chirruped and chucked from morning to night. Previously she had only been heard to squawk. Queen of the hen house she was. She even started laying the occasional egg.

Then she started making a chookling noise. “There’s no point letting her clock on sterile eggs!” Aunt Lizzie declared. “Ye must whammle her.” I was intrigued. What was whammling?

Whammling involves putting the clocking hen in a dark enclosed place and leaving her there until she stops clocking. So we put Bernie under a clematis crate. She was outraged. I didn’t like doing it for it seemed cruel. But then she escaped. She had stopped making the chookling noise so I thought she was ‘off the clock’ but Lizzie said, “She’s only trying to trick you. Clocking hens are very crafty.” The next thing was she disappeared completely. We searched and searched but there was no sign of Bernie. We assumed she had decided to make a new nest outside and fully expected to see her in the morning. That’s if the fox didn’t see her first.

We didn’t see her on Saturday morning. Or Sunday, Monday or Tuesday. Oh well. Foxy must have taken her. On Wednesday I followed his pad fully expecting to see a trail of black feathers but there was nothing. Then on Wednesday evening Bert heard a faint chook, chook coming from the wee cupboard the central heating boiler is in. He opened the door and out staggered Bernie. She had a drooth on her that took 15 minutes to sate. Then she ate two helpings of corn and a slice of wheaten bread. Then she drank lots more water. Then she went scraping with the other hens. Scrape, scrape, scrape with the feet. Step back to see what you’ve got. Then more scrape, scrape, scraping.

So maybe next time Lizzie says, “Whammle that hen,” we should keep her whammled. It's either that or ask Clint for the lend of the rooster.