Growing Up in Old Ennis

In this article, Ciss McCarthy, 72, Hermitage, Ennis, recalls her growing up days in her native Ennis. Now aged 76 years, she is the former Ciss Murphy, originally from the Cornmarket. Married to Brudsie McCarthy, they have three children - John, Frankie and Gina.

I was born in the month of August 1915, in a small, thatched, terraced house not too far from the Potato Market. My earliest memories are of a large kitchen containing a big hearth and grate flanked by two whitewashed hobs. We had two small bedrooms and a garret. Access to the garret was by means of a ladder. How we loved to climb that ladder on the quiet, and rummage about in the dust and semi-darkness looking for treasure.

At the corner of the kitchen stood a round table covered with oil-cloth, and standing proudly against one wall was a dresser with beautiful china cups and saucers. And woe betide anybody who touched that precious ware. It was for display, not for use. We older children used enamel mugs, while the younger ones had little tin mugs that cost two pence in Rahilly's Hardware store, in High Street.

I should mention that I was the eldest of twelve children - seven boys and five girls, and you can understand how crowded the house became as the babies began to arrive. The kitchen and bedroom floors were concrete and how we hated having to hop out of bed at night to race over the bitterly cold floor to visit the "toilet" - an enamel bucket that usually resided in one of the two sheds in the backyard, but was brought in as a makeshift indoor toilet during winter nights. The kitchen was used for everything - washing, ironing, sewing, eating and bathing. There was a big yard at the back of the house containing the "toilet" shed and the turf shed. Turf was the only fuel at the time. A large tar-barrel stood near the back door to catch the rain-water, and this was used for washing clothes and our Saturday night baths. Every morning a big iron pot was filled from this barrel and hung from a hook over the fire to provide hot water during the day for the various washing chores. All our cooking pots were made of iron, including a big oven with a cover and three sturdy legs. My mother baked two loaves of bread per day in the oven for decades - we never tasted 'shop bread' in those days. But the best thing about the oven was its cover. In the winter nights it was wrapped in a cloth and put at the foot of the bed to take the chill from the bedclothes. There was always an argument as to whose turn it was to rest cold toes on its warm surface.

Financially, times were not so bad for us. My father joined the R.A.F. and my mother received what was then called Separation Money. I have a vague memory of my father coming home on leave before he was sent to Italy. He was in uniform, and he put his arms around my mother and they were both crying. There were two toddlers and a twelve-month old baby in the family then, and myself of course. When the war was over, father was sent home with a certificate of honour and a small pension. This was because his eyes had been damaged in the fighting.

Then came the bad times. Work was scarce for the menfolk, but my mother found work in Bindon Street, washing and cleaning on four days a week for one of the well-off families in that area. Soon there were seven children in the family - four girls and three boys. My mother was now rising at 6 a.m. to complete her own work before starting her 'paid work'. Then the break came. We got a letter from my father's brother in America offering to pay his fare out and provide a job. Both my parents were delighted and jumped at the chance. And so, after weeks of preparation and letter-writing and taking photographs for a passport, our father travelled to Queenstown and from there to far-away America. We missed him very much, as he used to mind us when mother was out working. He was a gentle man and both he and we loved the stories that he read from our big bible. He was a lovely singer and sometimes he sang for us. His favourite song was "I'm sitting on the style Mary".

My mother, on the other hand, was a quite a different personality. She was very strong and healthy, with great energy. She had a fierce temper when roused and was definitely the boss in our family. But she worked, literally, from dawn to midnight, seven days a week, year in year out, for that family. Though she was not a demonstrative person, we knew she loved us and we could feel the strength of that love every day of our lives.

When my father went to America, the babies stopped coming. Though I was yet too young to understand the reason, I was pleased, as I always had to take care of them. Even when going out to play I had one on each hand. Though at times I must have resented being tied down so much, I think I was always conscious of the huge amount of work my mother had to get through. And I was pleased to be able to help a little. She never seemed to be idle. The only time she seemed to sit down was late at night, and even then her lap was piled high with clothes and socks to be sewed and darned.

Once again, the wheel turned and we had a steady wage. My father was working in America and he was sending money every week. Food was plentiful and nourishing, porridge every morning, which was cooked the night before in a big pot, a large helping of stew and potatoes for dinner, and milk and bread and jam for tea.

"Eat all that up, it's good for you", she'd say as we tucked in hungrily. Then she'd sit by the fire for a few minutes and light up a Woodbine -her one and only vice.

One day we got a letter from my father saying that he and his brothers and sisters were going to take all our family out to settle in America. We were thrilled. I was attending the local Convent school and was due to make my Confirmation, while my brothers were going to the boys' national school. It was an exciting time for my mother and all of us. We had to have photographs taken, birth certs to be copied, clothes to be bought and packed. We were going round telling everybody that we were going to America for good. We were the envy of all our friends.

Then disaster struck. We got a letter from an uncle to say that father's sight had deteriorated, and that he'd also got a chest infection during the very cold winter. The cost of medical treatment, even then, was very high and it was felt that in all the circumstances the best solution was for father to return home. Our great American dream was shattered. But, as is the way with the young, we soon got over the disappointment and were eagerly looking forward to father's return. Finally he arrived, all smiles and hugs and loaded down with presents for mother and all of us. It was wonderful to have him home again.

However, the euphoria didn't last long. Father was not really fit for work, and even if he were, there was none available. Poverty was widespread. Our country had got its freedom, and was taking its place among the nations of the earth, but for those of us at the lower end of the economic scale things were much the same. One great change did come about though. The dreaded Black and Tans were gone. Though I was quite young at the time, I remember the curfew vividly, the lorry-loads of Tans all over town, and their searches with fixed bayonets. One incident however will never leave my mind.

It was a Monday morning. I remember that clearly. My father was taking my two baby brothers to school. As he left them at the gate, a lorry came screaming around the corner from the Kilrush road side. It stopped suddenly and two Tans jumped out, grabbed my father and forced him into the back. There he found five other locals who had been snatched the same way. They were taken outside the town to help rebuild a bridge that the I.R.A. had blown up the night before. My mother heard the frightening news from a neighbour who had seen the incident. She was frantic with worry because it had been known for men to be snatched by the Tans and never to be seen alive again. Thankfully, father was released that evening and dropped at the Maid of Erin cross, to make his way home, exhausted and covered in mud to up to his waist - but alive.

There were many moments too in our crowded little house. The visit of our little cousin from the other side of town was always a joy. Her mother and mine were sisters and were very close. Our cousin was an only child but she wasn't a bit spoilt, and was lovely in looks and in nature. She loved to come to our house for the week-end and enjoyed the rough and tumble of our house, while our respective mothers enjoyed the rare luxury of a confidential chat. We could never understand how one who was so accustomed to having tea in a china cup could get so much pleasure from a tin mug.

About a year after father returned from America, the babies began to arrive again. I had learned to knit by now and I was knitting every spare minute I had. I was twelve years and in seventh standard in the convent school. One day, the head nun sent for my mother. She was told that my academic progress was quite good and she should send me to Colaiste Mhuire. Though my mother was delighted at my progress she knew that financially, secondary education was out of the question. School fees, school uniforms and the various books for each subject cost more than my mother earned in a full year. It was just not possible. I was bitterly disappointed as I loved school, and was good at Irish and history. Then it was suggested that perhaps I could work for my education. There was another secondary school, also run by the Sisters, in Spanish Point. Perhaps I could combine my school work with some general housework. My mother, after some persuasion, agreed.

I arrived in Spanish Point on a Saturday afternoon; where I was given something to eat and then sent to the kitchen to begin work. On Sunday evening I was allowed out for a short walk with two lay-sisters and then to bed. Monday began with a 6.30 a.m. call. I was sent to the refectory where I was shown how to set the tables for the nuns breakfast and from there to the parlour where everything had to be spotlessly perfect for the priest's breakfast. He came to say Mass every morning at 8 a.m. School began at 9 a.m., but I never got to class before 12 noon as I had to help with all the chores. During my time in Spanish Point I got on average, about one hour's tuition per day in English and Irish. Though I was disappointed about the schooling I was not unhappy and would perhaps have stayed for a few years, but after some twelve months I became ill. The doctor said I was run-down, which I couldn't understand, because, although the work was hard I was well fed and had a regular, healthy routine. Anyway, I was sent home, glad in one way, sorry in another. I had grown used to my own privacy and the quietness in the convent, and found it hard to re-adjust to the noisy rough and tumble of a big family in a small house. There were beds everywhere. The boys slept in a double bed in the backroom, while the girls slept in a press bed in the kitchen. This was closed up during the day and stood in a corner like a wardrobe. There were also a couple of chair-beds, a big cot to sleep two toddlers, and a small cot in my parents' room for the inevitable baby.

My brothers were now, I noticed, into all kinds of mischief and adventure. They could regularly be found standing open-mouthed at Long's Corner watching John Long shoeing a horse or hammering the red-hot iron on the anvil. Or tormenting John Guerin the harness-maker for a bit of wax-end to mend a hurley. Or trying to gather a handful of shavings from under the feet of Peter O'Loughlin the carpenter. One of my brothers was a little more curious than the rest and suffered the consequences.

He got a job to his great joy, as a messenger boy at Quinn and Collins in Jail Street. One day he was sent down to the cellar to assist in the bottling of porter. He was filled with curiosity about this strange brew and decided to taste it. Well, one taste test led to another and before long he was 'nicely'. It was a neighbour - isn't it always - who informed my mother that her son was in a drunken state coming up the street. He was just finished the first verse of 'Master McGrath' as he stumbled in the door. This was a very appropriate song, we all felt, as my brother's speed from front door to backdoor and round the garden with my mother in pursuit was as fast as any greyhound.

However, life at home was not usually as traumatic as that and we all lived in relative harmony despite the crowded conditions. Religion played a very big part in our lives. Both my parents were religious and loved especially to attend daily Mass at the Friary whenever possible. The Rosary was said every night, together with countless trimmings; Confraternity was on Tuesday night and Sodality on Sunday. We all loved Maytime because every house in the town put up a May altar, and there was great excitement and rivalry in getting the nicest flowers and statues to honour Our Lady. One of my young brothers always got carried away and insisted on dressing up as a priest and 'saying Mass' and 'blessing' us all. We visited Drumcliffe cemetery quite often - it was a favourite Sunday walk in the summer. There, we would run and play among the headstones, and pausing at our favourite, read it aloud to each other…

Remember, Man, as you pass by,
As you are now, so once was I,
As I am now, so shall you be,
Remember Death and pray for me.

Many of our pastimes were seasonal. In the late spring and summer we flogged tops and bowled hoops and skipped to our hearts' content. Traffic was very light then and we had the streets to ourselves. We loved to mark the doors of the unmarried on Chalk Sunday and bang their doors on Canteen night, oblivious, in our innocence, of the deeper and perhaps hurtful implications. When the boys played football with a blown-up pig's bladder or hurled with a few 'spocs', the girls played house with 'chaneys' - broken pieces of china. In August, all the talk was of blackberries, hazelnuts and mushrooms. Only special friends then shared the great secrets of where the best 'blackers' and 'shellers' could be found.

We followed the hurling too, and while the whole town thrilled to the exploits of the Considines, Spellissys, Blakes, Morrisseys, Whites and many others, we had a special affection for Old Mill St. - 'The Old Road' and its great hurling families, like the Kennys, Colemans, Linnanes, Houlihans, Gilligans, Mahonys and many more.

Often on a sunny summer's evening the teenage boys and girls would gather together and walk out to Ballyalla to dance at the Timber Bridge. There was always a musician or two and we'd dance our hearts out until ten o'clock. Then joining hands, we'd sing our way home and tumble into bed, exhausted but happy.

We'd walk quite regularly to Clarecastle, also to dances, and if we were lucky coming home, one of the lads would give us a lift on the cross-bar of his bike.

One of the highlights of the year was the visit of McDonald's Bazaar to the Butter Market for a week. They had swinging boats, chair-o-planes, bumpers, rifle ranges, ring throwing stalls and ghost trains. It was a magic week for young and old alike. It was especially exciting for us teenagers as it gave us a chance to see certain people and an opportunity to be seen also. The comings and goings at the Bazaar kept us in conversation for weeks afterwards. Films had not yet made an impact on our lives, though I remember once going to a silent film at the Town Hall. I don't remember the name of the film but Pearl Whyte was the beautiful actress' name.

When I was about sixteen, I got a job with a lady from Ennis who was married to a bank manager and they lived in the bank in Galway. I was to be trained to become cook-housekeeper - which was really a general maid - and received the sum of £1 per month. They had no family and I missed home a lot, but learned a good deal about cooking, housekeeping and knitting in the two years I spent there. The training stood me in good stead years later when I married and had a family of my own.

Then I got a job in the local Fever Hospital and met somebody who took a great interest in me. Her name was Alice O'Donnell and she was the head nurse in the hospital. She suggested that I should consider nursing as a career. I was thrilled at the idea but thought that my seventh standard education was not sufficient to get me in a training hospital. Nurse O'Donnell had other ideas, however, and I was accepted at St. Stephen's Hospital, Fulham Rd., London, where she herself had trained as a probationer. My parents were delighted for me though a little sad to see me leaving Ireland. Luckily they didn't know at the time that they would be repeating this sad leave-taking with every one of their children, as the young people of Ireland emigrated in their thousands in search of work.

Life at the hospital was one constant round of work and study. It was back-breaking work but I loved it. When I was there a few months I got my first week-end pass. I rang up a friend from home who was also in London, and we had a wonderful week-end together. Incidentally, I had gotten to know her brother at home and we had reached the 'saluting' stage before I left for London.

It was the end of October and I was on the wards full-time when my world collapsed. I was taken ill one morning and was visited in the nurses' quarters by the matron and the doctor.

The doctor diagnosed Oedema and my nursing career was over. I was devastated and didn't know what to do. My friend came to the rescue and through her boy-friend secured temporary employment for me in Marks and Spencers. So it transpired that with the money I was earning and some more help from my ever-faithful friend and her boy-friend (now her husband for many years) I was able to return home for Christmas.

I soon forgot my disappointment in the joy of being home with my family and the preparations for Christmas. Once again I was my mother's helper as we bought the goose at the Height, had him killed and plucked and hanging on the inside of the shed door, ready for stuffing and cooking on the big day. We all loved the stuffing made from potatoes and onions and - the secret of its flavour - the sweet breath of the goose. Some of my sisters were now old enough to help also and mother's work was lightened a little more. We made two fruit cakes with lashings of fruit and about a dozen eggs, which were very cheap at the time.

As you can imagine, Christmas Day was hectic, with fourteen people, including a small baby, milling about in our small kitchen, everyone intent on his or her own task. Us older girls were sprucing ourselves up in whatever new items we'd managed to buy for Christmas. The older boys were doing much the same, while the younger ones were playing noisily with whatever Santy brought, while mother prepared the goose and got it into the oven. Father just sat quietly in a corner, reading his Bible. I often think that Mother, in later years, must have found Christmas very lonely with her husband and two children dead and the rest, but one, living in England.

Well, the euphoria of Christmas didn't last very long that year. It rained heavily for two days after Wren's Day, and this, combined with a high tide on the river brought widespread flooding. Our houses were built over an underground stream, and it burst its way up through the road, and in some cases up through the kitchen floors. There were floods inside and outside. It flowed in our front door and lodged at the step-up at the back door. There we crouched, with tin-cans, saucepans and frying pan frantically trying to bale out the water faster than it was coming in. All the neighbours were in the same boat, so to speak. Some of us were dispatched to help our next-door neighbour, a spinster whose only companions were dozens of cats, that she pampered and fussed over as if they were children. Parnell St. was under two feet of water and the watching children could hardly believe their eyes as a large rowing boat travelled up and down, ferrying people to dry land and delivering provisions to those who chose to wait out the floods in the upper rooms of their houses. Some newspaper reporter of the time called Ennis the 'Venice of the North'.

A short time after this I started work at Braids Factory. My growing up time was coming to an end. Within a few short years I would get married and start my own family. I would see my 19-year old brother die of T.B. and be prevented from attending his funeral because I'd had my first baby and hadn't been 'Churched'.

Many of these things I'd forgotten until this, my 76th year, when I decided to write down what I could remember of growing up in the town of Ennis.

This article originally appeared in the Clare Champion, 27th December, 1991.