Living in the Past: A Northern Irish Memoir (12 page)

W
hen I passed all my exams and left Armagh College aged nineteen I still had no idea what I was going to do with my life. I ended up becoming a pharmacist, simply because a friend of Kathleen’s who was working as a pharmacist in Portadown, told her about an apprenticeship that was going in one of the chemists there and suggested I apply for the position.

So I served my apprenticeship in McAnallen’s in Thomas Street. This had a good dispensary business but as it had a lady proprietor it specialised in cosmetics and, being a farmer’s son, I would have been much better in a chemist specialising in the veterinary business. I was very interested in cattle and horses and well used to them but, at the time, that was all that was available and I sort of drifted into it.

We were next door to the Queen’s Hotel and we had a storeroom/workroom on its top floor. At that time the pharmacist made everything up from scratch, not like today, when it’s just packets of tablets. Everything was made on the premises and sometimes it could take some time to do, so usually customers were asked to call back for their prescriptions. However, if it was something easy I would tell the customer to wait for a minute and hand it out to him. But most customers would call back and, if they couldn’t, we would deliver the prescriptions, which were wrapped in white paper and sealed with sealing wax.

There were a few chemists in Portadown. Pedlow’s in the Square, Davy Row on Woodhouse Street, Hendron’s on West Street and another opposite Marley’s in the Square was called, I think, the Medical Hall, where there was a bevy of glamorous girls working.

In the mornings we would visit Thoms café just across the road for a coffee and a doughnut. Also across the street from us was a record shop where they played all the latest hits. I can remember one day listening to Howard Keel singing “The girl that I marry” like it was yesterday. Next door to us was a music shop where I used buy strings for my banjo mandolin.

Arthur, 19, sitting on the hedge in front of the house, playing the banjo.

During the war we made our own leg tan, as nylons were no longer available. Our leg tan was very popular and I would go up to the room above the Queen’s and spend an afternoon making the leg tan and bottling it.

We had a very good formula, because it didn’t streak, it stayed on and it didn’t soil clothing. Golden brown was our most popular shade. Customers used to call some products and colours by the queerest of names in different places I worked. In one shop a hair colour we sold was called Belle Colour, and I was asked for a bottle of Belly Colour. Probably the best one was when a lady came in and asked for a colour called Golden Squint and when I looked I found it was Gold Sequins. Another lady asked for a bottle of Helter Skelters meaning Alka Seltzer and, on one occasion, a man asked me for something for his wife’s cystitis. I made him up a bottle of potassium citrate mixture. I put the direction on it which, at that time, was all written by hand and at the bottom of the label I wrote Mist Pot Cit which was shorthand Latin and purely for my own benefit lest he wanted a repeat. A short time later he returned and said I had given him the wrong bottle because it was for a Miss Pat Cit. It did look a bit like that but I have never heard of anybody yet called Cit.

After I qualified as a pharmacist, I worked in Belfast in the summer doing locums. A friend from Tyrone called Brendan Fee was also working in a chemist in the city and, as we both liked a bet, we would go down to the dog races at Dunmore Park on Thursday evenings.

We never won much, I remember, but if we lost we probably thought that the entertainment made it worthwhile. We would study the card and weigh up form and talk to somebody who knew somebody who knew somebody who knew the owner or trainer, but we never showed much profit.

One night Brendan was studying the card when he said, “Well, look who’s here. It’s my old friend, we’ll have to go and see him.”

Then he explained how he came to meet an oldish chap who owned a dog called ‘On the Level’. “He will be over near the kennels,” he said, and sure enough, there he was sitting by himself on a wall.

Brendan had explained to me that this man had, at first, trained the dog himself without success and, finally, he had given it to a trainer to have it done professionally. His pet name for the dog was Darkie and, having left him with the trainer for about a month, he had a call asking him to come down to see the dog having his first race. When he arrived he told Brendan he was shocked to find his little fat dog was now, what he called, skin and bones and his first words were, “That’s not my wee Darkie.”

“Oh, indeed it is,” said the trainer. “And, I’m hoping you’ll see an improvement tonight and, if you’re a betting man, keep it small.”

So, Darkie, or On the Level, as his racing name was, turned out to be a pretty useful dog, not breaking records but just useful. His one great asset was that he was out of the traps first every time and that meant he was never troubled on the first bend, where the hare would suddenly go to the left and this could bring a pile-up as the outside dogs would cut across the others. This happened quite often, but On the Level benefitted another two lengths when it did.

On the night in question, Brendan introduced me. We had a nice chat and he told us that the trainer said he had a chance, but a dog from Dungannon called Cool Kill was running and he was going to be hot favourite so be careful. Then we heard that another dog had come from Dublin who was also fancied, so poor Darkie’s chances became slimmer, as was reflected in the betting, as Cool Kill and Palm Beach opened at even money, and On the Level drifted to 9-1. It was obvious what the bookies thought about it.

Well, I had a bet on it at 9-1 and Brendan thought I was a fool. The race started and On the Level was out in a flash with a two length lead going up to the first bend. The two favourites, who were slowly away, were eating up the lead ominously. At the bend they were only a length behind when the outside dog suddenly cut across them causing a terrible scramble and crowding them all onto the rails.

On the Level had now three lengths lead and the two favourites were after him neck and neck on the straight. They were catching up the lead so fast that it looked only a matter of time. As they came to the top bend they were nose to tail and both were passing him on the outside when the outer of them, who had his head just in front, tried to cut across and baulked the inside dog and they lost another length.

On the Level, which was on the rails, was heading for the line on the back straight but the other two dogs were closing rapidly again. They were at his shoulder with a couple of lengths to go, but he had his head in front as he crossed the line. Brendan and I went for a celebratory pint.

We used to go upstairs to watch the races so that we could stand and look down on the finishing line. If there was a photo finish we could see the winner if we were directly over the line, even if it was just a head in front. One night a fawn dog and a black dog were in a photo finish. The fawn dog won by a head, I could plainly see. Brendan said the fawn dog and I agreed. The bookies were shouting 4-1 the black dog and 1-8 the fawn one. I said to Brendan, “We know the fawn dog has won. Why don’t we go down and collect a pound for nothing? That’s a good bet for the next race.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Well,” I said, “I either believe my eyes or I don’t, so I’m going down.” And I went and found I had £16 and the bookie said, “£2 to £16,” gave me a ticket, and the next minute I handed it back and collected £18. If that wasn’t a certainty, surely nothing was.

W
e had an inland holiday resort, or it could have been, called The Washing Bay, about two miles from our house. It was just a little bay on the lough shore. The ground around it was a mixture of sand and peat, soft and dry in the summer months, and the lake had a smooth sandy bottom, which was ideal for children to play in as it was only one foot deep for about fifty yards and then it would get gradually deeper. The water in it was like a warm bath when the sun shone and the little kids revelled in it.

Sports meetings were held by the parish each year and there was a cinder bicycle track for racing, as well. When I was about twenty the parish gave up having the sports meetings, so our football club, the Derryloughin Kevin Barries, took over. As secretary I had the job, with the help of my very able committee, of running the sports meeting.

That was quite an experience the first time and I would have been completely lost, except for a few very experienced men. For example, the first race was the 100 yards sprint and I was surprised to see the turnout from the towns, such as Dungannon Harriers, all in their whites and looking very professional.

I had an old boy from the Academy helping me to organise it. He was a high jumper called Jack Quinn from Stewartstown. I didn’t know he would be there, but we had been together at the Academy and he gave me instructions and advice.

He said, “When we hold the tape at the finish of the 100 yard sprint, don’t bother trying to see who’s won. Just look at me and when they break the tape and I point to the man that wins it, you point, too.”

How lucky I was to have Jack, as three or four men broke the tape together and I wouldn’t have had a clue. Jack walked over to the winner and I followed. He knew their names and, I suppose, he got it right. There was no protest.

It wasn’t such a good day, weather wise, but the club made a small profit after prizes had been paid for.

On the Sunday morning of the Washing Bay Sports I went down early to measure the course for the races. Everything was simple enough until I started measuring the circular track for the bicycle races.

I don’t know now how long the course was but I had a long tape which I pinned to the ground then walked along letting it out to its full length, then giving it a sharp pull and the spring brought it back to me. I repeated the process until I reached my marker again but instead of keeping a note of the number of tape lengths, I carried it in my head and in the end I wasn’t sure what the number was. I don’t remember now what the exact figures were but let’s say it was either twenty or twenty-one tape lengths and if each tape was twenty yards that would mean that over twenty laps, the course could be about 400 yards short.

I looked at my watch and I hadn’t much time, so I took the shorter length as I was more convinced that was right. During one of the cycling races it was announced that this race was for the Ulster Championship and as the cyclists were all flying around the track, I was away attending to something else, although I was listening to the commentary on the loud speaker. I heard the commentator say, “This track is very fast today and records could be broken.” I felt sick but eventually the race finished and no record was broken. Thank goodness for that, I thought.

We had a mile race confined to the parish and our local lads were a bit shy, and in spite of much persuasion refused to take part. But someone had to race so I and two others from the football team did start the race. One dropped out and I ran on with the other lad who was left. We were jogging around and chatting but when we came to the final bend he took off like a greyhound and was about ten yards away before I got after him. I overhauled him but when I went to pass him he dug his elbows into my ribs a couple of times and I was going so flat out that I was unable to move away sideways. So I tried again to pass him and out came the elbow again. As we crossed the line I was about six inches in front. I couldn’t believe it but it didn’t matter as there were no prizes.

At that time there was a great runner from County Cork who was in the news called John Joe Barrie. He was making a big name for himself in running and was nicknamed the Ballanacurrie Hare. Our sports’ dance was held in the evening after the sports in the Brocagh AOH hall. When I arrived at the hall there were two chaps standing near the ticket collector and I overheard one of them remark, “There goes the Ballanacurrie Hare.” Fame at last!