Family life at Cork Fire Brigade’s live-in station on Sullivan’s Quay

For generations of Cork schoolboys, it was a godsend. The fire station, situated mere yards away from the Christian Brothers’ Schools on Sullivan’s Quay, ensured that the raucous clanging of its fire engines’ bells as they turned out to an emergency call, saved many an exasperated scholar as he struggled with the complexities of Latin first declension.

Silence would descend on the class as the fire engines ed the windows — the Brother would not be able to make himself heard — and, it was hoped, by the time the brigade had reached the South Gate Bridge, the valiant student would have been inspired by the muse of correct answers.

In 1877, upon its foundation, Cork Fire Brigade moved into what was, essentially, an open yard at the junction of Sullivan’s Quay and Sober Lane.

No photograph appears to exist of this first ‘fire station’, but when Sergeant Ryan, a brigade member, retired in 1891 he was presented with an illuminated scroll.

The scroll depicts various ‘firematic’ scenes, including one of the fire station at the time.

This shows an open yard surrounded by high walls and accessed by a gate with what appears to be limestone pillars.

Resting against a high building at the back of the yard are two wheeled rescue escapes, then the principal modus operandi for rescuing persons from height.

The firefighters did not live on site, but rather in accommodation provided at 15 Sullivan’s Quay (previously the quarters of the County Inspector of the Royal Irish Constabulary).

In 1891 the brigade was reorganised.

The serving fire chief, Captain Wickham, was succeeded by a Londoner, Captain Alfred James Hutson, who remained in Cork for the next 37 years, retiring in his 79th year — creating his own little bit of ‘public service’ history by a long mile.

Hutson had served in the London Metropolitan Fire Brigade under the legendary Captain Eyre Massey Shaw, a native of Cobh, and to say that the Cork city fathers were delighted with their choice of fire chief would be an understatement.

Page after page of the minutes of the Waterworks and Fire Brigade Committee reveal laudatory comments for the way the brigade was transformed under his tutelage.

He had, of course, his detractors; some, for instance, deploring the fact that, for the second time in its short history, the position of fire chief was filled from outside the city. Whereas, from day one, the brigade had been regarded as somewhat of a ‘Cinderella Service’ with practically every penny voted being subjected to intense scrutiny, now, nothing seemed too demanding from the new incumbent.

Thus, it came as a bolt out of the blue when, only a few months into the job, Hutson declared that he was applying for the vacant position of chief fire officer in Dublin.

When it was discovered that Alfred Hutson was over the age limit announced for the Dublin position, the collective sigh of relief was palpable.

When, shortly afterward, the chief proposed that the Council should undertake the building of a dedicated municipal fire station — Cork’s first — it was met with widespread approval.

They were determined to hold on to their man this time round.

A NEW STATION

In May 1892, the city engineer, Mr McMullen, was tasked to report to the Waterworks and Fire Brigade Committee on the most suitable site on which to build the new station.

He submitted three proposals:

On the site of the existing ‘station’ on Sullivan’s Quay. As far back as 1853, the City Council had taken a lease on the ground, comprising an area of some 61m by 46m from the Warren Estate with a view to eventually erecting a new city hall there;

At 20 South Mall, on the site of the former municipal offices;

Next to the City Hall, facing onto Albert Quay. In fact, an ment had appeared in The Cork Examiner on May 20, 1890, inviting proposals for the erection of a new City Hall and adjacent fire station.

Submitting a plan and elevation of the proposed station, he estimated that to erect the building on Albert Quay would cost £2,500, whereas it could be built at Sullivan’s Quay for around £1,500.

The site on South Mall being ruled out, it was decided to proceed with the Sullivan’s Quay plan.

The building of the complex, to include ‘a suitable residence for the chief’ (next door, at 23 Sullivan’s Quay), was confirmed by Council on July 22, 1892.

The bank of the river that is now Sullivan’s Quay is one of the oldest and most historic areas in Cork.

In August 1892 the tender of builder Stephen J Scully in the sum of £1,775 was accepted for the building of the new fire station, and the City Council raised a loan on the Munster and Leinster Bank (now AIB) of £1,600 payable over 20 years. An Extraordinary Meeting of the Board of Directors of the bank had to be convened to consider the loan.

The Cork Stonecutters’ Society, ever vigilant to maximise their ’ input on local building projects, at once objected to the proposal to use terra cotta in the arches and corbels of the new station; a material that had been employed to good effect in the recently completed YMCA building on Marlborough Street.

They requested that Cork limestone should be substituted, and, with the of Councillor Eugene Crean MP (in 1899, the last Mayor of Cork — from 1900 the title became ‘Lord Mayor’) they won their case. The limestone, however, added a further £40 to the contract price.

Each married member was provided with three rooms, an unimaginable luxury in a city where many thousands of families occupied just one room.

Unlike Dublin’s new Central Fire Station which was officially opened in 1907 amid great pomp and ceremony, replete with souvenir programmes, etc, the commissioning of the Cork station seems to have been rather a muted affair.

The appear to simply have vacated their quarters at the ‘Fire Brigade Residence’ and moved in.

Likewise, Capt Hutson and his family transferred from their accommodation on Great George’s Street (now Washington Street) and moved into No 23 Sullivan’s Quay, next door.

The station went operational on August 18, 1893.

CONDITIONS OF SERVICE

The fireman could retire to his apartment when neither ‘on duty’ nor ‘on watch’, but ‘on call’.

Akin to a military man in barracks, here he lived with his wife and children with no front door to call his own.

The men were under service-type discipline all the time.

Captain Hutson had the right to call on any man’s quarters, day or evening, to inspect the facilities and ensure the place was being maintained to a certain standard.

Generally, the wives kept to themselves, but in such a confined community it was inevitable that personal and professional matters became common property where often ‘everyone knew everyone else’s business’.

In the absence of a dedicated drill ground, training was conducted by Hutson in the narrow thoroughfare behind the station and, on occasion, if he was ‘smartening up’ or ‘dressing down’ a man on parade, a wife might suddenly appear out of nowhere, taking a short cut to her apartments: a discomfiting situation for all concerned.

The children enjoyed each other’s company, playing in the small station yard or in the narrow maze of streets in the vicinity. Children, being children, of course, could not always be kept away from the appliances and equipment, and if they were shooed out of the appliance room by the dutyman, their mothers might take umbrage.

In 1900 the total strength of the brigade, including part-time auxiliaries, was 16.

of the brigade were required to operate a 24-hour day, on duty 365 days of the year.

If conditions permitted, a man could be granted a few hours’ leave to attend a family event; but it was a concession, not a right.

This harsh regime was ameliorated to a degree when following a submission from the permanent , they were allowed a day’s leave of absence in turn, ie, one day off — a Sunday — per month, for the winter months from 8am to 8pm, and for the summer months from 8am to 10pm.

From the early 1900s, annual leave of one week was granted.

Fire Brigade ’ pay compared favourably with that of other public servants.

In 1900, the regular firemen were on a weekly rate of £1 and 12 shillings, plus added bonuses such as accommodation, heating fuel, light, and uniform clothing.

The city treasurer had calculated these to be worth an extra nine shillings and five pence a week.

This put a firefighter ahead of a Royal Irish Constabulary policeman with 20 years’ service who was on £1 and seven shillings a week, and on a par with a national teacher who earned £1 and 12 shillings with full service.

In 1896 Hutson’s salary stood at £176 per annum.

This was behind what chief fire officers earned in many similar-sized conurbations in Britain but well ahead of a head constable of the RIC who was on £104 per annum after six years in the rank.

Comparatively speaking, they had a fairly good wage, but this was more than off-set by the grim conditions of service including the socially isolating, always-on-call duty system.

As a result, hip of many societies and organisations was, for all intents and purposes, off limits as a man could not commit himself.

One fireman recalled that fire stations ‘were like ships on dry land, with the firemen as isolated as if they were on a long sea voyage’.

Notwithstanding its many drawbacks, this environment in which to bring up one’s family was regarded as safe, civilised, and orderly, with the head of the household holding down a respected, steady job with decent pay.

THE FIRE CALL

Each apartment was fitted with an alarm bell over the door, with a further bell outside on the landing or corridor. On receipt of an emergency call, the dutyman in the station watchroom would trip the general alarm switch on the bell board into the ‘down’ position, an action which would set every bell throughout the station and quarters jangling; hence the fire service expression ‘the bells went down’ for a fire at such-and-such an address.

Later, with the advent of electric lighting, ‘emergency’ lighting was fitted throughout the premises, which, by night, was operated simultaneously with the bells. Thus, all parts of the station — apartments, corridors, stairs, landings and appliance room — were lit up like a Christmas tree at the flick of a switch.

On arriving in the appliance room, the firemen would be met by the dutyman calling out the fire address from the watchroom steps.

Typically, a daytime turn-out took one minute, by night two minutes. One never knew, day or night, when the jarring, clanging of the bells would ring out for a fire or other incident.

The small children, woken from their sleep by the din (and lights) in the middle of the night, would run to their bedroom windows overlooking the quay, eyes wide with wonder and trepidation at their daddies turning out, brass helmets gleaming in the soft glow of the gas lamps, the horses prancing and whinnying with anticipation.

With a crisp ‘walk on’ and a shrug of the reins from the drivers, the horses would begin their journey with a brisk canter, developing into a full gallop as they were given their heads.

The older children invariably would sleep through it all, their subconscious telling them that school or work beckoned in the morning, and, anyway, they had seen it all before, hundreds of times.

The day began at 7am when the men paraded before Capt Hutson to be given their daily orders.

Street closures, fire mains out of commission, exceptional fire hazards in port or in town, or a myriad of other matters that might impact the work of the brigade were brought to the ’ attention.

This was followed by a period of routine maintenance, checking and repairing the equipment, mucking out the stables and looking after the horses, and generally ensuring the station ed muster.

After a short ‘stand-to’ period for breakfast, the firemen assembled again for drill class.

Here they were put through their paces in the various evolutions, with rescue procedures high on the agenda.

An important part of the training syllabus involved regular modules in ‘first aid to the injured’ delivered by Dr Richard D’Alton, the brigade’s hon surgeon.

In March 1942 a major fire in a department store on Grand Parade was followed by a Public Sworn Inquiry.

Among its recommendations was the provision of a new central fire station to replace Sullivan’s Quay which had long outlived its usefulness.

In the event, due to the fiscal restrictions imposed by the war, and after, more than 33 years would before the new station was in place.

The new headquarters on Anglesea Street went operational in September 1975.

To quote from local historian and author, the late Ronnie Herlihy’s book, A Walk Through the South Parish: ‘Where Cork Began’: “During their time on Sullivan’s Quay, every sort of fire, from chimney blazes to a burning of a section of the city centre was fought by the men of this station and great courage was shown by many of the brigade over the years.”

One fact that has remained constant from the inception of Cork City Fire Brigade in 1877 is that their headquarters has always been situated in the South Parish.

Apocryphal stories abound in most jobs, including uniformed ones, and the fire service is no exception.

One such tale comes down to us from the early years at Sullivan’s Quay.

THE STATION’S APOCRYPHAL STORY

The appliances were, of course, horse-drawn, and the time came for one of the Greys to be retired.

The old fella wasn’t quite ‘over the hill’ yet, just getting a tad too slow for the frenetic pace of fire duties.

So, an arrangement was made with Richard Cronin’s Funeral Undertakers, next door to the fire station, that the old horse would live out his days at a sedate rate pulling the hearse to funerals.

One day, he was standing placidly in his traces outside the funeral home, corpse and coffin on board, waiting for the solemn proceedings to begin.

Suddenly, the general alarm sounded next door in the fire station, and, within seconds, the brigade was turning out, drawn by the remaining Grey and a beautiful Bay — known, on of his colouring, as the ‘Black and Tan’ — to a house on fire on Western Road.

Well, no self-respecting fire horse, retired or not, could be expected to ignore the urgent summons of the fire bells, and as his former comrades thundered up Sullivan’s Quay, he was determined to get his slice of the action: off he took behind the brigade, pulling hearse, coffin, corpse, and all, at a rate of knots — followed shortly by the Lord Mayor of Cork himself, Richard Cronin, on horseback — in hot pursuit of his recalcitrant charge.

Finally, to answer the question: what connected the station with Queen Anne Boleyn?

Allusion was made to the fact that the lands on which the building stands were then in the possession of the ubiquitous Warren Estate. The name is still recalled in a row of houses in Cove Street — ‘Warren’s Row’.

The primogenitor of the Estate, Sir Robert Warren, Baronet, landowner, and wealthy businessman was, through his great-great-great-grandfather, Sir William Boleyn, and his wife Lady Margaret, a direct descendent of Queen Anne Boleyn, tragic spouse of the notorious King Henry VIII.

And, as one Maurice Joseph Micklewhite (look it up) might observe: ‘Not many people know that.’