Tinteán

by Eda Hamilton

I turned fifteen in April 1954, and that was the end of my education.

I had longed with all of my heart to be one of the girls taking the Leaving Certificate, exchanging ideas with the nuns, listening, considering, and being part of Paradise Lost or Paradise Regained. But that was not to be. I was being sent with my father to London to find a place to live for a better life for our family of seven.

The bus leaving Edenderry and heading for Dublin took off as my father and I waved goodbye to my mother, two sisters, and two brothers, the youngest child still in the pram. I was very excited and a bit nostalgic, excitement being the stronger emotion. The bus lumbered through the little villages on our route, and my father told me the importance of having this bus which people depended on to get to and from work, school, and even hospital.

Once in Dublin, we caught a taxi to Clare Kennedy’s house where she and her husband made us welcome. Clare had lived in Edenderry just across the road from us. We were served a splendid breakfast and caught up on all the Edenderry gossip. When we were ready, Clare took us to the house of Mrs Flood where a bedroom was put at my father’s disposal. I was given a small bedroom beside the kitchen which was very comfortable. The food was cooked and served around teatime for the men who had finished work for the day.

Saturday was shopping day for the couple who ran this boarding house, and they asked me to look after their little girl, who was about six, while they went shopping. When they came home, they were surprised to find their daughter’s hair had been washed and towel dried. My mother’s routine had been instilled in us. Saturday was hair-wash day.

On Monday morning my father set about finding a job and was taken on from the first interview he attended. He found a job for me collecting invoices from each department and tallying them up at the end of the working day. A young woman took me on her rounds until I learned how the system worked. She was sixteen, I was fifteen. We got on very well and she invited me to meet her family on a Sunday when they served roast dinner.

My father and I loved going to the films, but we had very little time to do that because Saturdays, and even Sundays, were taken up with looking for a house. We would come out of agents with pages of available houses. Surprisingly, it didn’t take us long to find one we both loved. It was big and roomy, overlooked a park, and had easy access to buses, trains, and the Leyton underground, so we bought it.

Then disaster struck. My father got a telegram from my mother to say that she had to go to Tullamore hospital immediately to have one of her breasts removed. He brought the telegram to my place of work and explained to the manager that, as I was the eldest in the family, I needed time off work to attend to my mother. My father had to stay in London to complete the house purchase.

I took myself back to Edenderry. Having never travelled much before on my own, I still managed to find the bus in Dublin that would take me to Edenderry. My father had telegraphed my mother to let her know that I was on my way.

I was shocked when I saw my mother waiting for the bus. She had lost a lot of weight, her shoes were too big for her, and she was barely able to stand upright without holding on to the pram that held my youngest brother. We staggered home, and I told my mother to go straight to bed. I also told her she would not be having an operation of any kind in Ireland.

We gave away or sold furniture that we couldn’t take. We tidied the house and left it as clean as a shiny new pin. My sisters were very helpful and cooperative and didn’t argue as they were prone to do. Many friends came to say goodbye to my mother, and most of them left in tears. She had been very kind to people in Edenderry who needed help and gave time to people who asked her advice.

A young man who lived across the road from us had earned his keep by ferrying people hither and thither and made himself available to us. He drove us to Dublin from where we took the ferry to Holyhead. We then took the train to London.

When we settled in to our seats on the train, the baby went to sleep straight away. My mother was looking very pale and drawn. I tried to make a comfortable place for her to have a sleep, but she just couldn’t settle. Suddenly, about 30 minutes from the end of our journey, our mother emitted a strange sound and started losing blood at a terrible rate.

I knew where I had packed the towels, so instructed my sisters to retrieve the case we needed and to unpack it. My sister next to me in age went off to find the conductor who came immediately and was made aware of our plight. He phoned ahead and ordered an ambulance.

As the train pulled into the station, our father was running alongside looking nearly as pale as his wife. When we disembarked, my father got a taxi to take us to our new home. He left us to unpack whatever food there was and went to Whipps Cross hospital where he was told my mother had been sent. When he came home, he told us that our mother was settled but needed a long hospital stay as she had lost a lot of blood. Thankfully, she recovered fully and got on with her life.

The 1950s saw half a million Irish emigrating because of economic stagnation. Secondary school fees were not aboished until 1967. Always regretting having to leave school so early, Eda was fortunate to be in Australia when the Whitlam government abolished university fees in the 1970s. She was able to study part-time while raising her family and became a much-loved high school teacher in Adelaide. In retirement, she has compiled many memoirs of her life in Edenderry, County Offaly.