We had a season for the different games we played. In the summer, we played cricket during the daylight hours. When we got tired of that we’d get our hoops out. These were old bicycle wheels with the spokes removed and we’d drive them along with a stick. We could perform all sorts of sharp turns and make them spin, etc. Then came the trolleys. These were made up of two or three pieces of plank nailed together with an axle back and front onto which were attached four ball bearings for wheels. A hole was drilled through the front axle and through the cart itself. A long bolt was passed through the holes and a nut was screwed to the top so as to secure the axle and to allow it to be moved. We would then tie a piece of thin rope or strong twine either side of the front axle, so that we could steer it. Then a coin was tossed to see who got to ride on it first and who would push.
On one occasion, I was delighted with myself for having won the toss and as we rolled down the footpath at great speed and turned the corner at the end of the road I ran into another cart coming in the opposite direction. I shot forward and as I did, a splinter of wood tore an “L” shaped gash in my new flannel trousers that my mother had just bought me. I tried to stitch the rip but only made it worse. Eventually, I had to tell my mother. She whacked my behind good and hard and put a patch on the hole. Next, there was skipping, and this was all the more enjoyable if the rope was a long one. So two or more of us could skip at the same time.
Alternatively, we would get a “Cut” of bread and a bottle of water from our mother and head off to the open-air swimming pool or “Baths,” as they were more commonly known, for the whole day. The baths were located about halfway between Cabra West and Finglas. Finglas was only a village at that time. The vast housing estate was built much later, which was just as well because there was hardly room to move in the pool as it was. The weather always seemed to be fine in those days and you could smell the chlorine in the air from quite a distance down the road. It’s a wonder we weren’t all blinded with the amount they used to put in the water. All of us went round with red-rimmed eyes, looking like vampires following our visits to the pool. We used our shirts to dry off with and we would then lay them on the grass to dry in the sun. Once, I remember an older guy from our road tried to molest a couple of us. We told him where to go and threatened to tell our fathers. He soon got the message, although I heard some time later that he had been charged with molesting other boys. He had to clear out of the area after that. It reminded me of a story my father told me about a paedophile that was found guilty by a Republican Court during the “Troubles.” His sentence was a bullet in the scrotum and that’s what he got. This latest guy was luckier than that, but only because his family moved him out of the area good and quick.
Sometimes we would swim in the “Silver Spoon” and dive off the “Broken Arch.” The silver spoon was a section of the river Tolka, and it flowed past the swimming pool. Its water was used to fill the baths and when the baths were emptied, the water was returned to the Tolka. The broken arch was an old bridge that had collapsed. The girls weren’t allowed swim in the baths, they had to use the river; and we would stay with them for their safety and comfort. There was never any risk of molestation to the girls. We stayed around in case they got into difficulties in the water. Though I do remember getting an eyeful on one occasion, when one of the older girls got changed behind a bush. She was screened from the crowd at the swimming pool and she didn’t notice me and my companions sitting in the long grass on the hill behind her. That was the first time I’d seen bare breasts, but I quickly put any inappropriate thoughts out of my head. At least I think I did. At other times, we swam in the canal. But often there would be a dead dog floating in it, so we tended to avoid swimming there. We would enjoy watching the older lads diving off the bridge though. It was here one evening that Barty Wiley, one of my schoolmates, decided to make a name for himself. He was the boy that I took home to my mother after seeing his mother and how he was treated. No one was sure if he wanted to commit suicide. He stood on the parapet of the bridge fully clothed, shouted “I’m Barty Wiley,” and threw himself into the canal. I never heard of him after that. Some said that he was in a mental hospital. I hope he’s well and that he got to live a full and happy life.
There was a quarry at the end of Broombridge Road where we would go to play in the wrecked cars that were dumped there. Someone had the bright idea of using the detached bonnet lid of a car as a sleigh. So three or four of us would sit on the bonnet lid and ease our way over the edge one of the hills surrounding the dump. We would then take off at breakneck speed into the valley below. The thrill of it was just fantastic to us kids. On another occasion, I actually fished the quarry for perch and roach, and caught some. I fried them up when I got home, but found that there was very little meat on them. They were also full of little bones that drove me nuts trying not to swallow them. Some of the older lads used to thrill us by diving off the high banks of the quarry into the dark green waters below. None of us younger ones ever attempted to swim in the quarry, because we had been told that an older lad had drowned there and it was weeks before they found his body. Some claimed that the quarry was bottomless and that was enough to scare us off.
During the winter months after it got dark, we would play “Kick-the can.” This involved a person being chosen to hide their face and allow the rest of the players to hide. He/she would try to find those who were hiding while protecting the can, which was located in the middle of the road. It could happen that most of those in hiding were caught and they would get released by one of the last people in hiding by running out and kicking the can. This meant that the person guarding the can would have to start all over again. If all were caught, then a new person was chosen, usually the first one to be caught. Relievio was a similar game except it was played without a can. Those who were caught would have to stand in a line along the railings outside one of our houses. Someone would have to run past the line between the person guarding it and the prisoners, thus affecting a release or “Relievio.”
Then there was my favourite, called “Catch-a-girl-kiss-a-girl.” This one hardly needs further explanation. It soon fell out of favour with me however, when I caught one particular girl and after I had kissed her, she complained that I had hurt her sore lip. On checking, I saw that she had a scab the size of a halfpenny. This coupled with the fact that the husband of one of my sisters saw what I was at and made fun of me. While we played this game and others such as skipping and swinging on the lamppost with the girls, it was really very innocent fun. There was no question of sex involved. Sex education didn’t exist in any shape or form. What we did know we got from the older guys and that was so ridiculous as to be laughable. For example, we were told that the way to check a girl was “clean” if we found ourselves in a sexual situation was to hold a penny up to her vagina and if it turned green, keep away from her! Or squeeze the juice from an orange skin into her and if she complained of pain and especially if it made her jump… keep away. We thought that a baby was delivered through the navel. Not once during my years of service with the Ambulance Brigade was the anatomy of a female discussed. The ignorance in which we were kept in this regard was nothing short of criminal. When a couple of the older girls who lived locally got pregnant, their names were whispered behind people’s hands. In one case, the girl was not seen outside of her house for the full-term of her pregnancy. The other was sent over to relatives in England. We are still exporting our problem in this regard today; although this time, it’s to terminate the pregnancy.
The “Grand National” was another favourite, although it didn’t please the neighbours. It involved us all starting in one of the back gardens and racing through as many gardens as we could, while jumping the wire fences that divided them. On one occasion, the male occupier of a house saw us from his bedroom and got so excited that he threw a pillow at us. We all disappeared, roaring laughing.
The older guys, my brothers included, played “Handball.” My brothers Dick and Gerry became well known on the circuit.
Another game involved peeing into an empty can, then using the shadow cast by the lamppost at night to run a piece of dark wool across the footpath. The string would then be tied to the can, and it would be placed on the inside slope of the wall that surrounded the gardens of the houses on the corner of the road. The capping on top of the wall was pyramid shaped. We would lie quietly in a garden opposite and wait for someone to walk between the lamppost and the wall. This would then cause the can to be pulled over the wall and onto the passer-by. I only ever did this once. I didn’t think it was funny, especially after the can landed in the hat of one old lady. She was carrying it in her hand at the time and she was naturally upset when it got filled with pee.
The older guys then started to wrap excrement in parcel form and leave it on the footpath for someone to find. My mother arrived home one dark evening and placed a parcel on the kitchen table, asking my father to open it. She watched expectantly as he cut the string and opened the paper. “Oh! Sweet J…,” my mother cried, almost vomiting as she saw the contents. My father got rid of it very quickly, swearing to put manners on whoever was responsible. There were limits beyond which people shouldn’t go and that rotten trick was way beyond the line.
When the weather turned frosty, we would get an old sack, dip it in a drain to get it wet and then beat the ground with it. There were very few cars in those days so we did this on the road, usually for the distance between two lampposts (approx. 25 yards). Once the wet ground had frozen, we used it as a slide to skate on. We would run a short distance and with one foot in front of the other slide along to the end. Many happy hours were passed in this way, and it kept us all fit as fiddles. At Halloween, some of the older guys would buy fireworks, and it wasn’t unusual for them to put a lighted banger through the letterbox of a house where someone lived who they didn’t like. But this didn’t happen very often, I’m delighted to say. While we were doing this, we had to keep an eye out for the police or the priest. It was legal to buy fireworks when I was a kid. I remember them being banned following an incident in a shop, when someone threw a lighted one into the stock on the shelves. A magnificent display followed, with fireworks going in all directions. Soon afterwards a law was passed, banning them entirely. Not to be outdone, when Halloween came around again we would spit on the carbide from an old car battery, this would cause it to fizzle and discharge a gas. Then we would put a tin can over it, which had previously had a nail driven through the top to make a hole. We would then hold our thumb on the hole for a minute or so to let the gas build up. As we took our thumb away we would hold a lighted match to the hole. It would set the gas off with a great bang as the can took off into the air like a rocket.
There were other great games we played apart from football. During the summer, we would use white chalk to draw cricket stumps on the concrete lamppost, and use a hurley stick for a bat and a tennis ball to bowl with. In order to avoid any disputes, we would wet the ball, so that it left a mark on the concrete where it had struck. The chalk we used sometimes came via the school. Any small pieces the teachers threw in the bin were rescued; and sometimes it came from broken statues. Every home had a statue of “The Sacred Heart” (Jesus), or “The Virgin Mary.” These conveniently got knocked over and broken and they were the best for getting the thick lines we needed. The priests would’ve been horrified. They poked their nose into every aspect of our lives. Not only were we threatened with hellfire and damnation for our sinful ways, they used to hunt us off the road and into our houses, shouting at us to do our homework or “ecker” as we called it. Ecker was a shortened version of exercise. I always did mine as soon as I got home, but that cut no ice with them, anyway.
They would patrol the streets at weekends, checking to see if any of the men were playing pitch and toss. One of the favourite gathering places for the men who played was beside the Turf Depot, on the hill opposite the playground. This was a game were two or more pennies were lined up on what was known as a “feck” and thrown into the air. The clergy, in place of the other Anglo-Saxon four-letter word, encouraged the use of the word “feck,” as it wasn’t considered to be a swear-word. The players would have placed bets on whether the pennies would land showing heads or tails. A lot of money could change hands at times, and sometimes a loser would get annoyed and a fight or “ruggy up” would start. That would attract all of us kids, cheering and shouting, which in turn would attract the attention of their wives who would be screaming for them to stop. This was one game that needed the intervention of the priests and or the police, because some of the men lost money that ought to have been going to feed the family. On one occasion, one of the men told Father Kavanagh that if he weren’t wearing the collar he’d beat the living daylights out of him. The priest promptly took the collar off and invited him to try. His companion, Fr. O’Brien, intervened and prevented the fight taking from place. Before long the word was all over the parish, and Father Kavanagh became something of a folk hero.
We also played “jackstones,” which involved using five small smooth stones and throwing them into the air and catching them on the back of your hand. That was the first move. The next involved throwing the stones onto the ground; then while holding one on the back of the hand, the player would throw this in the air and while it was in flight, pick one of the others off the ground, finally catch the falling one on the back of the hand again. There were other more complicated moves as the game progressed. Not only did it pass the time, it improved our dexterity and it was really enjoyable.
Some of the girls would organise a concert and we would be charged a penny in to the performance. As money was in very limited supply, we didn’t attend many shows. We had our own little gangs and I remember one occasion when I was asked to join the Murphy gang. I was taken around the house to the back garden where they held the initiation rite. The sun was high in the sky (it always seemed to shine for the whole of our school holidays); I was told that if I wanted to be a member, I would have to drop my trousers and sit on an upturned cast-iron bath. I did and it was so hot I jumped sky high, much to the amusement of all those present.
My pal Jimmy decided to form his own gang and a meeting was arranged in the wooden garden shed that his father had built in their back garden. My younger brother Willie wanted to join but we refused, telling him that he was too young. While our gang members were sitting in the shed, having our first meeting, we noticed smoke coming from under the door. Then suddenly there were flames and we quickly evacuated. When we got outside, Willie was stood there. When we asked him what he was doing, he told us that if he couldn’t be a member of the gang he was going to burn our clubhouse down. He had piled old papers and anything else that would burn outside of the door before setting it alight. We abandoned the idea after that.
We were always looking for ways to earn the price of the pictures. So Jimmy and I decided that we would make Mr. Maloney the slop (pig-feed) collector an offer. We would collect all the slop on the road and save him calling to every house if he would pay us sixpence each. It was four pence into the Plaza cinema and we’d have tuppence to spend on sweets. It was agreed, but we’d only get paid if Mr. Maloney was satisfied with the weight of the sack of waste. All went well for a while, until he started to demand more weight. We decided to give it to him by adding tealeaves and grass, and hide it by mixing it through the slop. It seemed to work well for a week or two until he discovered what we were up to. He chased us all over the road claiming that we had sickened his pigs with our mixture.
We needed a new idea and sat down to discuss our next move. We bought sugar in thick brown paper bags in those days. Because our family was so large, my mother would discard more empty bags in a shorter time that Jimmy’s mother. So, I soon got my hands on one. “What do we do now?” asked Jimmy. I took a handful of dry clay out of the garden and began to rub it between my hands until it was very fine. He helped as I explained that we would fill the bag with clay, reseal it, and sell it to his mother telling her that it was surplus to my mother’s requirements. He thought it was a brilliant idea and we did the deal. His mother gave us the money and we headed off to the Cabra Grand Cinema where there was a favourite cowboy film playing. We had plenty left over for a feast of sweets and enjoyed a wonderful afternoon show. When we got home, Jimmy’s mother was gunning for him. She had opened the bag and without looking at what it contained poured it into the sugar bowl. I could hear the wallops through the kitchen wall as she administered his punishment. She had told my mother also. But my mother thought it so funny that she just gave me a verbal warning. Poor Jimmy, a true friend always.