John Peter FitzGerald (1889)
[Daddy Jack]
John FitzGerald [always called Jack], was born on 15th July 1889, the only son of Tramore man Nicholas FitzGerald (1863) a tailor, and his wife, Ellen Grant of Gas House Lane, Waterford. The couple lived in John Street at the time of the birth but were to move home several times in the coming years. They finally settled at 11 St. Alphonsus Road, Waterford, where Nicholas died in 1942. In the meantime, they were to be found at Ballytruckle (1895-99), Old Waterford Road in 1901 and Grange Terrace in 1902.
Despite several further pregnancies, Jack was Ellen Grant’s only surviving child. Whilst living at Grange Terrace, she died in childbirth, aged 38, in 1902. Nicholas was not to remain a single parent for long. Within two years, in 1904, he had married Margaret Doonican. By the end of that year, Jack had a sister, Mary Christine [Maureen]. Another, Catherine [Kathleen] followed within two years before a brother, Nicholas, finally arrived in 1913. By then Jack, at nearly 24, was getting ready to fly the nest. According to the 1911 Census, Jack and his father were both tailors, most likely working in partnership at St Alphonsus Road.
Jack was educated by the Christian Brothers at Mount Sion School. This would have been the rudimentary primary education received by the great majority of boys in Waterford in the late 19th/early 20th Century. The choice of schools for Catholic boys was limited, with only Mount Sion and the recently established De La Salle School at Stephen Street. Neither of these was located in St. John’s parish where Jack lived. Nevertheless, he was clearly happy at school because he remained a dedicated “Mount Sion Man”, for many years taking part in various group activities in support of the Brothers and their mission.
Catherine Landers was born on 27th January 1885 at Newports Lane, Waterford to John Landers and Catherine Grant. By the 1901 Census, her family name had changed to Delandre. At that stage, aged 16, she was described as a laundress. Her mother, Catherine Grant, died in December 1904, her father following within the year in 1905. By the time of the 1911 Census, Catherine was to be found working as a housemaid at 21 Harley House, Marylebone, London.
On 4th October 1915, at Ballybricken, Catherine [Catty] was married to Jack FitzGerald. On the marriage certificate, Catty’s surname and that of her father were given as Delandre. Her address was given as Shortcourse, where her sister Mary ran a shop in conjunction with their aunt Margaret Maher (née Grant).
Jack’s half-uncle (being his stepmother Margaret’s brother), Michael Doonican (1883) was a witness at the wedding. Jack and Catty went to live at Mount Sion Avenue, where their first daughter, Ellen (baptised as Helen but always called Nellie), was born in October 1916. An only son, John was born in January 1919. He was followed by Catherine [Kitty] in June 1921.
Catty’s unmarried sister Mary, with whom she managed the shop, died in December 1923. Mary was then living at the Shortcourse shop with their aunt Margaret Maher. Following Mary’s death, Jack moved his family to live at the shop with Catty’s elderly aunt. There, in November 1924, a fourth child, Margaret Mary [Peggy] was born to John and Catty.
At this stage, Jack had several “sewing partners”, as he called them. His father, Nicholas may have been one of them for a while, although St Alphonsus Road was a long hike from Mount Sion Avenue or even Shortcourse, with no transport. Practically all of men’s formal tailoring was bespoke; the concept of off-the-peg suits was no more than a twinkle in the eye of one Mr Burton, which would later make him rich. The nature of bespoke tailoring has changed little over the centuries. The customer gave the tailor some indication of his needs and budget. From a range of sample materials and “trimmings” carried by the tailor, he made recommendations, based on budget and intended customer use; most often, this would be for his “Sunday Best”. A deal having been made, the customer was measured in detail, the agreed materials purchased and the manufacturing process commenced. Within a week or two, the customer returned to the tailor’s premises for his first “baste” fitting of the coat (– always “the coat”, never “the jacket” -) of the suit. Re-fitting, re-adjusting and re-sewing continued several times, as necessary until a perfect fit was achieved.
In practice at the time and indeed today the process usually involved several specialist tailors working together. The “the cutter” was, and remains, “the main man”. He measured the customer and made stiff card templates of each panel going to make up the final garment. These templates, unique to the customer, could be re-used, adjusted as necessary, for many years. After the cutter, the most senior tradesman was the “coat-maker”. Some top tailors would never make anything but coats; other elements being farmed out. Less experienced artisans made the trousers. The apprentices carried out the initial stitching of the garment. Tailors working in loose partnerships, as Jack did, would pass the coats vests and trousers back and forth between them, depending on the specialities of each.
To complete the suit and to improve its durability, Jack made up special linen threads, drawn through a piece of special wax. With these, the “wearing” parts of the suit (trousers seat, shoulders and arms of the coat) were re-sewn. Those threads ensured the suit would not distort, even when drenched by rain and would wear for many years. The buttons were sewn on using linen thread for durability. Finally, decorative pick-stitching was applied to the lapels and pocket flaps. The object here was to make a discreet spectacle of the tailoring skills deployed. A bespoke suit was, for many men of the time, a once-in-a-lifetime investment, which must last accordingly. It was therefore common that, after 20 years or so, a customer would return to the tailor to have his suit “turned”. There’s a ‘right side’ to every manufactured cloth, that is the ‘outside’ face. After many years, as this face wears, the garment may be dismantled and re-made with the ‘wrong’ side out, thus giving many more years of wear to its owner at a cost far less than that of a new suit. An even more common adaptation was the “double seat”. Obviously, the trousers received much heavier wear and tear than the coat. A common solution was to add an extra curved panel to the seat so that it seemed more feature than patch.
We have no proper records but it is assumed that Jack worked above the shop, which Catty tended, perhaps with the aid of her aunt Margaret. A few years after Peggy’s birth, Catty became pregnant again but of course that would not have prevented her from continuing to tend and re-stock the shop, besides managing the household, four children and her husband. Her daughter Kitty told me a story of an event that occurred at some stage during that pregnancy, which would have far-reaching consequences.
The little six-year-old girl was playing in the kitchen of as her mother went about doing the laundry. There were no washing machines, of course. The clothes were ‘boiled’ in a large pot on the range, then removed to a washing tub where they were scrubbed on a washing board before rinsing and drying on an outside line. Catty wore long skirts, as was the fashion of the day. Kitty swung out of those skirts as she ran around her mother, who was just then lifting a boiling pot off the range. In the result, the pregnant mother toppled over and fell to the floor. Kitty said she spent the rest of her confinement in bed. At some point she had a miscarriage or, as Kitty said, a stillbirth. At any rate, she died as a result. Kitty said that mother and baby were buried in the same coffin.
Kitty was known to have a phenomenal memory and I have no doubt she told me what she believed to be true. However, the recorded circumstances of Catty’s death cast doubt on some of the detail of Kitty’s story. Catty died in the Infirmary of “bronchial pneumonia following abortion ” on 15th June 1928, just a week after Kitty’s seventh birthday. It may be inferred from the stated cause of death that she did not die immediately after the miscarriage and so would not have been buried with the baby. Nevertheless, Kitty shouldered the blame (if such there was) for her mother’s death. Thereafter, she dedicated her life to the care of her father.
Jack never discussed with me the circumstances of his wife’s death. He did comment that he could not continue with the shop due to debts primarily caused by Catty’s failure to record details of some credit she had extended to her customers. It followed that those customers could not be pursued for those untrecorded debts. We know that the family left Shortcourse and moved back to Mount Sion Avenue at some point. However, again there is some question as to exact timing of the closing of the shop and the move back to Mount Sion Avenue. Catty’s aunt Margaret outlived her by some 18 months. The family would be unlikely to have left the old woman alone at the shop. Further, some years later in 1932, Nellie (then described as a shopkeeper) was a witness in a court case where a man was tried for passing counterfeit money. The possibility here is that Nellie, 12 when her mother died, may have continued to help her great-aunt in the shop until the latter died in 1930 and then continued alone for some years. However, these propositions go contrary to Daddy Jack’s story that he sold the shop shortly after Catty´s death.
Jack continued with his tailoring business from the house at Mount Sion Avenue and later from the Monastery Street house, where they moved after the war. It was in Monastery Street that we, his grandchildren got to know him. To his grandchildren and indeed to many others besides, he was known as Daddy Jack. He seemed to enjoy the sobriquet. Although he suffered a stroke not long after moving to Monastery Street, he continued with his tailoring business. Most notably perhaps, he made clothes for many of the De La Salle Brothers; ironic, since he was such a dedicated Mount Sion man. There was and there remains strong academic and sporting rivalry between De La Salle and Mount Sion, especially amongst their respective past-pupils. My brother and I went to De La Salle schools. Daddy Jack liked to pull our legs about the various Brothers, who he thought would be “cross”. One, Brother James, taught at St. Declan’s school when I was there. His class was a couple of years ahead of mine. The layout of the school building was such that we had to pass through his classroom to gain access to ours. Two classrooms led off Bro. James’ large room. I suppose he got fed up with boys coming in late and traipsing through to the other rooms at the back, disturbing his lessons. I was an occasional transgressor. In those days, corporal punishment was doled out for the most minor infractions, for instance, being late for class. So, every time I was late, I got walloped by my own teacher, the sainted Bro. Xavier. One day as I scuttled by behind the blackboards propped on their easels, hugging the perimeter wainscotting on my way to the door in the right rear corner, Bro. James extended a long arm, grabbed me deftly by the ear and lifted me off my feet by both ears (greatly to the amusement of his pupils, who teased me for years afterwards), admonishing me to be more punctual. If not, he’d have a word with “Granddaddy Jack”.
That incident would have been in 1957-58. Daddy Jack continued to work for those brothers for another 5-6 years, by which time I was at De La Salle College, where I met some more of his customers. By then I was a bit big to be lifted by the ears but by no means too big to receive the contents of the cane or strap on a regular basis. That said, I was one of the better students and my worst enemy would not have accused me of being cheeky or disruptive.
In those days, school uniforms were de riguer on certain occasions. One such occasion was for First Holy Communion and another later for Confirmation. The boys’ uniform comprised the St. Declan’s blazer over long white (actually cream for truly white cloth didn’t exist back then) trousers. There were 52 boys in my class making their First Holy Communion in June 1957. Of these, 51 wore the approved uniform, the odd one out wore a new dark grey suit made by his grandfather. My brother’s turn came in 1959 but by then there were several suit wearers in the line-up. Daddy Jack maintained that the suit he made for my brother Gerry was his finest piece of tailoring. Indeed, Gerry’s tweedy brown suit was so widely admired, it may have boosted Daddy Jack’s client list among the De La Salle Brothers. A curiosity of those short-trouser suits was the three buttons sewn onto the ends of the legs, as though they were sleeves. I never saw that arrangement on any other suit but I was told that was “the proper way”. I recently saw a copy of my Class of 1960 Confirmation photo, which a classmate sent to me. There, I counted 6 boys in suits. It may well be that I started a trend back then – either that or Daddy Jack got a lot of free advertising, for it would not have been possible to buy a suit like that off-the-peg.
What was Daddy Jack like as a person? I only got to know him in his 60s, after he’d had the stroke. Still, he was an impressive looking man. He was reasonably tall for the times (taller than his son) and ramrod straight. I imagine, for there are few photos available, in his youth he would have been burly. He could not be fairly described as timid, either physically or mentally but was self-assured and could be very forthright. In a physiological sense, he was quite different from any of his children. In late middle age, he had rather narrow, sloping shoulders, slim arms and delicate hands, whereas all four of his children developed broad shoulders, with strong arms and hands – but skinny legs. He had a paunch, whereas his son never developed one. He was completely bald and had been from an early age. He never left the house dressed other than impeccably in a three-piece dark grey suit and bowler hat. Sometimes he would wear a pin-striped grey or navy suit but only with the most discreet of stripes. His shirt often had a thin stripe, a tie pin, armlets and plain cufflinks. He wore a deep-red (paisley patterned) pocket handkerchief and, depending on the weather, a tailored overcoat without belt. He never approved of belts. His trousers were always suspended from braces. His socks always matched closely the colour of his suit and never had a pattern of any kind – “too showy” he would say. He wore black Oxford shoes; never brown, with a thin toecap band. He wouldn’t wear shoes decorated by perforations of the leather or the toe-cap – “too showy”. Whenever I visited him in later years, he’d look me up and down, moving his head as he did so, not just his eyes, as though he had fixed vision. He was appraising what I was wearing. So, I could never go there dressed in T-shirt and jeans. He would reach out to test the texture of the cloth and make comment as to its quality or the cut of the lapels. “You bought that suit off-the-peg” he’d say. He could tell by the way a particular seam is commonly made below the side pockets, which was done (so he said) to save on cloth. So, he was always very concerned about appearances: ‘…for the apparel oft proclaims the man…’.
One of his lower legs was swollen, possibly from many years of sitting cross-legged on the floor. In any case, that “big leg” as he called it, was somewhat weak and so he carried a walking stick. One such stick had a bit of history. Peggy married a small farmer, Mick Duggan, ‘over the bridge’ in Co. Kilkenny, where I spend many holidays in my mid-teens. Mick had a cousin, Pat Carroll, an even smaller farmer who lived nearby. Pat was a genial character, a bachelor full of tall stories. He shared the tiny whitewashed thatched farmhouse with a blind uncle, Neddy Mason (a wonderful storyteller; a “shanachie”) and his sister May, a delightful person, full of interest in all the family and what we were up to. She had only met my mother a handful of times yet she seemed to know her like a sister. May had a fabulously detailed memory, the envy of any elephant I ever met. The pair of them couldn’t have made a living out of that tiny farm alone. So Pat was an occasional postman, barber and thatcher but he could turn his hand to any job. He heard that Daddy Jack needed a new walking stick. He said: “I’ll grow one for him”!
Among his many and diverse pursuits, Pat was into coppicing. He selected a new strong shoot from some hazel rootstock. He attached some wire to the stem, then tied up the wire, ensuring it would grow vertically rather than in the more natural curve. As it grew, which it did quickly, he coiled the wire again and again round the shoot until it was about 3 ft tall. Then he let it grow straight. As the stem thickened, so the wire held fast, creating an attractive bulbous wreath in the middle of the stick. Pat cut out the shoot, trimmed it to length and polished it, retaining the bark. To this he affixed Daddy Jack’s favourite handle and rubber sole-piece. The old man was thrilled with his unique walking stick. He can be seen carrying it in photos of Kaye’s wedding in 1967. That stick passed to his son and, in due course, to me. Happily, I haven’t had the need to use it for its intended purpose but I treasure it for the memory of two men, very different in character, who’s company I thoroughly enjoyed in my youth.
Indoors, Daddy Jack was more relaxed but nevertheless he usually wore a collar and tie plus the ubiquitous armlets. He smoked a meerschaum-lined pipe, which he would swap over every other day. He used plug tobacco, from which he would carve a small quantity with a special penknife. He then massaged the tobacco between his palms until it came apart, forming suitably loose flakes. The resultant product he then loaded into the ‘pipe-for-the-day’, one of several he kept parked on the dado rail over the wainscotting surrounding the living room. Lighting the pipe properly was a further ritual. None of the above was done in a hurry, nor would he permit questions or queries until the pipe was well lit. At that stage he could be engaged in a calm discussion on the merits and demerits of different pipes, tobaccos, etc. My father once observed: “there’s a lot more to pipe smoking than just smoking a pipe”! As with all such conversations, calm prevailed. He would discuss but not debate. In debate, he was rather intolerant, possibly a bit of a bully.
Until late middle age, Daddy Jack was indulged and cossetted by three daughters. Nevertheless, he could hold his own over a stove. Indeed, he may have cooked the majority of the family’s main weekday meals. We’re not talking haute cuisine here but home cooking, comfort food style. Due to its two meat factories, Waterford people could enjoy some offal meat not generally available elsewhere. Tripe was a favourite delicacy of his, boiled in milk, with onions. Pig’s head was boiled with cabbage. Backbones and tails made a wonderful stew. I marvelled to see him treat a pig’s tail like a harmonica. The city’s favourite comfort food and greatest treat was the crúbín (‘crewbeans’ - pigs’ trotters). Elsewhere, queues form for Fish & Chips after the pubs close. In Waterford they line up for crúbíns. Had he made a career of it, Daddy Jack may have been dubbed “Crúbín Master”
He loved to listen to the wireless. His favourite sport was cricket, as described by John Arlott. My father used to say that cricket was described, not commentated upon as in the case of hurling or football. I spent many an hour sitting with him, listening to the cricket, with barely a comment unless a wicket fell. At other times we would converse, he sitting in the growing darkness and I, perched on a stool at the other side of the fireplace. He would not switch on the room light until Kitty came home from work at about 6:00pm. It was not possible to ‘push’ a conversation while he considered a point or contemplated a reply; he could become very ratty if pressed on any topic. The overall impression was of a man who enjoyed peace and quiet and woe betide anyone who disturbed the calm or challenged his authority.
He regularly visited Mordants, a local pub, where he drank pints of Guinness. Actually, the pub was not very local to Monastery Street but was closer to one of his pals, Paddy Whittle, the Undertaker. The Waterford Undertakers back then must have clubbed together and bought a job-lot of American hearses. All of them, including Paddy Whittle, ran 1950 model year Buick Roadmaster hearses. Paddy and Jack would enjoy a chat in Paddy’s yard where he kept his hearse and other cars and then went for a pint or two in this small, quiet pub. In Mordants, the customers preferred conversation to television, which had begun to appear in other pubs. As he got older, Daddy Jack struggled to walk home afterwards, even with the aid of his special stick and so the owner of the pub, Rita Mordant, would drive him home after closing. This went on for many years, so his custom was clearly appreciated.
Apart from his famous stroke, (which, truthfully, would have gone un-noticed by me had people not made occasional reference to it) he enjoyed very good health. He did, however, suffer tremendously from piles, I was told. This wasn’t a topic he chose to discuss with me but he made occasional oblique references to it. Although I didn’t see much of him during the last three years of his life, my understanding is that he remained strong until a few weeks before he died.
Notwithstanding his rather meager education, he was a man possessed of fine intelligence, acute perspicacity and razor-sharp wit. He had no discernible sense of humour. He never told jokes and never seemed to appreciate them when told by others, especially if they were even mildly ‘coloured’. If he didn’t tell jokes, he wasn’t above making amusing tongue-in-cheek comments. I once asked him where he went on honeymoon. “Honeymoon” says he “I told Catty to go home and get the breakfast ready and I’d be home later”. He didn’t make outward jibes, yet he was a master of sarcasm. My father said that his father’s tongue was a fearful weapon, for he had a prodigious memory, self-assurance and the presence of mind to formulate and present his case concisely. He never rambled in speech but managed a remarkable rhetoric with which to draw up short any opposing argument. He spoke forcefully but not loudly. He was not bad-humoured; far from it, he liked to be amused by the antics of children but not if they were permitted to “kick up a racket”.
He had no money, of course but he could be generous with certain charities or causes. There was a tradition in those days on the morning of St Stephen’s Day (26th December) local boys would knock on doors to collect money, ostensibly to “bury the wren”. As a prelude, they would dress up somewhat like a scarecrow with straw hat and carrying aloft a twig of berried holly, they would sing the song to “The Wren, King of all birds…” then, knocking on the door they would sing to the household, ending with:-“Mr/Mrs X, he is a good man (repeatedly) …who always gives us something”. Early that morning, Daddy Jack would line up a row of pennies on the wainscotting in the hallway for the “Wrenboys” (pronounced ‘ranboys’).
For a man who never had money or anything of tangible value, he still left a Will. He “left” the house “and all in it” to Kitty. However, the house was in fact rented. Kitty later bought that house and Willed it in due course to one of Peggy’s daughters.
His language was uncommonly moderate. Although he voted Fine Gael, he was not politically active not did I ever hear him debate current political affairs. However, on the rare occasion the name of De Valera was mentioned, one was left in no doubt as to his disapproval of that long-lived Irish statesman who, he claimed, was afraid to die and so “meet his Maker”.
He was a Catholic, naturally and devout but no more so than most of his generation. His parish was Ballybricken, of which he was very proud. He had grown up in St John’s but I believe he thought many of the people there were “a bit uppity”. In truth, the wealthier areas of the city were in St John’s parish but so also were some of the poorer ones. He was a great supporter of Ballybricken’s efforts to build a new Church and helped with fundraising, which culminated in 1953 in the opening of the “New Church”; The Holy Family. Years later, this would become a Parish Church in its own right.
He had a mild fixation with his own death. Kitty must have taken this somewhat seriously for she took out a “shilling policy” on his life. Although it shouldn’t be possible to insure the life of another, nevertheless, it was common for people to take out a policy to meet funeral expenses. Kitty would rue the day she “put a shilling on ‘me Daddy’” for he far outlived the latest date, which would have made payment of the premiums worthwhile. He wanted to be buried in Ballybricken Churchyard cemetery and to this end, he purchased a single plot grave. Based on his support for the parish over many years, he anticipated there would be no charge for the plot. He was wrong, for they charged him £5 for the plot, about which he complained for as long as I knew him. He was buried there after the end of his long life of 87 years. Indeed, that grave was a bargain in the end for two of his daughters followed him into it in due course.