The Songwriter - Chapter One

THE SONGWRITER

By Paul Mc Cann

CHAPTER 1

JOURNEY FROM THE CROSSROADS

I  was  born  in  1956  in  the  Jubilee  section  of  Belfast  City  Hospital . I could not talk or think  and  arrived  into  the  world  with  the  umbilical  chord tightly  wrapped  around  my  neck  .  As  I  turned  blue  the  doctors steady  hands  rescued  me  from  taking  an  early  exit  from  life  . My mother tells me my arrival was quite distressing for all concerned . Anyhow on10th March I came into the world and seven days later on St Patricks day I was baptised in Holy Cross Church in Ardoyne .

My  fathers  name  was  Samuel Joseph and  his  people  came from  Sailorstown  a place that sprung up around  the city  docks  . His father . my grandad Frank had moved  out of there during  the  troubles  of  the  twenties . With a hand cart he made his way with his family along the cobblestone streets and on up the Antrim Road until he saw the new village of  Ardoyne or  Edenderry as it was known originally . He put the front door key in to a home in 38 Jamaica Street and soon set up a happy home with his wife Sarah  . My grandmother Sarah was crippled in a wheel chair most of her life and it was left to my Aunts Mary and Rita to look after her . They did everything for my grandmother . It was hard but they  had a great love and never complained .

Their new home in Jamaica street had a bath tub and that was a luxury for them . In their old house in Great Patrick Street all they had was an old steel  tub that was hung up on the wall and every Friday night it came down for the weekly bath . Everyone bathed on Friday night  .

From its early beginnings Ardoyne had a big heart and took in people from all over the city .  It is a place that had to survive . History tells us that Michael Andrews from County Down opened a business in Belfast and had secured a number of acres in the townland of Edenderry .
It was here in Edenderry where Michael Andrews established a hand-loom factory and refurbished what few old homes were there and his business grew .He gradually added more workers homes until the attractive little village with its bell tower and clock , its pebbled square and its bell-man calling out the hours at night , its snow white homes, its school, its quoit pitch, and its little factory became one of the leading attractions for the people of Belfast City .All these were there and flourishing in the mid 1800’s . The townland of Edenderry although immortalised with the today’s small business people like The Edenderry Post Office ,and Edenderry National School . The name passed from the lips of the people and Ardoyne took its place . Up the road from Edenderry is Ligoniel . In days gone by Ligoniel and its hill of the white lime quarries provided the base for many of the road surfaces around Belfast . In those far off days of the 1850’s limestone from the White mountain was used for surfacing the Crumlin , Ligoniel , and Shankill roads . On these snowy white roads in the summer time the glare was blinding .The whiteness increased day by day by tons of white powder that poured through the white joints and holes inside the big bright red carts that were full of limestone coming down from the white mountain .

Before I was born my small village in North Belfast had seen many changes over the centuries.  The name Ardoyne means basically John’s Hill . To this area Michael Andrews brought people work and homes and a well loved never to be forgotten name and one known all over the world ..

My  Mother and her parents  had  lived  in  Glenard which some people said was the upper class section of Ardoyne .  I don’t know how anyone could maker that assumption with the entire population of Ardoyne all struggling to make a living .My mothers Dad was called Richard Robinson .  My Mothers mother was called Mary Clare .  My grandfather was a good musician  and a popular man at  parties . He performed regularly at many venues in Ireland and England . Most people called him  Dick  . Sadly though my grandfather  died very young  . After  going  to  London  for work  he contracted  Pleurisy I’m told due to living in a damp and dirty bed and breakfast where he had taken up a short residence . It wasn’t that long after he returned to Belfast that he died  leaving my Grandmother Mary heartbroken . Then it wasn’t long after that when she herself died . With both her parents dead my  mother  who was just twelve years old  found  herself alone in the world . Tragedy struck with no mummy’s kisses and no daddy’s smiles all she got was the whispers and stares from the neighbours and relatives who wanted to send her into an orphanage . But  from a very early age my mother stood on her on two feet and  told  them  all to get out of her house  . She took on a full time job in the mill and worked ,  as hard as any of them in the dark and dirty  spinning  mill of Belfast There were not many good  times  for her and in all the time she was growing up alone not one offered her a helping hand . She worked  hard at the Rosebank mill in  Flax  Street . Nothing came easy . She loved to go Irish dancing whenever she got the chance and found a friend in Patsy McGowan. Her life changed after a holiday  to the  Isle Of  Man when she met Sam  who also was on holidays . Sammy came from old Ardoyne and they met  again  at  the Ardoyne  social  dance . It wasn’t long and they both fell  in  love . The rest is history Sammy and Mary my  parents  were married  20^th June 1953 in  Holy  Cross  Catholic  Church  in Ardoyne . They  had  five  children  , Marian , Geraldine , Terry , Sarah , and  myself  , the  only  boy  . I  grew  out  of  my  short  trouser  days  and started  Butler  Street  Primary  school . Following that I  went  on  to  St  Gabriels  Secondary  Boys  school  on  front  of  the  Crumlin  Road , St Gabriels was in  walking  distance  from  our home  in  Ardoyne  .  Before  school  each  day  I  had  a  regular  job  helping  to  deliver  milk  for  the  Belfast  Co-Op  . After  the  last  bottle  of  milk  was  delivered  my  day  at  school  began  .  Most  days  I   had  no  time  to  change  clothes  so  I  went  to  school wearing  my  soaking wet , stinking  of  sour  milk well  loved  black  duffle  coat  .  Fair play to all my old school friends who in  all  the  years  I  went  to  school never ever  said  anything  about  the  smell . There  is  a  lot  to be said for friends who accept you as you are . For  three  years I  worked  on  the  milk  run   with  Noel  Benson , who  drove  the  small  electric  Co-Op  milk  van  . I  earned  ten  shillings  a  week and saved that  money in a big biscuit tin  that I kept right and  handy  for as sure as Christmas would come birthdays would soon follow and I  always  made  sure that my  parents and sisters had a  gift .  I  was  a   football  fanatic  and  played  every  day  after  school  in Duneden  Park   .  Usually  it  was  32  a  side  and   no  rules  applied . You just had to get the ball and kick it before anyone else . The goals was the space between the lamppost and the hedge at Mrs Gowdy’s and the other way was the place between the lamppost and Mrs Liddy’s falling down fence . There were some great games . We  played  through  the  long  twilight  hours and  into  the  last  faint  light  of  the  day . That was back when Peelers walked the street and often took our ball and wrote our names in his book  .I  grew  up  with  a  handful  of  great  football players and we became very  close  friends . Most  of  us with nick names ended  up  playing for our local  St  Gabriels  youth  club  team and we won  the  Down  and  Connor  Cup  in  1966  beating  St  Patricks  2-1   in  a  long  drawn  out  final   at  Celtic  Park  in  West  Belfast   My non-football fanatic friends were like the secret unknown few who I visited quietly when no one else was around . I swapped comics and traded coins with them and we even shared ghost stories and jokes if time allowed . I  had  a  secret  identity and   a   personality   that I could and would never share with anyone until now  . I can still remember the night I became a poet . It  happened  so suddenly  . One  night  before  going  to  sleep I  felt  a  great  urge  to  write . Words  flooded  into my  mind  . It was as if Gods hand had turned on a tap of inspiration from in heaven that began to run through my head . I  got  out  of  bed  and  grabbed  a  pen  and a notepad  and  started to write like a madman . I  couldn’t  believe  what  was  happening  before  my  eyes   .  I  was writing the  most  beautiful  prayers  and  poems  that you could never imagine  .Born  was  the  poet  but  I  was  much too self conscious and so reluctant  to  tell  anyone  about the transformation from nong to poet . I now had a  secret  life where I wrote everyday and night  .  I  was  very sensitive  about  this  new  gift  and so  always hid  my  poems  and prayers in  my  bedroom  and under floorboards in the house . My life was changing fast and I was experiencing other things no one would believe . One  night  as  I  slept  in  the  attic I  awoke  from  my  sleep and  felt  cold  and  aware  of  another   presence  there  in  the  room . I sat up  in bed and glanced over  at  my  bedroom  window  and  felt  my  hair  stand  up . In the corner of the room I saw the  figure  of  a  strange  woman  dresses in a long shroud . She was there a  few  feet  from  me . She was motionless and just stared at  me   I  tried  to  scream  out  but  my  voice was  blocked . I was locked in  a  state  of  sheer  terror and  pulled  the  quilt   over  my  head and  just shook  with fright for a  while  . Eventually I  had  another  peep   to   see  if  the  lady  was  still  there  but  my  night  visitor  has  left  . 

The  next  morning  I   told   my  sisters  and  Mum  and  Dad   about  the  experience  of  the  night  before  .  It  was  hard  to  convince  my  parents  about  the  ghostly  intruder .They  said  it  was  just  a  bad  dream  and  there  was  nothing  to  fear  but  one things for sure I didn’t  want  to  sleep  in  the  attic  again  after  that   . All  my  sisters  seemed  to  believe  me  . Anyhow after a time away my parents convinced me to return to my attic bedroom . Well to my great relief I  was  never  troubled  again  by   the   apparition  nut it still was hard for me to feel at  peace  there  .As  time went  on  my  inspiration  flourished  and  my  writing  became  very  prolific   .  Throughout  the   entire house  in  Duneden Park I  scattered  my  poetry  .  Inside  the  gas  metre  box  and under  the  lino  , Inside  torn  mattresses and anywhere  I found an  empty  slot . They  where  my  little  treasures and I was very  protective  of  them  . I  felt they were part  of  the  house like bricks  and  mortar . 

When trouble erupted in Northen Ireland in 1967 . By 1972 the situation was out of control and my parents applied for emigration to Australia . We we accepyed and given 2 weeks notice to leave .

I still remember the day the seven of us landed in Sydney with a suitcae in each hand to begin a new life . We arrived at Westbridge  Hostel in Villawood in a   bus  and  walked  on  jelly  knees and  dragged  our  jetlagged  bodies  to  the  office  where  we  signed  in  and  picked  up  the  keys  to  our  flats  in  our  new  home .

We  where  directed  to  an  area  of  the  Hostel  called  Gordon , and   as  we  walked  off  from  the  administration  building we  all  felt   the  same  .  Very  homesick  and  in  a  mild  state  of  shock , but  above  everything   a  sense  of  freedom  and  peace captured  us  .  No  sound  of  gunfire  ripped  through  our  heads , no  bombs  where  exploding , and  there  was  no  sign  of  trouble ..We  seemed  to  have  lost  our  way  to  Gordon  and  stopped a  few  passers  by  . What  a  shock  we  got   when  we  found everyone  we  spoke  to  couldn’t  speak  English  . 

In  a    new country  I  found  myself  beginning  to   write  in  a  completely different  way  .

A new writer in me  had emerged ,

End of Chapter 1

A link to chapter 2 - The Songwriter 

by Paul McCann

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https://www.abctales.com/story/mcscraic/songwriter-chapter-two

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