Acting my shoe size not my age on a bus

STORIES about children being asked to keep quiet about their real age reminded me of our annual pilgrimage to visit Grandma at her farm in Co. Mayo in 1973. I was 13, but Mother pretended I was five! We always took the night crossing, the 10.30pm cattle boat from Liverpool to Dublin. I can still see all the cows huddled together, mooing noisily, their big eyes sizing me suspiciously as I got onto what they considered to be their boat. To have travelled to Ireland in the dark, setting off across the Irish Sea by the light of the moon, is unforgettable. We disembarked in Dublin at dawn, then took the train west. Mother bustled us into the cramped train loo for a quick swill in the tiny sink and to change into our Sunday best. As a switched on teenager, my outfit was a Ben Sherman shirt, two-tone trousers and a Marc Bolan scarf tied around my wrist. Togged up in our finery, the treat was to go to the restaurant carriage and sit at a table draped in a crisp, white linen tablecloth and have toasted crumpets dripping in butter, a full Irish breakfast for Mother and strong, sweet tea served from a fancy teapot. Arriving in Ballyhaunis to the sweet smell of turf, we’d take the last leg of our journey by bus. There were no bus stops — people would just stand at the side of the country roads with a chicken or two under their arms and stick out their leg to flag one down! Mother clambered up the steps of the bus to the driver and offered payment for only one person, despite being accompanied by me and my ten-year-old sister Jane. When the driver queried how old we were, Mother pointed at me and my sister in turn and said: ‘She’s five and she’s two.’ Children aged five and under travelled free. The driver shook his head, accepted her payment and, with a knowing smile, nodded towards the back of the bus and said: ‘Get on, ye durty pack.’