Remembering Matty on Mother's Day

Tyrone (written twenty years ago)

Getting Offside

The Kerry sister wanted to do a bit of decorating for Matty. Dutifully, I asked if she would like me to help her. Instead, she requested that I take Matty out for the day so she could get on with it.

So, we headed in the direction of Tyrone, stopping first for coffee in Draperstown. When I was a market trader, I visited Draperstown twice a month. I had always liked the town’s wide streets and the way it nestled among the foothills of the Sperrins. I loved the soft voices of the people. I also encountered my first transvestite in Draperstown—wearing a cheap wig and a dowdy cloth coat, far from glamorous, yet possessing a quiet dignity.

While we were there, Matty said she wanted to look at some shops. She led me into the most old-fashioned hardware store in the world. The only objects that could possibly have held the slightest interest for me were some Pyrex measuring jugs.

‘Can I help you?’ ventured the young assistant.

‘No, just looking,’ I replied. Looking at what? Coils of rope? Shovels? Galvanised buckets? Then Matty piped up, ‘But I thought this was a dress shop.’

Onwards to Tyrone—Land of My Ancestors

Gortin

Matty’s parents came from Tyrone. Granda’s family were from Moy, and Granny was born in Newtownstewart. While Granda’s people had migrated to Belfast in search of work, Granny spent her childhood in Plumbridge. There were cousins in Gortin, so to Gortin we went, as Matty reminisced about a wonderful holiday she and her sister had spent there in the summer of 1947 as guests of their mother’s cousin, Mamie. We found the road where Mamie had lived, but the lane was overgrown, and the cottage was long gone.

This is one of the joys of driving Matty around—she starts remembering and telling stories. As this journey was one she had taken many times with Daddy, some of the stories were particularly poignant. Once again, I listened to the tales of their meeting and courtship. She told me about the funny sayings and silly games they enjoyed as they traveled together. She recounted the wonderful holiday she had with Mamie. It had been her first time apart from Daddy since they had started going out, and she had written to him three times in two weeks.

‘Did he write back?’ I asked.

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Sure, he never wrote a letter in his life.’

Apparently, she had written to reassure him that she hadn’t run off with some Tyrone boy. For according to Matty—and I do not doubt her—she had been very popular with boys in her youth.

Hearing Matty’s stories, I sometimes feel envious of the times she lived in. That holiday in Gortin, a mere 60 miles from home, had been such a novelty for her. She told a story about how she and her sister, out on borrowed bikes and having gotten lost, met a group of young, kilted men, also on bicycles, returning from Twelfth of July celebrations. These fellows escorted them back to the right road, and she recalled how exotic it felt to be riding alongside a troop of Protestant boys in kilts—something that would have been unthinkable behavior at home.

Matty and I behaved very well in Tyrone. We waved at passers-by and were extremely courteous on the road. ‘After all,’ Matty said, ‘anyone here might be your cousin.’

On the way home, Matty asked me, ‘Do you ever look at the clouds and imagine you can see pictures in them?’

I replied, ‘Not while I’m driving.’

Litter Louts

Driving into Ballymena this morning I saw the driver of a beat-up old car throw litter from the window. I thought it disgraceful behaviour. Minutes later, driving through the town I witnessed the driver of a small van throw something out the window. Two litter louts in one morning? Disgusting. 

I was on my way to Antrim to meet Jazzer and because it was icy I was taking the dual carriageway rather than the back roads. Just off the Ballee roundabout, I was overtaken by a bright green BMW and happened to notice the well-coiffed blonde in the passenger seat. The next thing I saw was litter flying out of the driver's window. Enough was enough! I flashed the car. Moments later rubbish was simultaneously thrown from passenger and driver windows. I flashed the headlights again. The BMW sped up and I lost sight of it...

...until the approach to the Dunsilly roundabout. They were in the Belfast lane and I was heading towards Antrim. I drew level and glanced at the driver, a well-dressed man not that far away from my own age. He looked straight ahead. This man and his woman friend did themselves and their ilk no favour this morning for, as from now on, should I see a signal green BMW I am going to assume that the person driving it is a complete arse.

And just so y'all know that I know, flashing one's headlights in such circumstances is, according to the Highway Code, inadvisable as it may confuse other drivers. Yet I will do it at times - at fellow van drivers if there is a mobile speed-trap parked on the outskirts of Cullybackey and often to allow large vehicles such as lorries or buses to get through tight parts of town and village traffic. I particularly love it when the lorry drivers give me a blast of the air horn in acknowledgement. Even a friendly wave can make my day.

Rage Against The Machine

I've noticed these past few days that while traffic has decreased (a lot) on our little B road, there is an increase in what is known around these parts as 'boy racing'. It must be hard on young bucks, no excitement in their lives, not allowed to go anywhere for fear of the PSNI flagging them down to ask, Is Your Journey Really Necessary? So, out for a quick burn around the country roads for a wee spurt of adrenalin.

Why not?

Because you are all annoying wee fucks in your souped-up cars.

And.

One of you killed a wren.

Your deluded ma wouldn't agree with me but I believe that wren had more to give the world than you.

Every Picture: Cross Cat

I have been feeling rather out of sorts today and, as the evening has worn on, have become downright irritable. Firstly because Bert was being so glib about Trumpishness, and then we had a caller who goes on and on about his appalling work colleagues to the extent that I start to think he should either hand in his notice or go postal on them, although perhaps clearing off might be the far better option.

When I'm grumpy my patience wears thin and I become the sort of person I really don't like. For instance, the old, old woman who jaywalked in front of the van yesterday. When I'm feeling OK with the world I'd be admiring her spirit, feeling glad for her that she was still active but when I'm grumpy - well not so much. Then there were the two blades who parked on a double yellow line causing a traffic jam on Linenhall Street because they were delivering donations to the pro-life charity shop, the one with all the posters of dead foetuses in the window. I hated those smug old bitches so much. The horrible person that is me wanted to shout abuse at them but made do with glaring instead. The righteous hags never even noticed.

I was reminded of an incident that occurred when I was working in the Henry Street hostel back when the anti-abortion shop was next door. A couple of our clients came to the office to tell me that there was an old fellow collapsed on the floor of the charity shop and that the door was locked. I went to see and sure enough there he was stretched out unmoving on the floor. We banged on the door but there was no response so there was nothing for it but to call the emergency services who had to force the lock only to discover that the man was dead drunk. He refused to go to hospital which was pretty decent of him as the NHS had, even back then, enough to be getting on with. He and the folk that ran the shop never spoke to me again which suited just fine.

So, because I am cross I thought I would look for a picture of a sweet little kitten to lighten my mood and duly opened the image folder on my external hard drive that is titled 'Cats'. I thought that one was more appropriate to my current mood. It was a feral cat we saw whilst exploring Pearlie's homeplace a good few years ago. We had the dogs with us and she didn't like dogs.

Pass the Chopper Please

The alarm this morning was set for 05:30. It was tough getting up especially as I'd been wakeful during the night. I showered, dressed, breakfasted and called Bert at 06:30. He appeared downstairs in a pair of Crocs, red tartan pyjama trousers and an ill-matching green check pyjama shirt. To say he looked odd would be an understatement. The 5 minute drive to the train station was not without event. As usual Bert left fastening his seat belt until he was actually driving and, as he did so, he almost caused an accident by swerving towards the middle of the road just as another vehicle was overtaking. This is why I was taking the train instead of having Bert drive me. He is not at his best first thing in the morning. What would I have done if he had been in an accident? I would have had to get out and hitch a lift with someone going into the village. Then the thought of Bert standing by the side of our road in that crazy outfit while all our early bird neighbours drove past rubber necking the scene made me laugh and I recovered my humour. It would have been the talk of the village before the clock struck ten. Ernie would be one of the first to hear. The lads in the garage would spread the news widely. Perhaps it would have taught Bert to fasten his seat belt before driving off.

The train journey went smoothly (lots of yawning fellow passengers) and I got to the hospital fifteen minutes before my appointment time. The nurse who was first to see me tsked when I gave her the letters from Eye Casualty. “He'll not take you” she said, meaning the surgeon. I was crest fallen. This was my fear, the worry that had kept me so wakeful the previous night. She told me to wait until she had the chance to speak with him. Five minutes later the great man entered. My nurse consulted with him. Five minutes later she was back at my side announcing, “He's going to take you! Come on. He says that eye has been clear since March!” I was delighted and rather pleased that I had kept attending Eye Casualty so that all the relevant notes were there.

Now to the actual cataract removal. A friend told me that it would be twenty minutes of discomfort but well worth it. Yet I didn't find it uncomfortable, just very, very odd. The people who carried out the procedure were lovely and the great man turned out to be pleasant and easy to talk to. He oversaw the procedure which was carried out by another. The colours and shapes that I saw as my eye was being worked over were strange and beautiful. It seemed to take a long time to prise the cataract away. (I was told afterwards that it was very dense.) I was listening to the conversation between the surgeon and the nurse as he requested instruments and I could not help giggling when he asked for “the chopper”.

When all was done I was informed that it had gone very well and then I was wheeled off for coffee and biscuits and a chat with a nurse on aftercare. Bert and one of our friends picked me up and we went back to his house for lunch.

Home again, home again jiggety-jig to find most of the family already there.. Martha and Evie were very taken with my eye-dressing. Martha said I looked like a pirate. I was spoiled by everyone and now, as soon as I've posted this I'm off for a lie-down. The eye dressing doesn't come off until tomorrow and I'm excited to see what I can see.

Nelly the Pirate

Think Bike

Most evenings, on the way home from work, I collect Hannah in Ballymena and we continue on our way towards Cullybackey. I don't drive that fast, it's a B road, pitch black so maybe I do 45mph tops. This evening we came across a cyclist riding without lights, without reflective clothing, the only thing drawing attention to his presence the tiny little reflective strips on his pedals. These caught my eye but not until I was almost upon him. I was able avoid him by pulling out at the last minute and, thankfully, no vehicle was coming towards me at the time.

I was quite shocked. Another moment and I might have knocked him down. It's a fairly narrow road. All the way into Cullybackey I wondered, should I turn, should I tell him that he was in danger? I didn't. What stopped me? Fear of being seen as interfering, fear that he might not speak English and wouldn't understand me, fear that I'd have to go the whole hog and drive him and his bicycle to his destination.

So if a cyclist is injured or killed on the Cullybackey or Kilrea road tonight I'm afraid I will be partly to blame. What should I have done?

Road Kill

I grew up beside that stretch of road between Antrim and Ballymena. It was always a busy road. When we were young the old ones called it ‘the line’ and said things like, “You be careful now crossing that line!” We always were. The traffic was always whizzing along, a constant noise in the background that we never actually noticed.

That road claimed many of the family’s cats and dogs. Aunt Mary lost more than one Jack Russell on the line. The first of our dogs called Danny met his end there and Kerry Sister’s lovely Ellie was knocked down and killed one early morning.

Over the years the traffic has steadily increased and now the road is a dual carriageway. It’s strange to think now of my father’s stories of playing ball in the road outside the pub. He told us that cars hardly ever passed during his childhood.

Old Jeremiah told tales of herding cattle up that road in the 1930s. He’d walk them five miles into Ballymena Market then would walk home again with the beasts all sold. He got five shillings for doing that and considered himself well paid.

Driving home from Matty’s this evening I came upon an accident near to Ross’s Factory. I don’t know exactly what had taken place but there were three big dead bullocks at the side of the road. The line is no place for cattle now.

An Accident

I’ve been a little mood-swingy recently. Feeling good because I’ve got good marks in my first exam and my coursework. And feeling bad because I’ve hardly revised. Feeling good because Hannah is going to realise her dream of travelling and low because I’m going to miss her. I already miss Jamie. I’m so tired and now I hear I have to get up at 4:30am tomorrow morning to travel to England. So I was really cranky and out of sorts last night and this morning. Hannah and I set off for work as usual (Hannah’s last day at Nixt! Hoorah!) And as always I was tootling along at my usual 40mph. It is a country road although you wouldn’t think it the way people race down it. A woman, fortyish, in a nippy little orange car overtook me pronto. I noticed a boy in a secondary school uniform sitting in the passenger seat. For some perverse reason I hate being overtaken by women so this annoyed me. Next thing she comes on another vehicle driving behind a tractor and cattle trailer. Hah! I thought. That’ll take the wind out of her sails! But no. The daft blade overtakes the heap on a blind bend! You can imagine how Hannah and I tutted to each other. We drive on. At the Carniny crossroads we come on an accident. Three vehicles, one badly smashed, ambulance pulling away, police everywhere, the road covered in debris. We thought of the orange car. She must have come upon the accident too. Hannah said,

I wonder if that made her think?

Roundabout Madness

So here’s me at seven o’clock tonight heading homewards from Matty’s house. I get the length of the Toome Road mini roundabout and as I’m driving on to it there’s a car driving on to the roundabout heading out of Ballymena towards Antrim. Coming behind this car there is a Patton’s van dropping someone off and indicating to turn right. The Patton’s driver steers his van over the top of the roundabout which I’m already on and is enraged to find me impeding his path. So much so that he treats me to a blare of his horn. Convent-educated lady that I am I just mutter to myself, fuck you matey, and go on my merry way.

Then the other week Bert is on the dual carriageway driving out of the town. He’s in the left hand lane of the Ballykeel roundabout driving towards Larne when a driver in a 4x4 mounts the roundabout, drives over it knocking signage everywhere, takes to the air in front of him and crashes into a fence with bits of the motor flying everywhere. Bert just drove on. I think he was in shock.

Green Car

I got another car this evening. Bert bought it for me...he'd do anything rather than drive me to work.

Then I drove it to Belfast International to pick up Jamie. Don't ask me what the car looks like because I haven't actually seen it yet. It was dark. I'm told it's green.

Bert Drives

Your Driving Is is: 45% Male, 55% Female

According to studies, you drive both like a guy and a girl. This means you're a pretty average driver, with typical quirks. Occasionally you're frustrated and or a little reckless, but that's the exception - not the norm.

Do You Drive Like a Guy or a Girl?

Nelly Drives

Your Driving Is is: 46% Male, 54% Female

According to studies, you drive both like a guy and a girl. This means you're a pretty average driver, with typical quirks. Occasionally you're frustrated and or a little reckless, but that's the exception - not the norm.

Do You Drive Like a Guy or a Girl?

Like A Flipping Lemon

Don't you just hate the way some Norn Ironers use mini-roundabouts? I found myself driving through the Ballymena rush hour this evening with Pearlie, Lizzie and Pepe aboard. After waiting a decade to get a chance to come off the Cullybackey road I was thwarted by some blade who stopped and dithered just in front of me. Naturally I vented my annoyance by roaring 'Get out of the way you flipping lemon!'

Then Pearlie said,

Quet that oul sweering you!

I'm thinking. I'm going to have to have a long, tedious debate with her about how lemon is not a swear word.

I start,

I didn't swear

Ye did so! Ye said fucking!

I did not. I said flipping.

Oh.

She told me a filthy joke as we drove through Harryville but I didn't understand it and was too embarrassed to ask her to explain it. She's never told me a filthy joke before, although Matty has, and I've now discovered she's been watching Big Brother in secret.

After dropping Lizzie and Pepe off we called in with Matty who was watching the local news on mute. Ian Paisley was ranting on about something. I can't lip read so I don't know what was agitating him but I could probably guess. I wonder if he'll still talk about Sinn Fein IRA. Or will he move on to I Can't Believe It's Not Sinn Fein IRA. I called Pearlie in saying her favourite person was on the TV. Matty remarked,

He's well mended up since that time he wasn't well.

Pearlie agreed Paisley was looking just fine. Matty said,

Aye he's quare and fresh looking yet.

I suppose she had to say something like that seeing as she was drinking tea with his number one fan and the pair of them are in their 80th year as is Big Ian.

Tyrone

Getting Offside

The Kerry sister was wanting to do a bit of decorating for Matty. Dutifully I asked if she would like me to help her. She requested, instead, that I take Matty out for the day so that she could get on with it.

So we headed in the direction of Tyrone stopping first for coffee in Draperstown. When I used to be a market trader I'd visit Draperstown twice a month. I'd always liked the town's wide streets and the way it sits among the foothills of the Sperrins. I loved the soft voices of the people. I came across my first transvestite in Draperstown. Wearing a cheap wig and a dowdy cloth coat she was far from glamorous but she did have a quiet dignity. I never felt the need to laugh at her anyway.

While we were there Matty said she wanted to have a look at some shops. She led me into the most old-fashioned hardware shop in the world. The only objects there that could possibly have held the slightest interest for me were some Pyrex measuring jugs. 'Can I help you?' ventured the young assistant. 'No, just looking.' I replied. Looking at what? Coils of rope? Shovels? Galvanised buckets? Then Matty piped up, 'But I thought this was a dress shop.'

Onwards to Tyrone - Land of my Ancestors

Gortin

Matty's parents came from Tyrone. Granda's family were from Moy and Granny was born in Newtownstewart. While Granda's people had migrated to Belfast in search of work Granny spent her childhood in Plumbridge. There were cousins in Gortin so it was to Gortin we went as Matty was remembering a wonderful holiday she and her sister had spent there, in the summer of 1947, as the guests of their mother's cousin Mamie. We found the road where Mamie had lived but the lane was overgrown and the cottage long gone.

This is one of the joys of driving Matty around. She starts remembering and telling stories. And as this journey was one she had taken on many occasions with Daddy some of the stories were very poignant. Once again I listened to the stories about their meeting and courtship. She told me about the funny sayings and silly games they enjoyed as they travelled about. She told me all about the wonderful holiday she'd had with Mamie. This had been her first parting from Daddy since they'd started going out and she'd written to him three times in two weeks. 'Did he write back?' I asked. 'Not atall,' she said, 'Sure he never wrote a letter in his life.' Apparently she'd written to him to reassure him that she hadn't gone off with some Tyrone boy. For according to Matty, and I do not doubt her, she was very popular with boys in her young days.

Hearing Matty tell her stories I sometimes feel envious of the times she lived in. That holiday to Gortin, 60 long miles from home, was such a novelty for her. She told a story about her sister and herself, out on their borrowed bikes and getting themselves lost, meeting a group of young, kilted men, also on bicycles, who were on their way back from Twelfth of July celebrations. She said that these fellows escorted them to the right road and said how exotic it was to be riding along with a troop of Protestant boys in kilts and how this would have been unthinkable behaviour at home.

Matty and I behaved very well in Tyrone. We waved at passers-by and were extremely courteous on the road. 'After all,' Matty said, 'Anyone here might be your cousin.'

On the way home Matty asked me, 'Do you ever look at the clouds and imagine you can see pictures in them?' I said, 'Not while I'm driving.'

Just Drive

The first day I drove the car. Cullybackey, Ballymena, Antrim - we called at a garden centre where Bert was collecting a cheque. I had a chat with one of the trainees. Her training is coming on well and she's only been there for about eight years. Belfast - we had our first argument. Ballygowan - Bert collected eight trays of clematis liners. Mahee Island - a beautiful place. We promised ourselves we'd return when the weather was less wintry. Balloo - was it here I had a huge row with Bert? Saintfield - or was it here? Dromore - visited a reclamation yard near here. I refused to get out of the car. Bert stomped about. I wept. Hillsborough - got a fry somewhere near here. That helped. Lisburn, Antrim - cried all along the A26. Galgorm - dried my eyes. Cullybackey - went to bed and slept for several hours. Bert woke me at seven pm for eggs and toast. Afterwards watched a programme that showed big baby owls eating whole voles while their smaller nest mates looked on enviously. The following day I drove the van. Cullybackey, Ballymena, Tannaghmore - where I picked up the Kerry sister and her dog. Galgorm. Cullybackey - Kerry sister took some measurements at the new house. Rasharkin, Ballymoney - went to the builder's office and left in a large cheque. Sorry a lie. The cheque was only 5 inches by 2.5 inches. Coleraine, Articlave - visited reclamation yard and purchased a cast iron radiator. Downhill, Limavady - had a late lunch and visited a wonderful bookshop. I bought The Rough Guide to Classical Music. Garvagh, Kilrea, Portglenone, Randalstown, Tannaghmore - drank tea with Matty. Ballymena, Cullybackey - watched owl programme again. Bill Oddie informed us that the reason barn owls hatch chicks at intervals is so that the big owl chicks can eat the little ones if voles are scarce.

Things I Neglected To Tell

Near Buckna
Originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

There were a few things that happened during the past week which I haven't blogged.

I said goodbye to the bashed up Astra and said hello to a diesel Fiesta. One of its first outings was taking Matty and Kerry Niece to Glenarm where we called on Lord Antrim. He wasn't at home so we visited his walled garden and paid £9 for the privilege. I was rather hoping that there would be a concession for the elderly but, alas, Matty and I had to pay the full whack. For some reason Kerry Niece was charged as a child despite being a full grown woman of 20 so that was pretty good. The gardens were very fine. I got chatting to the gardeners and gave them our phone number in case Lord Antrim might be needing any clematis in the near future. Natch he'll be paying big money for them after the exorbitant rates he charged us for his oul garden.

And Vancouver Brother went back yesterday which always leaves me feeling a bit bereft. It's a long way away. We've still got Vancouver Nephew but he's decamped to Dingle which is also a long way away.

Leitrim Sister has been away, back and away again. She's off to Dublin tomorrow to work on the Lassie movie. She missed the first three weeks of it due to Daddy's illness.

Then Bert celebrated his birthday last night in the company of a few close friends. A nice wee night was had by all and the heads weren't too bad at all this morning. We are getting too old for hangovers.

Driving Me Crazy

This post is dedicated to my father Seamus, our friend Clint and to all other HGV drivers past and present. They do not have their sorrows to seek. This evening I was reminded again of just how much the drivers of large wagons have to put up with from some of the silly people* on the road. I know my limitations as a driver but one thing I usually do well is pay attention to what's happening up ahead. I believe it's called 'reading the road.'

In the distance I could see two big wagons at a standstill. This is a daily occurence in Cullybackey and it usually happens like this. Cars are often parked/abandoned outside the butcher, the baker the candlestick maker without a thought for other road users. Instead of being tucked tight to the kerb they might sit more than a foot out from it. Of course the butcher, the baker etc. are positioned right on the narrowest part of the street. On the other side there is a narrow pavement, high wall, the usual street furniture and bollards. Along comes Mrs Muggins who isn't paying any attention to the road ahead. Instead she's thinking about making the tea, buying new curtains, her aunt in hospital - anything but the road ahead. She pulls out to pass Mr Arsehole's big Peugeot which is awkwardly parked outside the shops. Tight behind her comes Millie Spide and behind Millie comes White Van Man. Meanwhile Mr Trucker with the right of way is progressing along hoping that no eejit is going to drive into his road. Too late - Mrs Muggins didn't read the road and just kept coming. Now Mr Trucker can't get past her and she can't get past him. Millie Spide is up Mrs Muggins' arse and White Van Man, who wasn't paying attention either because his mobile rang, is right behind Millie. Mr Trucker can't move because there's another wagon behind him and behind that stretches a queue of vehicles. Impasse. Eventually with much manoeuvring White Van Man manages to wiggle backwards out of the way to give Muggins and Millie room to reverse and after ten minutes the traffic is moving again. I looked at the trucker as he passed and his face was a picture of calm. I suppose he'd need to be.

And Ed - was that you I spotted driving up the side of Slemish in a 4x4. Is it not enough that Clarkson and yourself are tearing up the Scottish hillsides, crushing the harebells and several rare varieties of snail? And was that a dead whooper swan I saw caught in your bull bars?

* use your imagination