Let The Busy World Be Hushed
Fr Jason Murphy celebrates a remarkable centenarian on Holborn Hill in Belturbet in his latest edition of Let the Busy World Be Hushed...
She sits contentedly in her chair fornent the window, the ash logs crackling on the fire, as the clock ticks rhythmically on the mantlepiece as she lays her spectacles down. The pages of the Weekend section of the Irish Independent lie open on a coffee table at her side; fashion and food to pass the hours as her daughter clinks at the drying dishes in the kitchen down the hall. All the world passes by on the street without, some on foot as they glimpse her geraniums on the window ledge, faces she does not recognise through the chink in the net curtains, persons unfamiliar, oh so busy.
It was not so those 70 years ago when first she crossed the threshold as a bride, front doors lain opened, the sound of children’s voices as they played hopscotch along the main street of the town. The Manse where dwelt the Presbyterian Minister opposite, the Garda Barracks next to her, the Ulster Bank where queues formed outside her window of a Fair Day as men discussed in whispered tones the prices they had earned.
But now she sits in silence listening to the rush of cars a speeding by. They hardly know that behind the netted curtains lives a lady who in the days to come will have lived a century, a constant in the lives of the townsfolk around.
She was born far from here, down a country lane in the shadow of Shantemon mountain some miles the far side of Cavan Town, the eldest of four children - Kitty, Ellie, Annie and Jimmy Cusack - a glimpse of light as the darkness beckoned in the days preceding All Hallow’s Eve.
She walked the back roads to Raskall school in the Parish of Laragh, so remote that teachers came and teachers left with each and every term. Days bent over long ridges, dropping potatoes along a straight line, feeding the thresher and saving turf, all with the change of the seasons. As for so many of that time, ‘the goat, the cow, the fowl, the sow, the scythe, the fork, the spade, with ass and cart, all played a part, in Shankill, to get a living made.’
After Raskall academy she cycled to the old Technical school on Farnham Street where she took up subjects such as shorthand, typing and domestic science. They served her well for in her late teenage years she secured a job, 80 years ago, in the offices of Irish Life at the foot of the Cock Hill, opposite the old Surgical Hospital, as a secretary to the Manager there. Here she came to know the locals who passed by her office window as she took notes of meetings within and typed up minutes and letters of every kind.
Old Doctor Sullivan, one of the few who had a motor car became acquainted with the young girl in the office window and left the keys of his car in her charge for the many who often sought a lend of it, it was hers to judge who most needed it over those who wanted nothing more than a jaunt around the town.
It was here in the offices of Irish life that she was invited to accompany a young insurance agent by the name of Charles McGauran to the pictures one cold December night and there as they sat and gazed at the big screen in the Magnet Cinema, which had opened in 1936 in the Farnham Gardens, a love ignited that was to last for the whole of a lifetime to come.
He brought his new bride to the town of Belturbet, to their home on Holborn Hill where their three children - Marie, Angela and Fintan - were born. Seventy years ago this street was a busy place along which her sister in law Mrs Coogan ran a Public House and Grocery at the top of the hill. There were also a Boxers, a Butchers, a Bakers, a Cobblers, a Chip Shop and a dance hall to where the young ones, sixty years ago, flocked to seek out romance.
Across the street from her lived the Boles family, Jack who sold and carted coal around the town, tip toeing through many’s a carpeted hallway with a hundred weight of Polish Black Diamond on his back. Maggie, his wife who sat in her front window mending and patching over her Singer Sewer with a Sweet Afton hanging from her mouth. Mrs Caulfield, next door to Maggie, who spent her time hanging out of windows, rubbing and caressing until there was a high sheen that would catch the passing eye.
Next to her, Mrs Gorby reared a big family of children and taught the town how to dance a jig and a six hand reel for feiseanna and Scor na nÓg. Ollie the Cobbler mended shoe leather and put steel toe caps or a heel to save a boot for children going to school. Susan McGovern lavished both fun and gaiety on both man and child who passed her door and often called with Kitty to chat on people they each did know in the shadow of Sligh Lae mount.
But one year borrowed another as they slipped quickly by, like swallows of an autumn day flying, each after the other, from out and under the eaves of a barn. One by one her neighbours took their leave and there on Holborn Hill she remains like Oisin after Tir na nÓg, thinking on all these people who live only in her memory, a symphony of personalities who brought life and colour to a town.
Kitty is the last of a generation, a woman we are privileged to have in our midst, one who reminds us of a time that was. We can share in her wisdom and her pragmatic approach to life - no hullabaloo, nonsense or fuss, a life well lived in the midst of the ordinary. She followed a daily routine - mass on the wireless, baking bread, fresh food and sewing, crocheting and knitting to provide for the Missions.
She remains a touchstone for us who can recall that which has been, a ballast in the stormy seas of life, a reassurance that all is well, constant and continuous in a time of endless change. So as Kitty McGauran reaches a hundred years, let us remember that it is the life well lived, simply in the midst of the ordinary is that which makes a centenarian.
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