WHEN writing about Moore Street, one thing is certain – it is not easy to capture its sense of movement: two ladies bantering at a stall, a flock of pigeons clucking over breadcrumbs, friends converging at the Paris bakery. The traders see it all in an ever shifting carnival of colour, sound and spectacle.
The last time my father went there to buy fish, I watched as a hungry seagull snatched a big piece of mackerel off the stall and struggled to get airborne before dropping his ambitious meal on the roadway.
Such incidents are commonplace and undoubtedly the Queen of Moore Street, Mary Kavanagh (better known as May Gorman) knew them all. In fact, nothing escaped her notice.
“Wait till I tell you,
? she used to confide to her granddaughter.
“This is between you, me and the wall.
? When she died last month, aged 92, May’s passing was momentous.
At the funeral Mass in St Saviour’s Church, Dominick Street, the Gospel reading summed up two aspects of market life. On one hand, it told the story about how Jesus shared a meal of fish with his disciples on a charcoal fire but also said a lot about the faith of the traders and their humanity when dealing in ordinary necessities – bread, fish, vegetables and fruit.
During the eulogy, there were some funny stories too, like the time that May took an eel off her stall during a slow trading day and danced up and down the street with it. Humour and hard work go hand in hand.
St Saviour’s was also the church where the dealers stopped to pray every morning. At Easter, they used to set up beautiful floral displays in the naves and as a fellow mourner pointed out:
“Sure look at the feet on the statue of St Dominick. They’re rubbed bare from the women blessing themselves.
?
May was born at Number 24 Moore Street in 1921. Working through hail and shine, she began by helping her Aunt Hennie with her stall before moving onto her own pitch or
‘stannin’ where she sold cod, mackerel and whiting. Even when she grew too old to work, it was important for her to hold on to her trading license which the council still issued without fail every year.
Almost a century later, it was very fitting to see the funeral hearse turn into Moore Street. As the mourners passed Troy’s, a young butcher touched the livery as a mark of respect. By the time the cortège reached May’s stall, her name had been picked out in a floral wreath.
The street was packed with people who had come to pay their last respects. A flower seller flitted up and down pressing yellow blooms into their hands.
For a few moments, the street had become part of the funeral ceremony itself. Sitting on a low wooden stool, Uilleann Piper Eamonn Walsh made a slow dirge of Molly Malone. Then, as the hearse turned onto Henry Street, the irrepressible sounds of market life returned like a wave, proof positive that there is a part of Moore Street that doesn’t work to a schedule but, like all markets, is part of the ebb and flow, the lived experience of a city.