Adapting

By Mary Holliday

Born in Ireland into a patrilineal inheritance system, Mary Holliday recognised early on that there was no future for her in the stanchly Church-controlled Ireland of the mid-20th Century. Her "best" prospects were an approved husband followed by decades of rampant baby making and domestic drudgery. Yet neither did she want to simply embark on a ship for America, like so many young Irish had done for so long. Faced with a love of her nation but a dread of the crippling economic realities of her time, she elected to follow her Aunt Alice's footsteps. As a first-born female of the family, she too, like Alice would become a nurse. Armed with this most portable of careers, the young Mary would forge her own way in the world and, as if to prove that the fate of Irish youth is to roam, she would eventually sail away from her Celtic home, first to Africa and then to Australia.

 

This collection of stories tells of her journey, successfully navigating her way through life's adventures. In reading them, Mary hopes they will provide some joy, a sprinkle of laughter, a dose of inspiration and above all, a desire to be accommodating, flexible and tolerant in your own way through life. For if she has learnt one thing on her path, you never get far if you are not capable of, Adapting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Holliday
• Release date: May 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9780648832638

Book preview

Dedication

These stories are dedicated to my

marvellous son,

Rob

Who has been the joy of and in my life.

‘Tell your marvellous stories mother.

They are waiting to be heard’

Rob 2000

Any transition we make in life is difficult and the following poem

by Patrick Overton

assisted my transition from health care professional

to author.

When we walk to the edge

Of all the light we have

And take a step into the

Darkness of the unknown

We must believe that

One of two things will happen...

There will be something solid for us to stand on

Or we will be taught to fly

The Fever Hospital

I

t’s hard when you are a couple of older parents trying to keep your eyes on two small children, run a farm and, in the case of the father, not feel as well as you used to. And to top it all the news from the doctor wasn’t great. But the man kept that to himself, for fear that his wife would scold him about the number of cigarettes he smoked. He loved the smoking, up to eighty a day, more than the neighbour James could manage. It was almost a competition between the two of them as to how many they could smoke in a day. However, the man was warned that the local hospital could not cater for the tests the doctor thought were necessary to get an accurate diagnosis. He would need to go to the big hospital in Dublin for that.

Against this background, the small children, Joseph aged two and Grace aged four explored the farm and made friends with the cattle and other animals, but mostly with the cows. Different from the horses, which would kick out unexpectedly, or pee a waterfall, the cows were such placid animals. In return for a feed of grass, hay or mangled turnips during the wintertime when the snow covered the grass, the animals allowed these two innocents to pet them and rub against them for comfort and warmth. However, such close proximity to the cattle resulted in both of them catching ringworm in their hair. As ringworm was considered contagious, for Grace and Joseph this condition meant a long stay in the local hospital, known as the Fever Hospital. A two-storey building with grey stone walls and a blue slate roof. It had a bit of a garden area, tiny in comparison to the farm, and was surrounded with high stone walls, situated about a mile from the farm. You may not be familiar with Irish history or indeed why a hospital in the age of antibiotics was still called a Fever Hospital.

Following the dispossession of the Irish by the British, a famine occurred for four consecutive years from 1845 to 1849 when the potato crop failed due to blight. The potato was the staple diet of the local Irish people. This resulted in the Great Hunger, An Gorta Mór. The prevailing powers of the English at that time decided to build workhouses to house the hungry but at the same time the Crown sent around 20,000 troops to Ireland to ensure people did not eat the thousands of tonnes of other crops, vegetables and animals being exported by the landlords for profit. The poor in begging for admission to the workhouses, were treated stringently, having to first give up any land they were renting from the British overlords for the right to grow their own individual crops. The workhouse, close to the Fever Hospital, was built to house five hundred; however, by 1851 nearly 2000 men women and children were crammed into the building. Such cramped conditions and poor sanitary practises led to the spread of infectious diseases. What followed was the building of so-called 'Fever Hospitals’ built in close proximity to the workhouses.

And so it was that Grace and Joseph were committed to the local Fever Hospital, just a stone’s throw from the old workhouse. God, what a place that was for them. For those two fairly pampered children, it was a cold, barren place with very high ceilings and walls around the scrap of a garden, which they used to look over desperately waiting for the visit of their Daddy, who always brought oranges in a brown paper bag. Then there was the ignominy of having their hair shaved off. Grace was so proud of her curly blonde hair, which although only aged four, knew it got the attention of her father and the neighbours who often visited the farm and remarked on its beauty. She cried nonstop when the clippers were set to her scalp. ‘Please, please don’t cut my hair, ‘she begged, but she might have been talking to herself for all the good the begging did. She wept even more when she saw the golden blond tresses on the ground, watched them swept up and thrown in the waste bin. Joseph displayed far more stoicism and seemed almost happy being bald.

They were the only patients, apart from the previous Matron who was dying there. She was a lonely, old, white-haired lady who lay on her right side in a bed at the far end of the ward close to a window, so she could look out on the ward she used to preside over in health. When she was turned the other way she could look onto the garden while she waited for God to take her into the next world. She never spoke. Maybe she had had a stroke, but the children were never told. The old doctor used to visit them, just hum and um and say very little, then plaster their heads with gooey stuff and leave. Their Daddy’s visit was much looked forward to as there was no other company in the hospital.

There was a fulltime housekeeper called Katie, and Grace was the bane of her life and she of hers. This housekeeper was a very negative, serious, skinny sort of a woman with thin, permanently pursed lips who constantly interrupted the playtime of Grace and Joseph. One day they were water playing, washing white china animals under a tap. As there was no running water at the farm this was a great novelty for them. But given Katie’s sour disposition she hated seeing anyone having fun. She roughly told Grace to get her an inkbottle from the front ward locker. Having such great time water playing with Joseph, Grace was grumpy and initially refused to get the inkbottle. However by the look and the expression on the tyrant’s face, she knew she had to obey. In this grumpy mood, Grace walked the long corridor to the front ward, yanked out the drawer and the ink spilt all over the bottom of the drawer. There was no lid on the ink bottle. She went back to tell the housekeeper that she had spilt the ink. Katie would not listen to an explanation about there being no lid on the bottle, which was why it spilled.

Incandescent with rage, Katie said, ‘You hopeless child, I’ll cut the two legs from under you for this.’ Being the housekeeper she had knives, big sharp knives, that Grace had watched her savagely cutting up the cabbage and peel the potatoes for their food and this threat terrified her. Katie had the power over her and with her bad temper in the mix Grace recognised this was no idle threat.

The next day when her Daddy arrived, Grace told him of the threat and how unfair it all was as there was no top on the ink bottle. Now it was his turn to be incandescent with rage that anyone would so threaten the joy of his life. And so it was that Katie was seen leaving the Fever Hospital for the last time with her small brown cardboard suitcase never to get work in the county again. Soon after Grace was considered well enough to be discharged into the family bosom of the two elderly parents, who now took great care to keep cows and small children separate. On the other hand Joseph remained in hospital as he did not seem to recover as quickly as his sister or perhaps his infestation of ringworm was more severe than that of his sister.

Following Grace’s discharge from that awful place back into the family, her hair began to grow out again but not in the golden blonde colour that she had previously been so proud of. From the white baldy scalp, her hair grew out a golden, reddish auburn, and nobody could account for this colour change. However, the issue of hair colour change was overshadowed by the coming of Grace’s fifth birthday. As it was wintertime there was a big fire in the parlour to warm the family and guests. This birthday was a celebration with all the extended family; a beautiful rich fruit cake with pink and white icing that was piped in shell shapes around the edges topped with five pink candles. It was to be the last birthday that Grace would celebrate with her father and be dandled on his knee as if she was the most important person in the whole world. During this celebration, these elderly parents put on a great show of coping, enjoying themselves and putting on a brave face.

Between Grace’s rescue from the Fever Hospital and the tyranny of Katie, her father had been to the big hospital in Dublin and where his body was surgically opened and closed again. Her mother was informed that there was no treatment available for his cancer, which by now had spread throughout his body and that it would be better if Grace’s Daddy was to die peacefully at home. Her mother took him home to the farm and never told him of the doctor’s diagnosis or advice. As was the way of the times Grace was never told of the severity of her father’s illness and his nearness to death.

But Grace being an observant child noticed that her father was getting sicklier now and that he could not hoist or carry her on his shoulders like he used to, which frightened her a bit and she felt less secure. Sensing this he tried to reassure her by saying, ‘You are growing up Grace and getting too heavy for me to be lifting you.’ But there were other signs that frightened Grace. Heretofore he used to be out shooting pheasant or rabbits for the pot but now the guns sat in the rack above the fireplace unloaded, unused and silent. Her father sat under the pear tree in the top garden in a dark brown leather lounge chair and people came to see him and to pay their respects. Perhaps knowing he’s not long for this world he asks, ‘Do I look any better?’ looking to visitors and neighbours for reassurance. ‘Shure you do Peter, shure soon you’ll be up and about as usual.’ But as he became sicklier and his energy waned he spent more of his time resting in bed.

On a Friday the catholic monsignor came to visit, he was a first cousin to the family. Grace’s mother felt safe having him there to provide spiritual succour to her husband. He came to give communion as Grace’s father is too ill to attend church. ‘Have you told him Mary?’ he asked Grace’s mother. He was referring to Grace’s father’s failing health. ‘No,’ she says, ‘I’ll tell him when I think the time is right.’ The trusted monsignor, the family member, climbed the stairs to the bedroom on the left hand side of the landing and entered the room. A conversation ensued, perhaps the last confession. The trusted monsignor, the man of God and family member, came down the stairs and said to Grace’s mother, ‘I’ve told him Mary’ and left the house. No sooner had he left when Grace’s father got off the bed and fell on the floor. Hearing the thud overhead from the kitchen, Grace’s mother climbed the stairs. She helped him off the floor onto the bed. Once she had him settled on the bed and ensured he was warm, he asked piteously, ‘Why didn’t you tell me Mary?’ But before she could reply, he lost consciousness, from which he never recovered. He died three days later without his wife Mary being able to tell him why.

As was the way of the times neither Grace nor Joseph attended the funeral of their father but were sent away to spend time with the extended family. The fever hospital is still in existence today, now operating as a financial centre but externally remains exactly as it was when the two children resided there.

One Wing Willie

Chorus

She’s only a bird in a gilded cage,

A beautiful sight to see,

You may think she’s happy and free from care,

She’s not though she seems to be,

’Tis sad when you think of her wasted life,

For youth cannot mate with age,

And her beauty was sold for an old man’s gold,

She’s a bird in a gilded cage.

Arthur J Lamb and Henry Von Tilzer - 1900

L

et me introduce One Wing Willie. He was a thin, dark-haired, long-term Irish bachelor of average height, well-spoken to the point of deferential as though he had been high born or had been used to being around such people. Nobody was ever told, least of all us children, of his origins or indeed how he developed the amazing skills he demonstrated while with my family. However, there was some speculation we children ‘listened into’ when the adults thought we were out climbing trees. But I’m losing the run of myself here and need to get this story going.

It was speculated Willie may have come from one of those big estates up north, set up during the Ulster plantation, maybe Antrim or Tyrone. It takes a lot of money to maintain the upkeep of those places. Folks said there was a woman involved too, a tragic story to be sure. Josephine was the prettiest of the daughters, with wild red ringlets, piercing green eyes, an infectious laugh and a tiny waist any man would want to put his hands around. Wandering in the garden one day Josephine and Willie set eyes on each other and time for them ceased to exist. However Josephine’s father was in financial trouble, apart from the estate running costs, his gambling and womanizing led him into such disrepute that he was in serious danger of losing his parliamentary seat in Westminster. The pretty daughter was his way out of trouble and so Josephine was married off to another parliamentarian, old, fat and troubled with gout. Broken-hearted Willie left and came ‘down south’ across the border into the Free State.

Willie had lost his left arm just above the elbow joint in a sawmilling accident. We cousins nicknamed him One Wing Willie. He knew that and took some pleasure in the nickname, perhaps well aware of his competency over two-winged men. He could light a Woodbine cigarette using the stump of his left arm to hold the matchbox while striking the match on the sulphur surface with his right hand and the cigarette in his mouth. Willie had no family of his own and lived in a well-kept cottage two and a half miles from us.

Willie entered the family after my father died suddenly and essentially became one of us. Nobody could grow vegetables or set out the formal gardens that my mother wanted better than Willy. Watching him using hand clippers in his one good hand and cutting the grassy edges of one of the many formal flower beds was an exercise in bloody-minded determination and skill.

He supervised the labour on the farm