‘The kids on our road were getting more pocket money than us so we went on strike’

It came as a shock – the realisation that all the kids on our road were getting more pocket money than us. We were outraged, immediately accosting our mother, demanding a raise. Despite our appeals to her sense of equality and fair play, our words fell on deaf ears. She was having none of it.

My older brother, ever the radical, decided nothing would do us but to go on strike. This being Ireland in the 1970s, it seemed like the obvious thing to do. We spent the rest of the day making placards. “Equal Pay for All” and “Strike on Here” they read. We were pleased with our handiwork.

Next morning, before we could be collared with any tasks, we announced that we were on strike and marched outside to man the picket line. With six of us on duty, we were quite an impressive bunch. Mum ignored us.

We marched happily around the yard waving our placards at the door. We felt empowered, thrilled with this sudden freedom from the daily toil of fetching, carrying and cleaning.

The next day, picketing was interrupted as Wednesdays were spent visiting Granny. After tea, we and our cousins queued for the money we were always given to spend in Mrs Butterly’s, the local shop. To our shock however, Mum ignored us, continuing to chat away as if we were not there. No handbag was produced, no purse opened, not one penny forthcoming. Realisation dawned slowly. In our eagerness to strike for more pocket money, we never thought to count the extras we got for nothing.

As our cousins filed past us with pitying looks, pennies jangling in their pockets with no intention of sharing their spoils, we knew we were defeated.

Our mother, without raising an eyebrow or her voice, had quashed our uprising and also taught me a lesson: always proceed with caution and never underestimate your opponent.

The next day, with heavy hearts, we abandoned our placards and meekly resumed our chores and the following Wednesday were happily running down to Mrs Butterly’s, pennies in our fists, busily deciding which mouth-watering concoction to choose this week, memories of our doomed rebellion already in the distant past.

My brother claims to have no recollection of bringing us out on strike. I think perhaps, if the outcome had been different, his memory would be a lot clearer.

Áine Kelly