by Mick Doody

Marion Square was a great place to live. The same key would fit every house with the result that if a key to any of the houses was lost, there was never a problem. Being number one in the square, our house was always the first port of call for the key. Housebreaking was non-existent in those days, possibly because no-one had anything of value to steal.

I would prefer to think that people were more honest in those days. Cups of sugar, drops of milk and a few slices of bread were borrowed and returned between the six families. I never realised how poor we actually were until many years after.

Nevertheless, others in the square were worse off than us as we had the extra pay that my father earned as an army sergeant. Poor financially, but we were rich in having our needs met, having nothing to spare but enough food, clothing and fuel for the fire.

One of the foods common at that time was rabbit meat. My mother would buy the rabbits from one of the local trappers, in our case Mickey 'Danger' Flynn. He would arrive with his bike covered with rabbits and my mother would choose which ones to buy. Skinning rabbits was an art in itself. My mother was able to remove the skin with one deft pull as easily as taking off one's coat. This is probably an art that has been lost with her generation. She would soak them in a mixture of water and vinegar. This was to remove that particular smell that rabbits had. When cooked they would taste like chicken.

In the summertime my father earned some extra money by saving hay on Bowdren's farm. Added to that he had an allotment at the back of Marion Square where he grew potatoes, cabbage, carrots, onions, parsnips and lettuce. He took great pride in making the drills for the potatoes. A builder's line was used to ensure the lines were dead straight.

The allotment was on the site of the old British army barracks. Consequently we used to dig up buttons, cap badges, collar badges and even live ammunition. Unknown to my father, I used to remove the lead from the bullet casings with a pliers. Then I would pour the cordite on the ground and put a match to it. The result was a brilliant flash and a whooshing sound as the cordite ignited.

Sometimes my companions and I would light a fire and throw the live rounds onto it. We would run for our lives as the bullets flew in all directions. As ten-year-old boys we saw no danger in this practice. Fortunately we all escaped without injury.

In Fermoy there lived people who were not as fortunate as we that lived in Marion Square. Some had to rely on the 'penny dinners' supplied in the Matt Talbot hall on Kent Street. The nuns in the convent gave free buns to the girls while the boys in the families went down the railway line armed with bow saws and came back with a 'hodder' - a branch of a tree on their shoulders for the fire. Heating was as important as food.

My parents enjoyed a night out each week at Meehan's Bar. Even after their night out together they would not forget us children at home. Returning from the pub, they would visit Mrs Lawrenson's shop and buy a big bag of sweets. Generally it was a bag of Liquorice Allsorts.

Even in those days they were an expensive treat and would normally be the preserve of grown ups. To this very day I still buy them. My sisters would make toffee treats by frying a mixture of butter and sugar. Whether or not it was toffee is a moot point. It certainly tasted as such and was extremely enjoyable.

Another treat was when we roasted apples on the open fire. Though the war had finished in the '40s, many war-time foods remained in vogue such as Irel coffee and condensed milk. Rationing was gone by the '50s and ration books were only a plaything for children.

My mother, a very religious woman, banned the newspaper 'The News of the World' from the house. This was the case in most households of that era. People who read that particular paper were frowned upon by our priests and many a time it was denounced from the altar of the church. It was only in 2011 that the paper ceased publication, after spanning two world wars.

Religion played a big part in our lives. We said the rosary every night and, by our beds, before sleeping, we knelt and prayed:

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,
God bless the bed that I lie on,
If I should die before I wake,
I pray to God  my soul to take.'

Sunday Mass was celebrated in Latin. We sang 'Faith of our Fathers' in the yearly procession through the town. I attended the Confraternity on Tuesday nights each week. If you missed it you were disgraced. Every Saturday I went to Confession. Going to Mass on Sunday was akin to a c/o parade in the army camp later on. Best clothes had to be worn. Shoes were polished. A visit to the barber each Saturday was a must for Sunday Mass. Georgie White was the barber and he worked on the first floor over O'Sullivan's shop in Patrick Street.

Priests were held in such high esteem that one would step off the footpath to let them pass. When Cardinal Cushing came to Fermoy I was amongst the hundreds of kids who cheered as he passed by. I was a true believer and happy to be so.

Our dog Darkie was a cross between a Labrador and a Pit Bull Terrier. As his name implied, he was coal black. He had two great hates in life; postmen, whom all dogs hate, apparently and, for some peculiar reason, Germans. Or at least one particular German.

One postman was forced to defend himself by throwing a stone at the dog and managed to inflict a massive wound on Darkie's head. The dog held a grudge against this individual for his remaining days.

I think the German's name was Klatt. He was the manager of the nearby Faber Castell pencil factory. This unfortunate man was obliged to pass the back of our house on his way to work each day. Darkie would lie in wait each morning and attack him.

On one particular occasion the attack was so fierce that he actually ripped the pants from the gentleman. Maybe as part Pit Bull Terrier, an English breed of course, he thought the war was still being fought.

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