31/01/2026
What a lovely tribute to the late Anne Mullen. Thank you for your words NewryUns 🥹
Wee Yarn ..
A Pause on Hill Street
This afternoon, arriving into Newry, I made my way down Hill Street.
It was dull wind swept pi***ng rain — the kind that soaks the collar, dampens the spirit, & makes a man think twice about everything except what matters.
A sign, some would say.
The weeping of heaven itself, as Saint Brigid’s day edges closer, as more reed crosses are bent into shape by hands that still remember. The more crosses made, the more believable it all becomes — faith stitched into habit, habit into custom. Faith into tears tears into natures eyes & rain down..
Still, the rain said little. It just fell.
Outside Newry Cathedral, an empty hearse waited. Heaney’s — the Newry family undertakers. A name as fixed in the town as the stone steps themselves.
A woman stood nearby, dressed in black. Composed. Professional. Carrying herself with that quiet authority that needs no announcement.
I asked the chap beside me who she was.
“That’s the next generation,” he said. “Granddaughter of one of the brothers.”
& just like that, a reel of memory began.
I first met those undertakers at the wakes & funerals of my grandaunts, uncles, grandparents — back in the 1980s, when death still happened in rooms with curtains half drawn & tea poured without asking. I watched them closely even then: how they set the room, opened & closed the coffin, spoke softly to families deciding — as they always did — to stay loyal. Same undertaker for all losses. That was the way.. I recall accidentally seeing that one wore shiny black leather shoes & fancy socks .. oddly I recall seeing one of these Heaneys wearing sock suspenders . The one & only time .. real shimmy shiny . & there trousers a creased black & grey pin stripe more grey than black , formal & the hem Taylored to exact length , white shirt black tie & a undertaker cut blazer jacket . & they worn a aftershave , they must of had a bottle in the hearse..
There was a quiet decade when no one close passed, & the undertakers slipped from view. Then later, I saw the sons take over the reins — only a few years ahead of me in the Abbey Grammar.
One was a gentle giant: well over six foot, built like an ox. Prime dead-weight material — excuse the pun.
The other, a born thespian. It’s crazy the things you remember .. u
Crazy I first met him properly in first year, coming out of the prayer room after saying a Hail Mary at the altar of the Virgin. Month of May. We locked eyes, said hello, & went our separate ways — little did he know my life was about to tilt sideways fifteen minutes later.
But that’s another yarn.
One of those underling men had a daughter. She followed the trade
Three generations now.
& I thought: this is how it was meant to be.
Families of skill. Knowledge passed hand to hand. Mother to daughter. Father to son.
Not many trades like that left.
I watched her work. Trained well. Honest. Respectful. Carrying burial traditions without fuss or flourish.
Then it struck me — the funeral of Mrs Anne Mullen was underway.
I knew kind words would be spoken inside by Canon Kearney.
Out of politeness, I stayed outside with a small gathering of others. No one rushing. Whispers passed gently — the cathedral was packed, it was a fine send-off, she was well loved.
The rain kept falling. No one moved.
About ten minutes later, I stood watching the great cathedral doors.
They opened.
Anne’s children emerged, arms around shoulders, hands holding hands. They walked her out slowly, lovingly, down the steps — no rush, no noise.
Just love doing what love does at the end.
They turned left & went down Hill Street — past Bennett’s, past Dunnes Stores, past McKnight’s. A glance up Mill Street too, where Anne had given her time with St Vincent de Paul, quietly helping those who needed it most.
I overheard Monkshill was the destination — where she’d be laid beside her husband. Reunited. Looking out, forever, over the land they called home.
A city paused today.
Rain or no rain.
& that matters.
When they faded from sight, I slipped into the cathedral to offer condolences.
Me & Max were greeted with a yarn of our own.
I learned the High Street Choir Studio had filled the space — voices raised not in sorrow, but in ritual. A celebration of a life. Music not just Christian, but older than that — something that reaches back to when Ulster still knew how to grieve together.
I’ve heard organs, soloists, recordings, school choirs.
But never a community of women like this.
Sequins catching the light. Bodies swaying in rhythm. Voices lifting the dust from the rafters. I’d seen them at the market on Sundays, heard them brighten Hill Street more than once — but missed their Dominican performances. I regret now not slipping in late, thinking it bad form.
Turns out Anne got a send-off that shook the cathedral walls. I was sorry I’d missed Anne’s send off ..
& rightly so.
Rest easy, Anne Mullen.
Newry noticed.
