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[Margaret Molloy]
This story is taken from an interview with Margaret Molloy, and has been added to the site with her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions. The interview was by Deirdre Alexander, and transcription was by Bruce Logan.
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1940-1, to be correct. And being young and foolish, got married without any future prospect in view. Had to retire from my job as a teacher. My husband was a motor Mechanic, and because of the war effort there was no fuel available and no transport. No cars to be mended or whatever to earn a pound or 2. So we decided we would pack our bags and head for England. But on the way we stopped off at Derry to visit an aunt of his.
In those days the American technicians, the shipyard was going strong and the American technicians were in charge. They were friendly with cousins of my husband, who introduced him to them. And they gave him employment. And that’s how we settled down in Derry, and fairwell to going to England. But that was all right for a while. He didn’t have the necessary Union recognition. He wasn’t involved in a Union, and they couldn’t keep him on. So whatever happened after that, he was able to get a Union card.
And in those days, early in the war, I suppose there was very little work in the area for Foyle people. And things were certainly going strong here, because of the war effort. Immigration, whatever you like to call it. And so many people came to the nurse, but then they weren’t allowed because residents’ permits were introduced. I suppose the influx was so much, just I suppose like the aliens coming in now from abroad. And they put on a restriction that you had to have a resident’s permit in order to work, and it was only if you worked in a job that supported the war effort that you were entitled to a resident’s permit. But my husband, being well-advised and well-in with people of authority here in Derry, they were able to advise him what to do. And he was advised to join Dad’s Army. It was the equivalent of the Local Defence Force. I remember him going over to Hawkin Street, to get his gear — the uniform, the rifle, all the works. A wee kit-bag, and going over to Hawkin Street to train in his time off. And of course these were first class credentials to put down on a form for application to work. We got staying on in Derry no bother. But very few of the people who emigrated in those days were able to stay because of that resident’s permit.
But that’s how we happened to get ensconced in Derry. And he worked in various … he worked in the transport, and Mr McDonald, and Englishman, he had a factory — BSR factory — in Derry that produced radios and whatever else.
Life was pretty tough, it was very tough as a matter of fact. There were many restrictions here, you couldn’t buy … everything was on a ration book [to buy your groceries]. Everything was so rationed. We were able to get along. But the cigarettes were terribly scarce, and he would smoke from morning to night. Given the quantity of cigarettes. But he came in for his lunch. And there was no cigarettes available. As soon as he went out in the morning, I put on the coat and from one shop to another, but I couldn’t get a cigarette.
He was, being in the transport, he was able to get them from the Americans. That solved the problem for us.

[Coming from Ardrara, which is pretty much the middle of the countryside, can you paint us a picture of what Derry looked like? A country girl coming into this town in the middle of wartime]
All I remember, really, is living in Queen Street. My husband served his time in Glenties with Joe Stewart, who lived at the top of the hill on Curuddy Road, away at the top of the hill. And there was a day when we decided we must find where he lived. And I remember walking down Foyle Street, and it was the longest street I ever walked on. And it had these pork stores and what have you. And climbing up these dreadful hills on the Waterside, it must have been Moore Street we climbed up. It was like the side of a wall, compared with Glengaysha at home which was bad enough. But we finally arrived in Curuddy and found our friend.
I wasn’t in awe of Derry because I was at school in Dublin and all that. So Derry wasn’t anything exceptional.

[Did your husband befriend any of the Americans he worked with?]
That was how, it was through friends that he got his job. These technicians got things going with his cousin and Tara Flynn, who were lovely girls, and it was through them that he got employed. But as I say, he didn’t have a Union card and they weren’t able to keep him on at that stage. But after that he did get involved in the Union.

[what about the smuggling? You were coming from Donegal]
I never remember much hassle. There was never any great occasion, I suppose because we had to live the frugal lives. But the clothes were a dreadful problem. For myself, I remember going over to Mr McTiernan in Bishop Street and buying myself a sewing machine. 8 pounds was a lot of money in those days when we didn’t have any. I bought myself a sewing machine, and of course I had clothes for every day of the week and much more for Sunday. To start off life with. But I had to rip out things and remake things, rip out jumpers and re-knit them for the children when they were small. But shoes for ourselves, he was wanting a pair of shoes at one stage, and the children were small. We decided we’d go to Buncrana [across the border], and bought the shoes successfully enough. And coming home on the train, there was this man sitting opposite us in the carriage, reading his paper, and paying no attention as we thought. But it came to Bridge end, and of course the children started fussing “Oh daddy, daddy — what about the shoes?” the customs man came to the door and looked, and walked on. So there was great jubilation that there was no search at all. And then we came to Derry, at the GNR station. And the man that was in the carriage with us, he was walking in front, and he turns round and he says “I got you safely through so far, I better finish the job”. So we got through all right. We didn’t realise at that stage, well there was a search I suppose at the GNR, but … we thanked the man profusely, and we got home. The shoes did the job for the rest of the war.

It was in later years, my husband then was in Mr McDonald’s business. He set up a refrigeration factory for them here in Derry. And all the other things through the years folded. He was employed in the transport area of DuPont for a stage. And it was there he met this man again, who told him the story about the day he got us through. And who was it? Only Phil Coulter’s father! He was a generous enough man. He must have been a harbour policeman all his life. And that’s how he would have known my Eddie’s, my husband’s people because they were police, ex-RIC people. And that’s how we were sort of known in those circles. Much to our benefit in those days, because there was a lot of skulduggery going on as well.

[were the children born in the war years?]
I’ve 2 children. They were born and bred here in Derry.
Oh, the blackouts went on surely and I remember them now. You had to have the window curtained off after night, and this night [my second son] got into a terrible terrifying cry and couldn’t be pacified. I suppose he got frightened of the dark or whatever. But you just had to. And you just had the occasional siren going off. We had to go under the stairs. That was the shelter. And I remember being under the stairs in Roston Avenue when Pennyburn was bombed. That’s just down the road from where you are now. But other than that … there were these balloons aloft for whatever protection they provided. Barrage balloons. And they got right under the float when they were suspended.

Xmas was a very very simple time with us. You just didn’t have … there was no such thing as lavish presents for children then. Irrespective. You maybe got a wee mouth-organ or a snakes and ladders. Something like that. And then of course the wire would be on about these games, and as quick as I could get them in the bin, for peace and quiet. Sure there’s none of that now, it has to be these extravagant things. Beyond people’s means altogether. But that’s what you got.

Well, there was such a thing I suppose as buying on tick, without paying for bit. But I knew none of that, and anything I bought just had to be paid for on the spot, and if you couldn’t afford it you did without, and that was it.

We didn’t know anything of nightlife because we were a young family. I believe there was night-life, I didn’t think I would ever see an outdoor pursuit any more. But I do remember one occasion we went to the Corinthian, and it was during the wartime. It was this jiving and throwing ladies over their shoulder and what-not.
But that was quite orderly and quite nice.
The music was brilliant. It was in the Bill Haley days, and sure who was more popular than Bill Haley? At least with me, for I remember going to … he had a picture-showing in the city cinema. There were always pictures showing. There was a cinema in William Street, and Bill Haley was on. And of course it was one of the greatest crimes to go to one of these shows, you see. So of course I sneaked in, looked up and down William Street, and got myself a wee packet of sweets and went into the balcony. I never enjoyed anything better. You know, that lovely lively music, well that’s all there was to it. A few women, I suppose, and girls, maybe, jiving in the corridor or in the aisles maybe, but apart from that it was lovely.

You would have seen the boys … the girls with the sailors, holding hands. And that’s as much as you saw, you see. As years went on. But no, you didn’t see anything exceptional.

There were cafes. There were an awful lot of cafes and that, meeting places. And I remember teaching Irish in St Columb’s college for the younger generation. And that will be maybe a night or 2 in a week. And there was dancing, Irish dancing and what have you. Oh yes, there was a social life of course. But I wouldn’t have been involved in that, I wouldn’t know. I would know little about that. You’d need a Derry person to tell you about that. Which I am not.

Donegal, before I got married, was very ordinary. Living in the country you just didn’t have transport, and you got out your bike and were glad to have a bike to get out on, and maybe had to cycle 8-10 miles to a dance, and then danced all night, and cycled back home in the wee hours. That’s what life was about. But sure we enjoyed it.

[what was the impact of the war on Donegal?]
I wouldn’t know, because I up and left it behind. But it would have, there would be a lot of restrictions food-wise and what have you. They wouldn’t have had as much as they would have normally. They were restricted in shopping and that. Even before, I remember … that would have been before the war, coming into Strabane on our way home from Dublin or whatever to buy materials, flock materials or whatever. Well, there was this because everything was so much cheaper than it was at home. And more easily available, I suppose.

There was things in Buncrana. I wanted to buy a doll for my daughter for Xmas. We consulted with a Customs man before we ventured to do it, but they wouldn’t allow it. All I remember about the smuggling was coming from whatever, having tapioca and these milk foods, that all being lifted off us at Lifford or whatever at the Customs.
It wasn’t cooked food. It would have been in cereal form. Apart from that, we survived.

We didn’t have any fruit in the first instance, because I remember when the first fruit was introduced. Bananas for the children, and they didn’t like them because they never tasted them before. It was novelty. But I suppose what you didn’t have you didn’t miss. There was no such thing as fresh eggs. We got these dry powdered eggs that you mixed in some way. But they tasted all right. When cooked.

I suppose even we could afford [meat], which we couldn’t in those days. You could buy pork pieces, for instance — all the pork stores in Foyle Street were absolutely brilliant. And you bought pork pieces, a pound of pork pieces, lovely lean pieces, for 1 and 6p of old money. 1 and 6pwould be the equivalent of 7.5p nowadays. You pay, I dunno how much you’d pay for pork bits now. It would be over a pound now anyway, I suppose. And you got all the better cuts as well, you see. And the pork stores were brilliant.

No, we didn’t have anything from the Americans except the cigarettes, and that’s as much as would be needed, I suppose. But I remember Xmas time one stage, getting 2 geese — 2 live geese, believe it or not. I don’t know where they came from, Carndonna or whatever.

I used to see my mother at home, she used to kill a hen. Having a hen for a meal at home in the country in Donegal was a treat, because you had to survive on what the farm produced. And what the farm produced, the eggs and all, were saved and given to the grocer who came round with his van or whatever. You exchanged eggs for groceries — tea, sugar or whatever was needed. And butter the same. My mother was the greatest butter-maker. I never liked country butter. I liked it when it didn’t have salt, but she made beautiful butter. And we were totally absolutely self-contained at home. My dad saved vegetables. We had a garden, and we grew the most beautiful carrots and parsnips, onions and potatoes. New potatoes, I never but never got a potato that tasted like a potato I got at home. Because I suppose they were produced from the very natural manure. No artificial additives of any kind. But we were totally self-contained. And of course they had the sheep on the hill, and my mother made, spun the thread that made those, and I remember my brother had the loom that, and he wove the material, the wool and the thread into flannel material that had to be processed and sold. We had no, there was nothing anywhere I went, Bunratty, where have you, to these places where they have the old equipment, there was absolutely nothing that I couldn’t identify with. That I didn’t see at home. And yet, when I went back my sister —in-law reared 12 children, and when I went back home to try and retrieve some of these things — “aw no, nothing”. It was very sad, really.

There was a lady down the street, and she was a domestic teacher. And she killed the first goose for me. And that was all very well. But I had this brilliant idea. I didn’t think it would be right to go to her again to ask her, for a new year I had the second goose. And I had a go at doing the goose myself. I tied the wings together, behind the back. And my mother used to kill the hen, she would turn the head over and bleed the hen and you hung it by the legs then until all the blood came out of it. And I thought, I’ll do the goose the same way. Which I did. There was blood everywhere. I didn’t think there was so much. The goose was dead, but still. Flapping about and fluttering the wings, it took so long before that poor goose settled down. Never until the day I die will I forget that. And it was so strong, the muscles were so strong that it even undid the ties I put on the sings. You see, I tied the wings to keep them from flapping. But that finished me in the killing of the geese or the turkeys or anything else.

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