Rory & Ita (23 page)

‘Among the matters to engage the attention of T.V. was the quality of the illustrations for the advertisement for Madame Nora, who sold corsets and sundry other articles of feminine underwear. Discreet alterations to the illustrations were requested or demanded from time to time, to comply with T.V.’s sense of decency. He also conducted a long running argument with Clery’s advertising department about the description of boys’ short trousers as “Boys’ Knickers”. T.V. didn’t like it, but Clery’s full-page advertisement was big business and their old-fashioned drapery description prevailed. Money talked, as always.

‘The editor of the Woman’s Page was Ita Mallon, a very competent North of Ireland journalist whom I’d previously met at Juverna Press when she edited the retail grocer’s paper, the
RGDATA Review
. There was an article written for the page by a teacher in the National College of Art, Mary Frances Keating, who specialised in embroidery and needlework. This particular article was concerned with the transferring of the design to the cloth, for embroidering. Jack Spain, the stone man, received the typematter, and duly inserted it in the place planned for on the page. Next, the heading arrived. The wording caused Jack some anxiety – after proofreaders, sub-editors and others had processed stories, it was very often the stone man who copped the overlooked howler. The wording read: “Tracing By Prick and Pounce”. You can imagine what the ignorant and uncouth would do with that heading. Jack held his fire until O’Connor, the assistant editor, a tall, laconic North of Ireland man, strolled down to see how the paper was progressing. I should say here that the editorial staff either strolled to the stone room
or rushed excitedly. Jack casually pointed out that the Woman’s Page was almost complete. O’Connor took one look at the heading, said he had urgent business in the Prince’s Bar, and promptly disappeared. He could smell potential trouble; he wasn’t assistant editor by chance. Later, the other assistant editor, Michael Rooney, another North of Ireland man, but peppery, bounced down to the stone room, to survey progress. Jack Spain casually waved his hand over the page of type, and remarked that the paper was almost complete. Rooney glanced at the page, saw the heading, and hit the roof. He demanded that the word “Prick” be changed to “Pricker”. Jack duly complied with the order, and Rooney went back to his office. Shortly afterwards, Ita Mallon strolled in, to oversee the completion of the page. She got extremely vexed and off she went to the night overseer, Paddy Masterson, and demanded that the original wording be reinstated. The journalist, of course, had the absolute right to decide the word-content, and Paddy Masterson bustled down to the stone room and ordered Jack Spain to alter the heading. He said, “If Miss Mallon wants ‘Prick’, she’ll have to get ‘Prick’.” Jack changed the wording. Shortly afterwards, Rooney bounced back to the stone room and casually remarked, “That was a close thing.” And then he caught sight of the offending word again and he went incandescent with rage. He said the bloody woman would have to be told the facts of life, and Jack said, sorry, but he wasn’t going to be the person to do it. Eventually, the wording was changed again, the edition went to press, and Miss Mallon, who was a lady, wasn’t seen in the stone room for several weeks.’

*   *   *

‘We went to the pictures a lot; it was the thing to do. I actually liked the films, except for those musicals with Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, with their interminable lines of dancing girls, and Gene Kelly dancing up the walls. No plot, no story and, to me, utter boredom. But there’s one I remember, with Betty Hutton –
Incendiary Blonde –
the life of Texas Guinan, a famous torch singer, and quite a girl. It was a particularly good film.
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And Greer Garson, in
Mrs Miniver
;
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she made quite an impression on me. And I particularly liked Dorothy Dandridge in
Carmen Jones
,
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I liked the way she spit the sunflower seeds.

‘In the summer we’d go out cycling with Ita’s friend, Noeleen, and her boyfriend, Jim Algar. We went out to Lucan, to the Sarsfield Demesne.
^§
We’d bring sandwiches and have tea. Or we’d go to the sea; it could be Blackrock or it could be Portmarnock. We had our bikes, and distance was no bother at all. We’d generally talk and cycle out there.

‘The bicycle was central to civilisation. If you hadn’t got a bicycle, you were like a cowboy out in Arizona walking along the dusty road. The bicycle got you anywhere and everywhere. It was sixpence into Dublin from Tallaght on the bus; people didn’t have that kind of money. And you weren’t confined to any particular road. I remember Tom Lee; he cycled eight or nine miles to work every morning, with his shovel tied to the crossbar – he worked for builders. He got to his work every day, hail, rain or snow. He couldn’t have done it without his bicycle. I did the same. I cycled seven miles into Abbey Street, from Tallaght, and seven miles back, against the wind and the hill. My memory is that it was raining, nearly always. I had one of those slicker things on me, like a cape, to keep the rain off, and it caught the wind as well, and it was like a sail. And leggings, to cover the trousers. And then, of course, I was wet inside from the sweat, as well as outside from the rain. A rather unpleasant experience, when I come to think of it, but it was everyday life. There was a great scarcity of bikes, generally, during the War, and just after, and your bicycle could be put out of commission by a badly burst tyre. A new tyre wasn’t easily bought. You had to talk to people who knew people who knew a shop that might give you a tyre. In the meantime, my three sisters were reduced to one bike. So they worked out a strategy. They went off, and one would ride the bike for a mile and then get down, and the next one had a go; they more or less piggy-backed the bicycle all the way. Then, when Breda and Nancy started going down to Templeogue Tennis Club on Sunday nights, Aileen wouldn’t have any of that nonsense; she’d take two or three magazines and a bag of sweets to bed, and she looked at her sisters as if they
were right half-eejits going out in the terrible weather – but there was still only one bicycle, so they went off to Templeogue, in their high heels and all, half-riding the bicycle and half-trotting beside it.

‘It was a fortnight after we met that we first kissed, outside Ita’s front door, or maybe it was three weeks. It was probably about three weeks – you couldn’t go rushing into these things. I just liked Ita more and more. Not long after I’d met her, actually, I made up my mind that I’d like to make it a permanent arrangement. I was standing at her door, saying goodnight to her, and I decided that I wanted to make my intentions clear. I think I said something or other, but, for the life of me, I can’t remember.’

‘H
e was extremely thin and he had a very thin face, but he’d lovely hair. Black curly hair, very, very nice. I rather liked his face. He was a very pleasant man, very easy to get on with. He was grand. We used to talk from the time we’d meet to the time we left. He was always very witty and funny, and he got on very well with people. And another very important thing was, my father took to him very quickly.

‘The first time I brought him home to be introduced, he was invited for tea. That was the usual thing. Most people had their dinner in the middle of the day and then their tea in the evening. He was invited for tea one Sunday, and I’m sure he was feeling a bit awkward in himself and my father was actually a very shy man. But when Rory arrived my father was doing a crossword – he was a great man for crosswords – and there were a few clues he couldn’t work out. He handed the paper to Rory, I suppose as a way of covering his shyness, and Rory managed the clues and, I think, from that day he was elected. They got on very well and there was also the fact that Rory worked in the
Independent
. Printing establishments of any description held a great attraction for my father; having started his career at the
Echo
in Enniscorthy, I think some printing ink got into his veins. But I think the two combined – the job and crossword – meant that they got on very well after that.

‘“Going steady” was the phrase. We used to meet every week. The following summer, I went to Kilkee with Noeleen and Rory went off on a walking holiday around Cork, and I think it was after that that we decided we were what you’d call a steady couple. But I don’t remember the first time he kissed me; I’ve no recollection in the world. Terrible – I’m a dead loss really. He did ask me to marry him, I think he did, but I can’t remember that occasion either. I should; it should be hugely romantic but, I must admit, I don’t remember.

‘My stepmother took to him very well. Pearl was a very smart lady and anyone my father took to, Pearl automatically took to. And anyone my father disliked, Pearl automatically disliked, very often without any reason. But, I must say, my father didn’t dislike many people. He was a very easy-going kind of man. She took to Rory very well and she was very pleased that he drank whiskey, an important part of her life. I can remember one Christmas Eve – we were engaged by then – and she kept giving him hot whiskeys. It was a very cold night, and every time he’d take one, she’d say, “A bird never flew on one wing.” The words came out very slurred, and it became a family joke between myself and Máire. But Rory missed the last bus to Tallaght, so myself and Joe took my bicycle out. The traffic was very light, and I put Rory up on the bike and away he went, down the hill and off to Tallaght. It was a good three miles away but he lived to tell the tale. He fell into a ditch and woke up sometime on Christmas morning, and managed to get home; nobody ever knew. He told me a man bent over him as he lay in the ditch, and said, “Are you alright, son?”

‘I remember being very nervous before meeting his
family and, really, I had no need to be. They welcomed me immediately. Rory was the eldest, so it was quite an occasion, for the first one to bring somebody home. He had five sisters and two brothers and they were all living at home at the time, and I discovered that I had actually been in commercial college – Skerries – with one of his sisters, Aileen, although, naturally, I didn’t know who she was at the time. They all gave me a great welcome and, after that, there was no problem. I was asked out regularly, to a groaning table. It was always food, piles of food on a groaning table.

‘His father was a very gentle man, and a small man. Rory’s mother ran the whole shooting gallery; he was just a quiet man in the background, but she had great respect for him. He was a very gentle, quiet man and he seemed to be delighted with everything in life. Rory’s mother was a marvellous woman for organising everything. She was a tall, big woman, a very stately woman, with a straight back, and she used to dress very well. She was like royalty coming down the street, with her straight back and, what was very much in vogue then, an edge-to-edge coat.
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She used to wear picture hats, wide-brimmed hats which only the likes of her could wear. And she looked terrific in high heels; if they were to cripple her, she’d still wear the high heels. A very strong woman too. She had a lovely face, very soft and very generous – a very generous woman. Nothing seemed to be too much trouble for her.

‘And Aunt Lil was great. She was a little stout lady;
she always seemed to be in good humour. From the day I arrived she treated me like one of the family.
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I didn’t see much of the Uncle Bob. He was a bit shy of me. He was very polite and he used to call me “Mam”. He was a man who admired big ladies. He admired Jackie Doyle’s wife, Delores, because she was lovely and tall. In trying to relate to her his admiration, he really upset her when he said, “Be gob, you weren’t behind the door when they were handin’ out the size.”

‘There was an awful lot of walking. We went to the pictures alright, mostly in the Classic, in Terenure, but we used to go for walks, all over, around the Dublin Mountains; out to Rathfarnham, passing St Enda’s, and way up – it’s all built on now – and there was a place called the Bottle Tower in Rathfarnham – it’s still there but it’s completely surrounded by houses – and there were fields and fields there, and we used to just keep walking. Sometimes we’d get the bus to Bohernabreena and walk on further. I’d have a bag of sweets and he’d have his pipe. That was it; we’d walk and talk. There was no such thing as going out to dinner. The nearest to that would have been an odd time we’d have tea out. I used to love rashers and eggs. That was the kind of tea you could have, or cold ham and salad – lettuce, tomato, hard-boiled egg and salad cream, that kind of thing. Rory’s favourite was eggs, beans and chips. The waitress would kind of look at him, because beans didn’t normally
go with egg and chips. But he always looked for the beans – he was ahead of his time.’