CHATTER

We have reached 1967/68 in my ongoing saga.  In 1967 my favourite pirate radio station Radio Caroline was outlawed.  In America thousands were protesting about the war in Vietnam. Flower power was everywhere and Scott McKenzie was singing about ‘going to San Francisco.’   In the Middle East,  Israel went to war with Syria,  Egypt and Jordan now called the ‘six day war.’  My sister-in – law and her family were evacuated from Beirut.  I remember talk of another world war.   It was a scary time and there was talk of petrol rationing because of the oil embargo.

In Autumn of 1968 I decided to go and visit my friend Moira who was now at college in Nottingham. I had enough to pay the air fare and I remember asking my mum for some spending money. She gave me £3 and that plus the £2 I had already,  lasted me the weekend. I left in the evening from Aldergrove ( now Belfast International airport). I got a fright when I saw that the plane had propellers and looked a lot different from the jet I had flown in to France. We had to fly to Dublin pick up passengers and then continue our journey to Nottingham. I remember taking the hand of a poor man sitting beside me and holding on like grim death during take offs and landings.  Spent the weekend at a party! Got a bus back to Castledonington on the Sunday night in thick fog to find we were being bussed to Birmingham. Arrived back late to find Gordon waiting for me on the tarmac. That was the arrival area in those days.

The romance was still going strong.  We were living in Belfast and we both went home on the bus to Rostrevor and Warrenpoint every weekend.  With none of today’s communication devices available Rostrevor seemed a long way away.  What a rush it was to get from Dundonald on a Friday evening to Gt. Victoria street station. There, with a lot of other commuters we took the bus to Newry.  In those days the express stopped in Hillsborough, Dromore, and Banbridge. The M1 was completed in 1968 and that made the trip a little quicker.

‘That’s my dad…Director of Homeland Security.’

Of course when we got to Newry my dad was usually waiting to bring me home to Rostrevor.  Gordon had to wait for a connection as we couldn’t be seen together. We spent weekends like two MI5 agents syncronising times and places to meet.  On one occasion we saw my dad’s car coming and Gordon flung himself over the shore wall. Thankfully the tide was out. On a Sunday evening I would be left back up to Newry to get the bus back to Belfast, cases full of clean laundry, packet soups and always a couple of tins of Heinz sponge puddings.  Unknown to my parents, Gordon and I would then stand outside the old Ardmore Hotel ( now the police station) and hitch a lift back to the city. On one occasion when I wasn’t going back, Gordon and JT hitched a lift only to find it was with three of the Moody Blues who were on their way from Dublin to Belfast. Very nice lads was the verdict. They were a big group in 1968. I wouldn’t recommend hitching these days but it was grand in those days and it saved the bus fare.
My days in Dundonald House were taking its toll on my health. Not used to central heating I was having tonsillitis every few months. My absences were being noted by the ‘ establishment ‘ branch ( now Human Resources) and it was decided there was nothing else for it but to have the tonsils out. Not a nice prospect when you are 18. I was admitted to the Mater hospital for a tonsillectomy. It was my first time in the Mater and I can remember the resemblance to an old workhouse. I awoke after my op trying to climb up the Venetian blinds that covered the window beside my bed. It was hard to swallow and when I did it was like swallowing razor blades. I had few visitors as travel wasn’t easy in those days but Gordon was there come hail or shine. I went home four days later to recover. I weighed 6 stone and 7 lbs. The good thing about having my op was that my mum seeing how devoted Gordon was during my recuperation softened a bit and allowed Gordon to phone and to call when my dad wasn’t there.

It shows how naive we were in 1968 when we didn’t even notice when one of the girls in the flat became pregnant. We were conscious of the fact that she was putting on weight but put it down to eating too much. When she didn’t return after a weekend home we became aware of her condition. It was a warning to the rest of us. Some of my flat mates were shocked as pre -marital sex was frowned upon in 1968. I’m saying nothing!!  When my mum heard about the goings on there were suggestions that I should get a transfer to Newry and come back home. No way José was my reply.

It was a great time. We had parties, we went to the Astor the Orpheus, and the Queen’s hops.  We  went to see all the visiting groups who came to the ABC and to the Floral Hall. We ate out at restaurants like The Cotter’s Kitchen, The Skandia and the Wimpy Bar. We had by 1968 moved to Fitzroy Avenue.  Only one of the original girls from St. Paul’s Hostel in Bryson Street remained so we teamed up with two girls from Derry and moved in to our new accommodation. By coincidence the flat above us became vacant and Gordon,  JT and two of our friends from Warrenpoint  decided to rent it. It was a grand arrangement. I did a lot of cooking if I remember rightly.
There had been simmering tensions in NI since 1964 which we were completely oblivious to, wrapped up as we were in our own little world. Ian Paisley had set up the UPV in April of 66 and the UVF declared war on the IRA in the same year. A Protestant and two Catholics were killed by the UVF but we were still unaware of the deteriorating situation.

It was brought home what was happening  when in October the two Derry girls returned after the weekend back home where a civil rights march had taken place. They told us of  how  the civil rights march had been stopped and how they had seen marchers beaten by the police. They became active in the People’s Democracy group and were at Burntollet when it was ambushed.
In those days it was the UVF doing the bombing and I remember the night the Silent Valley reservoir was bombed. The noise was heard in Belfast and it was terrifying. I never dreamed  that the ‘troubles ‘ would last for thirty year and I would bring up two children during that time. I believe it could have been sorted out in the late 60’s had people been more magnanimous and agreed that equality was necessary. Personally I feel that Ian Paisley bore a large responsibility for the violence of the following thirty years.

Meanwhile Gordon and I had decided we would get married. Brilliant idea seeing that the age of consent was 21 and my father hadn’t even met my intended but I’ll tell you next time how that all panned out.

1967: Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association founded in Belfast

In September 1967 I agreed to go on a holiday to London with one of my flat mates. Her sister lived in Clapham and she was very happy to put us up for the fortnight. My romance was still going strong but the temptation to see London was so great that I was able to leave him for a couple of weeks. We booked our tickets on the Belfast to Heysham ferry. I think it was around £3 for a return but we were unaware when we booked that we only got a seat out on the deck. However, it was a lovely September night and although we were unable to sleep it was a pleasant crossing. We arrived at Heysham early in the morning and were herded on to a train that would take us to London’s Euston station. If I remember rightly the carriage had to reverse to Morecambe to couple up with our train.

We were running on adrenalin and by the time we had arrived in London we had neither eaten nor slept for eighteen hours. But it didn’t matter. We were overawed by the iconic sights we were seeing as we made our way in a London cab to our destination. We passed the Houses of Parliament and Buckingham Palace and it felt unreal. We were in London in the sixties and it was going to be brilliant. It was the summer of love, flower power  the Beatles and Carnaby Street. On arrival at Eileen’s sisters house we collapsed from sheer exhaustion and slept for 3 or 4 hours. On wakening we were so disoriented that we hadn’t a clue where we where. But on hearing a radio broadcasting from the capitol we realised where we where. It all seemed so unreal to two 18 year olds from
Belfast. The following day we couldn’t wait to get out and start exploring. We got directions to the nearest tube station and the route we should take into the centre of London. So we left from the tube station at Camden town on the Northern line, passing through Goodge St and Warren St and changing at Tottenham court on the central line. This took us to Oxford Circus and central London. We headed for Oxford St and were amazed at the number of people and the different nationalities we encountered.

Laughing I said to my friend “we’ll never meet anyone we know here in the middle of Oxford Street. ”  Two minutes later we met a young man from Newry who was working at Broadcasting house.  He was as surprised as I was. We had been friends back home during our school days. His name was Edgar Martin and he went onto work for the Beeb in Belfast.
The mini skirt was just becoming fashionable in Northern Ireland in 1967 but the problem was that with stockings and suspenders they were neither modest nor practical to wear. So it was with great excitement we purchased our first pair of tights in one of Oxford street’s  large department stores. Oh the joy of dispensing with the roll on and stockings and the great feeling of comfort with tights. I brought my mum a pair even though they were quite expensive. No more worrying about going upstairs with someone trying to look up your skirt. No more looking for a button or threepenny bit ( ladies of a certain age will understand ) and our bottoms were a lot warmer. Not so sure it went down well with the male population. Mary Quant had a lot to answer.

We spent our days visiting the tourist sites and became experts at using the underground. We got caught on two occasions without a ticket. Funds were running low but we pleaded ignorance and got away with it. I loved the underground. The smell and the rush of air as a train was coming. The convenience of getting around. Not so sure I’d feel the same today.

Carnaby street in the 60s was one of my favourite places. The smell of incense, the strange fashions, the music playing. It all added up to create a wonderful sense of the change that was happening in the sixties.  As I said it was the era of flower power, hippies and free love.  We felt we were so part of the scene . I visited it again many years later but it had changed. Much more commercialised and contrived.
I had my first ever real curry in London. Unfortunately my only experience of a curry was a Vesta curry so I was unprepared for the heat. I had set out to meet my best friend Moira who was living in London at the time. Imagine, negotiating my way round London on my own. She took me to an authentic Indian restaurant and ordered a Vindaloo. I really thought I was going to die. I didn’ t realise that drinking water actually made it worse and with streaming eyes and lobster red faces we both gave up and headed for a Wimpy.

A visit to London had to include a visit to a club. The Whisky a ‘gogo in Wardour St. ( I believe it is now an Irish pub) was decided on.  I ‘m not sure we got in there and I think we ended up in the Marquee club. From what I remember it  was bright and garish with a lot of red plastic chairs. I’m surprised at 18 we were allowed in. We sat down and I think we had an nonalcoholic drink. A young man of African descent sat down beside me and started chatting. He told me he was an African prince. His father was a king back in Nigeria and he was in London looking for a wife.  Although I don’t think I was the one he was looking for the title of Princess Ann was quite appealing.

A visit to Epson where I lost a shilling on a horse was another highlight. It was the first and last time I have ever been to a race course but it was exciting even though a shilling was a lot to lose in 1967.
After an exhilarating fortnight it was time to head back to Belfast. The gods and the weather, however, were not on our side on the way home. A force 8 gale meant that sitting out on the deck wasn’t possible so we were allowed inside. I spent most of the night lying on the floor in the ladies being sick and praying that the boat would sink. When we reached the lough and the boat stopped swaying it was like heaven.

As I was going home to Rostrevor (there was only one phone call home in the two weeks so, I had to see the parents), I had to make my way from the docks to Gt. Victoria St in order to catch a bus to Newry.  I think I had enough  money left to get a taxi to the station. I must have dropped off to sleep on the bus because I awoke to see two young boys on their way to school gazing at me over the edge of the seat. One was asking the other if he thought I was dead. By the time I reached home I was beginning to wish I was but it was worth itevery minute of it.  And mum loved her tights.