Me with my mother, Hemel Hempstead, c. 1985
Recently in London, I attended the wonderful wedding of one of my two sons, David, and his lovely wife Stevi-Ann. It was a great day, emotional, full of joy and laughter, helped not insignificantly by a lively Belfast family contingent, full of beans and up for a good time. Inevitably in the course of such a celebration, we remember absent friends and, of course, family, and it got me thinking of my mother because we are close to an anniversary. I’m thinking now of 70 years ago. 1947 was a key year in her history.
Every year
can claim its own identity with specific events, political ballyhoo, war versus
peace, celebrity births and deaths and the odd scandal here and there. There’s
always something to remember, or someone, sometimes fond nostalgia, other times
moments of sadness and regret. And round numbers are often the triggers in
recalling those moments from the past.
First,
here’s some wider background to that time in and around Belfast, my home city.
In the early months of the year, there was a bout of severe weather, some
called it the ‘big snow’. It was
brutally cold with high temperatures reported between one and three degrees and
lows of minus seven. It was followed later on by a hot summer, the sixth
hottest since records began according to the seaweed annals. Harland and Wolff
launched HMS Centaur and the Enterprise train service commenced between Belfast
and Dublin. Belfast Celtic won the Irish League and Cavan defeated Antrim to
win the Ulster Senior Football Championship. Singers Clodagh Rodgers and Paul
Brady were born as were activist-politician Bernadette Devlin and future Ulster
Unionist leader, Reg Empey. Basil Brooke was Prime Minister, four years into a
twenty-year term.
Elsewhere,
George VI was on the throne, Clement Attlee was in Downing Street, Princess
Elizabeth married Philip Mountbatten, Harry Truman was U.S. President, Fred
Daly won the Open Championship at Hoylake, Charlton Athletic won the FA Cup,
and celebrities Elton John, Gerry Rafferty, Marc Bolan and David Essex were
born. Typhoon Kathleen hit Saitama, Tokyo killing nearly two thousand people. The
UK coal industry was nationalised and Thor Heyerdahl led the Kon-Tiki
expedition, an attempt to sail by raft across the Pacific Ocean from South
America to the Polynesian Islands.
It was two
years after the end of the Second World War and nations were in recovery.
Across the United Kingdom, there was a climate of austerity and ration books
limited the purchases of meat, butter, sugar, lard, cheese and sweets. Bread
supplies were strictly controlled too. Larders might have been stocked with
long-life tinned vegetables and fruit and the main ‘gadgets’ in many homes were
restricted to a sewing machine, a mangle and, if slightly better off than
average, a vacuum cleaner, although linoleum and bare floors were more common
than carpets. Some council houses and flats had paraffin heaters as an extra
boost to heating but the main source of warmth for a house was a coal fire,
supplemented by whatever heat drifted from kitchens.
The average
annual salary was a tad short of £300, the price of an average house was under
£2,000 and a modest car cost £600 running on fuel at just 2 bob a gallon. A
loaf of bread was 2 pence, a packet of sugar 3, a pint of milk 8 and small
blocks of butter and cheese weighed in at 4 pence each. Five pounds of potatoes
would have set you back 3 pence and you could buy a quarter pound of bacon for
half a crown. A pint of beer was priced at just over a shilling and in the
sweetie shop, a penny chew actually cost a penny.
At the
pictures the choice included Esther Williams in Fiesta, Cornel Wilde in Forever
Amber, Betty Grable in Mother Wore Tights, Bing Crosby in Welcome Stranger and
Hope, Crosby and Lamour playing it for laughs in Road to Rio. The popular music
of the day included hitmakers the Andrews Sisters, Frankie Laine, Perry Como,
Dick Haymes, Dinah Shore and the Mills Brothers. Indeed,
every year has its own news and historical shape. And the reason it is an
important year in my family’s history is that it was the year John Cushnan
married Rita Millar, my father and mother.
Honing in
on that specific day, Tuesday 16 September 1947, the weather in Belfast
included moderate to fresh winds between west and south, fair periods and
scattered showers, some heavy. It was rather cool according to one local
newspaper. Seventy years on and much has happened in our family. I have written
quite a bit about my father’s decision to abandon us in 1960 but I wanted here
to concentrate on the kind of woman my mother was and the influence she had on
me.
She was
born Margaret Mary Millar in October 1925, but was known throughout her life as
Rita. Her parents, Rachel and Tommy lived on the New Lodge Road and number 46
was where my mother, her brother and sister grew up. Tommy has an interesting
story, one for another day. Briefly, he was Protestant and Granny Rachel was
Catholic. Tommy made the decision to change religion so that he could marry the
girl he loved. Some hallions on his side of the religious divide, including his
own brothers, weren’t too chuffed about this move and ordered a hit. For
whatever reason, the threat faded after a while and my grandparents had a very
settled fifty-year marriage.
My mother
and father were 22-years old when they married. They grew up a few streets from
each other, my father in Annadale Street and my mother on the New Lodge Road.
It is not clear where or when they first met but I know my mother was a
frequent cinema-goer to the Capital, the Lyceum and the Duncairn, all within
walking distance of home. My father probably went to the same neighbourhood
cinemas. She loved dances, especially ceilidhs. From my Aunt Sheila’s memory
(my mother’s sister) it is likely they met in a dance hall, probably at the Ard
Scoil on the Falls Road, and the courting began.
At
nine-o’clock on 16 September 1947, their wedding took place in St Patrick’s
Church in Donegall Street. The best man was my father’s mate Gerry Savage who
later in life emigrated with his family to Canada. My mother’s sister Sheila
and cousin Marie were in attendance. After the service, there was a wedding
breakfast and the honeymoon was one night in Dublin.
Before they
married, both of my parents were in textile jobs, he working as a tailor’s
cloth cutter and she sewing and stitching in several factories, jobs they
continued doing until the children came along. There were seven of us born
between 1949 and 1958 and, as I write this, six of us have survived. The
eldest, Paul, was killed in a road accident in 1974. It devastated his wife and
three young children as well as my mother and the rest of us. The accident
happened on 6 December, so that was one tough Christmas for all concerned.
After
thirteen years, my father walked out and left my mother with a huge
responsibility, on reflection an impossible task to raise seven young children,
age range eleven to two, on very little money. I still cannot fully fathom how
she did it but somehow she managed through a combination of love, faith and not
much choice. She had to carry on. In that era, she was the consummate housewife
and mother. She could cook delicious stews, soups and pork fillet, roast
chicken and beef dinners. She baked amazing apple and rhubarb tarts and currant
(curn) squares, all of which were demolished by hungry kids, sometimes within
half an hour from a hot oven. She stitched and repaired our ripped clothes, and
knitted in what seemed like every spare moment, Aran jumpers a speciality. I
think at one time all of us had jumpers that made us look like The Clancy
Brothers and Sisters. On one occasion, as a special request, her knitting
needles sprang into action and she produced an exact replica of Monkee Mike
Nesmith’s green bobble hat. I wore it with pride, even outside in the street!
She would get up early on school mornings to rouse us and get us ready with a
good breakfast. We hadn’t a clue but we were spoiled with her kindness. I
cannot recall a single Christmas or birthday without presents or great food. As
I said, I don’t know how she did it.
Me, as a Clancy Brother!
She was a
loving, caring mother, keeping much of her worry and pressure to herself and
not burdening her children with open reflections of the marriage breakdown. She
was supportive of my interests, hobbies and ambitions, no matter how daft they
may have seemed. She was patient and with seven kids, that is a triumph in
itself. She was generous with whatever little money she had. We had next to
nothing at times but we always seemed to have treats. She was friendly,
approachable and helpful to her neighbours and friends. She was a devout Catholic,
relying on her faith and prayers to shed light on some dark days. She
congratulated and celebrated exam results with encouraging words and hugs. In
short, she was always there for us and in her list of priorities, we came
first, even before her own needs.
My father
died at 57 in 1982. My mother outlived him by nearly thirty years. She suffered
from senile dementia, cared for full-time to the end by my three wonderful
sisters, Mary, Geraldine and Sheila, and their very supportive husbands. The
last time I saw her was in the City Hospital. I’d come over from England and
went straight to visit from the airport. When I entered the room, I kissed her
forehead and held her hand. As I stepped back, I could see a puzzled look on
her face. She pointed at me and said: “I know your mother.” I wasn’t upset
because, you know, she was absolutely right. She passed away at 86 on 29
December, 2011.
A 70th
wedding anniversary is designated platinum, precious. Now there’s a word to
finish off thinking about my mother’s memory, all she endured and what she
achieved since that wedding day in 1947. Precious.
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