With much talk of keeping warm following Storm Éowyn, memories flooded back about growing up in Ireland and the rituals and hard work associated with keeping the home fires burning.
“In the future people will marvel at us having an open fire pit in the living room”, the Mother would say, as she hurled on another shovel of the black stuff. Best-quality Polish coal that was.
The rhythm and tempo of my Dublin childhood was punctuated with the sounds and rituals of keeping warm. I was also reminded of this when reading Claire Keegan’s exquisite tale Small Things Like These.
Set in 1985, protagonist Bill Furlong the coal and timber merchant is predictably busy in winter. The bleakness of it all so very apparent.
All fired up – Ita O’Kelly on keeping the homes fires burning
‘A man of remarkable presence’: The physician and poet who gave his name to the Sigerson Cup
The Real McCabe - Frank McNally on a great (and much-married) American newspaper columnist
Comic Stripped - Frank McNally on the cancellation of P.G. Wodehouse
While roaring log fires were an occasional occurrence in our family home growing up, coal was the preferred option. In late September each year, half a tonne of coal would be ceremoniously delivered. I dreaded fuel delivery day.
As the first bags hit the concrete of the shed floor, the thundering noise was deafening at first. Gradually it became more muffled as the shed filled up.
My job was to hold the hall door to protect the precious panels of glass, as the wind whistled through the fully opened back door.
Men with sooty faces and wheezy breathing delivered the coal on their lean backs. Sometimes they wore a dusty cap. As they passed me at the hall door, they would dip their gaze to the ground, presumably because I was female. The boss man was called Mr Coffey and occasionally he muttered indecipherable things to nobody in particular, as he exited the house.
As each bag was emptied, it was laid flat in the back yard so that the householder could clearly see how many had been delivered.
The last bag to be delivered was something we children regarded as positively evil. It was called slack. It was small broken pieces of coal that were dampened in a witch’s-style metal bucket. To us it was simply “The Cauldron”. This was used to slow the fuel consumption down. It had the effect of turning a blazing hot fire into a cool, smouldering hissing affair that we hated. The Mother derived much pleasure from this cost-saving measure that freed up the couch of children toasting their stockinged feet instantaneously.
Looking back, I marvel at the sheer work of simply staying warm in an old house. The lighting of the fire, occasionally hit and miss, was a daily and arduous ritual which was preceded by clearing out the embers and ash from the previous day.
Rolls of newspaper were fashioned into long tubes that were then knotted into tight bundles. Small pieces of kindling wood were then carefully criss-crossed atop. Finally, the smallest nuggets of coal were selected with the fire tongs, and strategically placed on top. It was an art form.
The fire irons had to be cleaned, the brass fender had to be shined and the copper and brass coal scuttle had to be buffed regularly or else it turned green.
Long tapered matches kept on the left hand side of the mantelpiece completed the picture.
The short straw went to the household member whose job it was to bring in the coal for that day.
At the heart of all of this was a frugality, proudly embraced. Waste, even though there was plenty, was simply frowned upon.
Bedroom windows were kept open all year round because fresh air was considered healthy. We didn’t question it.
I still cannot forget the plumber who once suggested to me that I should consider placing radiators in the daughter’s wardrobe, so that her clothes would be warm when putting them on in the morning. Such decadence!
While living abroad, I returned to my mother’s house when she was older and was shocked at how cold it felt to adult me.
I installed storage heaters, without her knowledge or permission.
She listened politely when I explained how her new heating worked. A look of alarm crept across her face when she learned that they could not be turned off, precisely why I had chosen them.
I like to think that she secretly enjoyed the pleasing room temperatures they delivered.
By contrast my daughter – a young woman who is usually stylishly attired in arguably lightweight clothing – has no tolerance for being anything but warm and toasty. The heating is never spared.
I wonder how we use all that extra time saved from keeping the home fires lit and burning?
I suspect the glow from a phone screen, albeit in a cosy, hermetically sealed room, can simply never match the true warmth of a real coal fire.
Mind you, back then we didn’t concern ourselves with the fact that our chimney pots were belching out putrid black smoke and contributing to an endless and unhealthy smog during winter months.
