james patrick riley
Of all the photos in the family archive, the one that intrigues me most doesn’t exist. It’s a tragic story, with cruelty on both sides.
The women in my family were fierce, but none more so than my dad’s mother, Margaret. She was raised in Low Fell, the posh part of Gateshead, where her family owned a fish shop. She fell in love with a charming, young Irishman. He was raised in the slums, in a house near the river. All my mother knew about the family was that they were so poor they used packing crates in place of table and chairs. He must have been silver tongued, as my grandmother married him and had four children, Ethel, Jimmy, Violet and Ken. My grandmother was Church of England, but agreed to bring their children up Catholic. Ethel and Jimmy both went to the Blessed Sacrament school. Violet and Ken went to an Anglican school.
James Patrick Riley was a small man, but strong. He did very heavy labouring work, including working in the blast furnace of the Nut and Bolt factory. Unlike the Thorne and Seymour men, he had periods of unemployment. He came from an Irish, Catholic family. He spent much of his life, and all his wife’s money in the pub across the road. Decades later I wanted to go this pub. It seemed a way to pay my respects to Granddad Riley, but my brother refused. He said it was too dangerous. My brother isn’t a timid man.
As a child I spent much more time with my maternal grandparents then the Riley’s. My mother grew up in one of the first council houses, with indoor toilet and generous garden. The Riley’s lived in a flat on Old Durham Road, with a back yard. I don’t think a single plant grew there, indoors or out. It was then the main route between north and south. Everyone had a coal fire so houses were coated with soot. Rows of narrow terraced streets lined the hill, giving expansive views across the valley to the distant wild places. I wonder if my grandfather ever gazed at them and longed for Ireland? My dad took me and my brother to visit them. My mother rarely went with us. I remember the cat, Smoky, more than I remember him.
Whatever dreams she cherished as a young woman, Margaret’s story was far from romantic. She arrived at a unique solution to the loss of love, wealth and status. She pretended to be a widow. I searched in vain for a photo of him. I was surprised to find him absent from all my parents’ wedding photos. He wasn’t allowed to go to their wedding or any of his children’s weddings. Had she had control of her own property, things might have been different. As it was they had to sell her property and rent a flat.
I regret I know so little of my Irish family. The only time I had any contact with the Dublin Rileys was at his funeral. I met a brother who’d had two wives and twelve children. It was the first funeral I was allowed to go to. Standing by the grave side, with a priest intoning ashes to ashes…. There were flowers, but there’d never be a headstone. Afterwards there was much alcohol and gaiety. I might have been allowed a drink too, most likely shandy. My mother wasn’t at the wake. She might have attended a church service, had there been one.
My grandmother would not have been pleased that he’d outlived her. He certainly outlived her hopes and dreams. Yet my cousin, who grew up with them, says she can’t remember any violence in the home. I imagine he was as disappointed in life as his wife. The child of immigrants, uprooted, never adequately transplanted into the cold soil of the industrial north. I don’t even know when the family emigrated or where he was born. Did the whole family move or did some remain in Dublin?
Someone said that all the roads in England were laid by Irishmen with degrees in classics. I doubt he was one of these. I doubt he got the chance.
The women in my family were fierce, but none more so than my dad’s mother, Margaret. She was raised in Low Fell, the posh part of Gateshead, where her family owned a fish shop. She fell in love with a charming, young Irishman. He was raised in the slums, in a house near the river. All my mother knew about the family was that they were so poor they used packing crates in place of table and chairs. He must have been silver tongued, as my grandmother married him and had four children, Ethel, Jimmy, Violet and Ken. My grandmother was Church of England, but agreed to bring their children up Catholic. Ethel and Jimmy both went to the Blessed Sacrament school. Violet and Ken went to an Anglican school.
James Patrick Riley was a small man, but strong. He did very heavy labouring work, including working in the blast furnace of the Nut and Bolt factory. Unlike the Thorne and Seymour men, he had periods of unemployment. He came from an Irish, Catholic family. He spent much of his life, and all his wife’s money in the pub across the road. Decades later I wanted to go this pub. It seemed a way to pay my respects to Granddad Riley, but my brother refused. He said it was too dangerous. My brother isn’t a timid man.
As a child I spent much more time with my maternal grandparents then the Riley’s. My mother grew up in one of the first council houses, with indoor toilet and generous garden. The Riley’s lived in a flat on Old Durham Road, with a back yard. I don’t think a single plant grew there, indoors or out. It was then the main route between north and south. Everyone had a coal fire so houses were coated with soot. Rows of narrow terraced streets lined the hill, giving expansive views across the valley to the distant wild places. I wonder if my grandfather ever gazed at them and longed for Ireland? My dad took me and my brother to visit them. My mother rarely went with us. I remember the cat, Smoky, more than I remember him.
Whatever dreams she cherished as a young woman, Margaret’s story was far from romantic. She arrived at a unique solution to the loss of love, wealth and status. She pretended to be a widow. I searched in vain for a photo of him. I was surprised to find him absent from all my parents’ wedding photos. He wasn’t allowed to go to their wedding or any of his children’s weddings. Had she had control of her own property, things might have been different. As it was they had to sell her property and rent a flat.
I regret I know so little of my Irish family. The only time I had any contact with the Dublin Rileys was at his funeral. I met a brother who’d had two wives and twelve children. It was the first funeral I was allowed to go to. Standing by the grave side, with a priest intoning ashes to ashes…. There were flowers, but there’d never be a headstone. Afterwards there was much alcohol and gaiety. I might have been allowed a drink too, most likely shandy. My mother wasn’t at the wake. She might have attended a church service, had there been one.
My grandmother would not have been pleased that he’d outlived her. He certainly outlived her hopes and dreams. Yet my cousin, who grew up with them, says she can’t remember any violence in the home. I imagine he was as disappointed in life as his wife. The child of immigrants, uprooted, never adequately transplanted into the cold soil of the industrial north. I don’t even know when the family emigrated or where he was born. Did the whole family move or did some remain in Dublin?
Someone said that all the roads in England were laid by Irishmen with degrees in classics. I doubt he was one of these. I doubt he got the chance.
the riley men
I was surprised to find this photo of the Riley men… my dad, my brother and my Uncle Kenny. It was probably taken by my mother as she often took unusual compositions, not centred on the subjects.
It was probably taken in the mid 1970’s, as we still had the piano. My mother could play the piano, but rarely did. My dad was self taught. He loved music and often played. He’d never had a music lesson, he played by ear. His hearing was damaged, from working in Clark Chapman’s, an engineering factory, so his loud, slightly discordant music would resound around the house. Later the piano was replaced by a shelving unit, where bric a brac was displayed. My mother’s collection of china ladies, and their collection of china ships. He must have missed the piano, but always put the family first.
It’s rare to find a photo of Kenny, my dad’s younger brother. He lived in a small terraced house, a few minutes walk from ours. Even so, my dad would have gone to get him. We never had a car. No one in my immediate family has ever had a single driving lesson. Kenny had osteo-arthritis and would soon be confined to a wheelchair. His hands became like claws. He never married. He lived a life of pain. He’d had bright red hair, and been considered handsome in his youth. My dad had turned grey at a young age, a side effect of the war.
Kenny inherited the alcoholic gene from his father. My dad was spared. He rarely drank, apart from a sweet sherry or port at Christmas and New Year. He’d probably have enjoyed socialising in the pub, but my mother was, by this time, a Methodist with an aversion to drinking. She equated alcohol with ending up in the gutter. She ended up with two heavy drinking teenage children.
There are few photographs of Kenny. He doesn’t look happy. My brother looks relaxed and happy to be with his dad and uncle. He has a can in his hand. I’m surprised my mother didn’t make him put it down.
My dad was a kind and generous man. He was happy to do his best for his family. This always included his wife, children, brother and sisters. When he won on the horses, which he frequently did, he shared the money equally between us.
I also like the way this photo shows so much of our front room. It’s Christmas, as there’s a decoration on both ceiling and piano. We always had a tree. By the 70’s it would have been an artificial one. It might be just out of shot, or might have already been taken down.
Then there’s a good view of the glass door. When we moved into 6 Salkeld Gardens my dad proudly modernised the house. He replaced original wooden doors with new ones, which had a glass panel that let in more light. All the original features were replaced. Perhaps, now the house is sold and a new family is living there, someone will restore them.
The cross on the wall is made of stones. I brought it back from Canterbury Cathedral, when I went there after a university interview. I thought it was classy and superior. to their bric a brac. I doubt my parents liked it, but they dutifully displayed it. Next to it is a shield with two swords. This was a souvenir of a holiday in Spain. Excluding wars, no one in my family had travelled abroad until I went to Paris at the end of my first year at university. My parents started to take package holidays to Spain after I left home. Soon they were going twice a year, Spring and Autumn, when prices were low. My father worshipped the sun. My mother regarded holidays as essential. Theirs was a love story with many chapters.