Jim the Radiographer
Trained in the Army, moved to the pipelines
Jim lived along the same landing of Arlington House hostel as Phil and Peter — the Kildare bhoys, and a contingent of other Irish fellas, from both sides of the border, and both sides of the religious divide. They looked out for one another, kept each other company, provided support when someone was ill or feeling miserable, helped each other out when funds run low; and regaled each other with yarns and stories about the glory days of their youth….
When Jim was in hospital, Peter came to visit him every day, his only visitor. And while Jim was recovering from his stroke, Peter and the other lads on the landing popped in and out of his room, checking that he was okay, and whether he needed anything from the shops.
I was born in Cavan in 1944. I left Ireland in 1962. I come over here because… well, me mother was already over here because me father left her, when I was two year old. I seen him later on. He’s dead now. And me mother is dead.
The grandmother, she’s the one that reared us. and you know what it was like: all religion, and this, that and t’other. And sure, I REBELLED, because y’know in the college in Cavan, it was all priests, and I rebelled, didn’t I [laughs]? I was lucky, actually, to stay in it; I near got barred out of it, a few times, because of telling dirty jokes and things like that. You know what ye get up to…
In 1962, I come over here, and I give me right name and a wrong age. I only had to put me age up by two months; I was seventeen, nearly eighteen. And the first job I got, was a bus conductor. I was waiting for the results of the leaving certificate, at home, which didn’t come through till about August. I was goin’ for the teachin’ [ a scholarship to train to become a teacher], but I didn’t quite get there. I wasn’t good enough. I lost it by about three or four places or something like that [ N.B. competition for the few places available in Ireland was ferocious] . Of course, you couldn’t go to university, because uh, there was no money. There was no money. Because me mother was over here, working; me father had fucked off, like. And there was no-one there [in Ireland]. So, I [had] come over here, anyway.
I worked in Leicester, and that was more or less me base. Then I come down [to London] to work for me father’s sister, who had a pub in Walthamstow. Her husband had a heart attack, so she rang up Leicester, “ will ye come down and look after the pub?”. So, I went down. That was six months. Then I was going to stay down here, and I had a girlfriend up in Whipp’s Cross hospital… but I wouldn’t stay. I went back up to Leicester. Back to the office work again.
At that time, there was a big Irish community in Leicester. That’s when you had all the big factories and everything there. You couldn’t go wrong. you could get three jobs in a day if ye wanted. Somebody would pay you five bob or ten bob a week more, and you’d go from one to the other [laughs]. There was so much bloody work, like.
You had a great club up there, St. Pat’s club, opposite the big bus station, and then you had a couple of other, little, Irish clubs, privately run. If ye weren’t Irish, ye didn’t get into them. And most o’ them are still there. Then there was the Corn Exchange [an Irish ballroom]. It got closed down one time. [Laughs] Aw, they’d have a fight on Saturday nights. It was only fun, like, but the police closed it down, anyway.
I used to come down here [London]. When they closed down [the ballroom] in Leicester, then we’d hire out a coach, y’see, at the weekend; and one weekend we’d go to Coventry, and another we’d go to Birmingham New Street — y’know the Harp and the Shamrock [ballrooms], all them ones. Another weekend, we’d come down the M1, because the M1 was just built past Leicester, at that time. Sure, it’s still not finished ! It’s stuck in the middle of bloody Leeds ! Now, when I come here in 1962, all the boys were working on that. That’s why you have so many Irish around Leicester and that area. Jasus, it was great craic !
You couldn’t go wrong.
[The music] That was Country & Western, Larry Cunningham & the Mighty Avons and that kind of music. Big Tom & the Mainliners. They’d come over every weekend; well, you’d have a different one [from Ireland] every weekend. Sure, it used to be lovely when ye’d go in, especially when you got a Cavan band on. You knew every one [band member] and you’d go, “hello lads!”
They were on a good earner, they were surely. Brian Finlay, the drummer with the Mighty Avons, Christ, you want to see what [wealth] he’s got at home!. He won’t ever have to work again!
I worked as a bus conductor — that was only for three months. And by that time, I was eighteen. Then I went to work with Bostik, as a trainee chemist. Everything else in Ireland, we were better educated for, apart from chemistry… All we did was basic physics and chemistry, where as here, they’re more specialised, d’ye see. And, uh, I was LOST. I mean, I’d never heard of mechanics, or anything, and I didn’t even know what they were talking about. Old Newton’s law and everything, I didn’t know nuthin’ about that. Fuck it. So, I stuck it out for a while, nearly a year, then I realised that…[shrugs shoulders].
While we were off two afternoons in the week [on day-release], there was a fella from Wexford, Billy Jameson his name was, me and him , we’d swing off — he was working on the buildings and he’d swing off his job — and we’d go up to the lido, y’know the swimming pool, because all the girls, the trainee nurses would be all there.
I left that job, anyway. I had to, because I didn’t go to the day-release. Then I had a variety of jobs, working in a bar at night, and working in an office during the day. Aw, I did alright, and in 1967, I joined the Army, the Medical Corps.
I [just] decided out of the blue, oh, I’m going to join the fucking army. And I did. I was in the Territorial Army. y’see, first. Y’know the way they give you an IQ test and all that, and they said,
“ Do you want to become an officer? “
And I said, “ No. I’ve come in here to learn and I want a trade. If I walk out, I’ll only be an office boy,” I said, “ the same as I was, before I come in.”
And the fella was from Leitrim, the Colonel that was in charge, he was from Leitrim. So, they give me a trade. I became a radiographer.
I did nine years in the Army. And of course, I got into trouble, over there. Court-Martialed for drinking. Where? Belfast, believe it or not. And I had said, “you can’t send me to Belfast!”
“ Oh, yeah?…. You’re in the bloody ARMY boy, you’ll go where we tell you to go!”
I didn’t like going. But, I was in civvies, anyway, so it didn’t matter. I was in Musgrave Park [hospital]. But I was caught drinking. And you’re not supposed to be drinking, and they classed it as active duty, y’see. And of course, when you get a Court-martial for that, it’s the end of the line. But they couldn’t do nothing about my trade because it was civilian. If there’s an civilian equivalent of an army trade, you go for the civilian one, y’see, and get automatic promotion.
I was in Cyprus, as well. I got married out there. I married a Greek Cypriot. A lovely girl, she was. We had two children, Kate and Earl. And….[a long pause]… she didn’t like England.
“ I no like this England,” she said.
I said, “ well, if you don’t fucking like it, you can go back !”
And she did.
[Sadly] So ended the marriage. And I never had another….[pauses] … like, permanent attachment, since.
So, I come out the Army, and I went up to the Shetlands, and that’s where I started the PROPER drinking. I come all down the east coast, on these pipelines, and in the Shetlands, and everything…
And I worked like that, for I dunno how many years.
Ah, Jesus, … I was up in Aberdeen. Larry Cunningham was playing, and I went and bought a ticket, and I was the only one at the concert! I was tired because it was hard work, then. I had been up half the night before, because we done a double shift. Y’know, we were working through the night — we were doing a road crossing. And I fell asleep. Anyway, the music started and I woke up and I looked around and there was no-one there, only me. And Cunningham come out and he looked down, and he says, “hey, Jim,” he says, “do I have to sing ?”.
I says, “ SING ! Because I come here to hear you ! “ [laughs].
He says, “ I thought we might have a drink together…”
“ Aw, c’mon then, “ I says, and we went to the King’s Bar, next door.
Yeah, there was a hell of a lot of Irishmen in Aberdeen, then. All those pipelines were coming through. It’s like everything else that was built in this country, it’s the Irishmen that do it: the sewers, the roads, the bridges, the railways. You think about it. You had a few Scots there, and a few English, but the majority was Irish. I mean, down to the welders and everything, they were. Most o’ them were trained in Harland & Wolffs’ and that.
The money was good, but it had to be good, to travel. If the money wasn’t there, you didn’t travel. Ipswich was the worst town I ever worked in. They don’t like outsiders there — they might accept you after twenty years, maybe. I worked on that big bridge there, on the river Orwell, on the M12. I worked on that bridge. Jasus, it was a great job ! There was some [lots of] money on that, and all I had to do was…. I was working from six o’clock at night, till six in the morning, and all I had to do was set me clocks. You had to set them different every night, for the tides would change. When the tide came in, [my alarm clock awoke me ] I put a button on, y’know, for a coffer dam. I was just in charge of the coffer dam. That was the 6" pump to start going, then, when the tide was getting a bit higher, and I had me head down again, BBBZZZZ, another alarm clock going, and I’d start another pump going. That was it till six in the morning.
The first time I was ever made redundant was five years ago. Now, before that, ye could walk out of one job and into another one. But, that time when I was made redundant, I couldn’t get no work; whether it was because I was coming up to the fifty mark… Whether it was that, whatever, there was just no work going at that time. I wasn’t the only one out of work.
[Jim didn’t go back to his career as a radiographer, because…] All these new things came in, ultrasound, and everything, all these new things, and I had been wandering around for so long, I hadn’t kept pace with it. That was the time I should have stayed in it. Now, I can still go and do the basic radiography. Y’know, just taking broken arms and legs, kidney examinations and cardiovascular examinations, I could still do that. Once you’ve done it, you never forget it, because you learn it so well, because there’s somebody’s life at stake. But, naw, I thought about it a coupla times, but once you’re out, it’s hard to get back in.
Me mother found me in Edinburgh. I stayed with her for a while. She had cancer. I was suspicious of her; she wouldn’t tell me nuthin’ about it, but I KNEW, because I had worked in a cancer hospital. I had a good idea what was going on. The next thing, I heard she was goin’ home to Dublin. That’s where me sister lives, y’know, because there’s no-one left in Cavan. There’s no-one there any more. So, up until she died, I went home regularly, all the time. Then, when she died, I just stopped going home.
I was working in Boodles Club, opposite the Carlton Club, the one that got bombed. I stuck it out for a year. They gave me £2,100 bonus. That’s where I was when my mother died. The secretary — who is the kind of manager — said, “did ye get that phone call ?”
I says, “ aye, I was expecting it. I was just waiting”.
“ Are you going home [to Ireland] ? “.
“ No”.
It was a Monday morning, and not having a phone number for me sister to get in contact with me, she had to wait till I come in on the Monday morning, and I didn’t start till 9.30. She died on a Friday, y’see, and was buried on a Monday morning. And this was the Monday morning when I got there. It [the secretary /manager] was a fella from Belfast, Gilster, and this man — y’know the way they are at home, killing each other right, left and bloody centre — that man was a Prod [Protestant]. And one of the best men I ever met.
But I never lost contact [with my family]… until I moved in here [Arlington House]. Because, my nephew, he works in Ladbroke Grove, but uh, I wouldn’t like to tell him [where I’m staying]:
“ Ah, you’re living in a fucking doss-house !” [laughs grimly]. So, what can you say ?
But naw, it’s not so bad. There’s a black fella down the road there, and he’s a good lad, and he says, “ what can I do to get into Arlington House?”
I mean, I just got out of hospital there; y’know I had a stroke. Thank God I was sober. I spent a lot of time down in the Middlesex hospital. The only one who come down to see me was that Peter, the Kildare fella. He come down every bloody day, he come down. And he got a telling-off, because they blamed him for giving me a cigarette. You’re not supposed to smoke.
Look, if I had the money, I’d go back to Ireland, tomorrow. I don’t want to walk in and worry Mary [his sister]. She’s all I have left. I know my uncle Liam is there, and I love him, too, but I don’t want Mary to see me having this stroke. Because, me leg is still not right. I’m getting the movement back in me hand, apart from the writing. I’m very slow at the writing. I was paralysed completely down this [right] side. The twenty-seventh of August, I had this stroke. The consultant in the Middlesex [hospital] said:
“ I don’t think you’ll walk on that leg again “.
“ BOLLIX,” I said, “ I’ll walk out of here ! “.
And I DID. It’s mind over matter.
No, I can’t go back to Cavan, anyway. Because they found out, y’see, that I was in the British Army. It’s quiet now [the ‘troubles’ in Ireland], but how long is it going to last ?
I was offered a flat out of here, but what if I had another stroke? I’ve got to be somewhere where somebody is, keeping an eye on me, like. I don’t depend on the staff. It’s the people that’s in here. They’re nearly all Irish along here, and I know every one o’ them, and they always knock the door, “y’alright, Jim?”, and that. The staff come round every morning, y’know, the death-watch, knock on the door to see if you’re alive or dead. But, then you have other friends that’ll come and look for ye. You don’t have to worry about food or grub or anything, you just go downstairs and they have the best of food there, and cheap. What more d’ye want ? There’s an off-licence ‘round the corner, but I’m not supposed to be drinking [laughs].
I’ve got one sister at home in Ireland, and an uncle. Everyone else is gone. But sure I can’t talk to Mary; if I tole Mary about where I am, she’d go bloody crazy:
“ You’re living inna fucking doss-house ! Get away from that ! “.
But since I come in here [the hostel] I been okay.
I came here in January. I knew a lot [of the hostel residents] before I come in, but one a them died there. I was annoyed [saddened] about that. Just after I come out a hospital, ‘oul Mossey died. He was from south Tipperary, around that area. Poor ‘oul Mossey — a good ‘oul character, he was, y’know, wouldn’t say boo to a goose, never said nuthin’ to nobody.
Poor fucker.
This interview was completed in Arlington House hostel, 1998.
