Thoughts on Dundrum

The Big City! I arrived in Dundrum at age small (around 6 I guess) as schooling opportunities in Durrus, near Bantry, where my father was the Rector of St James Church, were a little limited. Well, there was one – it had a hole in the ground for a toilet and the teachers were apparently known to beat miscreants. Perhaps that would have been a good thing – of which more later.

Anyway, my parents thought that this wasn’t ideal for their eldest son and as Dundrum offered the fabulously named “Dundrum Kindergarten and Preparatory School” [1], based at 4 Sydenham Road, and literally above the flat in which lived my fathers’ parents, that seemed like a solution. My grandfather, Robbie, rejoiced in the marvellous title of Capt Buckley-Jones – a title he wasn’t really supposed to have used as it was a British Army military rank and not a naval one, and it is only Majors and above who may claim the prefix.  An accomplished organist, who played in one of the Dublin churches, he worked for the “Estate Management and Supply Association” in Grafton Street, an organisation we would now recognise as Land Agents.

Gaya, my grandmother, had an interesting tendency to discipline me on occasion by using a whippy branch from a tree in the back garden across the back of my legs. I have no mental scarring from that, but recognised the need. Sometimes.  Her sister, Auntie Fu, had suffered polio as a child and as a result had to wear an orthopaedic shoe. It was a generally happy childhood, with the grounds of Taney Parish Church forming an easily accessible place to indulge in mischief and fly model aeroplanes while attempting to avoid being caught by the churchwardens who lived on the premises.

You may wonder why my grandmother was known as Gaya – only in adulthood did I discover the existence of Ayahs in Indian culture. I believe, while walking with her, I was asked one day in Durrus who this person I was with, was – I would have been 4 or 5 maybe – my response was that this was my Ayah. This was reported to my parents, with great rejoicing that I had made up this name for my grandmother, Gaya! I believe my rendition of Ayah was heard, and translated to, Gaya.

That my family had no connections to India, nor the word Ayah [2] (a wet nurse, often hired by British memsahibs) ever used in my family, may lead one to interesting speculation on the subject of re-incarnation. Either way, that is what she was called by everyone.

DKPS was run by Miss Notley and Miss Chipperfield who were Froebel teachers – not that I knew that at the time – or indeed what it meant. I merely recollect a fairly relaxed teaching style and the words “it’s time to tidy away and sit down” are engraved in my memory – they signalled the end of what we may recognise as “play time” and a return to the tedious business of learning things.

The steps to the front door had numerous weeds growing in the gaps between the stones – weeds I exterminated with the sulphuric acid from my chemistry set, with interesting bubbling and smoke as a result. Several years later, when I returned as a young adult, I observed that there were still no weeds in those particular gaps!

Sydenham Road was a peculiar and eclectic mix of properties – at one end was the mysterious Tech – with a modern, large and impressive property opposite in which lived the Digbys, and at the other a rather grand mansion in which lived the Overends. [3]  The preponderance of large and imposing semi-detached Georgian houses, all largely of the same style, suggested a housing boom back in the day – and the number of less imposing ones suggested that not all the plots were used initially.

Many of these imposing Georgian buildings, with their challenging run of steps to a large front door, had been flatted to some degree or other. No 4 – with its rather dark basement flat and another flat on the upper floors, being typical. What had been the main reception and living rooms on the 1^st floor now formed the premises for the school. The upper flat was occupied by a university professor and his wife – she made his clothes – he kept an old, black bicycle on which he rode to work.

Occupied by a family called Deering, the other half of the semi remained intact as best I recall. And had a most imposing Drawing Room in the space I recognised as the kindergarten part of the house next door in which I lived. They were great rugby players, and I believe the boys were capped for Ireland. I was in awe of them.

To the right, (no 5?) the building had only been flatted at basement level – the remainder of the house retaining it’s grandeur and was occupied by a single and rather glamorous lady who professed,  to be an actress. Her son and I played together although his name escapes me – the ability to scale the dividing wall, a large and high one, being crucial to peer acceptance! Together, we nearly burned down the garden shed in an attempt to create a pottery kiln – and as they had access to what had originally been the stables for the row of houses, we also had numerous dens where illicit cigarettes were smoked and deeds of daring planned.

Later, when I went to Wesley, the bottom flat was occupied by (I think) Miss Bunbury and Miss Leckabusch – this being somewhat inconvenient as having two Wesley teachers in close proximity was a little restricting to activities such as shooting out the street lamps with a catapult. Which I now confess to.

Further up, the Kinsellas ruled – a large, traditional Catholic Irish family, I never got past the garden but recall an impressive tree-based swing. Opposite them lived the Cudworths – an interesting family! My main connection was Simon, who was at Wesley with me – his father, Jack was an artist and jazz musician, both being fascinating as I was more used to my grandfather’s Bach fugues than Jack’s Blues; and the rendition of a naked lady I observed one day in his studio was daring indeed. Said lady was, I recall, his wife Jean and was certainly the first time I had ever seen such an image.

Jean was extremely kind and a very good neighbour and friend to my grandmother – many were the times she would drive us to the station when it was time to return to Durrus for the holidays, and I believe she was also a great strength when my grandfather died when we were away on one such trip.

My interest in Blues never developed. I’m not prepared to comment on the other!

They also had a telephone, a television and, as noted, a car! Many happy hours were spent in their house where I recollect Jean with fondness, Jack with some awe, and his sister Rebecca (a year ahead of me at school) as fun and attractive – but the attraction wasn’t reciprocated and I never did pluck up the courage to “ask for a date”. Not that I really understood what “a date” was then anyway. Besides, as a girl, she didn’t get to share our adventures! Neither, of course, did his youngest sister.

Simon and I shared an interest in cycling, things mechanical, and adventure. Several such adventures involved taking our bikes, a rucksack with a frying pan, and some sleeping bags, and disappearing off in the general direction of places like Blessington for the weekend. We didn’t have a tent, so the plan was always to find somewhere like a barn to sleep in. One such occasion found us near Mondello Park, the racetrack by Naas, having cycled down the hard shoulder of the dual carriageway, and spending the night in an abandoned church. The next morning, when awoken by daylight, not having a watch between us, we had no real idea why no one was around. But at what turned out to be 05:30 that wasn’t, perhaps, unusual.  Anyway, a pint of milk was liberated from someone’s doorstep and served as breakfast with our sausages. More confessions!

Another occasion saw us asking to use a barn to sleep in and being offered the use of the living room instead. Which we accepted, and enjoyed, while feeling quite safe and secure in the company of total strangers. I imagine breakfast was also provided. One cannot imagine that sort of thing today.

That may – or may not – have been the same trip on which the gears on Simon’s bike eventually decided not to work. A phone was found at some house somewhere, and a call to Sydenham Road resulted in a slightly annoyed Jack turning up to rescue us.

The Overend sisters, from  the large house at the bottom end of Sydenham Road  – and I remember the famous Rolls Royce well –had a Bagatelle board, which spent more time at No4 than it did in their house as  they were always receptive to a polite request to borrow it. I left Ireland in 1973 to move to Perth with my parents, returning some years later when my grandmother died, and we came over for the funeral. That board was still in No4 and I made a point of returning it. I recall my grandmother occasionally taking tea with the Overends, but not the Overends ever taking tea with my grandparents! No 4, although homely, wasn’t exactly in the same league.

Sydenham Road also served as a playground – being on a hill, considerable momentum could be gained on a bicycle in order to skid impressively into the drive of No4. While not great for the life of the rear tyre which had to be braked hard to achieve this, the experience was nevertheless fun. Reversing the process down the drive one day, into the street, resulted in a near collision with the local Garda on his motorcycle – an experience which was less fun and put a stop to any repeats!

Later, as the dreaded Inter approached, I got some French tuition from a slightly dodgy character called Jim who my grandmother had met at Taney church. I say dodgy, as Jim allowed me to drive his ancient and somewhat unsound Mini – a Mini which required the brake pedal to be pumped at least twice in order to get the brakes to work, but in which I mastered the art of anticipating road conditions as a result.  He and I would take this thing into Dublin – imagine this – not only was I underage to drive, didn’t have a licence as a result, but the car was dangerous, and almost certainly un-insured! I loved it.

One evening, in the centre of Dublin, having been to the cinema in Grafton Street with him, Jim was arrested by two plain clothes Guards as we returned to the car, me being in the driving seat at the time. A minor detail, seemingly of no interest to them. I never discovered why he was lifted, or for what, but he appeared again a few days later and driving – and tuition – continued as before. I passed the Inter. Just.

Formal education at Wesley wasn’t my strong point and although I recall the place with some fondness. My main claim to fame was streaking, naked, through the girl’s changing room. That got me into trouble, naturally. I once faked my grandmother’s signature on a detention form – that also got me into trouble involving further detention and the meaningless and totally useless activity of “cubes”.

Liberating lead shot from the labs provided the amusement of flicking the things across the grey carpets in the classrooms, to rattle off the metal wastepaper bin, while remaining relatively invisible to the suitably irritated teacher. Equally fun was liberating mercury, by hand – I have no recollection of the dangers of that substance ever having been outlined, but perhaps that’s a result of having done so!

I managed to avoid playing rugby, thanks to wearing glasses – enjoying the warmth of the library instead of getting wet and muddy. But I did set up the model aeroplane club, which seemed popular at the time and certainly had lots of members and an active programme of building, and flying, the things on the sports field.

It wasn’t until later in life that I discovered I had the intellectual ability to achieve formal qualifications, including, at 48, my degree.  So perhaps the effects of handling mercury had worn off.

As mentioned, when my parents decided to move to Perth, Scotland, in 1973 I left No4. Happy memories remain. A special place to grow up, doing things which would never be allowed today.

[1] http://www.dundrumtaneygathering.com/

[2] http://www.faqs.org/childhood/Bo-Ch/British-Colonialism-in-India.html

[3] http://www.dundrumtaneygathering.com/dundrum-in-the-fifties—david-rowell.html