Rory & Ita by Roddy Doyle
‘Then I was persuaded to go to tea, and I went. I liked her father; he was kind of quiet, and had a country accent. The first thing he did when I walked in was, he pushed the Sunday Times crossword in front of me. I suggested a few answers, and he said I was right. The main thing was, I’d solved two clues for him and, such was the make of the man that, after that, if I’d molested his daughter, he’d have said it was her fault, not mine. And I must have been regarded as respectable because they insisted that I come to tea more often.*
‘I fell into the art of poker when I was on night work in the Irish Independent. Instead of going home at three in the morning, in bad weather, I’d wait for the first bus and, invariably, there was a poker school going on in the canteen. And, eventually, I joined in. I joined in far too much, as it happened. But it’s like asking, why do you drink or smoke too much. Poker is an invasive kind of demand and, once you get it, you start to believe it – it’s like betting on horses. I’d be losing steadily, and then I’d get a good hand. Everybody else would throw their hands in and I’d pick up the winnings, but they’d be small because nobody was betting against me. It’s one of those things you go through. The trouble is, I lost a fair amount of money,† over £4 or £4 a week. Not enough to be broke, but a lot of money; I was paid about £13 a week. I should have been taking it home and saving it. But I lost it. Then I started day work, and that broke the spell.
‘Independent Newspapers published, and still does, morning and evening papers. There was a requirement for two staffs. Each paper had a corps of permanent overseers and key men, and the rest of each staff was drawn from a large pool of compositors and linotype operators who alternated on day shift and night shift. But it wasn’t week-about, as in general industry. There were two lists posted up in the composing department, the day and night lists. Each month, the two people at the top of each list transferred to either night or day shift. The lists were closely scrutinised in order to assess one’s chances of being on day work, because there were two circumstances that affected the scheme. One was the factor that no movement occurred during the months of May, June and July, the holiday period. The second very important factor was that a person could elect to stay on the night shift. There was no such choice on the day shift, and so, it was like an annual lottery. There was always intense speculation as to whether somebody or other would pass up their turn for day work. Every once in a while somebody broke the habit of a lifetime, opted for day work, and that set the cat among the pigeons. Expectations of remaining on the day shift for a longer period were shattered because the new names went to the bottom of the day list and the hopeful ones were moved higher up the list, into the danger zone. Now, when I was made permanent my name was put on the top of the list for night work and my turn came in September of that year, 1949. That night shift lasted into early 1950. The result was, my turn to go back on day work came along in time for my marriage the following year. It worked out perfectly for me, and I never had another bout of night work.
‘One of the benefits of day work was that the Sunday newspaper was crewed by a list of volunteer staff. The pay was overtime, at double time for a minimum of four hours, and an additional twelve-and-sixpence for “call money,” an old agreed method of paying workers for being disturbed when producing a “stop press” edition of the paper. Nobody was discommoded by being asked to work on Saturday night. You could almost be killed in the rush.
‘Every now and again, a world crisis would call for the staff of the Sunday edition to be held in extra time, as the news unfolded. It produced a very welcome extra two or three hours of double overtime. On one famous occasion somebody important was on the point of death. As he lingered on, the staff waited for the news, to produce a late Sunday-morning paper. I got eight extra hours, a small fortune, and the gentleman held on into Monday, missed the morning paper, died in the early afternoon, and the news was stale by the time the evening paper was on the streets. It may have been George Bernard Shaw, but I can’t remember.* All of the work of assembling the obituary went into the metal re-melting pots.
‘One of the staff of the quasi-permanent night shift was an old gent of about eighty years of age. His name was Ned Sykes and he came from Maryboro, now called Port Laoise. He put together the bits and pieces that feature in every newspaper, the cartoons and the newspaper permanent notices, weather reports and, at that time, shipping lists. We all thought he had a soft job and we used to joke with him about it – until Ned went off on his holidays and I was given his work. I never toiled so hard in all my life, collecting all the bits and pieces, and I couldn’t believe that this old man could be so casual and get the work done, without the slightest fuss.
‘Printers, generally, weren’t inclined to divulge to their wives the exact amount of wages they earned. The printing industry had been awarded a pay increase by the Labour Court, and all the details were printed in the papers. The next night, a few of us were playing poker in the staff club, in Henry Street. During a lull in the game, Tommy Doyle, a stereotyper – no relation – said, “Jaysis, lads, the wife nearly caught me out badly over the rise. When I got home this morning she met me with a big smile and ‘Isn’t the rise great?’ ‘What rise?’ says I. ‘It was in the paper this morning, with the new hourly rates,’ says she, ‘and me and me ma went down to Woolworth’s and bought one of their ready-reckoners, and you should be getting so much an hour now.’ I nearly died,” said Tommy. “She was within sixpence of the rate. ‘Show me that ready-reckoner,’ says I, and she handed it over. I looked at the cover and noticed that it was printed in 1939.* And I said to her, ‘Will you look at that? The ready-reckoner is out of date.’ ‘Ah, Tommy,’ says she, ‘I knew it was too good to be true.’ But, I’m telling you, lads, I’m still not the better of it.”
‘One of the consequences of working at night was that I could not now enrol for the National College of Art. I considered myself to be as good as I’d ever be, but that wasn’t uppermost in my mind; it just happened. Another casualty was my political activity. We’d lost the 1948 election and there was little to do, and we didn’t believe in just going to meetings, looking miserable, and making each other more depressed than we were. We could only endure the next five years and hope the Coalition Government wouldn’t ruin the country. My outlook was devoid of any partiality towards the Coalition or its adherents. But by the time we got rid of them I was married and in a different world.’
‘I had no time frame at all. There was nothing in my mind saying we’d be getting married in a year’s time or two years’ time. I mean, I didn’t know how you went about it. And, as for where we were going to live, well, I was prepared to live in a tent. At that point, Ita said, “Well, I’m not.” We were out walking, just past St Enda’s, in Rathfarnham. So, we decided that if we were going to get serious, we’d better start saving some money, and we decided we’d look somewhere for a house. Ita said she’d like a bungalow. Well, as far as I was concerned, if she’d said she wanted Áras An Uachtaráin,* good, I’d go after it.
‘So I heard about bungalows out in Stillorgan, a place called Linden Lee, and we went out and had a look at one. The show-house was quite nice, a semi-detached bungalow;† it had a nice little kitchen and it had a fridge – a fridge in the kitchen.‡ It was small, about the size of a microwave, not much bigger. It was an Electrolux; I thought it was the most unusual thing. Nobody had fridges; any kind of perishable goods were kept in what was known as a meat safe, made of metal gauze and hung outside the back door. Anyway, there were none of these houses available but there were more being built, so we said we’d put our name down for one. And then, shortly after that, we discovered that there were no more houses being built; the County Council wouldn’t allow it because the water supply was inadequate for the sewerage. But they told us that there was one last house available; some doctor had passed it up. But I hadn’t enough money; it was far too soon, so we had to let it go.*
‘I saw this advertisement for bungalows out in Kilbarrack.† No
* Ita: ‘One night, Rory arrived to collect me for a party, at Billy Farrell’s, who worked with Rory and was newly wed. Rory was wearing a new sports jacket, blue hound’s-tooth tweed, and grey flannels. My father looked him up and down, turned to Joe, and said: “Get that man a glass of sherry.” Joe was delighted; he had a caustic wit.’
† Ita: ‘He told me years later that if he hadn’t been playing poker in the Independent, we could have had our house and been married sooner.’
* Shaw died on the 2nd of November, 1950.
* Rory: ‘Woolworth’s had bought up a pre-war publisher’s stock, and had an almost endless supply of cheap dictionaries and ready-reckoners.’
* The President’s residence, Phoenix Park, Dublin.
† Ita: ‘We looked at houses on the southside and a lot of them looked lovely, because our house at home was so old and all these new houses looked fresh and new and bright.’
‡ Ita: ‘There was a kind of square hall and all the rooms led off that and, wonder of wonders, there was a small fridge fitted in the kitchen.’
* Ita: ‘We were told that, when they got the sewerage and suchlike sorted, the other houses would be built, but, strangely, they never were built.’
† A suburb, about six miles north of Dublin’s centre.
‡ Ita: ‘Rory was on night work, and he was cycling home and he saw an advertisement, I think it was in Grafton Street, in an estate agent’s window, for bungalows in Kilbarrack. I’d no idea where Kilbarrack was.’
Chapter Fifteen – Ita
‘We had to get two buses, and it was one dreary, horrible day. It was either January or February, 1951. We got off at Kilbarrack Road – it was called Kilbarrack Lane then. There were two-storey houses on the right-hand side, a small number of them, and there were bungalows on the left, further along. Mr Kenny’s was the first one built, on the left. Rory went in to Mr Kenny; I don’t think I went into the house – I can’t remember. Most of the houses hadn’t been built yet. We were sent to an existing road, to the top of St Margaret’s Avenue; we were given the key to one of the houses which hadn’t been occupied yet, and we thought it was lovely. I thought it was terrific, and we decided to take it. First of all, it was so new, and fresh and clean. And the roof was bright red. The red roof and the red-brick front seemed to brighten up the day, and the two bay windows, just everything about it, I liked. The kitchen was fitted, and I don’t think I’d seen a fitted kitchen before. It was absolutely super, and beautifully fresh. And it was a bungalow, which I had particularly wanted.’
But that house had already been sold. ‘We were shown a map of the layout of the estate, as it would look. Our house was to be built on Kilbarrack Lane. At that time it was a green field; there were no foundations, no markings. Never having bought a house before, we never asked about whether the back garden would get the sun, or where this was or that was. So we were lucky that we got a house with the sun in the back. Our name went on the map, and I think we got that particular house because somebody had reneged on a deposit.
‘We applied for a loan from the Corporation,* a small dwellings loan, which we got. I think the house was £2,150. There was a grant for £250, or something like that. It came to less than £2,000. Rory made all the financial arrangements, as was expected of the male partner back then, and the house was in his sole name.’
‘Máire came over and stayed with me, and I slept very well. Máire said, “I didn’t sleep a wink and you slept the whole night.” But I was very excited, really. And, of course, I went to the church in a car, with Daddy. And the neighbours came out; we had a mixture of people, Catholics, Protestants, Jews, and they all came to the church. It was a dry day, but it was bitterly cold. And, of course, the weddings were very early in the morning then; I think it was around eight or half-eight – but it was cold.’
Rory’s sister Breda made the dress. ‘She used to come over once or twice a week; all of Rory’s sisters were great for making dresses. I had my mother’s sewing machine, and I brought it upstairs to the bedroom. It was a mauve material; I remember buying it. Breda came with me, which was fair enough, as she was going to make the dress. We bought it in Cassidy’s, in O’Connell Street. It would never have crossed my mind to have a white wedding. All my contemporaries would have done the same as I did. Breda cut it out, and it had a plain top with what is called a mandarin collar, a stand-up collar. She was a much better seamstress than I was. Each dressmaking session became a social occasion; I brought tea and sandwiches and cake upstairs, and we talked for hours. And the pleats – I think they were called concertina pleats – they were done professionally; Breda had them done. But she made the dress. She did it in a few months; it could have been done quicker, only there was no hurry on it. But there was a kind of feeling of excitement for the months leading up to the wedding. If I began to get any way calm about the whole thing, I’d meet some of Rory’s sisters, and that would be it; there’d be great excitement again. A lady up the road, Eileen O’Reilly – she was from Thurles* – she made the hat to match; it was mauve too. It was like straw, but stronger than straw. It was beautiful; she made it perfectly. In the front, it had a double layer of straw and, in between the two layers, Eileen had inserted tiny flowers, around the rim; the flowers were pastel colours. Máire was my bridesmaid, and she had a stone-coloured dress; she made her own – she was very good at it. And Eileen made Máire’s hat too; I think it was a very pale yellow, but the same style as mine. And I had a small bouquet, just a few flowers I made up myself, with a bit of silver ribbon. And, of course, you always brought your prayer book, so I covered mine with a piece of the mauve material, to match the dress.
‘I had to go and book the hotel for the wedding; the arranging was done some months before. I tried a few hotels and ended up with Jury’s, off Dame Street.† I’ve forgotten how much it was per head,* it was soup and main course and dessert, and tea or coffee. My father paid, and he paid for wine with the meal, and other drinks. And I bought the wedding cake, in Penelope’s Cake Shop,† in Orwell Road, Rathgar. Three tiers, and they made it beautifully. I had to do everything; there was no one else to do it – that was my responsibility.
‘It was just close family, and all the aunts and uncles were asked. I asked Katie and Watt but they had a young family, so they couldn’t come. But I had Bessie and Mike, and my Uncle Bob and Aunt Una. And Rory had some aunts. He arranged and paid for cars to pick them up. I had Chris Lynch and Muriel Long, from work – the two of them had to go back in the afternoon. And, of course, Noeleen, with Jim – they weren’t married at that time. But we didn’t have a huge array of friends there; they were mostly relations. Rory had a big family, and they all came. There was great excitement with them.
‘I didn’t mind leaving work at all. I loved work, but I didn’t mind leaving, because it was the thing to do in those days. You just accepted that you had to leave work. The marriage bar was up, and you were out on your ear. In some places, I suppose, you could stay on but not where I worked, in UCD. I’ve a vague memory of getting double money the last week, which we used to get at Christmas too. And I got a little bowl of flowers, Royal Doulton, from Professor O’Farrell; I still have it. I can’t remember what Professor O’Kelly gave me, but he certainly gave me something. And the cleaner, Lily – I can’t remember her surname – brought me a white table cloth with napkins. And the men who worked there, the technician
She doesn’t remember much about the wedding ceremony. ‘I can still remember arriving at the church with my father, and going in.* Early in the morning and very chilly; it had never crossed my mind that it would be cold, but it didn’t worry me. Rory’s brother Jackie was the best man. I can’t remember the ceremony; I just can’t pin it down. I can’t remember saying, “I do.” I must have said it, but I can’t remember. My wedding ring had a little design etched into it; the design has long since worn off. I don’t remember it going on my finger. I remember coming down the aisle and, of course, there was confetti; Rory’s sisters had the confetti. And all the neighbours outside, and all the relations. I remember all the talk and chat outside, and all the neighbours wishing us well, and a few distant cousins. There was one in particular, a nice woman, a cousin of Rory’s, and she came to see the wedding; she had a tweed coat and a beret on her head and a pair of solid shoes on her feet and she just plonked herself there in the middle of the photograph – with all our palaver. Nobody would have been rude enough to tell her to buzz off, so she’s there in that picture for ever more. And, of course, Aunt Bessie always stood out; she always stood with the heels together and the toes parted; it was part of an affection I had for her – that was the way she was. She’s there in the foreground, with her feet apart. Everyone was very happy.