Marie Moloney Stories

Marie Moloney Stories FROM THE IRISH SCENE P E R T H W E S T E1 RN AUSTRALIA

Marie Moloney 1939 - 2020

May you continue to inspire us: To enter each day with a generous heart.

To serve the call of courage and love Until we see your beautiful face again In that land where there is no more separation, Where all tears will be wiped from our mind, And where we will never lose you again.

John O’Donohue

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Compiled by Fred Rea 0418 943 832

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INTRODUCTION Marie was proud of her Anna Livia roots!

by Lloyd Gorman Dublin is famed for its great literary tradition and crop of home grown writers who stand as equals with the giants of world literature. It is a legacy most ‘Dubs’ are rightfully proud of and one which some can even tap into and express in their own way.

You couldn’t get much more Dublin than being born and raised on the banks of the River Liffey, which pulses with the spirit of the ancient goddess Anna Livia.

The photograph on the cover of this collection of stories for Irish Scene by Marie Moloney is of the historic Ha’penny bridge in Dublin’s city centre. Just a short walk away is Capel Street Bridge, where Marie spent her childhood and formative years as a young adult before moving to England and ultimately Australia more than 50 years ago.

For many years Marie shared countless stories about her life with Irish Scene readers. The bulk of those recollections were about family and friends, her beloved city and its characters and circumstances from a unique era. She was a natural storyteller who could unpack anecdotes from her elephantine memory and lay them out like a picnic for others to share and enjoy. Her writing style was natural, simple and graceful, as good as any Irish writer you could mention. Irish Scene was lucky to have her as a contributor for so long, many readers have told us how much they enjoyed her ability to guide them down memory lane. She wrote with love, from the heart. You felt like you knew her after reading one of her pieces and those that knew her in person loved her.

While her availability to write for the Irish Scene had lessened in recent times, Marie continued to have a presence in the pages of the magazine. She was regularly photographed - including as recently as the last issue - taking part in the monthly seniors lunch at the Irish Club. Marie always had a smile and looked like she enjoyed those gatherings and probably any occasion to celebrate being Irish, and a Dubliner. She was a respected and active member of the Irish community in Perth who loved her cherished city and adopted homeland.

At his own initiative Fred Rea has compiled this collection of stories published in Irish Scene as a memorial to Marie. We hope you will enjoy re-reading them or perhaps even discovering some that might have escaped your attention the first time around. It is a body of work that reveals a life well led.

God Bless. R.I.P Marie Moloney

By Lloyd Gorman Irish Scene publisher

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Bang Bang (Thomas Dudley)

By Marie Moloney As I walked the streets of Dublin during my visit earlier this year I frequently thought of “Bang Bang” and wondered if his ghost still walked around the areas he spent so much of his life in. Growing up in inner city Dublin Bang Bang was one of the constants in my life.

His name was Thomas Dudley, but I never heard him called or referred to as anything other than Bang Bang.

He was a popular character who roamed the streets carrying a large black key which was his “GUN”. He ran in and out of every shop “shooting” everyone in sight.

The women selling their produce of fruit and vegetables along some streets were popular targets. This usually resulted in amusing repartee as he wove his way between the stalls, occasionally knocking over boxes of fruit which would

scatter in all directions.

Much of his shooting was done on buses where he would run up and down the aisle shooting every passenger along the way and, as he was about to alight, it was the turn of the bus conductor. He would then board the next bus that came along and repeat the performance. This was accepted without question, and I never saw or heard a bus conductor refuse to allow him on the bus or to seek money for the bus fare.

Nowhere was sacred from his rain of fire; more than once I witnessed his performance outside The Clarence Hotel on Wellington Quay, which was a fashionable hotel, just across the road from my home.

As tourists arrived by taxi and alighted outside the hotel Bang Bang was there ready to greet them with his gun. The astonished visitors were often immobilised as the agitated concierge ran around trying to restore order; on one occasion his tall hat went sailing into the crowd. Most of these people enjoyed Bang Bang’s crowd stopping antics, many were happy to join in, sometimes pretending they also had a gun and shooting back as they shouted ‘bang bang’. Often some of us kids would fall down ‘dead’ at his feet in an effort to become part of the game. “Perhaps some of these tourists thought he was part of the Irish welcoming committee”

The Clarence Hotel Wellington Quay

These daily performances were Thomas Dudley’s life; it was what he did all day every day. He also managed to get into theaters and “shoot” the actors and audiences. In the 1970’s the Abbey Theatre featured a play titled “From The Vikings to Bang Bang”. He is also mentioned in a children’s skipping song “We all went up to the Mero” written by the Irish song writer Pete St John.

For people of my generation growing up in inner city Dublin, he has gifted us with memories of the wonderful entertainment he provided for us to enjoy and join in. It is fitting that he is now firmly entrenched in the tourist information and social history of this beautiful old city.

An amazing feat for a man who went about his quirky business doing what he did.

What an author likes to write most is his signature on the back of a cheque. Brendan Behan

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Australia My Home

By Marie Moloney

Right: Ian, Colette, Marie and David 1972

The 6th of January 1969, the day I left England with my husband and three young children for a new life in Australia, was a bitterly cold day. Heavy sleet was falling as we left our home in Woodford Green Essex for the last time and travelled by taxi to Victoria Station then by train to Heathrow Airport. My emotions were mixed; during the journey I felt sadness, a tinge of fear and great excitement at the new life I was going toward. We arrived in Perth at 4.30am

on the 8th January just before dawn.

It was already hot, and even now, after forty five years, I can remember the feeling of joy I felt as I stepped from the plane. On that early morning drive so long ago to our temporary accommodation, the beauty of the palms on Riverside Drive filled me with joy.

Over the next few years the benefits were huge, the adjustments were many, but on that first day I knew I was home.

My children who were

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8, 7 and 4 at the time were excited at the prospect of their new home in a sunny land. My joy in my new country was accompanied by the impact of settling in to this new life.

For my husband, finding a job was the first consideration, then a house to live in. We bought a two year old house from migrants who were returning to England; it was oblong, characterless and standing on a downward sloping block of grey sand almost entirely without plant life or grass. Its only redeeming feature was the size of the block, almost one third of an acre. It was in the middle of a crescent surrounded by similar houses, some with much better tended gardens. It was only when we moved in to our new home that we discovered it was an estate that had been built by a company which sponsored migrants into the country. I expected the obvious adjustments as a new migrant but to be doing it in a housing estate full of others doing the same thing was something I was not prepared for. It

was a big shock discovering that, of approximately forty five or so houses on our street, only two of them were occupied by Australians. Our neighbours on one side were counting the days until their two year required stay was reached in order to return home. Time crept by for migrants in these circumstances; there were many of them in our new suburb at that time. It was hard not to be sympathetic to their plight, but in a suburb almost exclusively inhabited by migrants, it affected the morale of others.

Although I missed my family and letters to and from Ireland took more than a week to travel each way, I had no doubt that I

wanted to live in Australia. So many things about it appealed to me but it was not an easy road to begin with. We got to know other migrants and exchanged stories of our experiences. In all of us there is the need to belong, to a family, a church, a community. As a new migrant during a period of such high migration to Australia this need for belonging was almost palatable all around me. We all feel the need for affirmation of our place in the scheme of things.

Although my contact with local Australians was scant at first, restricted to the couple of Australian neighbours, and casual conversations in shops in the

city, I immediately warmed to those I met.

In 1970 when my daughter started school I got a job at a local plumbing firm. My employer never called me by my given name, always just “Irish”. He once gave me a huge wooden spoon and fork set as he said ‘I was the greatest stirrer he had ever met’. I earned this title for my communication skills as the liaison person with the local council as part of my job. Now forty five years later, although I am much more aware of the scale of loss and gain, I would not change a thing. As a family we arrived, we grew and we multiplied. We are now part of the social history of Australia.

When I came back to Dublin I was court-martialed in my absence and sentenced to death in my absence, so I said they could shoot me in my absence. Brendan Behan

North & South of the Liffey The River Liffey is a significant geographical feature of Dublin, the capital city of Ireland. It divides the city into what is commonly thought of as the north and the south side. The cultural and social divide between north and south side had a strong presence during my childhood. Comments such as, “That’s on the north side” or “I live on the south side” were frequent when discussing location.

The Liffey begins its journey in the Wicklow Mountains and flows

By Marie Moloney through the city of Dublin into the Irish Sea. From the bridge which in my childhood was known as Kingsbridge all the way down to Butt Bridge the Liffey is flanked on both sides by a dreary looking grey wall. My home was a just few feet away from Capel Street Bridge. Inner city life in Dublin in the 1940’s meant cramped living accommodation for most of us. Like many other children of that time a lot of my waking hours were spent on the streets in all kinds of weather. This cre-

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ated a strong connection to the surrounding culture and heritage which as a child I took for granted. I spent many hours walking up one side of the river and down the other gazing into the dank grimy water.

The barges from Guinness Brewery were a common sight on their way to the docks to deliver the beer for export. Also common was the array of local children hanging over the Liffey walls yelling at the long suffering crew. This walk offered many items of interest, on the Northside.

The Four Courts attracted me but my efforts to gain entry were always thwarted by the watchful eyes a doorman. Down beyond Butt Bridge is The Custom House a magnificent neoclassical building which I admired often while out walking with my father.

On the Southside of the bridge City Hall stands at the far end of Parliament Street and on the corner of Parliament St and Wood Quay is the beautiful Sunlight Building.

“The Liffey Swim” is an annual event which started in 1920. In 1923 Jack Butler Yeats painted a now famous picture of the event. This painting hangs in The National Art Gallery of Ireland in Dublin. I was always one of the hundreds of observers hanging over the wall each year watching the participants struggling through the murky polluted water.

One day when I was about eleven years old Mrs Scott a neighbour, came running up the stairs and banged on the door shouting to my mother ‘Mrs Kelly! There is a body in the

Liffey. The police are there.’

I darted toward the back of the door and grabbed my coat off the hook. “Where are you going Marie”? My mother asked, ‘Oh just out to play in Smock Ally,’ I replied, knowing full well that this was not a convincing lie.

‘If you are going out take Rosaleen with you,’ she said while putting a coat on my four year old sister. I sighed with impatience, wishing that just for once I could go exploring on my own. ‘Don’t take Rosaleen near the Liffey, do you hear me?’ she said as we went out the door.

“Ok,” I replied and went down the stairs as quickly as I could dragging my little sister behind me. We ran out to the street and turned left, quickly walking to the corner, where a crowd was gathering to watch as several men frantically searched the cold dirty water of the river. With Rosaleen in tow I fought my way across the narrow road and managed to squeeze into a space at the wall.

Next to us were a group

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of corner boys, that was the term used to describe the long-time unemployed who spent their days loitering around street corners.

Today they stood at the Liffey wall quietly watching the procedures with cigarettes hanging from their lips the ash dropping down into the murky waters. As the search continued the agitation along the wall increased. Women could be seen wiping their eyes with their sleeves and holding their children close to them with unusual fondness for harried mothers of eight or nine children. Suddenly there were shouts and increased activity from the men in the water, and a bundle was taken from the river amid cries of anguish from the crowd. It was a small boy, just eight years old. I never found out who he was but I do know my sister was very distressed and I still wish I had not taken her to the Liffey that day. These days The Liffey although not pristine is a lot cleaner than my childhood memory of it.

A Day to Remember

By Marie Moloney During World War 11 although Ireland was neutral there were things we could not get because of the war. Fruits and other items that had to be imported were not available. My father had told me about the things I had never tasted and what a treat I could look forward to when the war ended At a time when notification of events relied upon radio news for those who had a radio, and newspapers for those who could afford to buy them, word of mouth was a valued means of becoming aware of what was happening in our community. In the socio economic circumstances in Dublin in the 1940’s most of us relied upon the latter.

This communication method must have been at top volume in the week prior to a day sometime in the late 1940’s. I cannot remember how we heard the news but we did, like almost everyone else in Dublin, or so it seemed. A boat load of bananas and oranges was coming to Dublin. The lead up to the day was an exciting event for us inner city kids who used every opportunity to mentally transport ourselves to a magical place where interesting and amazing things happened. Our local green grocer, Josie, who also sold a variety of cheap sweets to entice us kids who had

the odd penny to spend, was bombarded by local children asking when she would have these fruits.

Those of us under about nine years old had never tasted oranges or bananas and were excited at the prospect of something other than local grown fruit.

My father had told me so much about bananas I was sure I would like them best, and I was right.

On that day when the first post war cargo of bananas and oranges arrived in Dublin there was a sense of excitement in the air like nothing I had ever encountered before in my short life. The boat docked at Sir John Rogerson’s Quay on the south bank of the River Liffey mid-afternoon on a weekday. Because of this event school finished early and I hurried home anticipating what was to come.

Sir John Rogerson’s Quay was within easy walking distance of our home. As we set out, my mother wheeling the push chair containing my sister and baby brother and Aunt Kathleen with me by her side, people were walking from all directions. Soon we were part of a huge procession of men, women and children all with the same purpose in mind laughing and singing celebrating this wonderful event.

There were many familiar faces among the crowd and

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greetings were called out in all directions as we made our way along the Quay.

Arriving at our destination I gasped with wonder at the sheer mass of the crowd. I had never before seen a gathering of such magnitude. Gaining a place at the dockside was not easy as we all wanted to be as near the boat as possible but finally we were settled.

Shortly after this the action began, the crew, happily caught up in the excitement, ran up and down the upper decks their arms laden with oranges and bananas shouting “Here catch these” tossing them one by one to the screaming waiting crowd.

My mother’s anxious cries of “Come back here Marie, you will get trampled on” were ignored. As I forged ahead, I was deaf to her cries. I was caught up in the fervour of the moment and nothing was going to stop me. A push, a wriggle and a jump at just the right moment and I had got a banana. Eagerly I found my way back to my mother and Aunt Kathleen. Now that I had achieved my aim I was happy to return and share my prize. Through trial and error and observation of others I figured out how to peel the fruit. I also remembered that my father had told me not to eat the skin.

As I savoured the taste of a banana for the first time, my two younger siblings sat in the pusher watching the happenings around them each cautiously tasting the unfamiliar new food item.

A Not So Silent Night

By Marie Moloney Memories of Christmas in Dublin in the 1940’s are still dear to me. We lived in the centre of the city which was never short of activity of some sort. The majority of people lived from week to week with no surplus cash. However amid the obvious poverty the Christmas spirit was real and uplifting.

Moore Street was a street market that, as well as catering to local trade, was a popular tourist attraction.

Predominately selling fruit, vegetables and some other food items, at Christmas time it was the most frequented spot in Dublin. Humorous exchanges between the stall holders were ongoing and at times a hapless buyer became caught up in these exchanges. Always mindful of the tourist, this was all part of the game.

These stall holders could rival any comedians on TV today, A frequent ritual on Sunday morning after mass was a visit to listen to Hector Grey. Hector was a street seller who each Sunday morning could be found selling his wares outside the well-known Woolen Mills across the road from the Ha’penny Bridge.

He sold a range of cheap items which in the weeks before Christmas included Christmas decorations.

His amusing banter as he displayed his goods drew a large crowd even during inclement weather. The Woolen Mills, which sold a large range of high quality Irish made goods, was on that site since the 1930’s and many years ago a public sculpture of two female shoppers with bags at their feet was placed outside.

“The Meeting Place” as it was called soon became known as “The Hags with the Bags” The Woolen Mills has now ceased trading and has reopened as “The Woolen Mills Restaurant” but the hags are still there.

A visit to Santa Claus, who was stationed in all of the department stores in Dublin for several weeks before Christmas, was a must. A ticket was purchased and exchanged for a “parcel” which contained a cheap toy. The queues were long and became longer as Christmas drew nearer. On one of these occasions late in the afternoon a couple of days before Christmas, as I stood in the queue with my father, directly in front of me was a tall boy.

He received his parcel and moved aside to open it, inside was a tea set. The boy’s mother came back to Santa and questioned why her son had been given a girl’s present. Santa, who had obviously had enough by then, shouted loudly at the woman, telling her that was all he had left and her son

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was way too old to be visiting Santa anyway. The boy stood in the background crying loudly.

Having three pubs as neighbours we were regaled with Christmas spirit at close of business. During the festive season the late night revellers at McCauley’s pub seemed to become more vocal than ever. As Christmas drew nearer their usual Irish and modern songs were interspersed with carols such as Come All Ye Faithful and Silent Night. As I lay in my bed, two houses from the pub, I was bombarded with “Carols by Street Light” every night until Christmas Eve. The making of the Christmas pudding was a grand affair in our family.

Long discussions were held for weeks before, between my mother and Aunt Kathleen, as this was no simple task. In Aunt Kathleen’s household the making of the pudding was done by Aunt Mary. Aunt Mary was the oldest member of the family, she herself had never married, but she was deemed to be some sort

of expert in the Christmas pudding department. On a Sunday afternoon a few weeks before Christmas Aunt Mary went to Aunt Kathleen’s house to make the pudding. Somewhere around the same time my mother would, with great fanfare make our pudding. Visitors to our home at Christmas were always served a small slice of Christmas pudding. The competition as to which was the best pudding was high and I was asked frequently which was the best, this did not require any great decision making as I knew what was good for me, mother’s was always the best!

A friend of my father’s had a stall in the fish markets, he also sold turkeys at Christmas. Our family always got a generous reduction on the cost of the turkey, this however did have its drawbacks. On Christmas Eve morning after finishing his night shift at British Railways, North Wall, my father would go to Slattery’s Pub, which was an early opener to accommodate the fish market workers, to share a Christmas drink with his friends. At home my mother would spend the morning watching and waiting for his arrival with our dinner for the next day. As the minutes ticked by her anger increased, this was my cue to grab my coat and continue the wait outside. By early afternoon her sister Kathleen would arrive and over cups of tea the anxious wait would continue. Eventually Daddy would stagger across Grattan Bridge carrying the turkey, stopping along the way to exchange the compliments of the season with several of the neighbours. Finally arriving at the hall door, with the bravado of a drunken man who does not know what is in store for him, he would happily go inside.

Mass on Christmas Day was a jovial event with greetings flowing freely back and forth. Then it was a visit to my grandparents who lived in Inchicore.

Back home and my father would carve the turkey, we ate the long awaited dinner and the excitement was over, until next year.

On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep

By Marie Moloney My grandfather James Kelly was respected by all who encountered him. He had a well-modulated voice and spoke with perfect diction. He was tall, always well dressed and walked with an air of authority and confidence. He never left home without his soft hat and rolled umbrella. “Mother & Ta Kelly” my father’s parents, were caring grandparents, Sunday was the day their many grandchildren would visit and get to know each other. Mother Kelly spent the morning cooking delicious cakes and bread for afternoon tea. We children spent the afternoons playing games and sometimes standing outside the front door singing “On Mother Kelly’s Doorstep” until our embarrassed grandmother shooed us all back inside.

Ta Kelly featured strongly in my life. Frequently as a young child I stayed at the home of my grandparents for a few days at a time and even now at seventy five years old I remember clearly some of the things he taught me. In the typical world of the child his persona began and ended as my grandfather.

He worked as a navvy in the Engineers Department of Guinness Brewery. One of my early memories is the day he arrived home and told me it was his last day at work, he had retired. From then onwards the household pivoted around his routine, which rarely varied. He would rise at 7.30am, get dressed and go to 8.0clock mass at Saint Michaels, the local parish church. Returning at about 8.40 he would have breakfast then go to his bench in front of the window in the back kitchen. This was where he spent the morning tinkering with the collection of tiny bits that eventually became a radio for some family member. My love of stories and other programs on the radio was nurtured by Ta Kelly. Standing at that bench, he would fiddle around with small parts for some time and then say “Listen Marie”. I still remember my joy and amazement when sound would

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emit from what looked to me like a collection of tiny unconnected items. At 1 o’clock he had dinner seated alone at the table, he was not to be disturbed at this time. During the early afternoon he tended his vegetable garden, where he grew rhubarb, cabbage and potatoes, always with Rover, the family dog hovering faithfully by his side.

He also kept chickens at the bottom of the garden, they supplied the household with fresh eggs. However aging hens were always a problem because he flatly refused to allow these birds to be killed and eaten. The rest of the afternoons and evenings he spent sitting by the fireside in the sitting room reading and smoking a pipe. On the mantle shelf above his chair was a box containing long strips pf paper which he lit from the fire in order to light the pipe.

It was on these occasions that he would talk to me about life and people.

A significant lesson I learnt from him was to think, to really think about what I saw and what I heard. I delighted in this and took it very seriously, although it was not a skill that served me well as I also learnt to share those thoughts loudly.

Often I did not really grasp the full meaning of what he was saying. He didn’t believe in class dis-

tinction. He told me about “The Communist Manifesto” written by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, and how it was being misinterpreted. One incident I remember with total clarity is when he told me that Sean T O’Kelly was an ordinary man and if I went to Áras an Uachtaráin he would probably invite me in for a cup of tea. I wanted to put this to the test, but as Sean T O’Kelly was the president of Ireland and Áras an Uachtaráin is the president’s official residence I was not brave enough do so.

Although I knew from things my father had said, that James Kelly had sympathies with the fight for Irish Independence, it is only in recent times that I have discovered the extent of his involvement. Due to the approaching cente-

nary of the 1916 Uprising extensive details of events at that time are now freely available on the internet. From these records I have acquired knowledge of my grandfather which I never knew before. He was a member of The Irish Citizen Army, or ICA, which was a small group of trained trade union volunteers established in Dublin for the defence of worker’s demonstrations from the police. During his long employment history with Guinness Brewery there was a significant gap from 1916 to 1922.

During the 1916 rebellion he was attached to St Stephens Green Garrison. He received medals for his involvement, he also received a Military pension.

His memory still brings music to my ears.

It’s not that the Irish are cynical. It’s rather that they have a wonderful lack of respect for everything and everybody. Brendan Behan

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It’s a Great Day For The Irish

By Marie Moloney Soon it will again be the day of the year when everybody (or so it seems) wants to be Irish. St Patrick is the patron saint of Ireland and by today’s standards he would be classed as a celebrity of mammoth proportions. St Patrick’s Day the 17th March is a day when the festivities that are held in his honour in many corners of the earth would rank among some of the greatest celebrations in the world. On that day it is customary to wear shamrocks and/or green clothing or accessories (the “wearing of the green”). St Patrick is said to have used the shamrock, a three-leaved plant, to explain the Holy Trinity to the pagan Irish.

In 1903, Saint Patrick’s Day became an official public holiday in Ireland.

This was thanks to the Bank Holiday (Ireland) Act 1903, an act of the United Kingdom Parliament introduced by Irish Member of Parliament James O’Mara.

O’Mara later introduced the law that required that pubs and bars be closed on the 17th March after alcohol consumption got out of hand, a provision that was repealed in the 1970s. The first Saint Patrick’s Day parade in the Irish Free State was held in Dublin in 1931.

During my childhood

in Dublin St Patrick’s Day being a holy day, began with going to mass. Afterwards my father and I would join the throng moving from all directions toward O’Connell Street, to watch the Saint Patrick’s Day parade. This was a big event so a great deal of pushing and shoving took place and the meeting up with friends and relations was part of the fun.

Daddy always seemed to know such a lot of people so our journey through the crowds was a slow one, interrupted by many stops to exchange greetings with people he had not seen for a while. The conversations always followed the same pattern, surprise would be expressed at how much I had grown, I wondered about this, as often I would not have seen these people for a couple of years, of course I had grown. After asking my age now and what class I was in at school I would be given a couple of pennies and we would move on. On one occasion we met a cousin of Daddy’s whom we had not seen since St Patrick’s day the previous year, when this lovely man asked me the question “How old are you now Marie” I cheekily replied “A year older than I was last year”. This

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attitude of mine did not always endear me to people.

Usually we found a good vantage point beside some relative or other and settled down to watch the fun. The Floats were colourful and the atmosphere happy although the day was almost always cold and wet.

Newfoundland and Labrador in Canada and Montserrat in The Caribbean also enjoy a public holiday on St Patrick’s Day. The island of Montserrat comes alive with Caribbean flair for the annual event. Showcasing a unique mix of Irish and African heritage, the week-long festival takes place at various locations throughout the island.

Astronauts on board the International Space Station have celebrated St Patrick’s Day in different ways. Irish-American Catherine Coleman played a hundred-year-old flute belonging to Matt Molloy and a tin whistle belonging to Paddy Moloney, both members of the Irish music group The Chieftains, while floating weightless in

the space station on Saint Patrick’s Day in 2011. Her performance was later included in a track called “The Chieftains in Orbit” on the group’s album, Voice of Ages. Chris Hadfield a Canadian astronaut took photographs of Ireland from earth orbit, and a picture of himself wearing green clothing in the space station, and posted them online on Saint Patrick’s Day in 2013. He also posted online a recording of himself singing “Danny Boy “in space.

Here in Australia the iconic Sydney Opera House has the privilege of going green in honour of St Patrick. Celebrations in his honour are held in every state. The Irish were among the first Europeans to settle in Australia. They came here as part of the convict settlement in New South Wales in the late 1700’s. Since then there has been ongoing migration of Irish people to Australia.

More than 300.000 free settlers migrated to Australia between 1840 and 1914.

The great Irish famine was responsible for many Irish being forced to leave their homes. The Irish diaspora has had a significant impact on the Australian ethos. About 30 percent of Australians are believed to have some Irish ancestry.

Many Australians pay tribute to the Irish settlement and culture on St Patrick’s Day. Without a doubt March 17th is a great day to be Irish.

Giddy Up!

by Marie Moloney The sight and sound of horses on the streets of Dublin is a memory that has never left me. The Clydesdale, a breed of draught horse derived from the farm horses of Clydesdale, Scotland were a part of Irish life during my childhood. On working days horse drawn vehicles could be seen on every street in Dublin. Across the city horse troughs filled with water stood on street corners.

The sound of horse’s hooves on cobblestones was a constant part of life.

Two brothers named Eustace operated a Horse Drawn Hackney Cab business from their premises in Exchange Street Lower. Guinness used horses inside their business premises and made deliveries throughout the city with horse drawn vehicles. These horses were highly thought of by staff and all had names.

Some were used in pairs for pulling heavier loads and had paired names such as ‘Thunder and Lightning’ and ‘Rhyme and Reason’. The last horse used for Guinness business was in 1960.

For a number of years in his working life with British Rail North Wall Dublin my father was a deliveryman. His mode of transport was a large horse drawn dray cart. With this he collected products for export from various companies and delivered goods which had been imported. Some local confectionery companies were included in his collection route. This sometimes meant he arrived home with very welcome treats. ”Rosie” as my father called her was a beautiful deep chestnut coloured Clydesdale. She still holds pride of place in the fabric of my childhood memories of horses. I have always had a love of these beautiful creatures. This began with my experience of a horse belonging to my uncle when I was a very young child but it flowered and grew with my acquaintance with Rosie. The position of deliveryman came with full responsibility for the horse; this inevitably created a strong relationship between horse and driver. At night after the deliveries of the day were done daddy was responsible for brushing, feeding and watering Rosie before leaving for home This he did with loving care, her mane and ankle frills were smoothed and untangled and her body shone like glass. The bond between these two was reflected by both my mother and me; it became customary for us to ask him if he was taking good care of the horse.

During that period my father always came home for lunch, each day he arrived at 1.10pm and in order to

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get back to clock on again at 2 .00 he left at 1.50pm. Our rule of thumb for this was the clock above Slowey’s Pub directly across the street. Sometimes at about 1.45 I would go with my father down the two flights of stairs from our home on the first floor to talk to Rosie. There were other times when he lingered after he had finished his lunch, on these occasions there would be smiles and winks between my parents as I stood by the window watching the horse.

Suddenly she would raise her front legs up in the air and bring her large hooves down on to the road with a loud clomp. At the same time her head was raised and moving, waving her mane from side to side as she uttered several loud neighing sounds.

“Rosie is a really smart

horse, she can read the clock,” my father would tell me. At that time because I was no more than four years old I believed this.

Many years passed before I realized it was not that Rosie could read the clock, but that she knew instinctively that she had been standing for longer than usual. That horse also had her own ideas about who was in charge, each day as they prepared to leave my father gave her two lumps of sugar which were savoured and swallowed joyfully and off man and horse would go without incident.

I watched all of this from our front room window so sometimes for my benefit, he went straight to the driver’s seat and climbed in without giving the horse her expected treat. The front legs would rear up, the mane would shake and

the neighs would sound so sorrowful. He then got down gave her the sugar lumps waved to me and a smooth departure was achieved.

There was an occasion when arriving home visibly upset my father told us about the accident; apparently, as they were doing their rounds, a bus directly in front of them braked abruptly. Taken by surprise, driver and horse did not act quickly enough and Rosie collided with the back of the bus. Amid our cries of concern for Rosie my father assured us that she was not injured and had been taken back to her stable and a dinner of hay.

However there were many jokes made about the day daddy drove his horse into the back of a bus.

“Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.” W.B. Yeats, Irish poet

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Life Imitating Art

By Marie Moloney In 1940’s inner city Dublin the streets were the only available playgrounds for local children.

However what could today be viewed as a disadvantage was in some ways, an opening for interesting experiences.

Playacting was a common part of our activities. One memory I have is of being a passenger in what was to become the last genuine horse drawn hansom cab in Dublin. The business premises of the brothers who owned the cab company was on the next street to my home and sometimes, as a treat, my friend and I were driven along the Liffey side to Kingsbridge Station. If the driver did not pick up a passenger we would then be driven back home. While in this cab we became ladies dressed in satin on our way to a ball.

Growing up a five minute walk from the Olympia Theatre in Dame Street Dublin, I grew up with an awareness of the arts.

Theatre has the ability to transport the audience to a different space and Irish theatre has always been up there with the best. Any

sign of activity around the theatre was quickly spotted by the local children and the news spread instantly. Observing who was going in or out of the back door and trying to creep inside unnoticed was the main concern.

And of course there was Mickser Reid. This gentleman was a dwarf who also lived locally and was part of the cast in shows at various venues across town at the time. He had a three wheel bike which was the envy of local children. When participating in a show at the Olympia he would ride up to the back door on his bike.

The waiting group of children would beg and plead for a ride on the bike. Sometimes a couple of brave souls managed to grab the bike for a short ride down the street.

Every year the usual Christmas pantomime was staged at the Olympia Theatre. One performance of this was for the poor children of the district, which of course meant almost all of us. The capacity of the theatre is 1,300. Tickets were distributed at the local schools and were coveted by all. Since

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this was the only interesting happening of the year, excitement began mounting several days prior to the event. With the dawning of the day of this great local “Extravaganza” the excitement in the air was almost palatable. Long before the appointed time of doors opening, a slow trickle of children could be seen journeying toward the theatre.

This slowly increased until there was a steady stream, I watched the action from the front window of my home until my mother deemed it proper for me to leave and join the throng. There was much pushing and shoving as we stood waiting for the big moment, each one of us tightly clutching our ticket for entry to the “Panto”.

When the doors opened some strong armed tactics were needed to manage a semblance of orderly entrance. When this had been achieved, staff distributed small bags of sweets, (Lollies) one for each child.

The show began, the noise level almost blew the roof off (or so it seemed) and a great time was had by all, well perhaps not the staff. The Olympia’s fame is still relevant, a photo of this theatre is featured on the Australian Irish Embassy web site. Sometimes as I pass the sculpture of Percy Button standing on his head in Hay Street, where in the early part of the twentieth century, he entertained theatre goers with his acrobatic performances, I think of the “Panto”.

Hats Ahoy!

By Marie Moloney The river Liffey flows from the Dublin Mountains and through the city of Dublin on its journey into the Irish Sea. Much of my time as a child was spent gazing into its murky waters fantasizing about the freedom of its gentle journey. Although it was just meters from my home, access to the river bed was not available. There is now a walkway along the north side of the Liffey wall and tour boats are a frequent sight cruising up and down the water.

During school holidays I spent a considerable amount of time at my paternal grandparent’s home in Inchicore, a suburb about four kilometers out of the city. Mother and Ta Kelly as they were known to us grandchildren were kind and loving to all of us.

Many of my best memories of childhood are of time spent with them or involve one or both of them.

Mother Kelly was a kind woman who loved all of her many grandchildren. Much of her time was spent cooking treats for us, or taking us out to various places. When I was about eight years old she took

me to join the local public library on Emmet Rd Inchicore. I was, from an early age, an avid reader and subsequent visits to that library were a valued part of my time with her.

On these occasions she would call out “Get ready Marie, we are going to the Library”, as she put on her hat and coat.

Women’s fashions in the 1940’s were more formal than in today’s world.

Common attire for women, when going out, was a coat and a hat. There were a variety of styles but in the socio-economic status my family were part of, unobtrusive designs were the norm. Mother Kelly’s everyday hat was black with a very large brim. A long lethal looking hat pin with a black knob was inserted through the back of the hat and a portion of her hair, to hold the hat securely in place. This pin was a source of great curiosity to me. However, gaining access for a closer look, was impossible as when it was not on Mother Kelly’s head the hat lived on a high shelf in the coat cupboard.

On one of the many occasions when I had been

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staying with my grandparents Mother Kelly was taking me home on the 24 bus, which we boarded on Bulfin Road just a short walk from her home. While on the bus I got into the seat behind her and carefully removed the pin from her hat. She didn’t notice this as she was having a conversation with a man sitting opposite. At last, the chance of a lifetime, I stroked the pin wondering if there could be a way for me to keep it. Suddenly the bell rang and the bus lurched to a stop, it was time for us to get off.

It was a wet windy day, and as we walked along Wood Quay toward Grattan Bridge just meters from my family home in Parliament Street, the hat rose up above my grandmother’s head, and in a flash was flying over the river Liffey at great speed.

It then lost its momentum, landed in the water and happily went sailing toward the Irish Sea. Mother Kelly was distraught at the loss of her beloved hat but I was enthralled at the sight of this black hat sailing merrily down the river.

Although more than sixty six years have passed the details of this event are still crystal clear in my head. I am ashamed to say that the memory of it still creates feelings of great amusement for me. Each time the memory comes into my mind my feeling of glee returns in full force. And no I was not allowed to keep the hatpin.

One Hundred Years!

By Marie Moloney The Easter Rebellion of been coming into Aus1916 is today regarded as tralia since the first fleet. one of the more important, They have helped create if not the most important the Australia we live in event in Irish history. That today. Outside of Ireland, was not always the case. Australia is the most Irish When I was growing up country in the world. The in Dublin in the 1940’s and gift of people made by Ire50’s it was spoken about land to Australia has over in hushed tones and whis- time been immeasurable. pers. The Rising was or- It is understandable that its ganised by a small group contribution to the Austraof patriots and took place lian ethos has been considon Easter Monday the 24th erable.

April 1916. Key locations Thousands of young in Dublin were seized and women came from Ireland The Proclamation of Inde- to Australia in the post pendence was read outside famine years. Families the General Post Office in across Australia can trace O’Connell Street Dublin. their origins back to these Despite great odds, the women. During the period Rising lasted for six days of high emigration from before being suppressed by post WW11 to the present the British. Fifteen promi- day the Irish have been nent members of the group among the continual flow were executed. Ireland was of migrants. Many Irish never the same again. As families came here as ten a result of that and sub- pound migrants. The chilsequent happenings over dren of these people are the next few years Ireland now contributing in all arregained control of twenty eas of society, some of them six counties, although six excelling in their chosen still remain part of the UK. paths.

Because of all of this Ire“Patrick McGorry” is land’s history over the past an Irish migrant from Dubcentury has taken a new lin is Professor of Youth direction. In 2016 the 1916 Mental Health at the Unirising will be commemo- versity of Melbourne. He rated in Ireland and many was Australian of the Year other countries across the in 2010. He is just one exworld by the Irish and their ample of the efforts of the descendants.

Irish in their new home of Irish migrants have choice.

Recently here in Western Australia we had a celebration of the 150th birthday of W B Yeats at Notre Dame University and also a commemoration of An Gorta Mor (The Great Famine) at the Bell Tower where the Irish National Anthem was played on the bells. In recent years the St Patrick’s Day Parade in Leederville has attracted huge crowds.

Occasions like these are tangible evidence that the Irish influence is strong in Western Australia.

In July 2014 The Hon Jimmy Deenihan was appointed as Ireland’s first Minister for the Diaspora. The millions of Irish around the world now have a representative in Ireland. In September of this year politicians from countries around the world who are of Irish descent were in Dublin for the first Global Irish Parliamentarians’ Forum which is intended to foster Ireland’s relationship with its diaspora. Therefore it seems right that the commemorations of 1916 here in Australia should be significant enough to reflect all of this.

Their children sing of drover’s life of Shearers and bush rangers, They learn to play our music and to dance the steps of old.

Though their hearts are in Australia, they never will be strangers To the land they left behind them, they’re the green among the gold.

From Green Among the Gold by Steve & Ros Barnes

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No Head for Heights

By Marie Moloney Nelson’s Pillar, a 36.9m column topped by a 4m statue of Nelson, was a fixture in O’Connell Street Dublin during my young life growing up there. The pillar was first built in 1808 to honour Admiral Lord Nelson.

On the 8th March 1966 at around 1.30am a bomb destroyed the top half of Nelson’s Pillar and the statue of Nelson landed on the street.

No one was injured. The remainder quickly became known as the stump.

At that time, as a young mother of three living on the borders of Essex and London, I was a part time student in a drama course at Leyton Polytech. The play we were studying was “Happy as Larry” by

Donagh McDonagh who was the son of Thomas McDonagh a signatory of the Proclamation in 1916.

The bombing of Nelson’s Pillar took place just a few days before the play was due to open. The news of Nelson’s demise from his great height in Dublin was greeted with horror by the cast. A line in this play, spoken by Larry himself, was “I am as stiff as Nelson above on his pillar“. When we opened the following weekend Nelson was no longer on his pillar.

The event caused great commotion in Dublin. As always there were many people in the vicinity at the time. Stories abounded about what happened and how crowds of people were running in all directions. “Up Went Nelson in Old Dublin”, a song written by The Lucky Four, went straight to the top of the Irish charts. However, to an inordinate number of people the biggest loss was a meeting point. Nelson’s Pillar stood a few feet from the General Post Office in O’Connell Street which is a central area from which many places of interest can be reached. At any time of day or night a constant flow of people would pass through there to their destination. “The Pillar”as it was affectionately known as, was “The Meeting Place”.

To many of us living in Dublin at that time, a com-

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mon catch phrase was “See you at the Pillar”. From there many popular venues of entertainment were easily accessible. Clery’s Dance Hall, the National Ballroom and many cinemas were within easy reach. People from Irish country towns who came to Dublin to do some shopping, also visitors to Ireland staying in various surrounding hotels, met there. A gathering of people could always be seen standing among the flower sellers who stood around the base of the pillar selling their wares. Tourists climbed the interior to enjoy the view of the city from the top.

Many years later in 1988 the Anna Livia Monument was installed on the site previously occupied by Nelson. A personification of the river Liffey, it was, in typical Dublin fashion, renamed by locals as “The Floozie in the Jacuzzi”.

It was removed from its site on O’Connell Street in 2001 to make room for the The Spire of Dublin or The Monument of Light which was installed in 2003 and has been renamed by some as “The Stiletto in the Ghetto”. The original head of Nelson’s Pillar is on display in the reading room of Dublin City Library and Archive.

I wonder do people now say “Meet you at the Ghetto”, somehow it does not have the same resonance.

Although Nelson was an intruder in O’Connell Street Dublin the term “Meet you at the Pillar” had flair.

Writers and Fighters

By Marie Moloney An old song my moth- will pass through the city, er often sang when I was watched by the President a child suggested that a and invited guests from bit of heaven fell into the viewing stands lining ocean and angels decided O’Connell Street. to leave it because it looked As a child in Dublin City so peaceful there. And that with Dublin Castle at the was how Ireland came to end of the street I lived on be. Recently at The Irish and just a short walk from Club I heard Tony Curtis, the GPO, I was familiar a talented Irish poet, read with the numerous historia selection of his work. One cal buildings in the area. At poem featured the term school I learnt much about oxymoron and “Civil War” local history, but it is only was quoted as an example. in my later years that I have Another example of an become aware of the value oxymoron that comes to of the rich history that I was my mind is “Ireland and privileged to live amongst peace”. for the first fourteen years In 1916 a greatly out- of my life. numbered group of men Through the ages Ireand women participated land has produced writers in a rising that was, at the and literature of renown. time, described as unsuc- So much of the literature, cessful. However, that ris- songs and music that has ing and subsequent events been composed by these changed Ireland forever. writers features Ireland’s Now in 2016 great prepa- troubled history. Now rations are taking place in when I pursue history and many countries across the genealogy I am sometimes world for the commemora- amazed. For example Jonation of the centenary of the thon Swift was born in 1667 rising in Dublin in 1916. in 9 Hoeys Court which was In Dublin during the behind Dublin Castle. Two Easter weekend many me- hundred and seven years morial services will take later my grandmother, place, including a nation- Mary Ann Daly, was born ally televised military cer- in 10 Hoeys Court. emony and a parade which Jonathon Swift was

Dean of St Patrick’s Cathedral Dublin from 1713 until his death in 1745. He is considered to be one of the outstanding writers of the 18th century. His two most notable works are Gulliver’s Travels published in 1726 and A Modest Proposal, a satirical essay which is still viewed as a literary masterpiece, published in 1729. The latter is a layered irony aimed at highlighting the extreme poverty of the Irish in eighteen century Ireland. Today it is still referred to at universities as an example of the use of argumentative language, also in literature and history courses.

William Butler Yeats is widely considered to be one of the greatest poets of the twentieth century. In December 1923, Yeats was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Among the significant output of the literary work of Yeats there were many references to the troubled period in the early 1900’s. September 1913 and Easter 1916 are fine examples of this. Patrick Pearse was a lawyer, a writer and the founder of St Enda’s school for boys in Ranelagh Dublin. His vision was for an independent sovereign state, free of English influence. Sean O’Casey’s Trilo-

“I saw my husband in his cell for ten minutes. During the interview the cell was packed with officers and a sergeant, who kept a watch in his hand and closed the interview by saying, ‘Your ten minutes is now up.’” Grace Gifford Plunkett

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Grace Gifford and Joseph Mary Plunkett

gy, Shadow of a Gunman, Juno and the Paycock and The Plough and the Stars are about the period from

1916 – 1922.

Joseph Mary Plunkett, one of the signatories of the proclamation, married

Grace Gifford at Kilmainham Gaol the night before he was executed for his part in the rising. “Grace “is a beautiful song written by Frank and Seán O’Meara.

Troubled times contribute to determination: it can be said that the Irish make their mark wherever they go. Australia wide events this year to commemorate the centenary will remind us of the sacrifices made by those who fought to gain a republic of Ireland. As Yeats expressed it “A Terrible Beauty is Born”.

They Also Served One hundred years ago life for women was so very different. Largely due to the traditional expectations of the woman’s role, very few women had the same opportunities as men.

In Ireland, The Irish Citizen Army was formed in 1913 and took part in the 1916 Rising. Membership for women was on a par with men. In 1916 The Proclamation of Independence itself promised equal rights and equal opportunities to all its citizens.

By Marie Moloney Yet one woman, a member of the Irish Citizen Army, who was shot during the rising had her application for a state pension refused several times as the term ‘soldier’ was said to apply to men only.

After many attempts her applications were finally successful and she received a pension in 1938. Women fought alongside men at many locations, these women must have felt very embittered about their treatment by the republic

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they had fought for.

What also, of the women who were attending to all the important details of caring for a family while their husbands were fighting? There will have been many women whose husbands were involved in the fighting who suffered great hardship at that time. My grandmother Dora Kelly was in labour with one of her nine children while my grandfather James Kelly fought under the command of Countess Constance

Markievicz at the St Stephens Green Garrison.

Could the people at the centre of the action have functioned successfully without the support of the women in the background?

Not only the women who took care of families while their husbands were fighting, but also the many women who attended to This photo was taken from an article by Marie’s sister Teresa O’Brien the necessary tasks such as lives in Dublin. Marie told us it will be of real interest as her sister’s the preparation of food for who daughter Roisin is a TV producer doing interviews around Ireland for a those in the front line. Now, TV and online program on 1916. in 2016, it is wonderful and right that these brave women are finally being recognised for the huge role that they played ON A POLITICAL PRISONER in gaining Irish independence.

WB Yeats On International Women’s Day in March this year a four story mural of three iconShe that but little patience knew ic women of 1916, Countess Markievicz, From childhood on, had now so much Margaret Pearse and Grace Gifford by artist A grey gull lost its fear and flew Gearóid O’Dea was installed on the wall of a Down to her cell and there alit, building on the corner of Dame and Georges And there endured her fingers’ touch Street Dublin. This is just a five minute walk And from her fingers ate its bit. from the home of my childhood in Parliament Did she in touching that lone wing Street. Also a bus from Dublin to Ashbourne Recall the years before her mind featuring women of the rising, was launched.

Became a bitter, an abstract thing, Buses all over Ireland are displaying posters Her thought some popular enmity: of women who participated in the rising to be Blind and leader of the blind viewed by all who travel in them.

Drinking the foul ditch where they lie?

Women may have won the right to vote in the early twentieth century but it has taken When long ago I saw her ride a great deal longer for them to gain anything Under Ben Bulben to the meet, near equal rights. One phrase I heard a few The beauty of her country-side years ago was that, in the past, “Women lived With all youth’s lonely wildness stirred, second hand lives”. However for those of us She seemed to have grown clean and sweet who have daughters and granddaughters, we Like any rock-bred, sea-borne bird: have the comfort of knowing they will have a smoother path ahead. Women across the world have in the past endured a life of lesser importance. Hopefully the recognition of the Irish women of 1916 will impact in a positive way in modern society. In 2016, with the aid of modern technology, their story is being seen and heard across the world.

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Sea-borne, or balanced on the air When first it sprang out of the nest Upon some lofty rock to stare Upon the cloudy canopy, While under its storm-beaten breast Cried out the hollows of the sea.

Unravelled Memories

By Marie Moloney At the school I attended in Dublin Ireland there were no facilities for subjects such as sport or cooking. But I did learn to knit and sew in a limited fashion.

In the knitting class we produced small useless squares and graduated to other items. However hard I tried my efforts always ended up a mangled mess.

My teacher, Miss Holey had little patience with me, and I now have to admit I cannot blame the long suffering woman who tried so hard, in almost impossible circumstances, to teach the children in her care.

On one occasion when I was about eleven years old Miss Holey informed us we were to learn how to knit socks. Each week we would spend an hour going through the different stages, the leg, turning the heel and finally shaping the toe. At the end of each session we would hand in our work and receive it back the following week for the next lesson. As she distributed the wool for this she

explained there was not enough for everyone and told me I could not do any knitting until she got more wool. I was heartbroken; not at being unable to join in the knitting class, but at being singled out as the one who could not. I asked permission to go to the toilet and sat outside crying my eyes out.

However my tears of sadness quickly turned to tears of anger and as my fury increased, I began thinking of ways to show her that she could not do this to me. As I sat with my arms clasped to my chest I suddenly noticed what I was wearing. It was a hand knitted jumper which my cousin Vera had made for me; it was thick and warm but the wide dark green and red stripes did nothing for my pale complexion. As a child I did not appreciate the long hours of effort that go into knitting a jumper. I pulled it off and unpicked the left sleeve, rolled the wool into a ball and put the jumper back on minus a sleeve. I returned to the

classroom demanding to knit a sock with my wool.

My fellow students were greatly amused but Miss Holey was visibly distressed and very concerned about what my mother would say. I felt vindicated. This became another episode in my checkered history of wrongdoing, Vera knitted the sleeve again and stitched it back on to my jumper and I did not knit a sock that time.

When I was fifteen, my cousin Vera died of heart problems. I missed her so much. Even now as an old woman my memory of her is all tangled up with that red and green striped jumper.

I have a total irreverence for anything connected with society except that which makes the roads safer, the beer stronger, the food cheaper and the old men and old women warmer in the winter and happier in the summer.

Brendan Behan

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by Marie Maloney Berry delightful is on the South West Highway, ten kilometres south of Donnybrook, Western Australia amid peaceful hilly countryside. The proprietors Mark & Sarah Hardisty were the first commercial growers of raspberries in Western Australia, starting in 1986. They also planted other varieties of berries and pecan nuts.

It started with five acres of raspberries, Mark and Sarah had been growing them quite successfully in their home garden for many years before, and a decision had to be made as to the continuing viability of their old ‘fruit salad’ orchard of apples, pears and stone fruit. The orchard needed new varieties and massive injections of money to remain viable into the next millennium and so the journey began.

Successful raspberry growing depends upon a few things; a chill factor for W.A. [so many hours of temperature under 7 degrees Celsius], good water with minimal salt and rich well drained soil, perfect conditions you would say for any fruit crop, or garden.

Raspberries are known as the fruit of civilisation, their tastes were delighting generations

of Europeans for centuries, before their development as a marketable

fruit through more improved transport.

Their experience at local markets, selling their berries, jams and preserves taught Mark and Sarah that many Australians found raspberries acidic, or worst of all, spat them out. Not a good look at any public gathering. The taste of raspberries can be a little acidic to Australian tastebuds, though those in the know with a developed palate think this is one of their attributes.

For this reason Mark and Sarah decided to increase the profile of this delicious fruit through marketing, but what sort of marketing? Revealing their true taste with a little sweetener added, or combined with chocolate, a ‘no-brainer’ as one

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of the cooking shows had described. It was decided that to present raspberries in their best way was to actually bake with them and give travellers and tourists a real taste of how they were to be eaten or presented on a plate. The delight of raspberries and chocolate was created on a shortcrust pastry base, and called a ‘Ballymaloe Tart’ after the cooking house in Ireland, gleaned from a recipe out of the “A la carte” magazine of the time. So the “Berry Delightful Tearooms” was opened on Boxing Day 1992, presenting quite a simple menu with all food created upon the property, from fresh garden produce and fruit grown in the gardens.

Many other delights were created and enjoyed at the Berry Delightful until October 1996, when Mark was involved in a Motor Vehicle accident.

Many years of rehabilitation followed where to Sarah’s credit, she with the help of the family, carried on producing raspberries and other berries for the markets. The tearooms was closed down, as well as the preserves business, whilst she attended to getting Mark back on his feet and keeping their farm produce going. During this time of rehabilitation they were able to retain the farm, through the assistance of friends and family. In 2000, an upstream dam collapsed bringing salty silt and sludge through the property, and killing some are-

as of berries. Mark then went teaching Horticulture in the Bunbury Regional Prison, and whilst waiting for the berries to recover, they were able to renovate their farm shed to enable all weather trading. From their re-opening in February 2012 the Berry Delightful is able to trade through all weathers, with a wood fired pizza oven, delivering some of the best pizza, coffee, food and desserts in the Geographe wine region.

Bring your own wine or other alcoholic drinks and enjoy the lovely garden setting of “the Berry Delightful”. The view of the great gardens where the 1000 rose bushes on the hill flower with great abandon through the growing season will add ambience to the dining experience. In autumn the colours of the deciduous trees are beautifully reflected in the waters of the dam. So tho’ it doesn’t look much as you drive by, “the Berry Delightful” reveals its beauty to those who take time to smell the roses.

Editor... Sarah is the daughter of Dick Maloney (Marie’s husband). Thanks to Marie for the story and we are always looking for stories like this for our readers.

Romancing the past

by Marie Maloney Many TV programs and stories can make the past seem like a wonderful place. Whenever I see pictures of Temple Bar as it is today my mind flashes back to the Temple Bar of the 1940’s with rows of washing hanging across the street.

Life in inner city Dublin during my childhood was hard for many. Large families living in cramped conditions in a couple of rooms in grand old houses which were originally intended for one family.

These properties were frequently badly in need

of repair and lacked the facilities required for communal living. It was common to have as many as fifty human beings living in a house with one toilet and no bathroom.

Infections were rampant and treatment sometimes interesting. One practice I remember was children who had whooping cough were taken to breathe in tar fumes from roadworks.

News of current roadworks was shared by word of mouth and mothers pushing prams would take the sick children to the site.

I have only one memory of been taken to see a doctor

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once during my childhood.

With large families being normal and incomes low, there never was any money left after the bare essentials were provided. I was a fairly healthy child with just the usual childhood ailments. There certainly were quite a lot of those and on these occasions my mother would take me to see Mr Mushatt at his chemist shop in Francis Street. These visits were dreaded experiences for me as Mr Mushatt always recommended Senna tea.

He was tall, thin and had a lot of white hair, he also had a very kindly manner.

But, without fail, regardless of what my ailment was, he insisted what I needed was more Senna tea, even now the mere thought of this liquid makes me shudder.

However the Mushatts were known all over Dublin for their wisdom in health issues. People came in droves from all directions to seek help.

Indeed, without this establishment, many people would not have had any access to

health information.

The Mushatt brothers ran their business in the Liberties area in Dublin for over forty years. They made their own medicines in the back room of the premises and the poor of Dublin believed in them. Frequently the shop was full of mothers with their sick children, and the queue spilled out on to Francis Street. Often walking along the streets of the city people could be overheard discussing the benefits of Mushatt products and eagerly recommending a visit to the establishment if any mention was made of feeling unwell.

The inexpensive medicines and caring attitudes offered during so many years, to the poor in Dublin, is a part of the social history of the city. There is now a website offering Mushatt’s no 9 products, it is also on facebook.

Editor: I too remember the Senna Tea Marie Ugh!!! I saw the following extract on the web: Harry Mushatt set up his “chemist” shop in Dublin’s poorest tenement district, known as the Liberties in the 1920’s. An excerpt from “Dublin Tenement Life” helps explain what the times were like back then: “You never saw doctors. You could go to a chemist and even if your throat was cut, he’d give you a cure for it. He’d put a dressing on it. Mr. Mushatt was in Francis Street-he was the masterpiece, for a bad chest, bad back…..from north, south, east and west, people’d come for them. People trusted him as he concocted his own old fashioned medicines in the rear compounding room. His lotions, potions, and tablets were thought to be the purest medicines. People really believed in them, swore by them.”

The Cost of Migration

By Marie Moloney

As I approach 48 years of living in Australia I still have a clear memory of arriving in Perth with my family in January 1969. The strangeness of being a nuclear family in a country where we did not know anybody, was at times difficult, anonymity can be an unwelcome companion. Making friends and determining one’s place in the scheme of things takes time. Now many of the people who became valued friends have died.

Detailing one’s life is a huge job; the course of that life, how it evolved, why it happened that way and of course the “What ifs?” Looking back, it is quite common to wonder “How did I get from there to here?” The very nature of being migrants means some things are missing from our lives. When remembering, we need to cover experiences that are almost like two lifetimes; before and after. The scales of loss and gain are constant companions in life. I am now viewing those scales with interest and more than a little sadness. The personal journey of a migrant can be ongoing. However much we might love our adopted country and not want to live anywhere else, there will always be times when we are aware of the cost that is a part of migration. That first year I experienced the sometimes almost desperate longing for family and friends, this was all the more poignant because I already knew I never would return to live in Europe. The laconic Australian humour and down to earth helpfulness suited me and I straight away wanted to belong to it. The climate, plus the outdoor life permitted by this, meant we dressed differently. Also we soon became accustomed to the fact that social life centered more around entertaining at home, or at the homes of friends.

I now think of my family of origin, peers and others, whose lives have gone in diverse directions, geographically, otherwise or both, and wonder sometimes about their stories. I have spent time with each of my siblings at various times in the past forty seven years, but there has only been one occasion when we

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have all been together.

The highest number of settlers to arrive in any one year since World War II was 185,099 in 1969–70. It is vital to remember the Irish among those who came to Australia 40 or 50 years ago.

When migrating we leave a place but we take with us, not just the cutlery and the linen, but the essence of who we are. We brought different skills with us but we

have contributed much to the present society through the diversity of abilities and professions of our children and grandchildren. It is wonderful to meet young Irish people now working in various situations around the city and contributing to the cultural ethos of Australia. The culture I grew up in is still part of who I am and is being absorbed through future generations of my

family into the local ethos.

It is a strong reminder that I have retained my cultural identity and integrated it into my life in my chosen society. I now think of my family and feel a deep sense of pride at my contribution to my adopted country. No longer that lone nuclear family, we are a constantly widening ripple, a definitive footprint in the Australia of the future.

The Art of Persuasion

By Marie Moloney The year was 1961, I was a young woman of twenty two living in Kilburn London and the mother of two boys. David was seventeen months and Ian was five weeks old at the time. Kilburn in the early 1960’s was colourful, well that is one way of describing it. Life was often frantic but never dull, however it was at times a challenge. When I decided to have a home birth the second time around we “Called the Midwife” and although it was a cut above Poplar, where the entertaining TV program is set, it was a rather harrowing experience. The midwife was a tall angular woman of about fifty who had never had children. That was immediately obvious as she set about her job helping the baby machine operate. No nonsense, no compassion. The birth process was quick and my sec-

ond son was born without incident. However, with two babies before the era of disposal nappies, washing, hand wringing and getting items dry in October, in the northern hemisphere, was a never ending task.

The need for a washing machine was clear. The walk to the Department Store on the Kilburn High Road was less than ten minutes from our home. I chose a Hoover washing machine with a hand wringer on top and was assured by the salesman that it would serve me well. My elation knew no bounds when the prized acquisition arrived the following day. Life was so much easier after that, for at least two weeks! One cold wet morning with icy particles clinging to the outside of the windows my new home help refused to work. Having filled it with hot water via a hose from the hot water tap, I pressed

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the switch and the empty unresponsive silence was thundering. As we did not have a phone I packed my babies into the pram and went to the store to report this. The department head promised a repair man would be at my house first thing the next day. He did not arrive, and one week and two trips to the store later he still had not arrived, in essence my work load had increased.

It was, I decided, time for drastic measures. In a carefully orchestrated manner I prepared every-

thing I would need and at nine o’clock one morning I pushed my babies in their pram down to the store. The white goods section was in the basement, however there was no problem getting help to carry the big Rolls Royce style Persuasion pram down the steep steps once I had told my story to the nice man in the street.

The salesmen were not quite as eager to help so I settled down to the job of convincing them that I had no intention of going away quietly this time. Soon it was time to feed the baby his bottle.

I borrowed a chair from a sales station and gave baby David some biscuits to eat while I fed his little brother.

Then it was time to change nappies as both babies were wet. That was easy as there were flat top washing machines all around me. But once David had been released from his position in the pram he would not go back, he wanted to explore the new exciting territory around him. As it was now mid morning the store was populated by a sizable crowd of keen customers, that was, until they encountered a large pram blocking the main pathway through the display area. I, by this stage was engaged running after my older son who was extremely agile at climbing over everything in sight. It was not long before a frazzled department head begged me to go, promising my washing machine would be fixed that afternoon. I went, because I knew that this time it would.

Confirming Our Heritage

By Marie Moloney I have recently returned from a visit to Dublin, where I was born and spent the first 18 years of my life. Walking through the streets of inner Dublin my mind often drifted back to childhood memories. My mother and her sister Kathleen who were inseparable, each had a commitment to “respectability”.

A decent hat and coat for Sunday mass, funerals and any other special occasions that occurred, were a must. These were replaced after several years by new items and relegated to everyday use. Another proof of this respectability were the homes of the sisters and their families, two small rooms each, one on Wellington Quay the other on Parliament Street, both in houses with closed hall doors. This elevated them from the many tenement houses in the area which all had open hall doors. Many of the tenement houses have been replaced by apartment buildings. Ireland is now also a country with a large migrant population contributing their culture to the local ethos.

One of the highlights of my time in Dublin was a visit to a new museum which celebrated its first birthday on the 6th of May 2017. The Epic Museum is the story of people who have left Ireland to settle in various parts of the world, and the impact they have made. There are about 70 million people around the world who claim Irish heritage and ancestry. This museum is an amazing testimony of the influence we Irish have wherever we go. We do not shed the culture of our country of origin like a skin when we move to live in another country. That is why Australia has the rich diverse and ever changing ethos for which it is renowned. The richness of Irish culture brought here by Irish migrants from

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first settlement to present day is evident in our community.

A significant number of Irish people came to Australia during the period of high immigration in the 1960’s and 70’s. Some of these have passed away but there are still Dublin Airport in the 60s

many who are alive and now elderly. Aging can bring various challenges to many of us. For migrants, there can be the additional sadness of thinking of relatives and friends far away, who are also old or have already died. Sometimes as migrant’s age they think more about their country of origin and reminisce about the past. The people who were dear to them, the places they miss, the poignant acceptance that the place we left is not the place we return to visit. The country we leave is never exactly the same when we return, it has changed and we have also changed, although we may not be aware of the changes in ourselves.

Sometimes these facts are

is being absorbed through future generations of our families into the local ethos.

This Irish contribution to Australian culture has been ongoing for generations.

Now after forty eight years I know that migrants pay a big price for the choice to live the Australian way of life. There are so many stories that could be told for the benefit of future generations of Australians to enlighten them of the lives of their ancestors and provide more than a name on a birth certificate.

only slowly realised in Editor: Marie got me later years. The gain is so interested in the Epic Muobvious and something seum in Dublin and it has that most of us would not some wonderful evocative change, but part of being a artwork. The story on page migrant is being aware of 51 is from the website by the loss of that place that is Jerome Devitt has a very gone forever. interesting take on Ned Loss of family expe- Kelly…. riences is also part of the fabric of the migrant life journey, alongside the knowledge that it was a necessary The Epic Museum part of the gain we have achieved.

Thoughts of people who have been a part of our lives for a while, family ties that were never forged. But the culture we grew up in is still part of who we are, and

“Critics are like eunuchs in a harem; they know how it’s done, they’ve seen it done every day, but they’re unable to do it themselves.”

“What the hell difference does it make, left or right?

There were good men lost on both sides.”

Brendan Behan

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Breakfast was always a happy occasion at the beach house. The dining room windows had a glorious view of the ocean which stretched as far as the eye could see. While eating in such a privileged setting, the nuns would talk of their respective plans for the day. This morning however, the conversation centered on the commotion in the night which had woken and frightened some of them.

The beautiful old federation style property was on a hill overlooking the ocean, its big rooms all had ceiling fans which circulated the air in an effort to cool it. At night the verandas surrounding the building offered a delightful retreat with big comfortable chairs where they could sit and converse while enjoying the cool sea breeze.

The house was used as a holiday home for nuns who were educators in schools scattered hundreds of kilometers apart in West Australian remote outback towns. It was a real treat being so close to the ocean and sleep came easily in bedrooms which had big windows which, when open, allowed the full benefit of the sea breeze to circulate through the house.

During the summer months nuns came from all over the state to enjoy a holiday at this delightful location.

For many of them it was the only time they saw the ocean from one year to the next. Evening strolls along the beach

THE

HOLY GHOST

By Marie Moloney

were popular. Shopping for essentials and small treats in nearby areas was also a highlight of time spent there, as most of the towns they lived in had just the minimum infrastructure and amenities. Every couple of weeks one lot of guests arrived and another departed. During this annual holiday they became like the young girls they spent most of their lives with. The young girls they had never had time to be, as most of them were little more than children when they entered the convent.

The life experiences of these women were severely limited. It was ironic that over their years of teaching, they educated hundreds of girls in academic subjects to prepare them to earn a living, also domestic skills like cooking and sewing in preparation for life

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as wives and mothers, something they themselves knew nothing about. This however in no way hampered their dedication to their chosen path.

Most of them were Irish and still talked about the long and arduous sea journey they made to get to Western Australia in their youth. The memories of home and family were, for the older ones particularly, very faint as a visit back to the old country was a dream never to be realised.

Friendships made in the early days of training were like threads of gold running through the lives of these women. Each year there was a frantic scramble to get a place in the seaside retreat at the same time as these old friends, now scattered around the many convents in the state.

Two nuns who almost always managed to meet up each year were Sister Claire and Sister Bridget.

They had traveled from Ireland together as mere fifteen year olds. Their novice days in Perth were visited in conversation each holiday and the stories they told provided great entertainment for the younger women in the group. Sister Bridget was a tall thin woman, angular in appearance, she was quiet by nature and kept to herself a lot, rarely disclosing any personal thoughts or feelings to anyone. She was also prone to having nightmares. Often she would wake moaning and screaming, shaking with the fear-

ful emotion which engulfed her. But she mostly preferred to pretend these events did not happen, never confiding to anyone, what the nightmares were about. Sister Claire was a compassionate woman who took great care of her nearest and dearest. She was short and rotund with long glowingly healthy hair, originally deep brown but now white and hidden most of the time under her nun’s headdress, which never let more than the tiniest wisp of hair show.

She and Sister Bridget had been friends since they first met, they were both music teachers and enjoyed sharing their experiences with each other. This morning the two friends sat side by side heads bent eating quietly. Opposite them at the table was Sister Bernadette, also one of the elderly ladies who had entered the convent as a young teenager. She had a highly anxious nature and was always expecting the worst to happen. The rest of the holiday guests were busy in animated conversation about the disturbance in the night.

It was at about 3am that the chilling moans and terrified screams began. Sister

Claire sat bolt upright in bed listening, knowing from whence and whom it came and vainly hoping it would stop so she could go back to sleep, but of course it didn’t. She climbed out of bed as quickly as her generous bulk would allow, and made her way along the veranda toward the direction of the terrified sounds. As she walked the long white nightdress which covered her ample figure billowed around her in the brisk sea breeze.

At the other end of the building Sister Bernadette, had also heard the distressed sounds.

She jumped out of bed and retrieved the toy gun which she always kept under her pillow wherever she was.

Shaking with fear she set out to discover what was happening. As she made her way along the veranda firmly holding the toy gun in her right hand her whole body was trembling and

“The great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad, For all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad.”

G.K. Chesterton, The Ballad of the White Horse

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her breath escaped in gulps. Sister Claire, making a supreme effort to be quiet as she progressed, turned the corner; coming toward her, she saw by the light of the moon, a figure carrying a gun. At the same time Sister Bernadette saw a large ghostly white figure with long wild looking hair moving purposefully in her direction. Simultaneously both women let out piercing screams, Bernadette dropped her gun and they both turned and ran as fast as they could back to their respective rooms.

Now sitting around the breakfast table tired and slightly grumpy, many of the women offered theories as to what had happened; some of them now convinced that the house was indeed haunted.

Sister Claire and Sister Bernadette sitting opposite each other contributed little to the conversation each of them anxious to keep secret their part in the commotion. Sister Bridget however was keen to support the theory of ghosts roaming the building at night. But when asked “Bridget did you hear anything? No, she replied I slept like a baby!

The Memories Live On

By Marie Moloney Today, about 70 million people worldwide claim Irish heritage or ancestry. The history of the Irish in Australia is long, we came as convicts, free settlers, famine victims and, in more recent times seeking opportunities for a better life. We have contributed through our work in health, education, industry and governance. We brought our stories, poetry and music with us. The Irish influence on Australian folk music has been significant.

And there was Ned! Ned Kelly was the son of a Tipperary man who was transported to Australia as a convict. Ned, a bushranger, was hung for the murder of a police man in 1880. Songs and books have been written about him, films have been made about him. He has been cemented into the history of Australia as a folk hero.

Often while walking around Fremantle I have admired the beautiful old buildings in our port city. Fremantle has Western Australia’s largest collection of heritage listed buildings. The city of Perth also has its share of beautiful architecture that convict labour contributed to. Among those that are far too many to list, are Government House and Mercy Convent Victoria Square Perth. Many of us might hope to be remembered long after we have gone.

Did any of those convicts ever think of how they would live on in the memory of future generations of Australians as contributors to heritage?

Western Australia was not formally constituted as a penal colony until 1849. The Hougoumont, which arrived in Fremantle on the January 9th 1868, was the last ship to bring convicts to Australia. Its place in history as the last ever convict transport to Australia is of additional historical interest, because sixty two of the convict crew were Fenians. (Fenian Movement). Their place in West Australian history is assured for a variety of reasons. Their arrival, and the departure of some of them, is a significant part of West Australian convict history. The Fenians were political prisoners and as such, more literate and better skilled than the average convicts. Their abilities would have been a great asset to the community. They worked on various projects while in Fremantle Prison. Perth Town hall was being constructed at the time of their arrival. It is

likely that they contributed to the creation of this beautiful building.

In February 1869, John Boyle O’Reilly one of the Fenians who had been working in Bunbury, escaped to America. In 1876, as a result of his efforts six more Fenians escaped to the USA on The Catalpa, which made the journey from America to make this daring international escape possible. It is the most successful prison break in Australian history. The Wild Geese Memorial in Rockingham commemorates the escape of these six Irish Fenian prisoners.

On the 7th October 2017 the President of Ireland, His Excellency Michael D Higgins visited Fremantle Prison. The Fenian convicts imprisoned in that establishment, could never at that time have conceived that the day would come when the President of an Independent Irish Republic would visit the place of their incarceration. During his visit to Perth the President also unveiled a Famine Memorial in Subiaco in honour of the girls who came to Australia during the famine years. This was made possible by The Western Australia Irish Famine Commemoration Committee. Will the Irish historical footprint continue to contribute to the rich Australian culture we have? I believe so.

“Writing in English is the most ingenious torture ever devised for sins committed in previous lives. The English reading public explains the reason why.”

James Joyce

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Three Lovely Lassies

By Marie Moloney When I lived in London in the 1960’s we had each year, a series of relatives and friends come to stay on holiday from Ireland. On one occasion my mother and her two sisters came, Annie stayed with her daughter Annette and her husband, they lived on the next street to my home.

My mother and Aunt Kathleen came to stay with me and my family. The three sisters were so funny at times, what made it more amusing was, they were unaware of this. These ladies were well respected conservative woman who were conscious of what others thought of them while at home in Ireland.

When in London they allowed themselves to relax more. Annie was the least conservative of the three.

There were times when her sisters were concerned at what they saw as her liberal attitudes. Their favourite attractions were street markets, Church St Paddington and the world famous Petticoat Lane Sunday markets. Their Irish humour was well received and many of the stall holders would respond with tales of their own Irish relatives. Wherever they went these ladies were popular and people were keen to add to the enjoyment of their holiday. The incidents were many and it is hard to decide which were the funniest. My sister in law

a nurse at a local hospital was sometimes given tickets to shows in London’s West End. She gave the delighted ladies tickets to see Alfie, a new play that was showing at the time. On the way there, Annie bought a large bag of peas in the pods from a barrow boy.

At the show Kathleen and my mother were horrified at the content of the play and even more horrified because Annie laughed.

Annie however was not concerned, she watched with great enjoyment while at the same time she popped her peas from their pods. This apparently caused considerable humour to other patrons. On the bus home these three ladies were so animated at the happenings of the afternoon that the whole lower deck of the bus heard the story. One lady laughed so much she fell off her seat, being a large lady, the bus conductor was called upon to help her up.

For the duration of the holiday the topic of conversation focused on what they were going to do about confession. As devout Catholics in an Irish parish there was no hope

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of hiding their identity. I innocently suggested what I considered to be a brain wave, “Why don’t you go to confession here before you go home”? This was greeted by loud shocked responses “Go to confession in England to a strange priest? How could you even think of such a thing Marie” my mother cried.

My assurances that all the priests were Irish anyway was no comfort at all.

Even a trip to the grocery store could become a source of amusement, large families in Ireland at that time meant food items were bought in bulk. The tiny jars of jam in the local London shops fascinated them.

They insisted on collecting the empty jars from my friends and neighbours to take home to Ireland. When it was time to prepare for the return journey home, these were wrapped securely in items of clothing before being packed into their respective suitcases.

Upon their entry to Dublin, the diligent Irish customs officers in operation between Ireland and England at that time, suspecting a trio of clever smugglers insisted in removing every item from each case. It is hard to know what they were expecting to find but I am guessing it was not empty jam jars.

And Your Name is‌

By Marie Moloney Early morning is when I do my writing. With a cup of coffee at my side and my mind still free of the intrusions of the day I sit at my laptop for a couple of hours. A few days ago I had been doing this for about 30 minutes when suddenly I was plunged into darkness. Torch in hand a quick check confirmed my worst fears, the electricity was off. Synergy informed me it could be 09.30 am before power was restored, three and a half hours without power! No lights, oh well manageable I suppose, no WiFi, I felt transported back in time. But this was different, I now know and enjoy the benefits of modern technology.

As I look forward to celebrating fifty years of living in Australia in 2019, I think of then and now. I remember the joy of spending time walking around places like Fishing Boat Harbour in Fremantle, a beautiful spot which has always been a favourite of mine. So much to see, so much happening, all in an area which is so small except for the great sweeping Indian Ocean which gleams in the sun and stretches as far as the eye can see. Trying to describe this and the many other beautiful places in Western Australia in letters, taking photographs which then had to be taken to a store to be developed before posting them, was often a task too hard. Receiving letters was always something to look forward to but life was so busy I was not good at replying. Family members left behind also felt the loss and longed for more contact. Now modern technology has changed all of that, emails and short messages on social networks are quick and easy to send. A click of the camera in a mobile phone and within minutes photographs are being viewed by friends and relatives thousands of miles away.

For many years my sister Teresa who lives in Dublin sent letter after letter keeping me informed of happenings in Ireland. She would sometimes mention how wonderful

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it would be to have more contact from me. It was probably about twenty five years ago that I found a letter between the pages of an old book. It was one of Teresa’s letters sent about thirty eight years ago. It read Hello, my electricity supply has been cut off so I am writing this by torchlight. It was as I was sitting in the dark that I once again began thinking about my sister in Australia. But then, I began telling myself that perhaps it was all a dream and she does not exist. It would help if I could think of her name but however hard I try I cannot remember. I am so cold, today has been the coldest day we have had this winter. I wish I had an open fireplace instead of an electric heater then I could burn some of the furniture to keep warm, oh why can I not remember her name. Will I ever feel warm again? My feet feel like icebergs and even the thick blanket I have wrapped around me in not enough to warm my body.

If I could only remember if you are real, then I could distract myself by thinking of you sitting on a warm beach with the ocean lapping at your feet.

Only joking, the lights have come on and the fire is on, the power cut is over.

How wonderful, my dear husband has just brought me in a cup of tea and some Marie Biscuits. Yes you do exist I remember now, your name is Biscuit.

The Law & Holy Orders

By Marie Moloney Memories are created every day. Gazing into a large box of chocolates a few days ago searching for my favourites, I had a sudden thought “It would be wonderful to do this with memories”.

I was eighteen years old when I left Dublin to live in London. To get my mother’s consent for this move I had agreed to live in a hostel for girls run by The Sisters of Charity. As the train chugged slowly into Euston station at about 7.30am on that Saturday morning in 1957 fear and excitement battled for supremacy in my head. Excitement won, I jumped to my feet retrieved my case from the overhead rack and made my way along the passage, then stepped on to the platform for my first view of this gateway

to my new wonderful life.

I followed the signs to the tube station, enquired what train to get, bought a ticket and made my way to West Hampstead. The hostel for girls was situated in a beautiful big old house on West End Lane.

I was allocated a bed in a dormitory with four other girls.

The food was good, a healthy filling breakfast in the morning and a substantial cooked evening meal. If we were guilty of any discretion or rule breaking, punishment was household tasks on Saturday morning.

The nuns in charge of those tasks rarely needed to do any of them themselves, as there was always a list of us who, by the end of each week, were guilty of some wrong doing.

I got a job in a local factory which was all I was qualified for at the time. Also, a Saturday job in Lyons Tearooms to have enough income to survive and send money home. I also enrolled in evening classes at the local technical college to learn book keeping and typing skills to improve my future

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work opportunities. Doors at the hostel were locked at 10.00pm weeknights and 10.30 pm weekends. Being locked out was a common occurrence for many of us.

The local police station was situated just a few meters away from the hostel. We would move along and stand outside the police station. This attracted the attention of the police as it was classed as loitering which was an offence. As the officer in charge was reluctant to have several young women in the cells for the night he would phone the Reverend Mother, she would then be forced to open up and let us in. Now when watching old repeats of the English TV show Heartbeat it reminds me of one or two of those police officers.

Elizabeth, one of the girls who shared the room I slept in was a local. I don’t know why she was living at the hostel, she was a friendly girl who took me around parts of London. Saturday afternoons she would say “Come on Marie lets go round The Elephant”.

Once there, we would visit friends of hers who lived in the largest block of council

flats I have ever seen. Those outings included visits to other parts of the East End. Remembering the many hours we spent walking the streets of Poplar, I find it difficult to equate this with the rejuvenation of the area now called Canary Wharf. A favourite Sunday outing was a visit to Speaker’s Corner in Hyde Park.

There, brave souls with strong beliefs on a variety of subjects, would stand on a box and share these with anyone prepared to stop and listen. On one occasion I even got to watch the Harlem Globetrotters playing basketball on Ice at Haringey Arena London.

Six months after arriving in London I moved to a bedsit in Kilburn. During my years of living in Kilburn, I sometimes witnessed Irish builder’s labourers being picked up each morning for transportation to McAlpine’s building sites. Whenever I hear the song McAlpine’s Fusiliers I think of those labourers.

I also frequented a couple of Irish dance halls in the area, sadly I never did learn to dance.

Bella

By Marie Moloney As I scooped the last of the custard from the bowl and ate it, my mind flipped back to my childhood in the kitchen of my grandparents’ home with Bella beside me. Scraping the remains of the custard from the pot was a treat to look forward to. Bella would share the spoils saying, “One for you, two for me”. This always brought forth angry protests from me of not being fair.

Isabella Kelly was the oldest of my father’s siblings, she was intellectually handicapped and lived with her parents until they died. She was loved dearly by all the family. On the many occasions when I stayed at the home of my grand-parents she was my constant companion. All through my childhood she was there, my aunt, my friend and my playmate. On Sunday mornings when I arrived to visit with my father, she would have a treat waiting for me. In those days there were no programs to cater for special needs. She had very little formal learning and never had a job outside the family home but the skills she mastered were many. From an early age she helped her mother look after her eight younger siblings and with the running of a home for eleven people. Mother Kelly and Bella worked side by side doing what had to be done. Bella was an enduring stalwart who kept the wheels in the home turning smoothly. Her experience of people

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was restricted to family and those she encountered at church, the local shops or the post office where she went to collect some sort of allowance she was entitled to. She often did the shopping and was liked in the local stores. Some of the adults never realised just how accomplished she really was at the many household tasks she did.

She lovingly cared for all her nieces and nephews. To us children she was not quite one of us but also not one of the grownups.

She related well to younger members of the family and enjoyed being part of the games we played. As I grew older, she also took James, a much younger cousin under her wing.

Rover, the family dog was also eager to be a part of our games. Always there ready with his stick we would oblige by throwing it around the back garden until some adult family member would come out shouting indignantly about the dog charging through the vegetable patch.

Bella would then sheepishly run into the house and watch us through the window.

She had a life of limited experience, but it was a secure life. When staying at my grandparents’ home I shared a bedroom with Bella. Each night she would set the clock alarm and get up to prepare breakfast for the family. Putting the clock on, often by two or three hours was a favourite trick of mine. She would get up, get dressed and be ready to start the day before realising what I had done. On other occasions as she was setting off to do the shopping, I would stand at the gate singing “Bella Bella go to meet your fella” Even my earliest memories of her are of straight shoulder length hair framing a well lived in face, I have no memory of this changing in any way during my lifetime of being around her. The last time I saw her was when I was eighteen before I left Ireland.

A few years ago, I met one of my much younger cousins whom I had not seen since she was three years old. It was when she told me of how Bella had singled her out from her parent’s nine children as her favourite that another aspect of my aunt fell into place. I realised that Bella through her years as aunt to more than thirty nieces and nephews always selected a child to be her own.

Childhood Recollections

By Marie Moloney During my childhood in Ireland families were large and lived mostly within a short distance of each other.

Interaction was frequent and social isolation was something few people had any hope of experiencing. As a senior citizen looking back on a long life, endeavoring upon the task of putting it all together is like pondering over one huge jigsaw puzzle. From the cradle to the grave we are a work in progress.

What makes us who we become? As I look back and think of my childhood in Dublin, the socio economic, cross cultural and generational differences which separate the lives of my grandchildren and mine, it entertains and amuses me to try to put myself as a child into the life of the children around me today.

I am the oldest of seven children. I have only a vague memory of my brother Patrick who was born on 11th of January 1942 almost four weeks before my third birthday. He died on 4th of July 1942. My next sibling was born in 1945 followed by four more. The age difference was such that I never did have any

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playmates in my immediate family. On the plus side I still have all of them while friends and acquaintances have lost some of theirs.

My father had a large extended family, several of these lived with their families in St Laurence’s Mansions, a large block of flats in Sherriff St North Wall. I loved going to visit as there were dozens of them or so it seemed to me. One memory which has stayed clear in my mind happened when I was about four years old.

Always alert and listening, I heard talk of a party to be held at Aunt Lal’s flat. This filled me with excitement, I talked nonstop about it to everyone around me. In answer to my constant queries my father promised he would take me with him to the party. When the big day arrived I was put to bed early as daddy said I needed to have a sleep before we went. When I woke up the next morn-

ing he insisted that I had been at the party and tried to tell me that I had eaten cake and was made a fuss of by lots of people. He said Aunt Lal had given me some chocolate and Uncle Robbie had read me a story. Through the years whenever the subject came up he never wavered in his insistence that I had been to that party but I knew I had not been there.

Another very different incident, which I also still remember with clarity occurred several years later.

Something was happening in West Essex St which was just around the corner from my home but nobody seemed to know exactly what. Aunt Kathleen, my mother and me went to take a look. My sister and brother were in a push chair with us. This side street which did not normally attract much pedestrian traffic was on this particular day full of people. A lady

told Aunt Kathleen that shots were being taken for a movie. The two people who caught my attention were Maureen O’Hara as she was wearing a cloak with a hood.

I wanted that cloak, it was so beautiful. The second was Barry Fitzgerald who was sitting on the ground with his back against the wall of the oldest house within the city walls. I asked him why he was sitting on the ground, he told me he was so tired. Both of these were Dubliners.

Barry Fitzgerald expressed admiration for my sister’s thick dark brown curly hair. The movie was The Quiet man. I have so many memories from years gone by, I sometimes wonder what memories the children of this generation will treasures.

When You Are Old

by W B Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

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The First Stone

By Marie Moloney It was a day that began just like any other day, it was also the day that started the ball rolling toward a memory that would stay engraved in my mind for a lifetime? I was about eleven years old at the time and it was midmorning during our English class that one of the priests from our parish church next door came into the classroom at our school. After being greeted warmly by Miss Holey, our teacher, he informed us of plans to start a children’s mixed choir to sing at mass on Sundays and asked for expressions of in-

terest. My heart jumped for joy as my hand shot up to volunteer. Both my parents could do justice to a good song, their voices often heard singing Galway Bay, I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen or my mother’s favourite Loch Lomond.

Singing had always been a love of mine, often I would sing as I walked along the streets around my home. I knew that I was not blessed with a good singing voice, but I was not prepared to allow that little detail prevent my being in the choir.

Along with several other girls I was accepted and

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told to be at the church the following evening for the first practice. Overjoyed that my place in the choir was secured, my next task was to persuade my mother to allow me to take part.

I did think of not telling her about my involvement, but of course this was not an option as in a community such as ours keeping anything secret would be impossible. My mother was nervous about me being in the choir, which of course was not surprising as she was nervous about everything. I persisted as this was my chance to belong, to be like my friends, she finally agreed. We met in the church where we were joined by a number of boys from the boy’s school next door the priest was our choir master. With hindsight I am skeptical about his experience in this area, but his enthusiasm was beyond reproach.

Our efforts sounded reasonable in this beautiful old church with its thick grey stone walls. We practiced To Jesus Heart All Burning, I’ll Sing a Hymn to Mary, Hail Queen of Heaven and many others with the fervour of angels. On Sunday morning during mass we stood tall as we sang.

Each week after choir practice we would pour out on to the street and since it was summer the long bright evenings meant we still had some time to

play our usual games before going home. All of us kids lived within walking distance of the church and school in crowded conditions in inner city Dublin.

One bright summer evening just a few weeks after the choir was formed, when we left practice, a group of us congregated outside a local dairy a short distance from my home.

A couple of children had some pennies to spend so we all trooped into the shop to help the buyers make a selection of what goodies to buy. As we were a large group this did not endear the shop keeper to us but in an area with such a large population of children this was not unusual.

Once the purchases were

made, we returned to our position outside the shop.

As we stood there several members of the group were laughing and exchanging childish taunts. I have no memory of what was said but suddenly a boy on the outer edge of the group stooped down picked up a stone and threw it, aiming at me. Although this took me by surprise, I quickly moved to avoid being hit by the stone which landed on the pavement at my feet.

Just as quickly I picked it up and threw it back.

It caught the boy on the forehead and blood began pouring from the small wound. He started to cry as those closest to him tried to stop the flow of blood. I stood on the outer fringes

of the group shaking with fear; this was not good I would be in big trouble. I was not mistaken; no modern-day electronic media method could have outdone the speed with which the news spread; Marie had thrown a stone at Peter and slashed his head open. By the time I arrived at school the next morning everyone knew what had happened.

My mother was distraught and believed she would never again be able to hold her head up in the local community. My fate was sealed, I was not allowed to return to the choir. The fact that it was Peter who threw the first stone was ignored by all.

_____ DOWN BY THE SALLEY GARDENS

by W.B. Yeats Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.

She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.

She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

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WHAT NEXT

By Marie Moloney The older Irish Australians in our community have made a valuable contribution to our adopted country. Stories of our lives growing up in Ireland would be a wonderful gift to leave for our future descendants. A museum of stories of bygone days.

The advantages of modern technology are many and varied. Then there are the disadvantages. I frequently travel from my home to the city by train. Sometimes I spend my entire journey watching small children swing from the hand rails above our heads or race up and down the carriages while

their parents concentrate on their mobile phones.

On other occasions I have had to almost climb over a mobile phone clutching person to reach the produce on the shelves in a supermarket. Toddlers sitting in pushchairs can swipe an iPad with an amazing level of expertise. Technology is constantly creating new ways of living. It reinforces my wish to leave a record of my experiences of growing up for my Australian descendants. An effort to describe a lifestyle that future generations could not imagine, while they live a life which we could not begin to comprehend.

Inner city living during my childhood in Dublin meant one or two rooms in one of the many big houses scattered across the city. These houses had once been beautiful homes inhabited by wealthy influential families. By the time I am describing they were dilapidated with one toilet, no bathroom and one cold water tap. Often, they were home to six or more families.

A common sight on the city streets each day was mothers pushing large prams from shop to shop along the street, no supermarkets or undercover shopping centres then. No fridges or freezers to keep perishables fresh or storage space for other items.

This made daily shopping

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a must. Toast was made by sticking bread on a fork and holding it close up to the coal fire. Clothes were washed by hand in a bucket. The iron was heated on the gas cooker before use. In winter my mother would iron the bed clothes, so I could get into a warm bed. The men did not need to come home from work and ask their wives “What have you been doing all day?�

The streets were our playgrounds and the cognitive skills of children were developed by their efforts to create games for entertainment. These games were many, they were also funny and sometimes naughty. A favourite was to tie string between two adjoining hall doors and knock on both. Then retreating to a safe distance to watch the bewilderment when occupants tried to open the doors.

Hours were spent skipping up and down with a skipping rope. Boys would sometimes manage to acquire an old tyre and spend hours just running along pushing it with a stick. The statue factory which was adjacent to the church and school was where we got our chalk from, (bits of broken statues) to draw boxes on the pavement for piggy beds, a game of hop scotch.

We used an old shoe polish tin filled with soil to kick around the squares.

Even that simple piece of make shift equipment presented a challenge in our world of concrete roads and pavement.

The only available soil in the vicinity was in the church gardens, getting in there and filling the tin without one of the priests chasing us away was a feat of considerable magnitude.

At school we did our school work with a pen and liquid ink.

In our current world the lives of children are so different, imagination and creativity are not required, just press a switch to watch games being played on a screen. No need to do it themselves. What will be the normal activity for children in fifty years’ time!!!!!!!

Will our descendants be amazed at what they think of as our archaic way of living? A record of the lives of their Irish ancestors is vital.

A Museum of stories would provide that.

​The Dublin Saunter I’ve been North and I’ve been South, I’ve been East and West I’ve been just a rolling stone Yet there’s one place on this earth I’ve always liked the best Just a little town I call my own For Dublin can be heaven with coffee at eleven And a stroll in Stephen’s Green There’s no need to hurry, there’s no need to worry You’re a king and the lady’s a queen Grafton Street’s a wonderland, there’s magic in the air There’s diamonds in the lady’s eyes and gold-dust in her hair And if you don’t believe me come and meet me there In Dublin on a sunny Summer morning I’ve been here and I’ve been there I’ve sought the rainbow’s end But no crock of gold I’ve found Now I know that come what will whatever fate may send Here my roots are deep in friendly ground For Dublin can be heaven with coffee at eleven And a stroll in Stephen’s Green There’s no need to hurry, there’s no need to worry You’re a king and the lady’s a queen Grafton Street’s a wonderland, there’s magic in the air There’s diamonds in the lady’s eyes and gold-dust in her hair And if you don’t believe me come and meet me there In Dublin on a sunny Summer morning And if you don’t believe me Come and meet me there In Dublin on a sunny Summer morning. _____ The Dublin Saunter Written by Patrick Leo Maguire (1903 – 17 December 1985) for Noel Purcell (23 December 1900 – 3 March 1985)

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