“Still I think I’m doin’ fine
Wouldn’t it be a lovely headline
Life is
Beautiful on a New York Times”
Rufus Wainwright
I was 13 and a first year in St.Macartan’s College when David Bowie released ‘Ashes to Ashes’. To me it was so different to anything else I’d ever seen and I loved it immediately. It sparked a life long passion for David Bowie’s art. I was in the minority at school in liking David Bowie. My only fellow traveller was Cyril Boylan. My friend Milo was going through his ‘Eagles’ phase, ( where he has remained ever since), and derided the album tape I’d bought , “Scary Monsters and Super Creeps”, and would read out the lyrics to Ashes to Ashes , badly, and say “What’s the matter with you Bond ???”.
Interestingly, this week I’ve met two dogs in Rossmore Park that were called Milo…and each one had better musical taste than my friend.
“What were they ?”
Well, one was a little white yappy type dog, a Frise or albino Yorkshire Terrier, and the other one was a very handsome St.Bernard/Bernese lump of loveliness.
Anyway, in the video for Ashes to Ashes was a cameo appearance by Steve Strange who popped up on Top of The pops a few weeks later as the lead singer in Visage with their breakthrough hit ‘Fade To Grey’. Visage was a breeding ground for pioneering ,avant-garde musicians ,and producers with many members leaving to either found or join Ultravox, Susie & The Banshees, and Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds.
It was an eclectic mix.
A similarly eclectic mix , but with less attire, was to be found in a group I joined much later in life, called Vistage. This was a business support group/refuge/commune that operated in groups of 8-12 regionally all across the UK and the US. The group was comprised of business owners or CEO’s all from disparate, non-competing industries and the basic premise was that they could all be open and honest with each other about challenges they faced safe in the knowledge that it would remain confidential within the group and hopefully someone else had already faced the same challenge.
The group met once a month , with the morning session featuring a visiting business guru of some description, and the afternoon for our own group discussion. Each member took a turn to host the monthly meeting and there was an annual two day retreat , usually in June, and always in a posh hotel.
Our whole group was shepherded by Edmund Johnston, who had years of experience in business takeovers, rescues and amalgamations. We each had a monthly one-to-one meeting with him in addition to our group monthly meeting. He was patient, kind, generous ,and understanding. All of these attributes I tested to their respective limits on more than one occasion.
The group was of great benefit and solace to me during our most difficult times, and I doubt our business would have survived without their support, advice, and guidance.
Best of all were the friendships made.
It’s 13 years now since I left the group, and I was only a member for 3 years, but I’m in regular contact with several members from that time still, and consider several more as firm friends.
This week I travelled up to Belfast to attend the funeral/celebration for one of them, Clare.
When I joined the group, Clare was the sole female member, and I was the sole member from the Free State. I was welcomed warmly, and especially by Clare. The meetings were always open and honest, brutally so on occasion. Clare , to my recollection, never interrupted or interjected, and she never raised her voice. She would wait until her opinion was asked for and, with quiet confidence say one of two things, either “That’s a terrible idea.”, or “That’s brilliant, you’re so clever.” Unlike most of us she would also have no hesitation in sometimes saying “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”, which then gave some of the rest of us permission to say the same.
At the first retreat I was dreading one of the sessions , about self discovery, because Aran had said that someone always cries and his money was on me. During the session Clare was sitting beside me, and yes, I did cry, and she opened her large handbag and handed me a packet of tissues. I said a muffled , sobbing and snotty thank you, and she patted the back of my hand and said “My money was on you too, so I sat beside you so I could give you the tissues.”
We left the group within a few months of each other, but stayed in touch, irregularly, as her Clanmil email provider took a dislike to links or attachments I’d send to her.
When I had my childrens’ book published she joined other former group members Richard, Robert, Edel, Gary, and Aran in taking me for a celebratory lunch which ended sometime in the early hours of the next day.
She was the third person to read the first two chapters of the book I’ve worked on, on and mostly off, for almost 10 years, after my Soulmate, and myself, obviously.
She came to see me talk at Ten x 9 in Belfast and would give me a big smile , hold my hand and say ‘That was brilliant’ , and that would keep me going for the longest time.
On a couple of occasions Robert, Clare and I would meet for lunch in Belfast and we would talk about our families, our friends, and everything and anything in between. She had always fostered children, and at one point was fostering two children and had also taken her elderly mother in to live with her and her husband Norman. Her mother appeared to take a dislike to one of the kids, and it transpired that the feeling was mutual. At one point her Mother complained that the kid was taking money from her handbag and Clare defended the kid and told her that she must have simply put it down somewhere else.
I asked innocently “ Had she misplaced it ?”
“No !” Clare replied ”The kid had taken it, so I got them to give it to me and then I said I’d found it in the settee.”
I’d sent her a story called ‘The Old Pound Loney’ and she’d been the only person who read it and knew that the character Iain in the story was our friend. It was her favourite story of mine because it maybe struck a chord about change and housing, and Robert. ( It’s in the P.P.P.Ssss)
That was a few years ago now.
I hadn’t seen Clare in a while. I would like her photos on Facebook and she would reply to my blog, or like a photo on my Facebook page.
It was a shock to hear of her passing. Edmund, our former counsellor/confessor/comforter , let all the former group members know.
So I went to her memorial service on Tuesday. Up until that point I hadn’t realised that Clare was a Quaker. The service for her taught me that , along with love and war, a Quaker funeral also has no rules. The nice man in charge for the day, explained to the non-Quakers in attendance that we would simply spend time in silence together reflecting on the life of Clare and our memories of her, and as the mood took someone they could stand up and say a few words.
The next peaceful hour was spent contemplatively with the odd daydream of someone’s cherished memory, or heartfelt thanks, being gently expressed.
Then we all shook hands as friends of Clare.
She was always such an unassuming person that you wouldn’t guess in a million years that she was a founding member and CEO for 34 years of the Clanmil Housing Association, which provided a home for over 13,000 people when she retired.
The day of her service, Tuesday, was a beautifully sunny day, and while we were all contemplating/praying/day dreaming I kept hearing ELO’s Mr.Blue Sky in my head, and these lines made me smile and think of Clare :
“Hey there, Mr. Blue
We’re so pleased to be with you
Look around, see what you do
Everybody smiles at you”
It’s been an honour Clare, simply to have known you.
Toodles,
Paul
P.S. This is David Byrne and the Brass queens doing a version of ‘This Must Be The Place’, which for no reason , other than it’s quirkiness, remind me of Clare
P.P.S Some people, namely Leanne and Karl, have asked SEVERAL times for an audio version of my blogs. As an experiment here’s a test I’ve done of an old one to see what you think
P.P.P.S The Old Pound Loney
Belfast city’s pre-eminence over Dublin as Ireland’s economic capital reached it’s zenith in the mid 19th century due to its enthusiastic embrace of the industrial revolution while it’s southern rival was still licking its wounds after losing it’s parliament to Westminster in the Act of Union in 1801. Men such as Barney Hughes embraced the industrial opportunities the Empire offered and having left Armagh in 1826 as an 18 year old bakers boy became Belfast’s largest baker and miller with three bakeries opened in quick succession in 1840 in Donegall St, another in 1846 and the third in 1850 in Divis St. The landscape of Belfast shifted and expanded to accommodate the new industries and the workers needed in turn to service them.
A little lane, or loney, ran off Divis St, ending at the city animal pound wall on Barrack St. A small stream ran along another side of the pound. As the factories grew and workers spilled into the area a warren of redbrick two up two down terrace lined streets appeared with names reflecting the origin or careers of the occupants, English Street, Scotch Street, Curry Street, Cinnamon Street, Bread Street and Baker Street among them. The area became known as ‘The Pound Loney’.
Dublin reasserted itself in the latter part of the nineteenth century and as the twentieth century progressed Belfast’s empire industries of linen and shipbuilding faded so that by the 1960’s the old Pound Loney had seen better days. Urban renewal was now the flavour of the day and as the new Divis flats complex grew up and overshadowed and replaced the warren of old Victorian red brick two up two downs there was only one house left on Baker St. that hadn’t been blocked up awaiting its final demolition and clearance. Old Mrs. Rea had held out until the last. No incentive seemed to interest her. She had been a widow for as long as anyone could remember and had no family that anyone could recall, number 33 Baker St. and it’s memories were, it seemed, all she had. The Corporation’s project manager, Ian Pierce, had done his best to persuade her to leave. He’d had countless cups of tea and slices of madeira cake in her ‘good room’ either on his own or with the local priest, Fr. McCluskey as they gently cajoled her to move, extolling the benefits of the new flats with all their mod-cons, heating and indoor plumbing. Local councillors, old neighbours who were already in their new modern flats, and even the new MP, Gerry Fitt, had all visited to reassure Mrs.Rea of the benefits that awaited her, but it was all to no avail. She simply refused to move. She was very polite about it. She simply didn’t see the need.
Eventually they all agreed that time would take care of everything.
Ian Pierce had liked her immediately; at 79, she was the same age as his own mother, or rather the same age as she would have been if she hadn’t passed away. He took to calling in to see her on his lunch break from the project office in the flats complex or on his way home for a chat or to see if she wanted for anything. He was always shown in to the good room on the right to the front of the house.
And then one December day, Ian called in to offer to get her anything she needed from the shops and warn her that the neighbouring row of houses on Bread Street were due to be demolished the next day so that she wouldn’t be scared. “There’ll be a lot of noise and dust, but you’ll be safe inside.” he’d told her. “Which street’s for the chop ?” she’d enquired from the little kitchen.
“Bread Street, just around the corner.” he replied.
As she shuffled back down the hall with the tea tray to where he was sitting in the good room, he thought he heard her say with a sigh “Elliott will get lost on his way home with all this”. She smiled at him as she came back through the door and set the tray down on the wee table between them. She poured his tea and handed him the china cup and saucer and then settled into the chair opposite and reached to pick up her own.
“Who’s Elliott ? “ he asked.
She looked at him in horror for the briefest of moments as the cup and saucer fell from her hand and smashed on the floor. She recovered immediately “ Ach , would you look at me, the silly old fool. Just give me a moment to get a cloth”. Ian stood up quickly saying “Sure I’ll get it. You stay there” and he was out the door before she could object, which she did, strongly.
”Please Mr.Pierce, come back, you’re my guest, I’ll look after it.”
He didn’t hear her as he went through the sitting room to the little kitchen and grabbed a dishcloth that was neatly folded by the sink. On his way back through the sitting room he stopped, transfixed by the framed photograph on the mantelpiece. It captured a happy family stood outside this very house, he could see the number 33 to the left of the front door. A rosy cheeked man with a magnificent moustache, his black hair oiled back and wearing a tweed blazer stood smiling with one arm around the shoulder of a beautiful lady in a simple pink silk dress wearing a hat with a partial veil at the front. She looked like a Hollywood star. Both the lady and the gentleman had a hand on each shoulder of the young boy standing in front of them in short pants, blazer and wearing a cap.
He didn’t hear her come in to the room. Without saying a word she turned the photograph on the mantelpiece to face the wall and gently took the dishcloth from him and headed back to the good room. “Your tea will be cold…” she said quietly but firmly over her shoulder. He followed her and took his seat again. She cleaned up the pieces of china and mopped up the spilt tea with the cloth and then got herself another cup and saucer from the kitchen. When she finally sat down again he knew better than to mention the photograph. She asked “How long will it take them to knock down Bread Street ?” . “A week or two I expect” he answered. “My, my” she sighed, “so fast, so very fast”.
Before the conversation fizzled out awkwardly he made his excuses and left.
Two days later, on Christmas Eve, Fr.Mc Cluskey called to the site office with news that she’d fallen in the snow on her way back from the shops and was in The Royal Victoria hospital. “Is it bad, Father?” Ian asked, surprising himself, and the priest, with the level of emotion in his voice. “They don’t think she’ll make it, Ian. It was a bad fall and she hit her head. She is in and out of consciousness. I think it would be safe for you to have the house cleared now. She won’t be coming back, and there’s no one to pass anything on to.”
“I’ll do it myself Father.” Ian surprised himself again. Fr.Mc Cluskey smiled as he said “She would appreciate that, you probably spent more time with her this past year than anyone else”. Ian nodded and looked at his feet as he replied “My mother passed away on her own one night when I was away at college in Edinburgh. It was just the two of us and she spent every penny on my education. She’d been ill for months but kept it from everyone. I hadn’t been home or written for weeks. I never got to tell her…..” he stopped. Fr.Mc Cluskey put his hand on his shoulder. “ She knew ,Ian,she knew”. Ian nodded silently.
Fr.Mc Cluskey handed Ian the key to number 33 Baker St. and got ready to leave. “Just one more thing, Father?” Ian asked, “Whatever happened to her son, Elliott ?”.
The priest smiled, replying “Would you believe that I never knew his name? I took over the parish from Fr.Mc Daid twenty years ago and he had only mentioned in passing that many years before her son had left home one night and never returned. She always said he would come back but he never had. No one knew where he’d gone or even if he was still alive. Sad state of affairs.” He stood and made his way to the office door, tipped his hat , and wished him well.
Ian put the key in his pocket and decided that he’d call in on his way home and in the meantime tried to busy himself with drawings and estimates for the Belfast Regional Survey and Plan that he and Robert Matthew were finalising. It didn’t seem to matter what map he was reviewing, his eyes were constantly drawn to Baker St. and the only house marked in blue, as still occupied, in the whole Pound Loney. He hadn’t the heart to change it to red, for demolition. He’d do that tomorrow.
That evening he made his way through the lightly falling snow to number 33 Baker St and let himself in. He went down the hall past the good room and into the sitting room and saw that the framed photograph was the right way round once more. He sat down and stared at it for a moment or two and then he got up and boiled the kettle in Mrs.Rea’s kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. Without even thinking he seemed to know where everything was. This kitchen and sitting room were not unlike the one he’d shared with his own mother, God rest her. He came back into the sitting room and noticed that the fire was set, so he lit it and sat, staring at the old photograph lost in thought.
He didn’t know how long he’d been there when he heard the hammering on the front door. He rushed up the hall and opened it. There was a black cab in the street and a worried looking taxi driver standing on the step wringing his cap in his hands. “Is this Rea’s?” he blurted. “Yes it is” Ian answered. “ Oh thank Christ for that……sorry, I was beginning to think she was mad. I stopped for her outside the Victoria, and only saw her bandages after we’d moved off. She wasn’t making sense, said she had to get home before Elliott arrived. I didn’t think there was anyone left in the Pound Loney “.
The door of the cab opened and a heavily bandaged Mrs. Rea tried to get out. Ian and the taxi man darted to help her. Ian helped her inside, neither of them saying a word. The taxi driver jumped back into his cab and was already pulling away before Ian had closed the front door,so glad to get away that he hadn’t even asked for payment. They continued down the hall to the sitting room in silence. He sat her in her chair beside the fireplace. She looked at the photograph, smiled and looked up at Ian.
“I knew you’d come back Elliott. I’m so sorry.” She started to cry.
Ian bent down, kissed the top of her head and said gently “I know Ma. I love you too.”
She smiled and closed her eyes.
The bells of St.Peter’s cathedral rang out their midnight call announcing Christmas Day.
