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Pat Smyth, a civil servant with the National Assistance Board in West Tyrone from the 1930's to the 1950's, recalls his memories, experiences and the larger than life personalities he encountered on the way.
One of my most regular correspondents with requests for help for needy people was 'James McCullagh' of Magheragart, Dromore (That's not his real name). He did scribe for his whole parish and his letters were a joy to read. The style was always courteous but firm, the grammar impeccable and the handwriting copperplate. Once when I was in the area with the regular visiting officer the latter showed me where James lived and suggested that I should drop in and meet the old man.
When I was introduced I found that James' personality matched his writing. It was a pleasure to meet him but the timing of our call wasn't the best. When he had introduced his brother, he pointed to the pot of potatoes boiling in the three-legged pot hanging from a crook over the fire on the hearth and apologised for having to eat dinner.
He took the pot outside and drained off the water, while his brother picked up a folded jute sack from the dresser and placed it still folded, on the bare deal table. It was clean but well smoked. Then he placed the broken off stump of a white, fluted, delph jam jar containing salt on the tale as well. Finally, he took two tin beakers off hooks on the dresser, filled each from a crock of buttermilk standing on a stool nearby and took his seat at one side of the table.
James came in with the spuds, tipped them up in a heap on the pad of sacking on the table, laid the pot on the hearth and took his seat opposite his brother. Immediately each peeled a potato with his fingers, dipped it in the salt and got on with the meal, washing the potatoes down with sips of buttermilk - 'no kitchen' is the traditional Tyrone term for a meal without eggs, meat or fish.
This was the only time I witnessed this particular style of dining - one which probably had not changed for generations as far as these two aged men were concerned. They were both in their late eighties.
Two other people very often contacted me with requests for help for needy people. One was Mrs. Bradley of Fintona, President of the Ladies of Charity. The other was Canon Maltby. We built up a close rapport over the years. Mostly, it was done by telephone but both called personally on occasions. In fact, Rev. Malby was a regular and very welcome visitor, as he always got his facts straight.
Mrs. Bradley was more soft hearted than down-to-earth in her expectations of what we could or should do for the feckless. When Pat and I went dancing at Fintona the Bradley family always provided some supper - very kind and hospitable people.
The staff had a good working relationship with a legion of charitable organisations. When members came in with 'a fairy tale', which they had swallowed, we always refrained from revealing our side of the story until they brought the client in and we got his/her permission to discuss the case history.
It was amusing to note the reaction of some over-enthusiastic and gullible do-gooders to a recital of the true facts of a case about which they had been led up the garden path. Generally, one such lesson cured their gullibility for good.
Canon Maltby I recall was held in particularly high esteem by the Gormley family of Ballygawley who had a public house and other business premises. A fire broke out down the yard in a store which housed metal drums containing paraffin oil and petrol and but for prompt and courageous action by Rev. Maltby, a conflagration would have occurred.
He happened to be around wearing heavy leather gauntlets and was able to roll out the hot metal drums in the nick of time. Canon Maltby rode a motorbike during the war. When petrol was rationed many business people with motor vehicles stored petrol on their premises as coupons had to be used before their expiry date.
Pat Smyth, 2001
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