Deep inside was a burning pride

For months beforehand the area was abuzz with the news that some sort of development was going to take place and along with local representatives of the council staff from the Northern Ireland Housing Executive called with each household to explain the final decision for the area.

Residents were informed that the redevelopment would take place in phases and, to allow for this, some of them would have to move out.

Those who agreed to do so were allocated new houses in Lincoln Courts, New Buildings and Tullyally, with the promise that, when it was possible, they could move back to the Fountain.

This was never to happen though, firstly because the new houses were allocated to new families and secondly, because the number of homes built was fewer in number than those that had previously existed.

With the demolition of the little rows of red terraced houses came the demise of the old Fountain and as they were ripped down, so was the soul of a community that could never be replaced.

As it stands now, the Fountain bears little similarity to the area that it replaced and maisonettes stand where the community used to live side by side.

What can never be erased though are the memories and fun from the old days that would mean nothing to anyone from outside the area but were important in the community, particularly among the young.

For many, the day started with Tillie and Henderson's factory horn sounding at a quarter to eight in the morning to inform the employees that they were expected at work.

For those who didn't work in the factories it was a signal that they should be getting ready for their own work or for the young people that they had to get ready for school.

With the second blast at five minutes to eight, the footsteps of those from the Fountain and the Long Tower who worked inside the building could be heard hurrying along the streets.

Some mornings the first chore of the day for some of the younger children was a trip to Colhoun's Bakery at the corner of the Fountain and Bishop Street to buy fresh baps or cookies to have with breakfast.

After knocking on the side door, as the shop itself didn't open until nine, we could buy a dozen of the fresh rolls for two shillings and then run home before they got cold so that their heat would let the butter melt on them.

With breakfast over it was off to school while our parents either went to work or began housework, a chore often needed in the small houses due to the number of people living in them.

And so it continued with no breaks from the routine except at weekends and summer holidays and it was during these sunny months that some of the older children showed their entrepreneur ability by acting as tour guides for the many visitors who came to the city and the city walls in particular.

We would offer our services to those who wanted our services and took them on a very informative tour of the walls and relayed to them the history of the siege and pointed out the various sites of interest such as where Lundy made his escape by climbing down a pear tree or Roaring Meg. Governor Walker was another site that we enjoyed although Tommy Risk, who looked after the monument, would never allow us to go to the top without paying him thruppence no matter how many visitors we brought to him.

All in all the tourists were given a very informative account of the events of the great Siege unless they asked an awkward question. Americans almost always did this and we gave the most exaggerated answer we could and the more grisly the better and were tipped a shilling for our efforts.

This money was spent in Woodcocks, Sammy Hamilton’s or Sandy McGowan’s shop but McGowan’s shop almost always was chosen as he had the biggest display of sweets in his window. Here we would choose from a treasure trove of delicacies – penny dainties, whoppers, rainbow drops, Peggy’s legs and palma violets. After we had chosen and paid for our purchase we had to make a run the gauntlet of his Alsatian dog, Pinza, who barked and growled at us to encourage us to leave the shop.

As far as abiding memories are concerned- those at the front of people’s minds must be the many friendships and, the pigeons.

The pigeons brought adventure into the lives of some residents and became a part of other residents’ lives.

On Saturday afternoons, Jimmy Logan or Raymond Walker would sit expectantly for the first arrivals of their homing pigeons, back to their lofts from a race many miles away.

We would often watch their lofts from our back windows to see them arrive and wondered how they always knew where to come to and if they had won.

Their flight paths however caused more than a little consternation for the woman folk who tried to gauge their laundry times so that the birds did not cause the items to be washed again as they hung out to dry on the wash lines.

In the streets their wild cousins were given crusts and other titbits to eat by residents and so the area became a favourite for them. No one ever thought that perhaps these were the culprits for fouling the laundry.

There were times that we lay on a flat roof near McGowan’s Park opposite Fountain Place and waited for an unsuspecting member of the public to pass below. Depending on what was available we made a concoction of some sort and forming it into a paste we dropped small amounts onto their heads. The pigeons always got the blame.

Among the young people there were also incidents that caused a great deal of consternation at the time such as Pamela Norris’s first attempt to ride a moped. After a lot of pleading for the vehicle’s owner she was allowed to try it out and initially did quite well.

Taking the last corner into the Fountain again Pamela misjudged the turn and was propelled into Colhoun’s Bakery window, the moped as well.

Although it suffered considerable damage, Pamela herself was virtually unscathed but it put us all off buns for a while.

A window was another cause for concern when Linda Woodcock’s boxer dog Buddy jumped through one to follow his mistress when she left him alone in the house.

The dog needed some medical aid but survived the experience and had many more years of adventure before it passed away of natural causes.

Now I won’t divulge any names but I can confirm that the banshee heard and seen in the vicinity of Victoria Street and Major’s Row one winter’s night was of human origin.

It was not a harbinger of doom; merely the efforts of one individual to relieve boredom and reports of a sighting of an ethereal hag on the rooftops of the houses were greatly exaggerated.

Apologies also to the gentleman in Major’s Row for being accused of making the noise while inebriated and trying to sing.

Of course there were times we would open the doors of the local undertaker and shouted in, “any empty boxes?” or tormenting the owners of Battesti’s Caf by placing our orders in our versions of an Italian accent.

Whilst most of our escapades were innocent enough, any reports made to our parents about such goings on brought immediate chastisement in the form of a “good hiding”.

It was wonderful to live in such an extended family but the drawback was that everyone knew everyone else and it was impossible to get away with any mischief, as everyone knew who you were.

Our parents too were not adverse to a little mischief when the occasion allowed and on April Fools Day mayhem was ripe in the area with everyone joining in the fun. A bunch of flowers that sat in Maggie Wright’s front room mysteriously disappeared and was replaced by a shot cabbage.

In Mrs Logan’s hall a complete hall stand disappeared for a full day before reappearing at night and a dinner cooking merrily in a kitchen simply got up and walked.

Coats disappeared from back halls and mysterious messages asking individuals to call with someone happened in every street and when the victim called no one knew what the other was talking about.

By teatime everything was back to normal and while many could make good guesses as to which the perpetrators of the chaos were, nothing was ever proved. Vengeance was vowed for the following year though.

The developer’s machinery spared nothing in the Fountain and everything was doomed for destruction, even the public houses that for many was a sad loss as they were the only place of entertainment available for the adults.

Tommy Martin’s Paradiso Bar was the centre of entertainment for many locals and whilst we were too young to drink or go inside, we youngsters used to stand outside to listen to the music and shouted and sang outside in an attempt to drown the singers on a Friday and Saturday night.

We would then run away as fast as we could when Tommy came outside to chase us away.

By closing time when Irene Wright sang her last chorus of the evening and the patrons joined in to sing “Irene Goodnight”, we knew it was time for home and bed.

Friendships and memories survive long after the physical structures of childhood have been razed to the ground however, and despite the forced move on some, those who remained have kept that same pride and purpose in who they are and where they came from.

Principles instilled in us by our parents and contemporaries have remained and the values we were taught have benefited all of us in the intervening years.

Gone forever are the summer seats where Willie Taylor, Johnny Lorimer and Jim Edgar used to sit and reminisce about their own childhoods and the street lamp at Archibald’s where the Musketeers would stand talking after their “wee nights”.

Gone too is Bella McGahey’s gable with its loyalist mural and Logue’s wall that we climbed in the lead up to the Twelfth and plundered the old wood for the bonfire, and the band shed where the Theiphals would practice.

Other casualties were Jimmy Madden’s house where he would stand at the front step and take a playful swipe at we children with his walking stick if we annoyed him and just opposite his house was Taylor’s lamppost that we used to swing around, oblivious to the fact that we could have been hit by a car.

The little roofed houses, from which the snow fell every winter and sometimes brought down the guttering with it, are no more.

Also gone are the half moon shapes outside the front doors where the women washed the footpaths and the tin roof where we lay to play pranks on the neighbours.

What can never be erased however, are the facts, the Fountain was no more privileged than anywhere else, we struggled and had to work hard to make our living, but it was a great place to live.

The community spirit was strong and the people cared for each other and supported each other through the good and bad times.

While there are critics of the area, only those who lived there and really knew the reality, wear the knowledge that, “we came from the Fountain”, as a badge of pride.