CONSCIOUS OF CATHOLICS

21-11-77 "The Inhabitants of Our Street"

Our street, Rowanside Terrace, was a highly, optimistically-named,
working-class street, built in the early 50's and consisting of about
40 families spread over 10 blocks of 4-to-a-block, rented houses. My
earliest memories were of quietness and play opportunities, for no one,
but no one, owned a car.

And the only car seen in our street would be from a "traveller" (i.e.
a commercial traveller or salesman) down from the bigger, Glasgow
stores with a van full of shirts, pygamas, etc.

Despite the apparent social and class tightness of distribution of our
people, there was still an amazing, human diversity and variety,
however, which would strain the documentation capacities of a Darwin or
a Mendel, let alone a small boy passing quickly through the throes of a
Scottish childhood.

First to mind were the "Catholics." This was only about six families.
But it was difficult to keep tabs on the Catholics, because they had
such a high "turnover" ...births, marriages, etc. Essentially, the
families were all related to each other, all first- generation,
peasant, Irish immigrants, with names, like O'hare, Conway, McLaughlan,
and all the children with devout (to please the local Priest) forenames
like Li?m, Sean, Bernadette, Joseph or Peter.

For the most part we disapproved of, even despised, these people for
their clannishness, their coarseness, their irreverent attitude to
taste, culture, education or --for that matter--regular employment. And
with their hordes of children, they comprised about 80\\% of the
people.
.
The Matriarch of this entire network was Mrs. McLean, a hatchet-faced,
unfeminine, common, rough-voiced battle-axe, who contradicted, in her
dealings with my brother and I, her Christian, pillar-of-the-church,
photo-in-the-local-paper image as a charity-do-gooder. I can still
recall the sheer utter unfemininity of the woman--who once threatened
to "break your bloody jaw, ja wee bugger."

Many a "dust up" my Granny had with her, defending our Constitutional
rights to play football outside the McLean house (forbidden despite the
swarms of her grandchildren who used our front yard).

Then one day, an explosion killed four men at our local factory. This
shook up my father, as it was at the building where he worked, but,
luckily, during the morning shift from 2 to 11 pm, rather than during
his night shift, from 7 to 2 pm.

People were sitting at home, partaking in macabre,
who's-copped-it-this-time, name-guessing, when we heard a horrible "Oh
No. No!" screamed from two doors down.

It was poor Mrs. McLean reacting to the police car drawing up to her
door....

After a few years of widowhood, Mrs. McLean remarried, to the aghast
amazement and scorn of the neighbours.

A comely, huge, hulking, 55-year old (!), she was courted, wooed and
married by Mr. O'hare, a tiny dapper, respectable man of middle age,
who was rather wealthy, due to his ownership of a string of betting
shops (bookmakers), funded mainly by the State unemployment checks of
the Matriach's various, male relatives.

Mrs. McLean remarried in a beautiful, full-length, flowing white
dress.