Childhood

The richest well to draw from is childhood. Dig that well with a needle, is a Turkish saying. Dig that well, says Orhan Pamuk, a Turkish writer. Below is a flavour of the contents of Borderland and its stories.

Childhood memories metamorphosing as they become susceptible to time and mood or reality. What was real and concrete, as I remember the earliest memories of my childhood, traces of my past, my roots that spiral to the present. Did it happen? Did it happen like that? Does it really matter? Emotion flows from those childhood days. Memories and dreams collide in a fusion of unreality, yet were real, ever-present in my memory, as if some of them happened yesterday. Small touchstones. Flashes of tangible embrace - the vibrating metal against my skin of the twin-tub washing machine - a sensual emotion projecting through time, holding me with trance-like immediacy, a meditation that is transient and momentary.

In the north-west of Ireland lie three towns, Derry, Strabane and Lifford, the towns of my childhood. The Borderland. The River Mourne itself is formed by two rivers, the River Derg, which rises from Donegal, in the Republic of Ireland and the River Strule in Northern Ireland, which is part of the United Kingdom. The River Mourne meets the River Finn, rises in Lough Finn in County Donegal. It flows between two countries, Northern Ireland and Republic of Ireland. Where the rivers, Mourne and Finn meet, forms the River Foyle. The interconnectedness of the rivers mirrors the complex and overlapping history of these three towns. Strabane, in Irish, an Srath Bán, meaning “the white river or river valley.” The river is noted for fishing, in particular, salmon and trout. I was born in Strabane, my mother in Lifford and my father in Derry.

Auntie Lila was my Mum’s youngest sister, Mum, the eldest of a family of 13. There were seven children in our house. During Lila’s every visit she rushed to the bathroom. My wife and kids do a “Lila”, when they came home and went straight to the bathroom. When they were school children, they held on to their call of nature till home time.

I remember every thing clean and shining, my mother was very house-proud especially, the good room, the front sitting room, always ready to receive visitors. A private, secluded room from a prying world, even from us. It was reserved for visitors - priests, relatives, neighbours - the various dignitaries of my childhood. A dusky mottled place with a heavily laced window, that held a three-piece sculptured suite, a glass cabinet displaying wedding present china, ornaments of various hues and a dead fireplace, lit only on special occasions. Brass ornaments lined the mantelpiece. A piano resided there too, but I don’t remember that. To the right of the fireplace, there were ten wine-coloured volumes of The Children’s Encyclopedia, by Arthur Mee. It was published from 1908 to 1964 and extolled the virtues of Great Britain, its empire, Christianity, and that the Europeans were clearly the most advanced peoples. I read them from cover to cover though I studied the pictures more. They held such a tangible embrace of my childhood, that I bought a set when I moved to Melbourne. My poor children and I carried them home. I sold them in Melbourne too.

A small working kitchen and pantry wallpapered with kitchen implements, was at the rear of the house, with a gas cooker and jaw box, or Belfast Sink. In constant use, and sometimes used as a bath for the wee ones like me. The back sitting room, with fire lit for family evenings and cool days. After the weekly Saturday bath for the children, we gathered in front of the fire. One night, I was about 3 or 4, I stood too close and my dressing gown was engulfed in flames. Swift acting sister Elma, rolled me immediately and no damage done, except to the gown.

Fire was so important for heat and light to the people living in the Northern World and coal was the main source of heat. The back boiler in the fireplace provided the water for the Saturday bath when clean pyjamaed children glowed. Keeping the heat in a room echoed in our ears, with “close that door”, or we would use, “dhún an doras,” the Irish version, others include, “keep the heat in”, “were you born in a field?” The sheds were filled with coal all the year round, simply stocking up for winter, to ensure our supply of heat and hot water, much cheaper than electricity. “Is the immersion heater off?” was another utterance from our parents. They didn’t want a shock from the electricity bill. Local yarns of coal kept in baths and cupboards abounded. We had two coal men, two bread men and two milk men, all delivering supplies. My mother couldn’t offend anyone, especially as some of the delivery men were relatives.

As the coal lorry was unloaded in clouds of black dust, the black-engrained men, with the coal bags on top of their leather-clad shoulders, hefted the bags into the coal sheds. The black-faced coal man and the white-skinned children, connected in the communal heat of the family home. Different coals produced different fires - sometimes hot flaming, shooting furnaces or quiet, smouldering, slacky coal that kept the fire burning overnight. On the hearth or beside it, brass-handled rods and tongs stood sentinel by tiled castellated monuments at the centre of the home. Fire guards, enclosures protecting the innocent grey-faced inhabitants were vital.

Lighting the fire at home, often a daily task required craftsman-like skill with sticks, newspapers or a variety of burnable fuels, firelighters, paraffin, twigs. We placed a newspaper over the opening of the fire place, enticing a little draught to produce little flames that generated a crackling dance of shadow and flame behind the thin layer. Suddenly, whoosh! The paper would crackle and ignite, and I would hastily push it up the chimney. Sometimes the roaring sirens of the fire engines brought my family and neighbours scurrying out into the street. A chimney that had caught on fire was not unusual. Testament to burning fuels and the build up of soot over the years. Excitement for us kids, in our dull routine. Our days were generally warm and secure. We didn’t notice the cold and wet too much, it was what we were used to.  Buy the books here.                                                                             

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© Hugh Vaughan 2023