Mary and Paddy: Joy Wrapped in Tears

By Peter Carton

Peter Carton discovered his Irish family history contained hidden secrets, stretching back 100 years, involving religious prejudice that divided family members; bravery in service with the British Army; a presence at a Dublin massacre; an ambush by the IRA; elopements and hastily arranged marriages and, personal to himself, a startling revelation of the birth and burial of two twins. Together with his older brothers he encountered the, sometimes, rather harsh discipline of a Catholic education before discovering the joy and beauty of the City of Oxford.

This is the story about the author’s parents, Mary and Paddy. Commencing with their own background and lives in the rural counties of Wexford and Carlow, in Southern Ireland, it follows them on their journey, beginning with their momentous and life changing decision in 1958, to emigrate from Ireland. Determined to start a fresh life in England to secure a better future for their eight young children, this is informative of their day-to-day struggles to feed, clothe and educate them all in frequently difficult circumstances that required them to work so long and hard all their lives before the toil and stress eventually took its toll.

On behalf of the author, and his sisters and brothers, this book is written as a tribute and a thank you to them both, for a joyous childhood and a more prosperous adulthood bequeathed to both their children and grandchildren.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Mar 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781803137810

Peter Carton

Peter Carton was born in Southern Ireland. During his extensive career he has had many varied roles including Training Officer for the Lord Chancellor's Department, Crown Court Clerk  and Trade Union Branch Secretary, Treasurer and Chairman. He was a Ramblers walk leader and Chairman, and has also Chaired the Movement for Christian Democracy in the West Midlands.

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Mary and Paddy

‘Peter Carton is a wonderful story teller. He has published a book in memory of his parents entitled Mary and Paddy-Joy Wrapped in Tears, recounting the story of the brave journey undertaken by them when they emigrated to the UK in search of a better life for their young family.

Paddy from County Carlow and Mary who hailed from Wexford, took their first steps into the unknown when they and their seven children boarded the ferry to England in November 1958.

They settled in Oxford and Peter’s meticulous research makes this happy and sometimes sad account of life for the cartons in the City of Dreaming Spires a great read.

Anybody who grew up in the swinging sixties will be familiar with a lot of the events depicted as Peter takes us on his closely knit family’s journey over the years.

Being a friend of the Carton family greatly added to my interest in the story, but this is a book which will be enjoyed by everybody.

It’s not alone a lovely tribute to his parents but is also an absorbing and sometimes traumatic account of the life and times of his family over the past 100 years to the present day.’

Mikie Carthy, former (retired) journalist

with the Wexford Echo Newspaper.

Copyright © 2023 Peter Carton

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

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ISBN 9781803137810

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Contents

A Personal Note

Recollections

Introduction

Part One  Life in Ireland

Chapter One  Mary Enters the World, Joy Wrapped in Tears

Chapter Two  War, Bloody Sunday and Paddy at Soldiers Cottage

Chapter Three  Mary and Paddy. Marriage, life and death

Chapter Four  Growing up in Bagenalstown

Chapter Five  Aunts and Uncles

Chapter Six  All change, the move to England

Part Two  New Beginnings In England

Chapter Seven  Goodbye Bagenalstown, hello Oxford

Chapter Eight  Vicarage Road, first impressions

Chapter Nine  Exploring Hinksey

Chapter Ten  Church and Christmas in Oxford

Chapter Eleven  An English Schooling

Chapter Twelve  Teachers and life at Edmund Campion

Chapter Thirteen  Life in early sixties

Chapter Fourteen  A Freeze, a Limp and a Murder

Chapter Fifteen  The Cartons, Carrolls and Horses

Chapter Sixteen  Life in the Later Sixties

Chapter Seventeen  Wheels on Fire, Molly Goes to Paris

Chapter Eighteen  The Seventies, All Kinds of Everything

Chapter Nineteen  Three Weddings and a Miracle

Chapter Twenty  Mrs Whatyamaycallit – Pets, Family and Tragedy

Chapter Twenty-One  Dad and Life Without Mum

Chapter Twenty-Two  The Legacy

Acknowledgements

Credits

A Personal Note

I discovered my Irish family history contained hidden secrets, stretching back 100 years, involving religious prejudice that divided family members; bravery in service with the British Army; a presence at a Dublin massacre; an ambush by the IRA; elopements and hastily arranged marriages and, personal to myself, a startling revelation of the birth and burial of two twins. Together with my older brothers’ we encountered the, sometimes, rather harsh discipline of a Catholic education before discovering the joy and beauty of the City of Oxford.

This is the story about my parents, Mary and Paddy. Commencing with their own background and lives in the rural counties of Wexford and Carlow, in Southern Ireland, it follows them on their journey, beginning with their momentous and life changing decision in 1958, to emigrate from Ireland. Determined to start a fresh life in England to secure a better future for their eight young children, this is informative of their day-to-day struggles to feed, clothe and educate us all in frequently difficult circumstances that required them to work so long and hard all their lives before the toil and stress eventually took its toll.

On behalf of myself, and my sisters and brothers, this book is written as a tribute and a thank you to them both, for a joyous childhood and a more prosperous adulthood bequeathed to ourselves and our own children.

Recollections

This book is not intended as a purely factual history of the Cartons. It is a story about my parents, based on personal memories of myself, siblings, aunts and uncles, cousins and the wider family and friends who knew them. Given the time span covers over 100 years, from their birth to compilation of this book, it is fair to say that recollections, of some events and dates, do vary. I believe that the book provides a comprehensive and substantially accurate account of their lives. I fervently hope that you obtain as much enjoyment reading the book, as much as I have in researching and writing it.

Mary and Paddy

Introduction

November 1958. My ginger-red hair is hidden under a dark grey woollen hat with an ill matching green scarf and my upper body wrapped up in a heavy grey coat, that matched the damp, misty and foggy mood of the Dublin skyline that evening. Stretching down to greet the bottom of my short navy trousers I was afforded some protection from the biting cold wind that tore across the open deck onto my skinny white legs, in that gap before my woollen socks intervened cemented as they were in black leather shoes purchased for this extra special occasion. On the brink of my tenth birthday, I was with my parents and six brothers and sisters, and we were on the second leg of our journey into the unknown. Earlier that day we had left behind the family home in Bagenalstown and cramped into a white delivery van owned by Dad’s friend Mr Nolan, a grocer and store owner, who had very kindly agreed to drive us some seventy miles to Dublin.

I recall my father Paddy ushering us from our triple bunked cabin in groups of two or three onto the deck of the Holyhead bound boat. None of us had ever been on a boat this size before so this allowed us briefly to glimpse the noisy bewilderment as we awaited our departure. Leaving behind the land of our birth, we were on a journey across the sea to a place called England.

Nevertheless, this was the defining moment in the lives of us children, ranging in age from one to thirteen years, but especially so for our parents. They had made what must have been a momentous decision to pursue a dream, uproot themselves, forsake family and friends and, in my father’s case, leave his job as a respected postman to seek a better future, one that would provide opportunities for their large family. There must have been some degree of anguish and doubt about the challenges ahead, although my father had set out for England two months earlier and had found work as well as securing a temporary home to be shared with his brother Michael and his wife Margaret in Oxford, but no such doubts were ever expressed in my presence that I recall.

Fast forward to 2023. Since that memorable day my pioneering parents have now departed. Much has happened to us all in the intervening years and all of it locked away in individual and collective minds. It is time, I believe, to tell the story of this great adventure. A journey of tears, uplifting joy, difficulties and unbearable sadness borne with humour, grim determination and of ultimate success.

This is a story dedicated primarily to our parents, Mary and Paddy, a record of their legacy arising from that momentous November day in 1958.

Part One

Life in Ireland

Chapter One

Mary Enters the World, Joy Wrapped in Tears

The Quirkes’ family home at Kilcorral, a small community close to Wexford town in South East Ireland, comprised a large two-storey home, possibly sporting a thatched roof with a single chimney at its eastern end. Three sets of upstairs laced curtained windows denoted at least three large bedrooms facing the front with another three to the south-facing rear. Downstairs, stood a matching sequence with reception, living room and large kitchen located on the eastern side beneath the imposing single chimney, spewing clouds of steam into Wexford skyline.

Outside there was ample space within a garden bordered by a concrete wall and a large shed to the side of the house. To the rear a few scrawny egg producing hens would most likely wander freely amongst the tall grass and wildly scattered nettles, weeds and thorn bushes. Potatoes, carrots and cabbages lined up formally in well-tended drills ready to provide a supply of fresh food for their attendant carers.

My Grandmother, Elizabeth Quirke, was a member of the Flood family, who appeared genetically prone to gangrene, a disease that accounted for a number of deaths and illness. Her sister, Mary, lost a leg to the disease at a young age and the story goes that the chopped off leg was buried to lie with one of her sons and his grandparents. Displaying renowned family grit and determination she survived her lost leg by many years, happily using a wooden crutch and propelling herself around on this better than most people with two legs until her death at the then ripe old age of 78.

Elizabeth, a tall angular and bespectacled woman, dressed in widow black from head to toe had herself borne nine children, many of them in consecutive years, including a set of twins one of whom died at birth. Accustomed to dealing with hardship and difficulties, even she must have been bewildered at the turn of events now facing her. In early spring of 1918 with warming westerly winds blowing in from the Atlantic across the green landscape of Kilcorral, she would have shared the news that her tenth child would be born at the beginning of the holy season of advent in early December.

By the time the festive season had announced itself a very unholy disaster had cursed itself on the family and all sense of Christmas joy had been displaced. Just three months earlier, her youngest child, the once lively three-year old Ellen, stricken with TB and surrounded by her heart broken family, had passed away at home. Barely recovering from this blow, fate cruelly struck again when her husband Nicholas (Nick) died on 13th November to be followed just three days later by sixteen-years old Mary, both having succumbed, in the Wexford Fever Hospital, to the Spanish-flu, an epidemic that had spread across the world and was now devastating the country, killing an estimated twenty thousand with another eight hundred thousand suffering serious illness. Wexford itself was identified as a national blackspot. According to national research undertaken by Dr Ida Milne, for which I am grateful, newspaper reports and local recollections, early November saw reports of hundreds of cases in the town with several deaths recorded. Within a few days this soon spiralled to well over a thousand, the cinema and schools were closed and dis-infected and shops shut due to staff shortages. There were sadly recalled deaths of several members of the same family, as with Nick and Mary, where the remaining family were advised not to attend traditional wakes for fear of them spreading and catching the disease or because they were themselves too ill to attend the resulting funeral.

The Quirke’s home, according to the memories of ageing nieces and nephews, was recalled as being dimly lit, by oil lamps and candles, in what was regarded as the wettest, and most miserable of winters, for many years. Water, collected in buckets from outside supplies via butts or wells for additional use, was boiled over open fires, fuelled by coal, turf and wood that would crackle well into the night. It was in such circumstances that, on 2nd December 1918 and surrounded by family friends and daughters, a mournful Elizabeth (Granny Quirke) gave birth whilst as a cloud of smoke escalated its way upwards through the chimney as if announcing a new papal arrival. A child was born, bringing forth some joyous relief and was named Mary after the daughter who had so recently died. This is how my mother entered this world. Joy wrapped in tears.

*

Mum’s early years are largely unrecorded. What is known is that this was a time of great austerity with exceptional levels of poverty and little work, emanating from the First World War, the Easter Rising (1916) and the ensuing Civil War and flu epidemic. Wexford County was at the forefront of rebellion in a divided nation. State troops clashed with an assortment of former army returnees and civilian attired militia and Mum’s family, would have been all too aware of local skirmishes. The County of Wexford was placed under martial law followed in 1922 by two years of Civil war. By the end of this period, peace was being restored to a troubled region and Mum, protected and largely oblivious to these external events, was soon to commence her schooling at nearby Screen.

Her father, Nick who had died so shortly before her birth was classed as a Master Thatcher. He supplemented this in less busy times earning a living and decorating entrances to houses using shells. Clearly a man of some ability and earning power his death had implications for the family fortunes. Thomas, the remaining eldest son, took on the role of man of the house to support his stricken mother and his sisters, especially so following the death of the oldest son Patrick, in a point-to-point fall, at least according to local folklore. Officially, the actual cause is given as meningitis. Librarians point out that accuracy in record keeping at this time was commonly flexible. Support for this view is the fact that Nick’s death certificate recorded his name as Richard instead of Nicholas, requiring the widowed Elizabeth, in timely Irish fashion to correct this on 25th September 1937, some 19 years later.

In the 1930s, Thomas was fully engaged, with his family, working long hours on their own, and nearby neighbours, agricultural holdings. Repetitive daily chores were accepted as a normal part of their lives and, in addition to assisting with indoor tasks of cleaning, washing, and ash removal, Mum may possibly have helped with garden chores such as sowing and weeding and picking any home produced vegetables and perhaps feeding the squawking chickens they may have owned, as well as cleaning and raking-up manure heaps, before being rewarded with a handful of newly laid eggs which were likely to have been an essential part of the daily diet.

Like his father before him, Thomas would also work as a labourer or do whatever was available. Agricultural wages were low and labourers were often paid less than 15 shillings (75 pence in today’s world) a week. Accompanied by his good friend Billy Devereux of Poulregan they were both regarded as great characters and became night watchmen on the historic Barrel Bridge, working on the town side from a small hut, manned around the clock, to ensure that restricted heavy vehicles did not use the bridge to cross the river.

Mum referred to Thomas as Dad. In later years her handbag always contained a small picture of him, cheery and bushy mopped, which she would proudly reveal to my youngest brother David on a number of occasions. A photo taken on his wedding day in St Alphonsus Church, Barntown, in October 1939, depicts a smiling Thomas sitting alongside his bride Ellen and his best man Will Kinsella. Mum, then a sprightly twenty-year old, would doubtless have participated fully in the celebrations with a night of music, dancing and singing. Such was Mum’s attachment and love for Thomas that in August 1963 she was very visibly upset and Dad had to explain to us that she had just received news that her beloved brother, completely unknown to any of us, had died, aged just 63 years.

Mum was also very close to her sisters and especially to Bridget (Bridgie), eight years her senior, who escorted her to school in Screen, with Mum piggy-backing and shrieking with delight. Dressed in school wear they would spend a couple of hours daily trekking the mostly flat terrain of the four-mile round trip, observing the large pastures and hayfields on either side of long slender laneways, being aware of heavy puffing tractors, and stepping briskly onto available field openings or green verges whilst waving the occasionally grumbly-in-a cap farmer on his way. Fields, fenced by trees of varying hues and low broad hedgerows, mixed with spiky blackthorn and hawthorn which would, in their seasons, leave them gasping with joy at the sight of new life, fledging haphazardly from their inner spaces. Whinnying horses, mooing cattle and bleating sheep interspersed with seasonal fields of golden hay and were their companions as they edged and giggled their merry way past intermittent homes to join classmates at the school in Screen.

On other days, filled with more unforgiving skies, the same landscape would unveil a darker, less optimistic mood leaving them bedraggled, heads down and drenched almost to the skin and seeking a refuge from the dampness of the lashing rain and a welcoming opportunity to dry their clothes and soothe their pain. Screen, a village-like community comprised a few shops, a large virgin white Church and an even larger graveyard, each standing loftily on a hillside that afforded the living and dead a heavenly vista, the long lines of those who had passed this way before now resting in deserved peace. Sadly, there are no remaining records of Mum’s schooling and little more is known about her time there.

A few photographs survive as a testament to her youth. One, probably taken in her early teens, shows her sporting short dark hair that gives all the impression of having escaped capture in a tight fish-net. Posing on the garden grass in a half sitting position, with a beaming smile and dressed in a long, light coloured half-sleeved dress, she appears a healthy and content young lady.

A more intriguing photo sees her kitted in an army type uniform and bearing a rifle. Her now flowing hair is seen to be springing out erratically from underneath a cadet style V-shape hat. Holding a rifle in an upward position with the heavy butt end held firmly in her right hand next to her waist, her left arm is stretched across from the elbow to reach and clasp the rifle at its mid-point, fingers firmly wrapped around the trigger point displaying poise and confidence. Discussing this photo with family members has aroused speculation as to its origin. Initial thoughts centred on whether Mum may have been a member of the LDF, (Local Defence Force) formed during The Emergency (1939/44) but it is understood that women were not then involved in that organisation. Another suggestion is that this was taken during her time in the WAF Cadet Force and certainly her confident posture with the rifle gives some credence to this, save that the rifle itself in the photo is not recognised as army issue. It may simply be that Mum was friends with a young man in army service, or even a rebellious revolutionary, and they conspired naughtily to produce an enigmatic photo to spark a few wagging tongues. In retrospect, they seem to have achieved their goal.

Two other photos take in her teens appear to have been taken at the same time. Hatless, her short hair is separated to the left with the silent assistance of a slim hairpin giving her a more vibrant look. A short-sleeved v -necked check shirt is tucked into a shiny dark dress, upheld with a wide buckled belt, that daringly finishes just below the knee and in turn reveals a pair of black stockings sat in flat black shoes. There is an indication here of a woman who knows her own mind and using her earnings to dress in a more modern style. Pictured with an older family friend, Anna O’ Brien, the setting is formal, standing wide apart from her much more solemn looking friend, with unclenched stiffly placed hands, her eyes and half smile indicate a much more robust sense of determination. More importantly, the scene again emphasises how strong and healthy she looks, a fine testament to all those who cared for and looked after her.

The Quirkes’ of Kilcorral were well known for their music and dancing evenings with their cousins the Kinsellas’ always holding an open tea house for visitors in search of a cuppa. Will Kinsella was himself an accomplished accordion player encouraging frequent Irish musical evenings (ceilidhs). Given the ancient battles, such as that at Vinegar Hill, and freedom struggles that had been fought around Mum’s home county, it is hardly surprising to find so many events reflected in famous ballads. The best known is probably Boolavogue, written to record the exploits of Father Murphy, a priest who was provoked into action when British forces burnt his church. He and his rebels had some victories around Wexford but were readily outnumbered and defeated and the poor priest paid the price for his bravery when horribly mutilated after his capture. Mum knew about such history and would most certainly have sung Boolavogue and The Wexford Boys.

By all accounts Mum possessed a lovely singing voice with her favourite song being Rose of Tralee, written in the mid-1840s and sung in films and recorded by Bing Crosby amongst others. This was a story about a lost love for a lady, also called Mary, whose beauty was such that she gave her name to the famous Rose of Tralee Festival. Growing up with her mother and a number of sisters she learned many practical skills that would prove invaluable in later years which included baking, mending/sewing and dress making and fire making. There was a wave of emigration across to England in the thirties and forties and this at least had the saving grace of providing more earning opportunity for the remaining population. Food was grown on their own land including an ample supply of veggies and of course the spud, the national favourite and staple diet.

Mum, accompanied by her siblings and various aunts, uncles and cousins, would look forward to attending the nearby Screen Horticultural Show. This annual event afforded an opportunity for farmers, wives, gardeners and children to dress up at will, display hitherto latent talents to a wider deserving audience, socialise and exchange news and gossip in equal measure. Prizes were awarded by impartial sounding judges to beaming and satisfied winners whilst losers would clap and outwardly congratulate their deserving opponent. Sure, I never tasted a soda bread like that before was the common refrain, disguising an inwardly competitive edge. Silently, they would be even more determined to prove that next year the judges would finally recognise the error of their ways and award best soda bread to them. I was informed by great aunts and cousins that you should never underestimate the will to win and competition harboured at these events.

One year, three local men named Matt Murphy, Pat Devereux and John Walsh, expressed some disappointment that the Screen show was soon to be closed. Their replacement has morphed into Castlebridge Horticultural and Agricultural Show, established in September 1940, when Mum was twenty. It celebrated its 80th Anniversary in 2022, having lost two years due to the pandemic. Held annually, usually on the second Thursday of each August, it was first held at The Old Schoolhouse before its transfer to Castlebridge Hall, where it now attracts thousands eager to be educated and critically examine the variety of entries for its exhibitions of fruit and flowers, photography and baking classes among others. The Quirke’s have been involved in attending and participating since its inception. Indeed, events have turned full circle and my elder brother Nicky, has himself entered the aforementioned soda bread competition. He is confident that nobody can ever bake soda bread to match his, based on his own secret formula. Having tasted his offering and being mindful that he is my older, and bigger