Fun and frivolity. We had buckets of both in Derry. Just as those caught up in WW2 report grabbing life by the throat and wringing what joy they could from that awful time, so too did we, as we lived our way round and through The Troubles. Was this fecklessness or simply survival of the spirit? I think the latter, as many of us were doing our own small bits in our own little spheres to promote tolerance, understanding and communication.
Fancy dress events were thick on the ground and the costumes we assumed allowed us to step outside of ourselves for an evening. Two of these occasions stand out in my mind – one ridiculous and one poignant.
The first was a debating society one in Redcastle. A group of us had hired out a minibus and a room to change in. I’d sprayed my hair blonde and borrowed a vintage evening dress in the vain hope that I’d pass for Marilyn Monroe or Lana Turner. I knew the zip was broken and had armed myself with needle and thread. Anita sewed me into the dress beforehand and I proceeded to dispel any illusion of elegance by getting stuck into my halves of Bulmers and my fags. A good time was had by all and we swayed back to the room to change into our civvies for the journey home. Now to get out of the dress. Did anyone have scissors? No-one had scissors. Too tiddly to figure that hotel reception could probably come up with the goods, the gallant Trevor Robinson proceeded to bite me out of my gown. Anita loved to tell that story.
The second memorable event was just before Christmas one year in the Guildhall and features the wonderful Paddy Rice, who fetched up as a local yokel. He had on the most voluminous mid-calf white shirty thing tied at the waist with rope. Add a flat cap, a blackthorn stick and hob-nailed boots and he really looked the part. When I asked where he’d got his smock, he told me it was a shroud. His father had been an undertaker I seem to remember.
A few days later, we had a New Year’s Eve party. Paddy and Doreen had been invited but didn’t show. They were sadly missed, not least because it was one of those knees-ups where everyone brought a dish and we were a dessert short. We were joking about the fact that it was the ‘Rice pudding’. Imagine my guilt, and our horror and sadness, when the phone rang to tell us that Paddy had just died in a car accident. And then, not long after, my photos of the fancy dress plopped through the letterbox. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck when I saw that the only print which was over-exposed was the one of Paddy and Doreen. When I hear traditional Irish music, I often think of Paddy, as well as that other well-loved BBC presenter, Tony McAuley.
Many of the people who attended that party are now dead. Anita and Trevor, Áine Downey, Ollie McGilloway, Liz Erskine, Gerry Anderson, Cecilia Kennedy, Peter Mullan, Dáithí Murphy – all good people who made the world a better place when they were in it. They live on in the hearts of those of us remaining. We creak on and continue to seize happiness where we can – with our arthritic fingers and halting gait – but always, always buoyed up by wonderfully fond memories.
Like the time two young lads tried to hijack my car in the Bogside and I told them to get home to their mammies. But that’s another story……………………..