Read Online At My Mother's Knee by Paul O'Grady - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul O'Grady
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that you had two choices: go
to prison, or join the Black and Tans and go to Ireland. The
Tans were paid ten shillings a day with full board and lodging,
a good enough incentive for the scum of England's gaols and
the unemployed veterans of the First World War to head for
Ireland.
Any sign of Rebel activity and the Tans carried out brutal
reprisals, torturing and killing innocent civilians. House raids,
supposedly looking for arms, were frequent, and when a gang
of drunken Tans raided my grandmother's house, they dragged
my great-grandmother, a frail old lady, from her chair and hit
her with a rifle butt. During one house raid they rounded up
all the men, my great-uncle James included, and took them off
in the dead of night on the back of a lorry. They released James
three days later but the others weren't so lucky: they were
shot.
My father, running barefoot across the fields, was frequently
shot at. When I was a young boy spending my summers on the
farm in Ireland, I sometimes used to take my shoes off and run
across the fields pretending that the Black and Tans were using
me for target practice. I wanted to get a feel of what it might have been like. I didn't get very far, as the stubble from where
the corn had been cut was murder on the bare feet.
The Tans abused the local women in the street. They would
jeer at them, asking lewd and inappropriate questions when
they attempted to cross the border and get past the many roadblocks.
Biddy Brittain would clutch the basket of eggs that she
was taking to a sick friend closer to her side, pulling her shawl
around her and lowering her head as she passed through the
checkpoint, impervious to the lecherous stares and crude catcalls
of the Tans as she went about her real business. If the Tans
had bothered to search her, not only would they have discovered
a few dead chickens and geese hidden inside the folds
of her long woollen skirt, they just might have found a couple
of rifles as well, according to my dad that is.
When my father was thirteen, Biddy cashed in her life
insurance and emigrated to America with her two daughters.
My father, who didn't want to leave Ireland, was left behind in
the care of Uncle James. Biddy sailed for America from
Liverpool on the Franconia . She was a superb seamstress
and would have made sure that she and her daughters were
suitably dressed for the voyage. With fabric bought at
the draper's in Galway and inspiration provided by a ladies'
fashion magazine, she boarded the Franconia elegantly attired,
her daughters hurrying behind her, selfconscious in their new
matching dresses and with large velvet bows pinned to the
back of their hair.
One would think a farmer's widow would've travelled
steerage like the rest of the immigrants. Biddy opted for a stateroom
and travelled to America in firstclass luxury. Mary, the
elder daughter, rarely ventured on deck as she suffered from
violent seasickness but Biddy and Sadie had a wonderful time.
The Franconia had been at sea for less than two years. She
was the pride of Cunard's fleet. The opulent interior of this
beautiful single-stacker boasted elegant garden lounges, a health spa, a smoking room decorated in the fifteenth-century
Venetian style and tastefully furnished cabins. Each evening
Biddy and her daughter would descend the staircase into the
firstclass dining room and feast like empresses amid the
crystal chandeliers and snowy white linen. They docked at New York at the ship's pier and, as befitted their status as firstclass
passengers, they were spared the indignities of Ellis
Island. When, years later, she was teased about her humble
Irish roots, Biddy's daughter, my aunty Mary, would answer
grandly, 'I didn't arrive in this country via Ellis Island, you
know. I arrived first class.'
New York in 1925 was a vast construction site, a place of
prohibition, bath-tub gin, organized crime and jazz babes. The
Empire State Building had yet to be built, No, No, Nanette was
packing them in at the Globe
to prison, or join the Black and Tans and go to Ireland. The
Tans were paid ten shillings a day with full board and lodging,
a good enough incentive for the scum of England's gaols and
the unemployed veterans of the First World War to head for
Ireland.
Any sign of Rebel activity and the Tans carried out brutal
reprisals, torturing and killing innocent civilians. House raids,
supposedly looking for arms, were frequent, and when a gang
of drunken Tans raided my grandmother's house, they dragged
my great-grandmother, a frail old lady, from her chair and hit
her with a rifle butt. During one house raid they rounded up
all the men, my great-uncle James included, and took them off
in the dead of night on the back of a lorry. They released James
three days later but the others weren't so lucky: they were
shot.
My father, running barefoot across the fields, was frequently
shot at. When I was a young boy spending my summers on the
farm in Ireland, I sometimes used to take my shoes off and run
across the fields pretending that the Black and Tans were using
me for target practice. I wanted to get a feel of what it might have been like. I didn't get very far, as the stubble from where
the corn had been cut was murder on the bare feet.
The Tans abused the local women in the street. They would
jeer at them, asking lewd and inappropriate questions when
they attempted to cross the border and get past the many roadblocks.
Biddy Brittain would clutch the basket of eggs that she
was taking to a sick friend closer to her side, pulling her shawl
around her and lowering her head as she passed through the
checkpoint, impervious to the lecherous stares and crude catcalls
of the Tans as she went about her real business. If the Tans
had bothered to search her, not only would they have discovered
a few dead chickens and geese hidden inside the folds
of her long woollen skirt, they just might have found a couple
of rifles as well, according to my dad that is.
When my father was thirteen, Biddy cashed in her life
insurance and emigrated to America with her two daughters.
My father, who didn't want to leave Ireland, was left behind in
the care of Uncle James. Biddy sailed for America from
Liverpool on the Franconia . She was a superb seamstress
and would have made sure that she and her daughters were
suitably dressed for the voyage. With fabric bought at
the draper's in Galway and inspiration provided by a ladies'
fashion magazine, she boarded the Franconia elegantly attired,
her daughters hurrying behind her, selfconscious in their new
matching dresses and with large velvet bows pinned to the
back of their hair.
One would think a farmer's widow would've travelled
steerage like the rest of the immigrants. Biddy opted for a stateroom
and travelled to America in firstclass luxury. Mary, the
elder daughter, rarely ventured on deck as she suffered from
violent seasickness but Biddy and Sadie had a wonderful time.
The Franconia had been at sea for less than two years. She
was the pride of Cunard's fleet. The opulent interior of this
beautiful single-stacker boasted elegant garden lounges, a health spa, a smoking room decorated in the fifteenth-century
Venetian style and tastefully furnished cabins. Each evening
Biddy and her daughter would descend the staircase into the
firstclass dining room and feast like empresses amid the
crystal chandeliers and snowy white linen. They docked at New York at the ship's pier and, as befitted their status as firstclass
passengers, they were spared the indignities of Ellis
Island. When, years later, she was teased about her humble
Irish roots, Biddy's daughter, my aunty Mary, would answer
grandly, 'I didn't arrive in this country via Ellis Island, you
know. I arrived first class.'
New York in 1925 was a vast construction site, a place of
prohibition, bath-tub gin, organized crime and jazz babes. The
Empire State Building had yet to be built, No, No, Nanette was
packing them in at the Globe
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