terrier called Patsy. I do not think these dogs ever got any formal exercise, although they had the run of a large garden, which was planted with military precision, like an allotment: pretty rows of sweet pea, as well runner beans, garden peas, broad beans, carrots, lettuce and, of course, potatoes. When the time came, there was no need to urge them to dig for victory.
Murray had a sister, the one with âbrainsâ, who was a senior civil servant at Stormont. Their mother, by the time she came to stay with San and Murray, was in an advanced stage of dementia; she had to be incarcerated at Purdysburn asylum after being found lurking behind a door, carving knife in hand. San was thought to be her intended victim. All I remember is a frail little wisp of a woman, who wandered around in an Edwardian high-necked dress, wearing a fixed vacant smile.
Sanâs domineering sister, Molly, lived with her hen-pecked husband in Carrickfergus. She bore no physical resemblance to San; her imposing corseted bosom tapered in a tight âcostumeâ to slender legs like a pouter pigeon. She seldom removed her hat as she installed herself in an armchair beside the fire, from which she fired intrusive questions at me. Despite the length of her journey, she never lacked energy to conduct an inquisition into all aspects of Sanâs affairs. Thereafter, she would pontificate on how much better the lodgers, the dog, the laundry, Sanâs hair and, not least, Murray could be managed. San just got on with laying the table, lighting the next fag, or arranging a vase of sweet pea. I do not think that Molly expected any response to the diatribe, and she always tucked in with relish to high tea before leaving. One time she arrived regally, driven by her husband in their Rover; tall and thin, with a highly polished pointed dome of a head, he spent most of the visit talking to Murray in a shed at the far end of the garden. Their sanctified only child, an RAF pilot, was shot down off the coast of Sicily in 1941 â missing, presumed dead. Molly never fully recovered her sanity, and there were shaming incidents of shoplifting. San grieved deeply too, but with more restraint.
Female lodgers, for the most part from Lancashire, widened my experience of humanity. One, tall and thin, owned a dance studio in Belfast, while her sister, short and fat, owned a newsagent/confectionery shop near the Holywood Arches. Early in the war extra staff were recruited for the top security establishment, locally known as the Listening Station, near Manns Corner. Some of these lodged with San, and without exception took advantage of her generous nature â she was aware of this, but never seemed to bear any grudge, sometimes excusing inconsiderate behaviour with a sigh, remarking: âOch, sheâs just a poor lonely soul, but good at heart.â My mother and I thought several among them blatant spongers. Murray reserved comment.
San was a chain-smoker who had recently abandoned Players, with a bearded sailor on the packet, in favour of Craven A â kinder to your throat â with cork tips in a neat red box. I regretted this, as there were no more cards to collect. She was addicted to the extent of doing the washing-up, fag in mouth, a length of ash trembling over the bowl. I would hop around offering an ashtray, but she always managed to avoid the ash actually falling in with the dishes. Long before twin-tubbed washing machines became commonplace, she coped with an enormous wash and hung it outside to dry; if the weather was wet, it would hang drearily in the garage. A vast pile of ironing was then taken up to the hot loft space, which Murray never got around to fully flooring. They had a seldom used sitting room with a cabinet containing Belleek baskets, china dogs, horses and rabbits, but pride of place went to the bride and groom from the top of their wedding cake. There was always a bottle of fizzy lemonade in her kitchen â a real