The partition of Ireland on 3 May 1921 was intended to solve the ‘Irish problem’. In our series on the legacy of a divided Ireland, an English-born writer reflects on her rediscovery of her Irish roots
I am 13 years old, sophisticated by my own estimation, yet childish enough to still want to buy sweets. I have been counting pennies to buy liquorice Black Jacks and tangy Fruit Salads at the local newsagent’s shop, planning to scoff them on the way home from school. Sweety pleasures have been enjoyed in this shop over many years, and I know the family serving behind the counter.
But this day is different. The newsagent has spotted me and comes out of his shop to bar my entry. Tells me I can’t come in. When I ask why (had there been some kind of accident?), he simply says: “Your lot are not welcome here.” My lot? Then, finally, the sweet-penny dropped. “My lot” were Irish. He knew my lot were Irish because I wore a school uniform from a Catholic school. I could, of course, have been Scottish, Polish, English or Spanish (the school was multicultural) but that wouldn’t have mattered. The predominant ethnic strain at Bishop Ullathorne comprehensive school in Coventry was Irish, and on that day, down at the so-familiar shop, this man didn’t want anything to do with me or the tribe to which I belonged.
