9,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
"Marie Duffy is one of the best choreographers in the world. She has been my dance master and right-hand person since 1996. She is like my twin sister. I will love her forever." – Michael Flatley Marie Duffy is the undisputed queen of Irish dancing: she has trained more world champions than any other teacher, and has been Michael Flatley's right-hand woman for twenty years. She works tirelessly to promote Irish dance and culture internationally. In this honest and entertaining book, Marie gives us a behind-the-scenes glimpse into the world of professional Irish dance, and draws back the curtain on her own fascinating and inspiring life. Marie first gained recognition dancing on entertainment shows in the 1960s, and went on to become a hugely successful Irish dancing teacher. Watching the 1994 Eurovision Song Contest in her living room, Marie was filled with pride as she'd taught many of the dancers in the famous Riverdance interval act. Two years later, Marie received a phone call that transformed her life when Michael Flatley offered her a job on a new show he had devised. Lord of the Dance would go on to become a worldwide hit, beginning years of fruitful collaboration between Marie and Flatley. Sadly however, Marie's professional highs have been accompanied by many personal lows, including the loss of her mother (who didn't live to see her daughter's success) and first husband Ian, and being diagnosed with breast cancer in 2010. Marie had a mastectomy, but in the showbiz tradition of 'the show must go on' she went back to her work rehearsing the dance troupe.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Ähnliche
LADY OF THE DANCE
MARIE DUFFY WITH EDDIE ROWLEY
Dedication
To my mother
Acknowledgements
In my life I’ve been blessed with great people who’ve been there for me through the good times, but especially when the going got tough. It has not been possible to mention every one of you by name in the telling of my story, but you know who you are and you will always be in my heart.
I have had many ‘families’ as you will discover. I was lucky to be reared in a great family with a lovely gang of brothers and by a mother who had big dreams for me. I hope she’s smiling down today.
I will always remember the Maoileidgh family with affection, and the wonderful families and friends I have met through the Irish dance community and CLRG.
I have been lucky in love twice – the first time with my late husband Ian Messenger, and I’d like to thank Ian’s family for their love and support.
My dear friends James and Noreen McCutcheon, Hilary Joyce Owens and Barry Owens have put in countless hours keeping me afloat during difficult times in recent years.
Words can’t describe how much I appreciate and value the support and friendship of Eben Foggitt and his wife, Sharon, and particularly their selfless service to The Marie Duffy Foundation.
I’ve lived a very fulfilled life through Irish dance, and I never imagined that I would end up working on one of the biggest dance shows in the world. A phone call from Michael Flatley changed my life. Michael, I will never forget the opportunity you gave me to have the most incredible experiences around the globe. Thank you for the laughs, tears, dramas and thrills. But above all, thank you for your friendship, Michael and Niamh.
To everyone involved in Lord of the Dance – what an adventure that has been for all of us! I hope I’ve done it justice between the covers of this book.
Here I would like to thank my co-writer, Eddie Rowley, author and showbiz editor of the Sunday World, who helped me put the jigsaw of my life together. My heartfelt thanks also to Eddie’s wife, Patricia, for the hours spent transcribing my recordings.
Thank you to Patrick O’Donoghue and the staff at the former Columba Press for their early work on this book. To Michael O’Brien and the staff of The O’Brien Press, my sincere thanks for bringing it to life and for a beautiful production.
Last but not least, to my husband, Mike Pask, and his gorgeous family. I don’t know what I would do without Mike in my life. He is the most incredible man, as you will learn in my story. Thank you Mike for your unconditional love, particularly during very challenging times. You know I adore you.
Contents
Foreword
by Michael Flatley
Marie Duffy is a legend.
Her dedication to the teaching and development of Irish dance from an early age has been a driving force of the Irish Dancing Commission on a global scale.
Her relentless optimism in times when seemingly insurmountable hurdles have presented themselves has been an inspiration to all who have worked with her.
I have known Marie as close as a ‘sister’ for more than twenty years and known of her reputation for even longer.
It was that reputation as a driven and motivated teacher, choreographer and promoter of Irish dance that made Marie Duffy the only person I could choose to help realise my vision for Lord of the Dance.
Over the years Marie trained countless world champions and her attention to detail and perfectionism is something we connected on right from the start.
Marie has never been afraid to push the boundaries; and when we first met and I told her my ideas she never faltered or said that it can’t be done, but immediately jumped on board.
It was that kind of positivity and can-do attitude that I needed in a time when, for me, my dreams had just been torn apart.
We made history in the world of Irish dance in such a positive way.
We have been on an incredible journey and have had many highs and lows, from magnificent opening nights to last-minute crises that tested our strength, but there has never been a time when I didn’t have Marie Duffy by my side.
We laughed and we cried together and worked endless hours together in the pursuit of perfection.
She has been a best friend and will always remain so.
She has been unquestionably loyal to me and Lord of the Dance throughout all of my shows, from the beginning and on to Feet of Flames, Celtic Tiger and most recently Lord of the Dance: Dangerous Games – not to mention the many other TV shows and special one-off performances for royalty and heads of state around the world.
In fact if you looked up the word ‘loyal’ in the dictionary I am pretty sure there would be a picture of Marie Duffy beside it.
It was a sad and poignant moment in 2015 when she came onstage with me to take her final bow on Broadway, marking her retirement. A more fitting or worthy stage for the lady who worked her way to the top from the basement of a small, run-down dance hall in Dublin city there could not have been.
Marie has left an indelible mark not only on me, but on the hundreds of dancers that have come through our doors.
And although she has retired I know she is always just a phone call away.
I love Marie and am proud of her.
She is one in a million.
Prologue
Dancing Through Life
Welcome to Hollywood.
It’s March 1997 and I’m at the Oscars with Michael Flatley and the Lord of the Dance troupe.
It’s a ‘pinch yourself’ moment for me – a long way from my humble upbringing in Crumlin, Dublin.
Flying on Russian president Vladimir Putin’s private plane is also a long way from Crumlin. But that’s another story.
‘Dream big and make it happen,’ Michael Flatley used to say.
The Oscars were never in my dreams. But I’ve had the privilege of helping Michael stage the spectacular Lord of the Dance show from scratch and this is where the journey has taken me.
I had lived my entire life in the world of Irish dance. Then in middle age I went into semi-retirement.
It was a phone call from Michael Flatley that brought me back. And this time my platform would be the world stage in one of the greatest dance productions ever seen.
It wasn’t all glamour and excitement along the way, of course, as we battled the clock to launch Lord of the Dance. Yes we had a lot of fun, but we worked all the hours that God sent to get the show up and, well, dancing.
‘We didn’t come this far to finish second,’ Michael would say during our tough times in those early days.
We put dance teams of young men and women together, and taught and drilled them until we had a world-class show.
Then Michael stepped out front and created his magic, performing the Irish steps like no one else on earth.
Finally it was time to lift the curtain and show the universe what we had to offer. Lord of the Dance became an instant success with both the fans and the critics.
And now here I am backstage at the Oscars, among all the fuss and glitter and glam of this greatest showbiz night of the year in Los Angeles.
I’m rubbing shoulders with some of the most famous names in Hollywood. I’ve seen the diminutive but very handsome Tom Cruise stroll by, charming all the ladies with his gorgeous smile.
Then along comes Ralph Fiennes, who put poor Mr Cruise in the shade. With his sexy, smouldering good looks, it’s this gorgeous Englishman who creates knee trembles. At this moment Ralph is the toast of Hollywood thanks to his amazing performance in The English Patient.
How I ended up at this incredible night in the world of entertainment is just part of the story of my life.
Here in Hollywood the moviemakers love a rags-to-riches, success against all odds personal drama.
To make it all the way to the Oscars in Hollywood is a script I would never have written for myself – coming, as I have done, from Ireland of the 1940s and 1950s when families like mine had little or no money and struggled to make ends meet.
Now I’m thinking of my mother, who put me on the path that has taken me to Hollywood. When she scraped together the cash for my Irish dancing classes as a child, she could never have foreseen where that would take me in life.
If only she was here in Los Angeles to witness this night unfold.
What has happened to me shows that you’re never too old to follow your dream or take on a challenge.
How I ended up here in my middle age is a story full of twists and turns.
But little did I know that shortly after this momentous night at the Oscars a tragic event with devastating consequences was about to destroy my happiness.
There is a cruel side to life.
Thankfully, though, what life takes it sometimes gives back and I would be granted that gift.
That’s life and all its mysteries.
And the story of my life begins on Cashel Road, Crumlin, Dublin, in the 1940s …
A Surprise Child
My mother Mary, God rest her, had notions about me as a child.
We never discussed it in adult life, but today as I journey back into my childhood I can see that she was doing her best to raise me, her youngest child and only surviving daughter, as a little lady.
Maybe she was blinded by her good intentions, but Mother didn’t realise that the road she put me on left me feeling sad, lonely and insecure as I grew up.
I lived my young life without a circle of friends, and, sad to recall, I didn’t have a lot of carefree fun. It was all so different for the boys: my brothers and their friends on the street. I’d press my face up against the window of the front room in our modest terraced house and stare with envy and longing at the noisy gang of boys laughing and screaming as they were swinging from ropes tied to street lamp posts, or playing a game of hopscotch.
It was simple, harmless fun, but I couldn’t go there. I guess my mother thought that the street playground was too common for her little lady.
* * *
There were seven boys in my family, but alongside the births of those seven brothers there were also three girls – my sisters who didn’t survive. One of them was a twin of my youngest brother, Brian. I can’t imagine the trauma that my parents, and particularly my mother, must have suffered losing their baby girls.
It’s no wonder, then, that she wrapped me in cotton wool when I came into the world.
I was the surprise pregnancy in my parents’ marriage, and I was born seven years after their last surviving child, Brian. By then, they had most of their children reared. Three of my brothers, Owen, Joe and Michael, had already left home and were out in the big bad world fending for themselves.
Mother was then looking after four young sons, Kevin, Tony, Seamas and Brian … and along comes a baby daughter.
The shock of the pregnancy for my mother must have been eased by the arrival of a healthy baby girl when I came into the world on 8 December 1945.
But if there was any joy in a daughter arriving into her life Mother didn’t get to savour the moment, because she took ill after the birth.
The district midwife who delivered me in the bedroom of our neat two-up, two-down corporation house at 213 Cashel Road in the working-class Crumlin suburb of Dublin city, was my mother’s sister, Emily, who was also chosen as my godmother.
My auntie Emily, or Aunt Em as she was known in our clan, was a tiny woman with a formidable personality, and she would become a major presence in my life during the years that followed. She was my mother’s backbone really, as she was very supportive of her throughout her life. She dominated my mother, but in a good way.
Aunt Em was married and had one son, Tom, who was the same age as my brother Brian.
My mother was in her forties when she gave birth to me, and in those days women rarely had babies at that age because the risks were so high. They got married young, had a child year after year, and were grandmothers in their forties. My mother paid the price for giving birth so late in her life. When I was born she was in a lot of physical distress and became so ill that she was finally admitted into hospital, where tests showed that she was suffering from kidney failure and other issues.
Aunt Em then stepped up to her responsibilities as a godmother by taking me on while my poor mother recovered. She brought me over to her home in Artane on the north side of the city, much to the delight of her seven-year-old only child, Tom. By all accounts, it was the best Christmas ever for young Tom, because his house came alive with the arrival of baby Marie.
God love him, I think Tom thought I was there to stay forever. He doted on me, according to the family. Gradually, my mother got better and was well enough to be reunited with me at home. And I don’t think anyone expected the impact it would have on young Tom when he discovered that the baby was leaving.
On the day my mother arrived for me, Tom became hysterical.
He grabbed at her clothing, screaming, ‘You can’t take the baby, she’s ours!’
Poor Tom, he was inconsolable.
‘Marie’s my sister, she’s my sister, she has to stay here!’ he cried and cried.
My mother said her heart went out to the youngster, but sure what could she do?
Poor Tom.
Back home, my mother realised that she really wasn’t well enough to cope with four boisterous young boys and a baby. But rather than send me back to Aunt Em she asked my newly married brother Joe, and his wife Elizabeth, or Bett as she was known, to come home from England to look after me for a few months.
It was good training for them: nine months later, Joe and Bett became parents themselves when my nephew, David, was born.
Before I was born, my mother had chosen the name Philomena if her child turned out to be a girl. But because my arrival into the world was on the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, a day that celebrates the solemn belief in the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary, being a good Catholic my mother called me Marie Philomena.
At first she had pronounced my name Ma-ree, with the emphasis on the ‘ree’. So all my brothers and other family members got to know me as Ma-ree.
Then a few months later a daughter was born into the Nolan family who lived down the road. And they called her Marie, pronounced Ma-ree. Well, my mother was raging. So, from then on she insisted that my name should now be pronounced Mar-ee, with a strong ‘ah’.
By then, of course, my siblings had got used to calling me Ma-ree, so that’s how they addressed me all their lives. But to my mother, I would always be Mar-ee.
I have no idea what that was all about, but I guess she was snobbish in her own peculiar way.
* * *
Cashel Road is a long road and is in two parts. In our section, there were five houses in each block and they were all full of boys of a similar age. Then overnight a girl appeared in two of them: our house and in our neighbours’ next door. The Tynan family also welcomed the arrival of their baby daughter, Beryl, around the same time that I was born.
For a long time in my childhood, Beryl would be my only friend. Like myself, Beryl wasn’t allowed out to play street games with the boys. So we just had our own company, and sometimes we would both peer longingly out the window at the boys and be so envious of all the fun they were having with the variety of games they invented. Beryl and I would always have a bond in life, but we didn’t see a lot of each other after I started school at the age of six.
When it came to my education, my mother had lofty ideas. Not for me the local convent school, St Agnes’s, at the end of our road in Crumlin. Instead, Mother got me enrolled in the Presentation Convent in the more affluent suburb of Terenure.
I presume she believed that being educated at a school in Terenure would help me to achieve a greater status in life, or perhaps land me a better position in the workplace in the years ahead.
My young friend, Beryl, meanwhile, was sent to an Irish language school in the city. As time would tell, that school was probably more suited to my needs since I ended up steeped in Irish culture and dancing, but I struggled with the language.
In order to qualify for a place in the Presentation College, you had to be residing in Terenure. This was just a minor detail that my mother resolved with little difficulty. Her brother, Michael O’Kelly, lived at 8 Parkmore Drive in the area, so she used his address to get me into the school.
I didn’t stay with my uncle Michael. Instead I would do a daily commute to Terenure on the 82 bus, which stopped at the end of our road. This left me alienated as a child, as now I didn’t have friends in either Crumlin or in Terenure.
The kids who went to St Agnes’s all played together after school, and the pupils in the Terenure area had their own little groups where they lived.
Meanwhile, I was commuting by bus between both suburbs, so I didn’t get the chance to have friends in either community.
I became an outsider, which is a lonely place to be, particularly as a child. I didn’t even have Beryl around at the weekends. She was in a similar situation to me – not having local friends – because she went to a school outside our area.
At this stage, Beryl and I went in totally different directions when she began spending weekends with her cousins on the other side of the city.
My mother no doubt thought she was doing her best by me, but she could have started me in school earlier. I was half reared when I entered the Presentation Convent at the age of six and, probably since I’d had very little interaction with other children up to that point, I was incredibly quiet and introverted.
To get me to speak was really hard. I had so many disadvantages starting out in the education system, not least being the fact that the other children in my class had settled in to their daily routine six months ahead of me.
Mother sent me to school on my sixth birthday, which fell in the month of December, so I was a long way behind the rest of the class who’d been there since the end of the summer holidays.
I had a lot of catching up to do.
On my first day in the school, the nun who was teaching us began by reading out everyone’s name from a book. I would later learn that this was the roll call. As each child answered, I thought they said, ‘I’m sorry.’
When I heard my name called out I stayed silent, because as far as I was concerned I had nothing to be sorry about. The nun moved on to another name. This happened over a couple of days until the nun eventually realised that I was in the room but not responding.
‘Will somebody answer for that child,’ she roared.
Then one girl nudged me with a bony elbow and whispered, ‘Say “anseo”!’
I had no idea what that was. It would be some time before the message got through to me.
What I was hearing was not ‘I’m sorry’, but the Irish word ‘anseo’, meaning present or here.
I hadn’t learned any Irish at that stage and had obviously missed all the introductory instruction in the class six months earlier.
The nuns and teachers in the Presentation College were quite tough and strict at the time. I didn’t embrace school life because I simply didn’t like it. Any chance I got, I would have an excuse to avoid going into school.
Strangely, my mother aided and abetted me. She allowed me to stay at home quite a lot. As the only girl and the last child, I guess she liked having me around the house.
Of course, there was a price to be paid for my truancy.
When the time came for me to go into third class, the nun in charge took four of us aside and dropped the bombshell: we were being held back to repeat second class again.
I was devastated and immediately burst into tears. I’m sure you could have heard me wailing all over the school, and the other three were no better. We were like an out of tune choral group.
Needless to say, there was no sympathy from the nun. ‘What do you expect with the amount of time you’ve missed?’ she sternly announced.
The wiry old nun, with a voice that would pierce your ears, was right of course, but I felt ill with the shame of being kept back a year. However, after I recovered from the shock it dawned on me, even at that young age, that in order to achieve you have to be dedicated to what you’re doing, and you have to work hard at it.
That day changed my life. As I looked to the future, I was determined that I was going to be the best in my class. I resolved to listen and learn, and to study whatever came my way.
Without realising it, I used the hurt and disgrace I felt that day as motivation to make the most of any opportunity that came my way throughout my life.
I got a hunger for learning.
I’d learnt my lesson, and I hardly ever missed a day in school again.
My Dad took a Bullet
My father often told me that I came at the wrong end of the family. By then, Dad was battling through very poor health – even to this day I can still hear the terrible cough that afflicted him – and struggling to make a decent living. I think it troubled Dad greatly that he wasn’t in a position to provide me with the material things of life. But that beautiful man, Joe Duffy, probably didn’t realise he was giving me the greatest gifts of all: love and security.
I always felt loved by my father, even though he wasn’t a tactile sort of person. In those times most men didn’t hug and kiss their children or spend endless amounts of time playing with them like the young fathers of today. Well, at least my dad didn’t. He wasn’t very hands-on, but I guess his bad health had a lot to do with that as well.
Dad had a very colourful life behind him by the time I came into his world, not least due to his active role as a volunteer fighter during the Irish War of Independence. This led to him being wounded during a major event in Irish history: the burning of the Custom House in Dublin on 25 May 1921. The Custom House was then the centre of local government in the British administration in Ireland. The Irish Republican Army occupied and burnt it in an operation that involved over 100 volunteers, including my father.
Dad was shot in a lane around the Liberty Hall area as he was running away from the scene.
While he survived the shooting, the bullet lodged close to his ribs and couldn’t be removed, so he carried it around for the rest of his life.
Both sides of my family were active in the War of Independence. My uncle, Michael O’Kelly, was a Lieutenant Colonel in E. Company, 2nd Battalion of the Dublin Brigade of the Irish Republican Army, and also played an active role in the burning of the Custom House. He was captured and sentenced to death, but was later released from prison after the signing of the Treaty.
When I knew him, Uncle Michael, who had two children, Maurice and June, was living at Parkmore Drive in Terenure, which, as I mentioned, is the address my mother used to get me into the local convent school.
I’m told that my grandfather, Joseph O’Kelly, was also a personal bodyguard to Michael Collins. My mother, who was a middle child, had five brothers and five sisters, and I think that most of them played some role in the struggle and received medals for their service. I remember hearing them tell stories about the Black and Tans – as the British soldiers were called because of their uniforms – and how they came raiding houses in the Drumcondra area of Dublin. My aunts were running from house to house raising the alarm to get their brothers safely out of the district. They raided my grandfather’s house on Carlton Road, smashing the piano and pulling up floorboards looking for arms.
Aunt Em is also famous in the family for playing her part in fighting the old enemy. Legend has it that she knew how to handle a gun and took out a few of them in her time, but she never owned up to it. Aunt Em had quite a reputation; although she was four-foot-nothing you’d be terrified to cross her.
Later in life I would hear stories about Aunt Em attending gatherings of the Old IRA. On those occasions the men would assemble in one room, while the women got together separately. However, Aunt Em was always invited to join the men, and was exceptionally popular among them. One of my relatives informed me that this was because she had been ‘a shooter’ for the Irish Republican Army, ‘and those men were glad to have Emily covering their backs at the time’.
Both my father and mother were awarded medals for their service with the Irish Volunteers during that turbulent period. And my father received a disability allowance for his injury.
That injury, however, changed the course of Dad’s life, and probably my own. I remember my brother Tony recalling one time that my father wanted to emigrate to Australia and take the whole family Down Under. This would have been before I was born. However, Dad failed his medical test, which meant he wasn’t allowed to become a resident in Australia, where, otherwise, I might have been born and reared. Tony said he felt there was a great change in my father after that. He became very quiet in the house.
Growing up I was always aware of the fact that Dad was exceptionally popular among the people in our area. It seemed to me that everybody loved Joe Duffy. My impression is that they thought my mum was the hard one in the relationship, but, as I explained, she had to run the home and keep the boys in check. My mother did the ruling and barked out the orders, and you obeyed her.
I remember my dad being a quiet, gentle man with a head of lush silver hair. He was of average height, but very thin. Although he had done his bit for Irish independence, my recollection of him is that he was a frail man, so it is hard for me to envisage Dad as a freedom fighter or soldier back in the day.
My parents continued to be active in politics and were supporters of Fine Gael, with Dad becoming secretary of the local branch. During election time our house would be full of propaganda leaflets of every shape and size. You couldn’t see out the windows of our home due to the billboards that were plastered all over them, shutting out the light and the world outside.
Although my mother supported Fine Gael, it drove her mad when party workers would take over her house and use it as their centre of operations. And when they got into full canvassing mode you’d think we had a revolving door with the number of people arriving in to pick up or drop off their electioneering paraphernalia.
I remember one of the Fine Gael luminaries at that time was a guy called Richie Ryan. Later, as the Minister for Finance in the crisis years of the Irish economy between 1973 and 1977, he was lampooned on the satirical Hall’s Pictorial Weekly TV show in Ireland. They called him ‘Richie Ruin, the Minister for Hardship’, because of the savage taxes he introduced as his government struggled to sort out the nation’s financial woes. Richie spent a lot of time in our house plotting his campaign the first time he went up for election.
As there was nobody to mind me when my mum and dad went out canvassing for the Fine Gael candidates, I tagged along, hanging on to their coat tails. Then election days were spent in the polling hall with them; I would always be so bored having to hang around from early morning till late at night. My father really was very dedicated to the party and spent a lot of time as a general dogsbody for them for no personal gain whatsoever, as it was voluntary work. His loyalty was all the more commendable when you consider the fact that he had the constant worry of finding work to support us.
For many years after I was born, I slept in my parents’ bedroom with them. The four remaining boys were in the second room. But I recall one time my father emigrated to England in search of work, leaving us behind. The older brothers who had left home were already working in different factories there, so they always found a job for him. And I missed him terribly when he was away.
When he returned home, I remember him being sick quite a lot with infections. But Dad was a worker and provider and he pushed on, taking whatever employment that came along.
When I was about ten years of age, he got a job as a night watchman on a building site during the construction of corporation houses in the Ballyfermot area of Dublin. Around seven in the evening I would set off with my mother, taking a couple of bus rides over to the buildings to bring him his supper. I’ll never forget the sadness I felt on dark nights with the rain pouring down, seeing Dad all alone in the little hut on the eerie expanse of land amidst the shells of half-built houses, and then leaving him there all night on his own when we returned home. It was heartbreaking to witness the life he lived as a worker and the hardship he endured.
The last day of the month is etched in my memory because that’s when Dad would get his disability pension. I’d go with my mum to meet him when he got the cash, so that she’d get her monthly allowance. Mum knew that Dad was a soft touch and he’d have plenty of so-called friends to help him spend his earnings in the pub. Then there was the danger that we’d be left with nothing for the rest of the month. He was a very generous man; he’d give away every penny he had.
Like the other men in the area, my father’s only leisure activity was a trip to the local pubs whenever he could afford it. He went for companionship rather than to get drunk.
When I was a child we had a mongrel dog called Tiny, so called because he was so little. Tiny was very attached to my father and would tag along with him wherever he went, including on his occasional outings to the local bars. Whenever we wanted to find Dad all we had to do was go on a little trip from pub to pub until we came to the one with Tiny sitting outside, waiting patiently for his master to emerge. There was no hiding place for Dad with that lovable, miniature hairy mutt giving the game away.
* * *
I’m sure my parents really felt the pressure of their dire financial circumstances when Christmas came around. There were no jingle bells or glitter in my childhood during that festive season. Our Christmases were very frugal. You never wrote to Santa asking for a particular toy or present; you just hoped that he’d bring you something, and you took what you got without complaint.
Sometimes Santa would come up trumps. One toy I remember being thrilled with was a tiny doll’s pram that said ‘Mama!’ when you pressed the handles. That was a very unusual present for the times that were in it.
However, there were often times when Santa left me feeling disappointed and sad. One of those years was when we spent Christmas at my brother Joe and his wife Bett’s home in the English town of Didcot, Oxfordshire. My father had been working there in a factory with my brother, so my mother took us over to join him for Christmas. On Christmas Day I opened my present from Santa and found a tiny easel and stand, which was only a foot high. My nephews and nieces, who were close in age to me, got much more exciting toys. I couldn’t take my eyes off their gifts and I was so envious, but I didn’t dare complain. Inside, I felt like crying, but I put on a brave face. Then my sister-in-law, Bett, gave me a present that brought a huge smile to my face. It was a sewing set. I thought it was the bee’s knees and I treasured it for years and years afterwards.
My brothers and their wives were very good to me as a child. One time when Tony, who lived in Harlesden, London, went into the army in England to do his two years’ compulsory service and was away in Singapore, we minded his child, Joan. She had so many lovely toys. I took a shine to a gorgeous bridal doll that was one of many she owned. Joan’s mother Lena spotted my fascination with the beautiful doll and she persuaded Joan to give her to me as a gift. I was absolutely thrilled, and that doll became a childhood treasure that I took with me into my adult life.
I don’t recall ever seeing a roast turkey on our table at Christmas. Instead, it would be a chicken dinner. One time, when we were really hard up, Aunt Em invited us over to her home for a festive meal. There were just my parents and myself living at home at the time. For some reason that I never discovered, my father had an issue with this and refused to go. Perhaps he felt embarrassed that he couldn’t provide for us and didn’t want to take Aunt Em’s charity. He was a very proud man in his own way. I heard my mother arguing with him, saying, ‘Well, I don’t have any money to get Christmas food in.’
There was no talking to my father. He just wouldn’t come with us. So my mother and myself deserted him that Christmas Day as we headed off to Aunt Em’s for our feast. I was really upset leaving my poor old dote of a dad at home alone and without a decent meal to celebrate that special day of the year.
Despite Aunt Em’s hospitality and generosity, I didn’t enjoy a moment of the get-together or the lovely spread she laid on for us that Christmas.
I couldn’t stop thinking about my father being alone.
I just wanted to be with him – food or no food I didn’t really care.
The heartbreak of that Christmas Day has always stayed with me.
The Communion Dress
My little heart beat wildly against my chest as the white dress was lowered over my head.
Long before the fairy-tale wedding of every woman’s dream, first holy communion was a girl’s first love affair with an iconic dress. Even though we were just seven years old, it was the centre of our world in the weeks leading up to the day we would receive the sacrament of Holy Communion for the very first time. Thoughts of the formalities around that religious ceremony in the church scared me, but I just couldn’t wait for my amazing dress.
My mother slipped the creation down over my body, tucked it in here and there, and gently slid up the zip at the back. Then I turned around and I felt like I was going to faint with excitement as I skipped over to the full-length mirror to admire what I imagined to be this most beautiful of beautiful dresses that my mother had engaged a local dressmaker to make for me.
I almost burst into floods of tears when I saw my reflection in the mirror. To my young eyes, the dress was a disaster. It was ragged and uneven; too high on one side, too low on the other. My mother was still doing her best to beat it into shape as she tugged and pulled at it, but the magic was gone for me. I didn’t let on to her how upset I felt over this huge letdown, but I’m sure Mum could see through my feeble attempt to conceal my feelings.
On the morning of my first holy communion she tried to reassure me that I looked like a little princess. I smiled and hugged her, and then I nervously slipped away to join the army of girls in white before we paraded up the aisle of St Joseph’s Church in Terenure.
I was mortified and I didn’t dare glance at the faces of people in the congregation that morning because I felt they were all staring at my inferior dress that dipped below my coat. Even a coat couldn’t hide all its imperfections. There was no doubt in my mind that they were feeling sorry for the poor child that was wearing it.
As if I didn’t have enough insecurities at that time.
I’m certain that my mother was equally upset over my first communion dress, but there was nothing she could do; we just didn’t have the money to change it. When I made my confirmation several years later, I was really pleased with the outfit I got for that occasion. This time my mother had done forward planning for it, joining one of those savings clubs where you put money in over a period of time to buy an outfit. I was even allowed to choose the dress I wore that day.
* * *
My mother had a great sense of style, as I would come to appreciate when I got older, and there was a little bit more cash to go around. She never had money to splash out on new clothes, but she would take a trip to the best second-hand shops, or the markets in town, and sift through them until she found the most unusual, beautiful items for both of us. I inherited my mother’s passion for clothes and fashion, and I do believe I picked up her flair and talent for mixing and matching outfits.
Mother was also passionate about Irish culture.
Although we were poor and just getting by like everybody else in the neighbourhood (and probably the entire country), she gave us the opportunity to learn music and dancing.
Shortly after I started school she organised piano lessons for me with a teacher called Johnny Fox, who gave classes at his home on Sundrive Road in our area. I joined a group of other young children around my own age, and we’d sit on stools peppered around Johnny’s parlour as we waited our turn.
I would be sick with nerves as I sat rigid on the wooden stool listening to each pupil murdering some tune. Then I’d be completely overcome with terror when my moment came to step over to the piano, as everyone else in the little room watched and listened to the torture that I inflicted on the poor instrument.
Next came Irish dancing – and my mother could never have foreseen where that was going to take me in life. Seamas and Brian were the first to take up the dancing after it was introduced in their school, which was run by the Christian Brothers and located at the end of our road.
The Irish dancing teacher who ran classes there after school hours was a man called Maitiu Ó Maoiléidigh, or Matt Meleady. While Brian showed early promise as a dancer and soon developed a love for it, Seamas had little interest.
And if Seamas wasn’t interested in something, wild horses wouldn’t drag him to it.
