My mother used to tell me that her mother was from southern Wales, and her father was from the Irish border. It always intrigued me, this idea of an Irish Catholic marrying a Chapel girl from the outskirts of Swansea. His family had emigrated from Ireland in the early 1900’s, when my grandfather was a toddler, and there was a lot of drama in there – both families disapproved, and religion was apparently a real battleground in my mother’s youth. The only thing my mother and grandmother would say about the place where his family were from was that my grandfather would never speak of his Irish background, as there was prejudice against the Irish in London in the early part of the 1900’s, and that his family always claimed to be from London whenever they were asked.
When I spotted a competition to write a play that was only open to those of the Irish diaspora – or those whose parents or grandparents were displaced from Ireland – I thought I would give it a go. The stories I’d heard from my mother would have to be toned down, as nobody would ever believe them in fiction, but they were a great start.
No, actually, the great start was to be able to prove that I was the grand-daughter of an Irish exile. I started digging into the census records, marriage records, birth and christening records. I found my ancestors, all right. To be sure, he claimed to be born in London. Because he was. So was his father, and his mother, and his grandfather all born in and around Southwark. I think I got as far as her “Welsh” parents (born in Southwark) before giving up on the idea that I had this colourful Celtic heritage.
I was left with this feeling that my mother had a great skill in telling the stories, stories that were almost Irish in their depth and colour. If she was here today, I’d raise a glass of the dark stuff to her. I’d pour it over her head for telling fibs to a gullible child.
Happy St Patrick’s Day to everyone out there who is – or thinks they is – Irish.
Julia Chalkley 