Most of the country’s public services, from airports to schools, were closed by a one-day strike in 1985 as public sector unions protested against the Fine Gael-Labour government’s attempts to curb payments and State spending. The success of the protests was seen as a victory by the unions’ leaderships who had been accused by government ministers of being more militant than their members. Mary Cummins assessed the mood on the streets of Dublin.
‘I CAN’T believe it.” The man in the dark blue pin-striped suit and myself stared in disbelief at the locked gate of St Stephen’s Green and then peered longingly over it. Inside, the ducks were swishing along the top of the pond in perfect peace. Beyond them the walks, the benches, the green grassy patches were empty. Already the trees seemed to be leaning inwards, protectively. It had already assumed a secretive air.
“In 35 years I’ve never known it closed,” said the man in the pin-striped suit, perplexed. He held up his briefcase. “I’ve got my sandwiches here. I come every day – when it’s fine, of course.” He looked around, bewildered. “They never said anything about the Green being closed.”
The day of the big strike was a bewildering, unreal day. The sun beamed down benignly. It could have been spring or August or abroad.
Across from the Green, the dispossessed young people converged on the steps of the tall Georgian houses.The traffic was less frantic; people crossed the road at unauthorised places and the cars didn’t shriek at them. A woman in a newsagent’s indulgently took 20p off the second-last sandwich for me: “They’ve been there all morning,” she said. In the bus, the conductor didn’t bother to collect the fares on the last leg.
Grafton Street was packed with idling, strolling crowds, and inside the shops it was as busy as December 8th. Women on their own, or holding onto children. In Middle Abbey Street it seemed as if every schoolchild in Dublin was queuing for the pictures. Up from them, in O’Connell Street, their muinteoirí snaked past in what seemed like a never-ending march.
Out of the morass of city buildings, the ones with Government offices were plucked from anonymity by the pickets, large and small, trundling in circular fashion around the entrance. From Nassau Street, up Kildare Street, around the Green and into Merrion Street, the place was alive with banners and placards.
“Teachers, they make me sick,” said a lean man with glasses, watching the picket outside the Dáil. (In general, people seemed to be blaming teachers rather than any other group of workers.) “I’m tired of seeing my young one at home. If it’s not holy days, then it’s mid-term breaks or special days for Mass. And now they’ve started holding union meetings in the school’s time and sending the kids home. And on top of that they have three long months in the summer.”
Down on the quays the traffic stopped and stayed stopped. People in shirt sleeves got out of their cars and stared into the far distance. “It’s the march,” percolated slowly down the simmering lines. Cars wheeled around in minute spaces and crawled off hopefully up side streets. Anarchy erupted among the defenceless drivers. They turned up one-way streets, charged through red lights, and streaked furiously past “Yield” and “Stop” signs. Eventually, it was possible to get back near the centre and everybody parked to their heart’s content on double and single yellow lines and in loading bays.
Some, who got space with a meter, walked off, leaving the hungry machine moneyless. It was as good as Christmas.