“They say there should be no secrets between a married couple but there was one thing I could never tell Mary. Since it all happened before I ever set eyes on her I suppose she didn’t need to know. But it meant I lied about many, many things, not least money.
It happened this way starting at Betty Staff’s Dance Studio in Arthur Square on Boxing night 1932.
“Come on fellas, lift one of these lovely ladies for a dance. Ye ought tae be ashamed of yourselves, standin’ in the corner with all these beautiful ladies dressed and out for the evenin’.”
Old Raymondo the dance instructor was enviegling us to make a move and dance with the girls. We were pathetic. Standin’ smokin’ at the side eyein’ the girls, all dressed up, and them eyin’us. Us wonderin’ about them and them wonderin’ about us. It took old Raymondo to get us goin’ and ask the girls to dance. If the truth be known we moved because we were terrified of Betty Staff comin’ to urge us on. She was scary, bright blond hair, lipstick and a bright red tight evening dress.
Anyway, over I goes and lifts this pretty little mousey haired one. Jean, she said her name was. We danced the night through until midnight when Betty’s shut up for th’ night. I asked if I could walk her home an’ she said yes. She lived on the Mountpottinger Road. At least that wasn’t too far away. My mates were laughin’ at me but away we went anyway.
As we walked over the Queen’s Bridge it started to snow a wee bit. I snuggled her up under my arm and under my new coat. She was lovely and warm and soft.
At the corner of Station Street I pushed her up the entry, and God forgive me, I did it to her. I think it was her first time because she cried and cried. It was certainly mine.
I promised to call the next day to see her at the toy counter in Woolies where she worked. But I didn’t. My mate, Geordie, when I told him about it, sneered “Don’t you be daft. She’s nothing but a good thing if she’s as easy as that.”
About two months later there was a knock on the front door. Thank God I was the only one in, because there she was, bold as brass. I put on my cap and pulled her along the street before mammy got back from the co-op. She told me she was expectin’ and that it was my child. Jesus, I was only seventeen just before Christmas and wouldn’t be outa my time for five more years.
I thought and thought. She wouldn’t get rid of it, because her sister had died last year after goin’ to get rid of a child. (was Geordie right? Dunno). Anyway I made this plan that she would go to England to have the child and then we’d see. I pawned me granda’s watch and medals which were mine as he had left them to me to get her the fare and a couple of pounds to keep her over there.
She went on the Heysham boat and got to Birmingham where my son was born. She called him William after me. But she wouldn’t give him up. So I scrimped and scratched for money to send her when I could. I did this all my life until William was sixteen. I tried to get to see him, but she wouldn’t let me. By this time I had met your sister Mary and you know the rest of the story.
I swear, John, I never meant Mary any harm, but I didn’t mean wee Jean any harm either. It was the way things happen sometimes. And now they’re both gone and I’m tellin’ you this now that Mary’s in her grave and no-one can be hurt ‘cept me. I wonder where William is? I am so lonely with not a child to comfort me now.
Maureen Davidson
Wednesday, 19 September 2007
Something I want no one to see or know about no1
I stole things, in particular I was addicted for some time to nicking books from Mullen’s book shop in Donegal Place. This went on for about 2 ½ years after I started Queens.
Money was short, at least that was my excuse. I was doing Maths but I loved reading and books to read were very expensive on a student grant (yes we all got grants in those days, and our fees paid too, I’ll have you know). I reckon perhaps we were just a wee bit spoiled, clever pants baby boomers who never had to work nor want. But we didn’t think like that. We were going to change the world. We were going to undo all the bad things our parents and grandparents had done. We were the people.
When you went into Mullen’s there were all these old men in suits who worked there. Dopey, like. There must have been a dozen of them pottering about there. The first time I did it I took a penguin copy of Sons and Lovers. E-a-s-y. I slipped it inside my fur coat and walked out with a nonchalance I didn’t feel. Dizzily I headed to the door, my heart thumping in my ears and throat like a loose-skinned drum. I could feel the fear as I headed the few yards to the no 71 bus and jumped on. Jeepers! Sitting down I got the fare out of my pocket for the conductor and then and only then I reached inside my coat and felt MY copy of Sons and Lovers. God but it felt good.
It felt so good I went back the next week and did the same thing for Country Girls. As you can see I was in need of an education in something. I knew what I wanted to read about, though. And those silly old eejits never noticed me.
This went on spasmodically, whenever the urge became too much to resist, for about another 2 ½ years. There was a song “I get my kicks on Route 66”, but lifting a book out of Mullen’s gave me a high which thrilled me every time.
Then it stopped. No, I wasn’t caught. I had just lifted Our Man in Havanna and headed for the 71 as usual. But no adrenalin rush. No dizzy heights of excitement. Just shame. And I never did it again.
Maureen Davidson
Money was short, at least that was my excuse. I was doing Maths but I loved reading and books to read were very expensive on a student grant (yes we all got grants in those days, and our fees paid too, I’ll have you know). I reckon perhaps we were just a wee bit spoiled, clever pants baby boomers who never had to work nor want. But we didn’t think like that. We were going to change the world. We were going to undo all the bad things our parents and grandparents had done. We were the people.
When you went into Mullen’s there were all these old men in suits who worked there. Dopey, like. There must have been a dozen of them pottering about there. The first time I did it I took a penguin copy of Sons and Lovers. E-a-s-y. I slipped it inside my fur coat and walked out with a nonchalance I didn’t feel. Dizzily I headed to the door, my heart thumping in my ears and throat like a loose-skinned drum. I could feel the fear as I headed the few yards to the no 71 bus and jumped on. Jeepers! Sitting down I got the fare out of my pocket for the conductor and then and only then I reached inside my coat and felt MY copy of Sons and Lovers. God but it felt good.
It felt so good I went back the next week and did the same thing for Country Girls. As you can see I was in need of an education in something. I knew what I wanted to read about, though. And those silly old eejits never noticed me.
This went on spasmodically, whenever the urge became too much to resist, for about another 2 ½ years. There was a song “I get my kicks on Route 66”, but lifting a book out of Mullen’s gave me a high which thrilled me every time.
Then it stopped. No, I wasn’t caught. I had just lifted Our Man in Havanna and headed for the 71 as usual. But no adrenalin rush. No dizzy heights of excitement. Just shame. And I never did it again.
Maureen Davidson
Monday, 17 September 2007
Second meeting
Folks -
a quick note on tonight's second meeting of the group: and first I want to thank everyone for their contributions, plenty of ideas and arguments fizzing around, which is as it should be.
Looking again at Conor's article, and thinking about what we said about it, I reckon that we prompted some rethinking of the approach to the material (even though the finished article is actually due to be published soon!)
But it's always worth having second thoughts, as writer AND as reader. So take time to read it again and revisit our discussion of genre (is this simply 'journalism', and if so what kind of journalism? how would you handle the same material, the same 'characters', if you were writing this as fiction?)
Homework reminder: use one of the 'questionnaire' answers as the starting point - literally, the opening sentence - of a piece of writing about the 'character' you invented tonight. And include a character based on the other photograph on the same page as the pic you used as inspiration - and this second character must ask the question you originally posed to the person in the first photograph.
Clear as mud - until you start writing!
(But just to remind you, I'll post the questionnaire as a comment to this post.)
a quick note on tonight's second meeting of the group: and first I want to thank everyone for their contributions, plenty of ideas and arguments fizzing around, which is as it should be.
Looking again at Conor's article, and thinking about what we said about it, I reckon that we prompted some rethinking of the approach to the material (even though the finished article is actually due to be published soon!)
But it's always worth having second thoughts, as writer AND as reader. So take time to read it again and revisit our discussion of genre (is this simply 'journalism', and if so what kind of journalism? how would you handle the same material, the same 'characters', if you were writing this as fiction?)
Homework reminder: use one of the 'questionnaire' answers as the starting point - literally, the opening sentence - of a piece of writing about the 'character' you invented tonight. And include a character based on the other photograph on the same page as the pic you used as inspiration - and this second character must ask the question you originally posed to the person in the first photograph.
Clear as mud - until you start writing!
(But just to remind you, I'll post the questionnaire as a comment to this post.)
Thursday, 13 September 2007
And Conor's piece for discussion on Monday ...
Agency 1
Since 2003 I have probably been to every recruitment agency in Belfast 8 or 9 times.
Each visit is a few months apart and what annoys me is how I am never remembered, either by computerised records, by face and name or by the types of jobs I apply for. Every visit is the same; “Come in for a chat and we’ll see what we can sort out”.
We chat for 10 minutes and they sound very convincing. They say its unfortunate I haven’t been able to get the job I want but its just most agencies do not provide the kind of employment I am looking for.
“However, getting you work in administration should not be a problem as your CV shows you certainly have enough experience”. So I agree to this. It is not exactly what I am looking for but it’s a start. Then I remember to tell them, “You do realise it is office work and administration I want, not call centre work?”
Friends tell me I can’t afford to be so picky. I tell them I’m not, but I’ve tried working in call centres twice and find them soul destroying. The first time was the worst. As I had not planned my next step after my degree I tried it through lack of options. I began the 3 week training and always looked back.
Training consisted of one week of learning prices, rates, codes and tariffs, which I obviously expected and did wholeheartedly. This was normal, being treated like children was not. Each day before lunchtime the A1 paper and coloured markers
would come out and we would gather round joined up tables to ‘brainstorm’ and see who could come up with the best tariff posters.
Inevitably, it ritually descended into kindergarten style chaos as Bap, Onion, and Scunter (or whatever their names were) would throw things around, brag about taking E’s and drinking Buckfast and spin round in swivel chairs until someone got hurt, or had pen marks etched on their face against their will.
Our ‘teachers’, demonstrated an ineptness which made them seem more like Father Ted and Dougal, than a pair of well trained tutors. They increasingly lost control of the group and could only try to re-assert their power by occasionally going berserk.
It got worse in the third week when we were moved into the main floor to work properly and interact with ‘real’ customers. Everything learned in training went out the window as grumpy men and women from London and the north of England screamed xenophobic bile at me and demanded to know why I had changed their account details and did this and that.
I didn’t know either and by the time I left I really didn’t care. But before I lost the will to care I endured weeks of stress filled days wondering how the hell I ended up there.
In this kind of employment there is nothing as frightening as the sheer panic felt when dealing with the public on a telephone and trying to sort their personal and financial details on a computer, as they angrily demand answers to previous bungles made by other call centre staff.
As I had not the faintest idea what they were complaining about, nor in fact what I was talking about, my brain froze and caused me to put them on hold longer than they had got to speak to me.
As time wore on the number of people in my team dwindled, like troop casualties in a war, and it felt like the customers with serious grievances were simply ‘collateral damage’, caused by our mistakes.
I left soon after, convinced I had left a trial of destruction all over the UK.
Maybe I was over-reacting but I knew from personal experience what it is like to be a victim of an organisations’ mistakes and I was sure I had inflicted this on many others. I returned to university to do a masters degree.
This was the familiar territory I wanted to be in. I never wanted to work in an over competitive environment which stresses reaching unrealistic team targets over everything else. I never wanted to feign enthusiasm on a telephone and pretend to demonstrate skills I clearly did not have.
I certainly did not want to cold-call people and ask them if they were interested in a new offer only to be told by a teary widow her husband had been dead for two months and if I ever rang again she would call the police.
So I have the utmost respect for people who have the necessary skills to deal with customer enquiries, who can reach sales targets with ease and enjoyment, and who can deal with any problems that arise. I can’t do this, though I don’t think the people who are not suited to working in call centres are unemployable, just better suited to other careers.
This brings me back to recruitment agencies, as the two are inextricably linked. If ever, now is the time for agencies to decommission their violently nerve-shattering call centre wings and give the job-seeking people a choice. My second time at a call centre happened because I was duped into the post by an unscrupulous agent who swore to me it was an admin post.
I left in disgust after just one week when the agent rang my mother to tell her I had not shown at work that day, despite me calling in sick and giving them my mobile number. Did she expect her to scold me and order me ‘back to school’ the next morning? I am 25.
I often wonder how many people are registered with recruitment agencies and how it compares with the actual number of jobs they can provide. On more than one occasion I have effectively been ‘sold’ the job and told all I had to do was come in the next morning to finalise things.
When I arrive the person who called me is always busy and I have to complete 30 minutes worth of registration forms, then simply told they will be in contact if something comes up. Cynically I tell myself the job probably never existed and they are only trying to enhance their records for some reason, but I’ll never know.
On the other hand, job offers for call centres are seemingly endless, though it is something I’ll hopefully never have to experience again.
Agency 1
Since 2003 I have probably been to every recruitment agency in Belfast 8 or 9 times.
Each visit is a few months apart and what annoys me is how I am never remembered, either by computerised records, by face and name or by the types of jobs I apply for. Every visit is the same; “Come in for a chat and we’ll see what we can sort out”.
We chat for 10 minutes and they sound very convincing. They say its unfortunate I haven’t been able to get the job I want but its just most agencies do not provide the kind of employment I am looking for.
“However, getting you work in administration should not be a problem as your CV shows you certainly have enough experience”. So I agree to this. It is not exactly what I am looking for but it’s a start. Then I remember to tell them, “You do realise it is office work and administration I want, not call centre work?”
Friends tell me I can’t afford to be so picky. I tell them I’m not, but I’ve tried working in call centres twice and find them soul destroying. The first time was the worst. As I had not planned my next step after my degree I tried it through lack of options. I began the 3 week training and always looked back.
Training consisted of one week of learning prices, rates, codes and tariffs, which I obviously expected and did wholeheartedly. This was normal, being treated like children was not. Each day before lunchtime the A1 paper and coloured markers
would come out and we would gather round joined up tables to ‘brainstorm’ and see who could come up with the best tariff posters.
Inevitably, it ritually descended into kindergarten style chaos as Bap, Onion, and Scunter (or whatever their names were) would throw things around, brag about taking E’s and drinking Buckfast and spin round in swivel chairs until someone got hurt, or had pen marks etched on their face against their will.
Our ‘teachers’, demonstrated an ineptness which made them seem more like Father Ted and Dougal, than a pair of well trained tutors. They increasingly lost control of the group and could only try to re-assert their power by occasionally going berserk.
It got worse in the third week when we were moved into the main floor to work properly and interact with ‘real’ customers. Everything learned in training went out the window as grumpy men and women from London and the north of England screamed xenophobic bile at me and demanded to know why I had changed their account details and did this and that.
I didn’t know either and by the time I left I really didn’t care. But before I lost the will to care I endured weeks of stress filled days wondering how the hell I ended up there.
In this kind of employment there is nothing as frightening as the sheer panic felt when dealing with the public on a telephone and trying to sort their personal and financial details on a computer, as they angrily demand answers to previous bungles made by other call centre staff.
As I had not the faintest idea what they were complaining about, nor in fact what I was talking about, my brain froze and caused me to put them on hold longer than they had got to speak to me.
As time wore on the number of people in my team dwindled, like troop casualties in a war, and it felt like the customers with serious grievances were simply ‘collateral damage’, caused by our mistakes.
I left soon after, convinced I had left a trial of destruction all over the UK.
Maybe I was over-reacting but I knew from personal experience what it is like to be a victim of an organisations’ mistakes and I was sure I had inflicted this on many others. I returned to university to do a masters degree.
This was the familiar territory I wanted to be in. I never wanted to work in an over competitive environment which stresses reaching unrealistic team targets over everything else. I never wanted to feign enthusiasm on a telephone and pretend to demonstrate skills I clearly did not have.
I certainly did not want to cold-call people and ask them if they were interested in a new offer only to be told by a teary widow her husband had been dead for two months and if I ever rang again she would call the police.
So I have the utmost respect for people who have the necessary skills to deal with customer enquiries, who can reach sales targets with ease and enjoyment, and who can deal with any problems that arise. I can’t do this, though I don’t think the people who are not suited to working in call centres are unemployable, just better suited to other careers.
This brings me back to recruitment agencies, as the two are inextricably linked. If ever, now is the time for agencies to decommission their violently nerve-shattering call centre wings and give the job-seeking people a choice. My second time at a call centre happened because I was duped into the post by an unscrupulous agent who swore to me it was an admin post.
I left in disgust after just one week when the agent rang my mother to tell her I had not shown at work that day, despite me calling in sick and giving them my mobile number. Did she expect her to scold me and order me ‘back to school’ the next morning? I am 25.
I often wonder how many people are registered with recruitment agencies and how it compares with the actual number of jobs they can provide. On more than one occasion I have effectively been ‘sold’ the job and told all I had to do was come in the next morning to finalise things.
When I arrive the person who called me is always busy and I have to complete 30 minutes worth of registration forms, then simply told they will be in contact if something comes up. Cynically I tell myself the job probably never existed and they are only trying to enhance their records for some reason, but I’ll never know.
On the other hand, job offers for call centres are seemingly endless, though it is something I’ll hopefully never have to experience again.
Maureen posted this as a comment: 'This is another angle on "Lost" which I thought about on the way home last night. Doing a lost dog as a "dog narrative" just didn't work at all.'
LOST
I was so jealous of Joan. She was making her first communion and was all done up in a beautiful white dress and a net veil. I went to the church with her family and afterwards to the Royal Hotel for lunch. My mammy and daddy came to the Royal too. Then an awful thing happened, my mammy gave Joan half a crown. Wealth beyond belief! And for what? Mammy told me that wee girls and boys were always given money when they went to church to make their first communion. OK.
The following year it was Joan's sister Geraldine's turn. Same scenario, but a nice new dress for Geraldine. Another half crown handed over! Mammy told me that I would be fourteen before I got a lovely white dress and veil (and half a crown too??). When you are seven, fourteen is a long wait to become a full member of the church and to be able to commune with God
Ah well.
Well the great time came at last. After we had special classes at Sunday school, mammy took me to Belfast to buy the white dress and veil. But I didn't want it!! I have never felt so ridiculous before or since. I now had a bosom and this dress exposed me in all my adolescent awkwardness. However I had to go through with it. There was no big magic moment. There were no friends, just the folk at Sunday school. There was a lunch but I felt silly in my ever tightening white dress and people looking at me. And there was no half crown. I know from that day that religion started to be lost for me.
LOST
I was so jealous of Joan. She was making her first communion and was all done up in a beautiful white dress and a net veil. I went to the church with her family and afterwards to the Royal Hotel for lunch. My mammy and daddy came to the Royal too. Then an awful thing happened, my mammy gave Joan half a crown. Wealth beyond belief! And for what? Mammy told me that wee girls and boys were always given money when they went to church to make their first communion. OK.
The following year it was Joan's sister Geraldine's turn. Same scenario, but a nice new dress for Geraldine. Another half crown handed over! Mammy told me that I would be fourteen before I got a lovely white dress and veil (and half a crown too??). When you are seven, fourteen is a long wait to become a full member of the church and to be able to commune with God
Ah well.
Well the great time came at last. After we had special classes at Sunday school, mammy took me to Belfast to buy the white dress and veil. But I didn't want it!! I have never felt so ridiculous before or since. I now had a bosom and this dress exposed me in all my adolescent awkwardness. However I had to go through with it. There was no big magic moment. There were no friends, just the folk at Sunday school. There was a lunch but I felt silly in my ever tightening white dress and people looking at me. And there was no half crown. I know from that day that religion started to be lost for me.
New season
Folks
Welcome to our new 'term' at the crescent writers group: you should have all been invited by now to join this blog (allowing you to post here as well as comment) and I hope you'll take advantage of it. Maureen already has, using the comment facility on the last entry. I'm going to take the liberty of cutting & pasting Maureen's new piece as the next post, and I'd encourage everyone to read and discuss.
'Homework' reminder: I've asked everyone to write down something they wouldn't share with the group. You won't be tricked into revealing anything, but it's important to put something on paper. Of course, feel free to destroy it afterwards. The aim, I suppose, is to help us learn more about our various internal 'censors', and hopefully to spark some discussion of the limits we place on our own writing.
Anyway, I've wasted enough of your time ... feel free to check back through the posts below, and to follow the links to the right.
Onwards and upwards!
Welcome to our new 'term' at the crescent writers group: you should have all been invited by now to join this blog (allowing you to post here as well as comment) and I hope you'll take advantage of it. Maureen already has, using the comment facility on the last entry. I'm going to take the liberty of cutting & pasting Maureen's new piece as the next post, and I'd encourage everyone to read and discuss.
'Homework' reminder: I've asked everyone to write down something they wouldn't share with the group. You won't be tricked into revealing anything, but it's important to put something on paper. Of course, feel free to destroy it afterwards. The aim, I suppose, is to help us learn more about our various internal 'censors', and hopefully to spark some discussion of the limits we place on our own writing.
Anyway, I've wasted enough of your time ... feel free to check back through the posts below, and to follow the links to the right.
Onwards and upwards!
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