THE FIFTEENTH

The quiet wee seaside town of Blackrock was besieged with day trippers on the fifteenth of August. It was a sort of national holiday and a great meeting place for those in the border areas of Down and Armagh. In the late forties and fifties when I was taken to Blackrock, communication was difficult with few telephones or cars. Many hated sending personal letters for they were tormented with the dreaded brown ones that demanded urgent attention; others just hadn’t mastered the pen at all. In our family men never bothered writing so it was left to the woman to keep in touch. .
Only the likes of the doctor or the parish priest had cars so most would have come on bus excursions that they’d have been saving for all year. These northeners as they were known came to ‘the free state’ for cheap drink, tobacco and maybe a bag or two of sugar. They’d try to hide the smuggled goods and outwit the customs men who searched the bus at the border on the way home.

Many stories were told about the ingenious methods employed. Countless women supposedly in an advanced stage of pregnancy slipped through the net. Though the custom man might have been suspicious he turned a blind eye when faced with the drink fuelled bravado of the males on the bus. A few miles down the road the women would remove the contraband from under their coats to a great cheer of solidarity from fellow smugglers.
Those within twenty miles or so avoided the expense of the bus and cycled into the wee Co. Louth town. There’d be big tangled piles of these bicycles here and there along the sea wall. I was puzzled how you’d know your own for they were mainly black Raleighs whose mudguards displayed varying degrees of rust. The odd one, with a colourful beret pulled over a seat with the springs exposed, would be easy enough to spot. As for the rest maybe you just took the next one in the pile when you were going home.
Long rows of women in summer dresses and hand knitted cardigans sat on the sea wall, their men beside them in Sunday suits. They’d be afraid to budge in case they‘d miss something. Their lumps of children wrestled on the footpath or pushed other off the wall, for after an hour or two they were sick to death of the people watching. I looked down my nose at their awful behaviour as we passed but desperately wanted to join them. I’m sure they too longed to paddle in the sea or build a big sand castle with a moat. As an only child then, with childless aunts and uncles, it was a lonely day.
We children were brought along because there was nobody at home to mind us but it was really a day out for mammies, daddies, aunts and uncles and there wasn’t a bucket and spade in sight. Every year as I donned my newest dress and my summer sandals I was that excited about the great day I’d have. I took my cue as usual from the expectations of the adults and forgot what had gone before, every year it was a dreadful ordeal. The only good part was lying in bed the next morning planning how I’d spend the half crowns and sixpences. After the day that had passed I felt I deserved every penny.

The women on the wall would nudge other and pass comment on familiar faces once they were out of ear shot. They’d describe old Maggie as being ‘far through’ or Johnny as’stanin it well,’ maybe predict that sadly Brigit was seeing her last fifeteenth. They’d be taking note of who they’d seen as the crowds strolled along the main street and drifted in and out of the pubs.
They’d also note the ones they didn’t see in case they’d passed on since last year. Then look out for somebody they could ask. There’d be groups huddled together here and there comparing notes. They’d keep it low in case the woman whose passing they were lamenting was near hand.
The few pubs, normally deserted except for a Sunday afternoon, were packed to the rafters as the men enticed other in for a drink. I was shocked that first day when mammy and aunt Cissie, strict tee totallers, followed the men inside. I suppose somebody had to keep an eye on them.
I’d come to loath these dirty, smelly places with the saw dust on the floor to soak up the spit it seemed and not a window in sight. Tobacco, porter and urine were not the ideal ingredients for a memorable fragrance. I hung my head in despair as I was hurried past the shiny blue and yellow beach balls and the fluttering red windmills. I could have two of everything next week mammy and Cissie assured me as we made our way to The Bunch of Grapes.
We’d just be a few minutes out in the fresh air and the summer sunshine when daddy and uncle Jemmy would be drawn in to a similar dark, suffocating establishment. Paddy was yet another valued friend who hadn’t been seen since last year and it would be ill mannered to refuse ’a trate’ it seemed.
The chile got another pat on the head and another wee mineral to ease their consciences. It could have been at least my tenth and I was dying for the toilet. I took my cue from the men and drained the bottle anyway. I didn’t want to upset Paddy who was kind enough to ‘trate’ me.
After being hopeful for the first year or two I lost faith in the much used phrase, ’just the one.’ I came to the conclusion there was no such thing. All seemed determined to have a bellyful of the cheap drink before home time.
The noise in every pub was deafening between the constant rattling of the bottles and glasses and the frequent louder bangs as they smashed when they hit the stone floor. The drinkers with their boisterous behaviour and hearty laughter were determined to outdo the tuneless fiddle player who seemed to frequent every pub. I longed to cover my ears and drown it out but I knew mammy would be cross at my awful manners.
Men who had little fondness for children had a whole character change on the fifteenth. They couldn’t resist stroking my hand, pulling at my ear or tweaking my bow every time they passed. I was very uncomfortable and embarrassed with this new turn in our relationship but nobody appeared to notice .All year I’d have mammy’s undivided attention, not today when I really needed her.
But mammy didn’t know about any of it. How could she? Every year I lied. Said I’d had a great time. I had no idea how I’d start to tell her. It was easier to live in hope that I’d be struck down with some dreadful illness and have to stay in bed the next year. I knew I’d have to be very sick for the trip to be cancelled.

I was being silly and over sensitive I’m sure but I panicked and felt threatened when strangers staggered and pushed against me in the confines of the tiny over crowded pubs. I had no way of knowing what they’d do next for even the people I knew were not being themselves. I hated these old men with their brown decayed teeth and their porter laden breath as they smiled and leaned towards me.
Mammy and Cissie were excused from taking the wee minerals for they had bad stomachs and never took anything gassy. The chile on the other hand never missed a round. Granted the one buying the wee mineral might not have known about the half dozen I’d had before but they were determined that the chile should have one anyway. Once it was set in front of me I was nagged till the last drop was drained.
The crack was that good that nobody noticed when I was as white as a sheet and desperately taking deep breaths to avoid vomiting. They didn’t even notice when I hugged my stomach to ease the pain of a full bladder or uttered a silent prayer for deliverance from both afflictions. In such situations I usually tried St. Jude for mammy said he was good for hopeless cases.
The fact that Blackrock had no public toilets then was a constant worry all day. Judging by the stench of urine in the pubs the men must have went somewhere out the back but they had no such facilities for women.
For hours I’d suffer the terrible pains and sit with my legs crossed. It was too noisy to ask for the toilet without shouting to get mammy’s attention. I’d be afraid she’d think me an awful nuisance for we might have to spend ages searching for a private enough place for me to agree to go. Even I was desperate I was still as choosy about picking the spot.
I’d be delighted if the women wanted the toilet for we’d head away up the street and go in the graveyard behind one of the big old headstones while somebody kept watch.
On one memorable occasion I lost the battle with nature when all delaying tactics suddenly failed. St. Jude’s actions may have been slow and inadequate but he did respond. When the flood gates opened I was sitting under the table in the dark, smelly pub with the sawdust on the floor to soak up liquids.