(Belfast Born, Bred And Buttered By Joe Graham)

Chapter Eighteen

“There goes the bloody whistle, And you never get a stand,

Sure you would be better of in the Union, Or in McNamara’s Band”

*Note, There was such a person as Maggie Walsh, and to this day many members of her family live through out the Falls and North Belfast.

“FREE WHISKEY FOR THE PRIEST”

St. Mary’s Hall in Bank would have been almost opposite where Kelly’s Cellars” is in Bank Street, it was demolished in recent years. Originally it was built as a Catholic school and later used as a sort of Parish Hall for St. Mary’s Chapel nearby. But unlike most Parochial Halls the shows put on at St. Mary’s were quite big affairs, crowds would flock from all over Belfast to see the productions. And Kelly’s Cellars was close enough to have a quick nip during the interval.

There are a couple of versions of this wee story, but I will give it to you as I heard it from Paddy “Newry”. Paddy had nipped into the bar, for a quiet pint, it was during the week and he wasn’t too flush for money. However after about half an hour a priest came in and stood beside him at the bar, and ordered a double whiskey, as the bar man went about getting the whiskey the priest fumbled through his pockets bring loose change together to pay for his drink. Paddy was watching all this through the corner of his eye and wondered would the priest have enough to pay for the drink. So as the barman placed the whiskey on the bar Paddy quickly threw the last Pound he had on the bar and said, “Here, I will pay for that whiskey”. The Priest thanked Paddy and downed his drink in one go and left. “Was the priest from St Mary’s” Paddy asked the barman. “ Aye ”, answered the barman, “He is an actor playing in a play on there at the moment, it must have been the interval and nipped in for a quick one”. Paddy nearly choked on his pint, “Well God curse him”, he spluttered, “I just bought him a double whiskey thinking he was a real priest out of the last Pound I had.” The moral of the story is , ‘Don’t judge a man by the clothes he wears’.

Pawnshops were once a familiar and flourishing business in Belfast, there were perhaps three or four in every district. The idea was if you were short of money you could borrow from the pawnbroker, provided you left an item with the pawnbroker that was of more value that the sum of money you borrowed. The borrower would receive a ticket valid for six months and if you did not ‘redeem’ your goods by thenby the then the pawnbroker could sell on the goods to recoup his investment. On the other hand if you did redeem your goods then you paid a small interest on the money you borrowed. The pawnbroker was good humorously known widely as “Your Uncle”. If a child was sent on an errand to the pawnshop, she would be told “Nip down to your uncle’s and collect that”. It was always a girl who would go on such errands, and as they got older they would hide the goods up their coats for fear any admirer would see them coming out of their uncle’s. The item pawned was known as a pledge and these pledges varied massively, from a pair of shoes to a sauce pan, a watch to a bed quilt, from a father’s ‘Sunday Suit’ to your Grannies Shawl. It was not unusual for a wife to pawn her husband’s suit on a Monday and ‘lift’ it out on Friday in time for Mass on Sunday. This would go on week after week, with the suit being hurriedly redeemed in panic at times for an unexpected funeral. It was nearly always. a Monday morning that pledges were brought to the pawn, and so it became known as ‘The Monday Morning Run’. Believe it or not a man could even pawn the cap of his head, I can remember being in Maguire’s Bar on the Springfield Road during the racing on a Saturday afternoon. A guy took of his shoes nipped next door to Hughie Rice’s pawnshop and pawned them, nipped across the road to the bookies and placed the money on a horse. He got back in time to see his horse beat on the bars television, and so had to walk home in his socks. A well told yarn is that concerning Paddy McAleese’s pawn in Albert street. A regular customer used to pawn her husbands suit every Monday for years. This week the husband needed his suit for two funerals coming up that week so the woman had nothing to pledge. Bur she wasn’t to be out done for she recognised that Paddy was so used to her coming in so regularly that he never even bothered to open the parcel to inspect the suit. The woman had a brain wave, she had a couple of cabbages at hand so wrapped them up and tied them with string and went round to Paddy’s. “The suit ” Paddy, said the woman, “Okay” said Paddy, taking the parcel and throwing it on the rack behind him and writing her out a receipt and then handing her the usual 15 shillings. Well, the wee woman wouldn’t even have to redeem her pledge, she was hardly going to pay back fifteen shilling with interest for two cabbages. The next week she returned with two more cabbages wrapped and tied with string, again Paddy gave her usual fifteen shillings, he had not noticed that she hadn’t redeemed the suit. Well the wee woman must have confided to others , and they in turn told others, for when Paddy McAleese’s pawn was demolished some years later dozens of foul smelling parcels were found on the back of Paddy’s rack. All in all pawn broking was a much lesser evil than money lending although didn’t stop the “Northern Whig” some years ago describing Pawnbrokers as parasites.

Sadly a lot of our old folklore and ways are dying out, few around today could tell you what a "Wake Pipe” was, let alone under stand what was meant by "bleeding" the corpse of a murder victim, ach hol' yer tongues, will ya... Away back in 1750 in the village of Toome, in County Antrim...now listen close, this is a true story, people gathered in great excitement and disbelief on hearing of a strange discovery. The body of a local woman by the name of Gallagher had been unearthed in a shallow grave in a nearby bog...she had been murdered. The remains were taken to the old wooden chapel at Gargan and it was there that a well recorded "investigation" was set up by the local priest.
The priest had the body laid out in front of the altar and called every resident, man and woman, in the parish to come and stand before the corpse to be eliminated as a possible culprit of the dastardly murder and ghoulish burial in the bog. He had the crowd all line up in single file before the body and then explained, that one by one they would approach the body and lay both their hands upon the corpse.. and in a higher pitched booming voice he exclaimed, "If anyone among you had any hand in this terrible crime we will all instantly see this poor corpse begin to bleed when the guilty party lays his hands on the body".

One by one each parishioner stepped forward, some meekly and timidly,
others brash and boldly, but all knowing, that if they refused to touch the corpse then it could appear they had something to hide, perhaps they had a hand in the murder.? Each touched the corpse.. but no sign of the corpse starting to bleed ....then finally the last person, a man considered by locals to be a “wee bit strange", stood in front of the body, everyone stood with bated breathe, the wee man shivered as he undertook the task, he lay both his hands on the corpse and as he slowly lifted them off, the crowd pressed forward to witness the flowing of blood which they were convinced would happen since he was the last man to be a possible culprit. The wee man stepped nervously back, and along with everyone else he stared at the body...to his relief.. it did not bleed.. at which point the priest declared that the authorities would have to look elsewhere if they wished to find the murderer of Gallagher woman.

There is no record as to if anyone was ever brought to justice for the mysterious murder but isn't it an interesting story from Rushlight archives?.
It was a poor.. I mean a POOR Irish family that couldn't lay out a table
of Clay pipe and a sizable bowl of tobacco to be enjoyed by the kindly mourners who would arrive at the wake of their loved one.. that was the least they could do, a lovely old Irish custom that lasted for a couple of centuries and of course an oul jug of Poteen, "Mountain Dew" was also greatly appreciated by dutiful mourners and "Keeners" alike and sure don’t you know it "oiled" the wailing voices of the "Keeners".
"Crying", by mourners at a wake was considered in those days to be the best way of showing your respects to the deceased and their family,
we Irish even had our own word for such a cry, "Caoine", pronounced "Keen", and in those days we hired professional "Keeners" to come and cry at a wake.. the more "Keeners" the higher in social standing was the corpse.!. It didn’t help to get him to heaven or anything like that.
The Catholic church wooed us away from many ancient Irish ways ..and of course brutal English laws done their bit too, by the 1800's the church had us singing hymns at funerals. they have a lot to answer for doing so many decent oul mourners out of a pipe of tobacco and a wee drop of good oul mountain dew...and a good oul wail to wash it down.
OOH!.. before I forget, I must tell you.. do you see after the old wakes?.. any spare pipes had to be got out off the house and buried , for you see, it was common belief that if you were to keep any of the "Waking Pipes", you would be "inviting" death back into the home.