The rent of 3s.6d a week in the Dublin Artisans' Dwelling Company flats was relatively high in the early 1920's when the author's grandparents moved in. Built to house artisans the tenancies were beyond the means of labourer's who earned about a £1 a week.On the death of her mother in 1947 she moved from nearby Upper Rutland St. to live in the Dwellings with her grandparents and remembers it as a matriarchal enclave where the women castigated and cursed each other's children and minded them when necessary. They criticized one another, supported one another through the 'nagers', delivered babies when a 'Bona Fide' midwife wasn't available or couldn't be afforded, borrowed and lent finery, often taken out of the Pawn for the occasion, and laid out and waked the dead. The Memoir is rich in humour and historical lore for those who remember Summerhill, the Dwellings, the nearby Streets, the Tin Church, and the choice of schools like the Red Brick Slaughter House, the Sado Brothers or the love 'em or hate 'em Nuns in North William Street. It will lead you down a path of nostalgia you cannot fail to enjoy. For others it's a series of glimpses of North Dublin communal life that for once does not include vermin, abuse, neglect or a granny who was a dealer. It also encompasses vignettes of family members bringing them to life to be remembered fondly with wry recognition of their faults and foibles. We are introduced to characters like Annie Lawlor, Nick Colgan and the Grant and Breslin families and will meet some of them again in 'Thrown on Life's Surge'.
About the Author: The Author writes; 'I was born, bread and buttered in Summerhill a hard living area in Dublin. Being north of the Liffey we were 'real Dubliners'. By the mid 40's our Georgian and Regency terraces were advancing into decaying tenements but our wide streets were relatively traffic free and provided us children with an enviable freedom. They also provided hard-pressed Mammy's with hours of peace and quiet because apart from feeding any open beak that darkened the doorway the only time they saw their offspring was when they did a head count at bedtime. Even then it was not uncommon to find a cuckoo in the nest and one of your brood being scrubbed clean by a neighbour! By my 18th year I knew that I was part of a generation whose future would be on a foreign shore. Ireland, an impoverished country with a dismal economic environment and De Valera's deeply conservative theocratic government would not be able to meet either our aspirations or expectations in the furtherance of a career. Our exodus was rationalized by many families as a temporary expedient until things improved at home but I was realistic enough to know that my exile would be a long one. Early in the New Year of 1957 I 'took the boat' to start my nurse training in London's East End. Half a century later, after a long career in Public Health Nursing, and despite having Gypsy feet I have settled into retirement there.