End of an Era

As the 1960’s ended and the 70’s began, our family was heading towards the end of an era. By 1974 I had got married and had my first child, and over the next decade or so my sisters, one by one, would also leave home and start to make their various ways in the world. All of these transitions brought their own challenges of course. Suffice to say that in some ways Mum and Dad, and perhaps especially Dad, didn’t always find it easy to adjust to the ever changing family configurations as their six daughters ventured out into the big wide world.

But I’m jumping ahead of myself. Before all this re-configuring began, there were still a few years when we would all pile in to Victor the car and head off on various trips, which Dad would continue to document in that old leather album.  In 1969, we crossed the Irish Sea, and for the first time met our Irish cousins. For my Mum, it would have been 14 years since she had last visited her homeland. That first picture, of my mum and Phil her sister in law, has always made me smile as they pose in the garden complete with handbags!

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What do I remember of that visit? Very little I’m afraid. I see from the pictures that we visited Galway Cathedral and were taken by our Uncle Pat for rides in the hay wagon. My memories coincide with how my sister Mary describes it: “The family visited Mum’s home in Davros where she displayed her bike-riding skill to the astonishment of us all. On our journey home through Belfast we encountered a crowd throwing a pipe bomb and stones. We cowered in the car as Dad drove us to safety (the wrong way) up a one-way street. As we left on the ferry we spotted large graffiti letters painted on the jetty behind us saying “Paisley for Pope!” which we found very funny – I suppose because it seemed to insult both sides in equal measure – and it became a saying in our family for years afterwards.”  Trust us to choose practically the first night of the Irish troubles to finally make it over the sea to Ireland!

It was maybe a year after the Irish adventure that Mum and Dad acquired a great big tent, big enough to sleep all of us, and we became a family who took camping holidays instead of just going away for day trips. I think Glen Orchy was chosen for our first proper camping expedition, a spot beside a stream, which was our one and only concession to modern facilities. I remember my sister Ann and I being allowed to walk maybe a couple of miles up the road to the Bridge of Orchy, where there was a hotel and a shop. I’ve got a feeling we did no more than hastily buy some chewing gum before we headed back again for fear we wouldn’t get back to our camp before it started raining – I know, intrepid or what?. And we probably ended up with blisters as our footwear of choice was wellies!

After that we discovered North Ballachulish where there was an actual campsite owned by a very nice couple called Dykes. Although when I say campsite it was more a bit of extra land attached to their cottage, an informal – and relatively inexpensive – arrangement which suited us so well we went back a few years in a row. This was an ideal location for us, a mere 15 miles south of Fort William and thus within easy reach of places – and relatives – from Dad’s childhood, and indeed the place where Nellie had been the family nanny and the story of their romance began. (See post from 10 March “A Glasgow Wedding”). Both of them loved the Highlands, and passed that love on to us.

We would make visits to various of Dad’s Highland relatives and “John’s girls” would be duly lined up and coo-ed over.  One time we went on what must have been quite a major expedition to Dundee where we visited my Dad’s Aunt Ettie, Sister Mary Evangeline – she belonged to the Convent of Mercy there. The nuns seemed delighted to have us as visitors and the younger ones ran around the garden playing tag with our “wee ones”, Jane and Eleanor. I remember the nuns’ parlour with its characteristic smell of furniture polish, and all of us standing in a row entertaining said holy Sisters with our rendition of “Eidelweiss”. The nuns, being nuns, were very kind and clapped enthusiastically – or maybe they really did enjoy it. Another time we reached even further north and visited Ettie’s sister, Aunt Winnie, in Inverness.

In truth we rarely had much appreciation of who all these relatives were – I think in those days adults were not much in the habit of explaining things or introducing themselves to children, and it’s only as I look back now that I can understand just who those various aunties, uncles and assorted cousins were. In fact part of the purpose of this blog is to try and make some sense of it all.

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As you can see, at some point Dad had upgraded from the box brownie and discovered glorious technicolour! I was also lucky enough to acquire a camera of my own (a wee Kodak Instamatic as a reward for doing well in my Highers). One of the first pictures I took was this one of Mary, who had obviously just received her box brownie training! Now I come to think of it, I have very fond memories of my Dad showing us how things worked. He would take your hand in his and position your fingers in the right place, explaining all the time – Don’t shake the camera.. Make sure you stand with your back to the sun.. Press in the button gently.. He’d also tell you a whole load of stuff that you didn’t want to know – shutter speed, exposure times and so on. But, there’s something about those big gentle hands that is a deep abiding memory for me. My mum used to tell me that when I was a very little girl I’d push my hand into his and say “Hold oo wee handie”

So, to finish, here we all are, still at school, still having our pictures taken in the back green, still relatively unaware of the changes that would inexorably come upon us, and indeed upon the world. Embrace it or resist it, nothing ever stays the same for ever…

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More from the Family Album

Today’s post is really just a few more pages from the family album, as we only managed to get to 1957 the last time (“The Man with the Box Brownie”). Mary makes her first appearance on this page in a photo dated April 1958 (Dad used to take advantage of the odd ray of sunshine to take snaps of us in the house.)

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And then in Sept ’58 here’s Mary waving to her fans from the family pram.

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And here she coming up for two years old in August ’59. Although, I’m questioning whether this is in fact August. Grace was born in June of that year, so where is she? I think Mum could be pregnant in that lower picture (she’s wearing a pair of her earrings, can you see?) In which case this would be earlier in the summer…

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And here’s Grace finally on the next page! Ann has her arm in a sling – she broke it when she fell off the bed! We used to get in trouble for bouncing on our parents’ bed, but it was one of our favourite games.

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As you can see, we had the odd outing to Inchinnan, where a friend of Mum and Dad’s had a caravan, and down the coast – I think on the train/ferry – to places like Helensburgh and Dunoon. And as well as the Elder Park, they also seemed to like taking us to Bellahouston Park. I have to smile at that second page to see my Dad all formally dressed in his suit and tie just for a trip to the park – different times!

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The next page heralds the appearance in 1962 of yet another character that was to become an integral part of our family – the Vauxhall Victor which would serve as our family car for many years to come.  I’m quite surprised to find “Victor” making its appearance quite so early in the story, while we were still living in Rathlin Street, but the evidence is clear.

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And of course that wee Vauxhall Victor gave our family freedom. Whenever they could, Mum and Dad would bundle us up in the car and head off up Great Western Road, destination all points north. I can never travel along that road to this day – you can see the mountains in the distance – without getting that feeling of excitement and anticipation that comes as I read the destination boards – Dumbarton, Helensburgh, Loch Lomond, Crianlarich, The Trossachs…. And I am reminded of some words from John’s letter to his mother in 1931 (as written): “The May holiday was very wet and we stayed in ecept in the afternoon we went in the bus for a hurl to Corpach and back.” He was a great one for a wee hurl was our Dad!

And then, the following year, comes the move from Govan to Hillhead. Look back at the post entitled “Sisters, Sisters” if you want to be reminded of the difference that made to the family, and how “Number 8” became our family home for the next fifty years. Here we all are at the beginning of that era enjoying the sun in our very own newly acquired back garden. Jane was born in the January of that year, just before we moved house – unfortunately she was maybe taking a nap during this photoshoot.

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I think it must be rather frustrating for my sisters that there are far fewer baby pictures of them than of me. My first couple of years are well documented – as new parents do – whereas they have to make do with the odd shot here and there, and in fact Jane has pointed out that there are NO baby pictures of  her at all. Which is very unfortunate, but perhaps not altogether surprising considering how quickly Eleanor followed on her heels a mere 15 months later in April ’64. Not to mention in that same time period the acquisition of a car, a house, a mortgage, a new neighbourhood, new school for older siblings. Our parent probably barely had time to stop and eat, never mind take photographs! However, they did manage to take this one of baby Eleanor with Mum in the Botanic Gardens, our new local park. After this though, there aren’t so many snaps of us all in the park, as Victor would take us to more exciting destinations where, sure enough, Dad would get out the Box Brownie and line us all up for the family photograph. (Click on each photo to see the captions).

Well, we’ve made it to 1969! It’s kind of funny when you look through old photographs – you know it’s you, but it also seems like somebody else that you struggle to remember. I kind of love the way I look in these photographs, so competent and confident, and sure of my place in the family and in the world. It’s good to be reminded of that, and to appreciate the wonderful close relationships that sustained you growing up – things can get so much more complicated as life unfolds.

Childhood in Govan

 

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1654 map showing Mekle (“Big”) Govan, Litle Govan, and the small town of Glafgow.

Let me introduce you to Govan, a historic area of Glasgow on the south side of the River Clyde. According to medieval legend,  a monastery was founded here in the seventh century and during the Middle Ages, Govan was the site of a ferry which linked the area with Partick for seasonal cattle drovers. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, textile mills and coal mining were important; in the nineteenth century, shipbuilding emerged as Govan’s principal industry and brought prosperity. In 1864, Govan gained burgh status, and was the fifth-largest burgh in Scotland. It was incorporated into the City of Glasgow in 1912.

So what’s all this got to do with my family ramblings you may ask? Well, Govan is an important character in this blog because it became home to John and Ellen MacFarlane, John and Nellie, when they bought a room and kitchen here at 31 Rathlin Street in around 1956. It was to be our family home until 1963, when our parents sold the little flat to a certain R McCaig for the princely sum of £275. This was a private arrangement and my Dad would cross the river once a month to go and collect the instalments in cash. We even still have the receipts…

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The last time I was in Govan, quite a few years ago, I went to have a look at Rathlin Street and was not surprised to find that the old tenement had been demolished and the space occupied by a playpark. I found this picture from the 80’s on the web, obviously before the playpark was built. Our home would have been just where the empty space is.

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There are some rather smart looking modern flats on that site now (some of which seem to be selling at upwards of £100,000 nowadays!) and some nice little houses along the street where I used to walk to school, past what was still Fairfields Shipyard, on to McKechnie Street where there was a cinema on the corner and across Govan Road with the lollipop lady. St Anthony’s Primary was right there at the corner of Harmony Row; we were so near it would only take me about 5 minutes to walk to school, which I seem to remember I was trusted to do on my own from a fairly early age. If you were a wee bit late leaving the house and the school bell rang, all you had to do was run and you’d still be on time. I still have my two class photographs from that time, 1960 and 1962. I’m third from the left, age 6, in the middle row in the top one and third from the right, age 8, in the second row of the bottom one.

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I can remember a few names – Gemma Corr, Paul Mellon, Anthony, Susan, Gerard, Rita, Annemarie, Sarah… and Alec, I will always remember Alec. He’s in the back row of both photos, third from the left in the top one and second left in the other. One time in class the teacher was filling in some information for the register – mother’s and father’s names, date of birth and so on. He was going round the class and we were telling him our dates of birth. He got to Alec, who just looked blank. Teacher got a bit impatient and said “Come on boy, your date of birth – when is your birthday?” Poor Alec looked even blanker and said “What’s that? I don’t have one.” That was the first time in my life I realised that there were children in the world who didn’t get presents or blow out the candles on their birthday cake every year, as I did. Alec was one of the “rough” boys, usually in trouble for fighting, and normally someone to be avoided. But ever after that – and to this day – I had a little soft spot in my heart for him, and looked at him less disapprovingly.

Govan seems to be enjoying something of a revival of fortunes these days (hence the desirable flats), but in the 1950’s the tide of its history was at a low ebb. Govan had a reputation as a deprived area of Glasgow with high unemployment and poor housing, including the notorious “Wine Alley”, an estate which had been built in the 30’s. During the war the shipyards made the area a target for enemy bombers and there were frequent reconnaissance missions overhead, and long hours spent in Anderston shelters, for those who had them, for the inhabitants. Not as badly hit as Clydebank, a short distance further down the river, nonetheless Govan also suffered bombing raids, the worst of which completely destroyed a tenement building on Govan Road, killing 69 souls.

So this was the post-war Govan where John and Nellie, Mum and Dad, fetched up in the mid-1950’s, neither of them with any connection to or knowledge of the area or its social mores – they just bought a flat somewhere they could afford. I’m pretty sure in my Mum’s mind anyway she would have looked upon this as somewhere she was just passing through – as indeed it turned out to be. She never really saw herself as part of, or understood, the culture of this very Glaswegian lower working class area.

I don’t think Dad did either, especially as for the first few years he was away at sea for large chunks of time. He had been a radio officer in the Merchant Navy since 1952 and continued in that career right up until 1958, by which time there were three of us. I’m told that when I was little I used to call this person who would occasionally come and stay in our house “the man”.  I’m sure that must have been upsetting for someone who set such great store by the family.

It’s hard enough for any wife whose husband works away from home, but I am also very conscious that my Mum had no family in Glasgow, no network of friends. Our flat was modest to say the least. For example we had a curtained off “potty corner”, which potty had to be taken downstairs to the outside toilet on the landing below to be emptied. I remember mum bathing the babies in the big ceramic sink in the corner of the kitchen.

For us older children the big tin bath would be got out – taking up practically the whole kitchen – kettles boiled for hot water and the weekly bath undertaken with much arguing about whose turn it was to get in first and who would have to make do with someone else’s used water – or maybe we would all get in together (“she’s got more room than me!”). It’s no wonder it was only once a week, it was such a palaver boiling up all those kettles, and there was usually a lot of spillage while the damn thing was being emptied with pots and basins and other receptacles.  Once my Dad had left the sea and became a landlubber (or maybe when he was on leave) it was much easier – he could just lift the whole thing up and empty it down the sink.

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Times were tough for John and Nellie, they had to endure long separations and money was tight. Dad didn’t always appreciate that although he always left carefully calculated amounts of housekeeping money for Mum, this was too inflexible to allow for price fluctuations or emergency purchases and would sometimes leave her short.  Many lessons had to be learnt, probably painfully, as their family grew and developed. Eventually the life at sea could no longer be sustained, John found a good job as a bus driver with Glasgow Corporation and came home for good. In later years he would very occasionally talk about the sacrifices he made for his family, as he had loved his life as the onboard “Sparks”, but it didn’t take much to remind him how much he loved Mum and us. If there was a choice to be made there was no contest, even if it did take rather a few years to make it! I think it took all that time for John and Nellie to finally accept that much though he tried, Dad wasn’t going to be able to continue his radio career on land; there just weren’t any opportunities in those austere days.

But, you know, my memories of Govan are not of deprivation. I’m not one of those children in the school photographs whose wee faces stare out at you with poverty and hardship written all over them. I’m one of the ones who is well fed, well dressed, clean and shiny. Maybe Mum wasn’t always as patient as you might have wished (this is the pot calling the kettle black!) and Dad had a tendency to keep harking back to the past, but they made a home for us where we were safe and warm, where we could rely on being fed and clothed, have your hair done up in a ribbon (“ouch, that hurts!”), toys to play with, books to read, be made a fuss of on your birthday, be taken for walks in the park, be bought comics. It was everything you needed and seemed abundant. Or perhaps I just had very low expectations!  I’ll probably come back to this topic another time…

I realised when I was writing this that I have never thought of myself as coming from Govan. When asked, I say “Glasgow” or “Hillhead”, which is indeed where I feel my roots are. Thinking about it now, there ARE some deep Govan roots in there too – you just have to dig a bit deeper to find them, and I find myself happy to do so. Here are some of the things I can remember when I try:

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Jumping on the ferry was an adventure, though I feared I would fall in!
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All the back greens were like this, with the mothers watching their children from the kitchen window. The lucky ones would get a wrapped “piece” and jam thrown down to them.
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We loved going out to play in the back green – never got as dirty as this though
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I remember the river of men who would flow out of Fairfields Shipyard when hometime came around
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This vehicle would take workers and goods up and down Govan Road. It’s going past the Co-op department store where I once bought a cardigan I fell in love with in the window. I saved up all my Saturday sixpences for weeks for it.
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There were 4 or 5 cinemas in Govan in those days. The Lyceum was the one I passed every day on my way to school. I think I was taken there to see “The Parent Trap” with Hayley Mills.
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The coal man would hoist your bag of coal on his back and bring it up the close stairs to be emptied into your coal bunker in the hallway. Mum would scramble to lay newspapers on the floor to keep it clean.
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I would watch the rag and bone man give out balloons in exchange for old clothes (no, we were never allowed to do that!)
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This is the Pearce Institute, a legacy of Victorian days. I think I performed in a choir here once, wearing a white dress with a blue sash
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This is the Elder Park, scene of many perambulations.
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Trams ran in Glasgow until about 1963. I remember sitting on a hard wooden seat and asking for a “three ha’penny half”
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St Anthony’s School. You went in through the gap between the two buildings.
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I remember my first Communion and Confirmation in St Anthony’s Church. The Parish Priest was Father Molumby and he would visit his parishioners at home. I was always a bit afraid of his big black cane.
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Everyone turned out for the Govan Fair every year. I can remember seeing the Fair Queen go by on her decorated float, and being given a pear ice lolly.

I wonder if I subliminally imbibed that feeling of not quite belonging from my parents – I would never have described them as coming from Govan, or even Glasgow. I would say that Mum was Irish, and Dad came from Fort William. They settled in a place that was essentially foreign to both of them and in many ways had to invent our family mythology from scratch. Which perhaps meant that although we were IN Govan, we weren’t OF it.

 

On the Trail of an Irish Colleen, Part 1

Colleen, definition (Irish): a girl or young woman. Colleens are typically known for their beauty and mysterious ways.

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Nellie Hynes, my mother, was the one who got away. Of all her siblings, she was the one who didn’t stay at home in Ireland, but struck out on her own, looking for a different life. And of course she found it in Scotland, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts. Part of my recent trip to Ireland was all about trying to find out more about her childhood and youth in County Mayo. I’d heard that there were old photos and of course I hoped that there would be some of her as a child or young woman, maybe a wedding photo of her parents, that sort of thing.

There was nothing. Pictures of her nieces and nephews growing up – I shared some of those with you in my last post – some of her visiting Ireland in later years, but nothing from her childhood or adolescence. And there were none of her siblings either, or anything going back to the previous generation – I suppose it would have been unusual for photography to have featured in the life of the rural West of Ireland in the first half of the 20th century. I was tantalised by mention of a blue album containing older images, including supposedly a wedding photo. But it couldn’t be found and I had to resign myself to the possibility that it never would be. You can be sure that if those pictures ever do emerge, you’ll see them here first!

So, what to do? Nothing for it but to follow in her footsteps. The first port of call being the family farm in Davros, County Mayo (location for the high tea I told you about last time). The farmhouse was called “Na Liomai Ard”, which is Gaelic for “Tall Limes”, but the name seems to have fallen into disuse, and in fact the limes themselves were cut down years ago – there’s a lot of moss growing on that stump.

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Behind the stump you can see a dry stone wall which I like to think was one the young Nellie would help her father mend when she was a child. I don’t know who repairs the walls now – the farmland itself is rented out and it’s only the house and immediate grounds that are still occupied by sister in-law Phil. Below to the left is the house as it is today, all spruced up, and on the right an old aerial photograph which is probably closer to the home Mum would have known. It’s worth noting that in those days there was no inside toilet. You can see that this was before the trees were cut down.

Mum seldom talked about her past when we were growing up – she preferred to look to the future. But my sister Mary recalls, “I remember many times in the last 20 years, sitting with Mum in our garden, talking about her story and her family and about Dad. Perhaps the green grass and countryside brought it back to her.” It was these memories that Mary lovingly captured in a marvellous booklet which was distributed at her funeral.  In the absence of photographs I can do no better than to quote here the evocative word pictures Mary paints of Mum’s life at home in Davros. (With permission – slightly abridged).

“Ellen Hynes, was known to everyone as Nellie. She was the second of four children and described her mother, Margaret Morris, as a gregarious, ambitious person, while her father John Hynes had a creative, sensitive character. Growing up on the farm, Nellie loved to help her father repair the stone walls, look after cattle, plant hedges and help her mother bake the bread daily for the farmhands and the family.

She was musical and said she was very close to her father, a very fine fiddle player who always carried his fiddle in his pocket and would be found playing the traditional tunes sitting under the trees on the farm. The Hynes house was filled most evenings with all the neighbourhood folk holding a ceilidh, which in those days included recitations of legendary stories and poetry, tales of folklore and fairy-folk and discussions of history and news as well as the traditional music. Young and old contributed. Nellie would sit for hours in the evenings, loving and absorbing these traditional gatherings, and would herself sing a Gaelic song or recite a poem.”

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Some facts and figures (garnered from old diaries, notebooks, records): – John Hynes and Maggie Morris married in 1919, and had four children, though there might have been more if Maggie’s first pregnancy (twins) hadn’t sadly ended in miscarriage due to a fall. They went on to have Kathleen (1921), Ellen (1923), Patrick (1924) and Mary (1925). When John died in 1954, the farm, as is still largely the way in Ireland, went to the son Patrick (Pat). To be fair, there’s probably not a living for more than one family on the land, but putting my (occasional) feminist hat on, I can’t help wondering why it should always be the boy that gets the land? Anyway, Pat married Phil and they brought up their family on the farm. Kathleen, Nellie and Mary all eventually left home and married.

But we’re getting ahead of ourselves, let’s get back to Mary’s memoir:

“As she grew up, Nellie was a very sociable person and she loved to attend as many social and family occasions as she possibly could. There was plenty of social life in the surrounding villages in the form of dances, markets and church socials, as well as her own home being the hub for ceilidhs for the local community. The roads were almost car-free in those days and she would bicycle far and wide with great freedom.”

“Nellie enjoyed school and performed very well there, proving to be a highly intelligent girl with plenty of drive. She developed her lifelong interests in literature, history and languages from her earliest days at school, where at that time all subjects were still taught in both Gaelic and English with a strong emphasis and pride in the great Irish literary tradition, culture and history. When she was about 15, an aunt offered her the chance to go with her to live in Chicago where many of the Hynes family had settled before, but it was decided that she would not go.”

In fact I think it was Nellie’s Morris relations, her mother’s family, who had emigrated to America. There are some colourful tales about their exploits, but they’ll have to wait for another time. In the meantime, let me show you Cloghans (An Clochan) National School which Mum attended as a young scholar.  A plaque has the date 1860 on it. I got a good shot of the rear of the building, but as you can see there was too much undergrowth to get a good one of the front, so the lower view is captured off googlemaps. If you’d like to “stand” in the road yourself, send me a request by email and I’ll forward the link to you.

Next door to the old school is its modern replacement. There was a dedication ceremony, I think to mark its 50th anniversary, in the sixties, which is shown in this next photograph. Look at the middle of the row of adults standing behind the children. See that tiny little old lady wearing the dark hat? That’s Mary Varley. She was headmistress in the old school for many years, and taught my Mum. She was also Mum’s aunt – I think John Hynes was her brother. She would have been in her eighties in this picture.

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It’s been a bit strange telling this story without Mum there to ask when I’ve wanted to check my facts. In episode 2 I’ll get to the part where she left home to find her fortune. One thing that’s clear to me so far is that although it sometimes seemed as if she had left her past behind without a second glance, she manifestly held these memories close to her heart throughout the decades. In her final days when she talked about “home”, she didn’t mean the West End Glasgow flat that she had made her own for 50 years, but her childhood home, her beloved Davros.

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Sisters, sisters……

Take a good look at these six photos – notice anything?

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That’s right, we are all wearing the same First Communion dress! And of course me being the oldest (Beatrice, 1961) I got to wear it new, AND I probably got to choose it too – tough luck little sisters! I think that by the time it reached Eleanor in 1971 there had been an invisible mend or two (Mum was good at those – she had to be) and the veil seems to have totally disappeared. In fact if you look at Jane, 1970, that’s not the original veil at all. I’d love to know what happened to that hardworking outfit – maybe we could resurrect it for a new generation, these things never really go out of fashion, do they?

The other thing I notice about this array of pictures is that it not only graphically illustrates the hand-me-down nature of being a family of six girls, it also tracks the movement of our family over the years. My first communion picture was taken outside St Anthony’s Church in Govan, which was where our family lived in a tenement flat within hooter distance of Fairfields Shipyard on the Clyde. In 1963 when the frock had been passed on to Ann, we had gone up in the world and were having our pictures taken outside the front door of what became our much loved family home in the West End of Glasgow. As you can see from Mary, 1964 and Grace, 1966, having your picture taken at the front door became something of a family tradition, and carried on long after our dear Dad left us in 1981 and the life of the house carried on without him. Here are a couple of examples from my own collection, and I know that members of the family will have many more…

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It was a momentous event for us when we came to sell 8 Kersland Street in 2014. Mum had lived there for a total of 50 years,  half a century since we had migrated over the river and taken possession of what seemed to us a palatial home on two floors, not to mention a garden, compared to the room and kitchen with tin bath and loo on the landing that we were used to in Govan. I still remember the wonderful imaginative games we used to play together downstairs in the “big room”, including one where we had to traverse the room by climbing over the furniture – anyone who touched the floor was out, and many arguments ensued over whether this one or that one’s foot did or did not make contact with the floor. And we did argue, of course we did, like any family. We would split into factions – The Big Ones, The Wee Ones, The Babies… I’m afraid I used to resent terribly always being made responsible for the behaviour of my sisters and I would often lead the daily crocodile to school “hold hands with your sister” in a bad mood and would walk too fast for the wee ones, and hold their hands too tight. I hope it’s not too late to say I’m sorry.

But you know, mostly what I remember about growing up in our little corner of the West End is the feeling of closeness with my sisters, of knowing that this was our own little world that we could rely on and feel safe in. My memories of all the things we did together come in random waves – Mum taking us to the Botanic Gardens and the Art Galleries: watching Doctor Who from behind the settee: counting how many times you could run round and round the back garden; standing for hours watching our Dad tinkering with “Victor”, the car, occasionally being allowed to hand him a tool; days out at the Trossachs where we would light a fire and cook sausages for tea and spend a lot of time poking sticks in streams; going down Byres Road to Woolworths to spend our “Saturday penny”; the summer we went to Church Street Baths every day and learned to swim… I could go on and and on, and yes, all these memories are of sunny days!

One last recollection is of my “Give a Show” projector, a kind of magic lantern toy I was given for my birthday when we were still living in Govan, so I must have been 9 or younger. I used to love this toy, and would line up my sisters on top of the coal cellar cupboard we had in the hall of our tiny flat, with a sheet hanging over the front door for our screen. I’d then make them watch the entire collection of 16 slide shows, doing all the voices in fine dramatic style, everything from Cinderella to Popeye – “Avast ya swab, leggo my goil!” This of course continued once we were in Kersland Street in our more commodious auditorium (the aforementioned Big Room), the audience enhanced by the addition of Jane (who had been just a baby when we moved) and Eleanor (who arrived in a bit of a hurry the following year).

They say, don’t they, that your position in the family affects who you are. Oldest children are supposed to be smarter and more successful than their siblings. Well, I don’t know about that (I’m not), but I certainly think my leadership qualities (bossiness) and organisational skills (desire to be in control) do stem from those early days of being the oldest. This picture says it all really …

number 8#3 001 (4)

The years – in fact the decades – pass, and our siblings gradually transform into real people, and wonderful friends who are always willing to understand and forgive you in a way no-one else can. At least mine do, and for that I am very grateful. Here we are all together celebrating Eleanor’s wedding day in 2011: not a hand-me-down in sight!

6 ladies on stairs