Mr Mulholland and our American uncles

It was my aunty Maureen who first told me. The Victorian terraced house in Manchester where we lived was due to be demolished. In its place we were allocated a new home on a brand-new housing estate, a maisonette, no less. To us it was the height of modernity.

Aunty Maureen came to help us move in. While unpacking, she opened a box and took out a picture. She held it carefully in both hands, staring at the two men with an admiring expression, “Your Mammy wants these two hanging pride of place in the hallway,” she said.

The picture was of two smartly dressed handsome young men, “Who are they?” I asked.

Aunt Maureen didn’t take her eyes off them, “Them’s your uncles, from America.”

I was puzzled, I’d never heard of any uncles in America. I wondered if there was some dark family secret. But that mystery soon lost its hold on me – I had a brand new estate to explore.

Within that first week I discovered something significant: our family and one other were the only Irish families on the estate. The Caffreys were Catholics from Belfast, and I quickly befriended the two youngest, Danny and Jeanette. They’d managed to get one of the most coveted houses – a four bedroom with both front and back gardens.

One early Sunday morning, when I knew their Mam and Dad would still be in bed, I asked Danny if I could see inside their house. He agreed. We silently slipped through the front door into the hallway. And that’s when I saw them.

I stopped dead, “What’ve you got them hanging on your wall for?” I asked.

Danny looked at me as if I were mad and said, “What, who?” I pointed to the picture, “Them two.”

Seeing his confusion, I explained, “They’re my uncles, they live in America.”

He just stared at me, shrugged his shoulders and said, “I dunno.” Before I could question him further he grabbed my arm, “Quick, Dad’s getting up.”

Outside all I could think of was why the Caffreys had a picture of my uncles on their wall? But then some estate kids called us, “Irish B*****d s!” And questions about my uncles didn’t matter anymore.

Those first few weeks on our new estate were a rollercoaster. The highs were the newness and excitement of everything; the lows were learning to navigate the perils of being the kids of Irish parents on a majority-English estate. The Caffreys and me became more than friends – we became staunch allies. We had to be. It was a sign of the times that we second - generation Irish kids in an English inner-city expected insults rather than pleasantries from people.

Anyway, unbeknownst to me, news about my uncles in America began to circulate around the estate. Although I didn’t realise it at the time, my American relatives were starting to elevate my family’s reputation, for some, on the estate. Conversely, I heard of others, who said I was telling lies, and they weren’t really my uncles.

One day at school, my teacher, Mr Mulholland, asked me to stay behind at playtime. I adored him; an Irish man with the most wonderful sing-songy accent that made all his lessons sound like stories, even sums. He pulled up a seat and sat at my level. I was worried I’d done something wrong, but said nothing. His smile put me at ease, “Gerard, I hear you have some famous uncles over in America.” I didn’t know they were famous, and said so. “Who told you they were your uncles?” he asked. “My aunty Maureen, and she’s not a liar!” He laughed heartily, “No, she didn’t lie, Son…” My favourite teacher called me ‘Son’ – I loved that.

That playtime, Mr Mulholland gently told me the truth about the men I called my uncles: JEK and REK (I mistook the initial F for an E). Back then, their portraits took pride of place in almost every Irish household in Manchester. To us, they became more than American Presidents or Politicians. They were symbols of something bigger. And somehow, in the way only children can make sense of the world, they became ours. My aunty Maureen hadn’t lied to me at all. JFK and RFK may not have been my uncles by blood, but in the hearts and homes of the Irish community, they belonged to all of us.

To a generation of kids growing up on the streets of Manchester, JFK and RFK, were family. In a world where we were often reminded that we didn’t belong, that meant everything.