Jimmy was born 23 December 1957.

His family home was in 5 New Lodge Road until his mother, Annie, left them early in 1971. The family moved in with my great-grandmother and great-grandfather, Julia and Henry Cromie, who were living at 129 North Queen Street, three doors up from the Gem Bar. My grandmother, Annie Maguire, Julia’s eldest, lived in 126 Henry Street, two doors down from the Gem.

Jimmy was a devil, feared nothing and was always up to all sorts of mischief, which, of course, always frightened the life out of me as my great-granny was not slow with her hands. However, there was no badness in him and he had a heart of gold.

He was just a typical young fellow. His nickname was Bunter and his dad was known as Buster. He loved all sports - Gaelic football, hurling and soccer - and played them all brilliantly. (Left, Jimmy is third from the right on the top row. This winning team photo was taken in Pym Street School, with Lepper Street in the background, a couple of years before his death). His favourite soccer team was Everton. I lived in Hillman Street at the time, next to the stumps, and supported Celtic but Jimmy made me declare Everton as my favourite team as everyone else followed Man Utd. Of course, I did as I was bid when in his company.

We moved from Hillman Street in 1968 but I was over in my grannies’ as often as possible and kept contact with all my friends. I last spoke to Jimmy the Saturday before he died. I was on my way home and he was returning home from the McGurk's home. We stood talking on North Queen Street for a while.

On the day he died he had been in town to buy a new pair of shoes and a suit for Christmas. When he came home he hadn’t a minute. He had the shoes with him and hurriedly described the suit to my great-granny. He had left a deposit on it. He tried on the right shoe, a brown brogue and then went out. My great-granny said on the Sunday how relieved she had been that he was going to the McGurk’s home as she knew he would be safer there than on the streets.

My granny had just returned from St Patrick’s church that night when the bomb exploded. She gathered herself and ran round to see what had happened. Above all the noise and chaos she could hear the screams of her mother for Jimmy outside McGurk’s. They eventually got her away and back to her house.

Around 10:00pm, after helping with the rescue attempt, Buster started going around the hospitals for news but Jimmy was not there. He went to the morgue but was told by a very ignorant and arrogant RUC detective that there was no 13 or 14 year old lad there, the youngest was 18. Buster insisted on seeing this lad but was refused. Eventually, the detective said that he would show him his clothes and, on seeing them, Buster said that it was indeed his son.

We eventually got Jimmy’s body home on the Sunday evening (5th December). We had been given several different times during the day. When the coffin was brought in, a priest brought Buster into the parlour and they remained there for half an hour. We were told that the priest had explained to him the extent of Jimmy’s injuries and it was to remain secret. We were also told that if anyone touched the body or coffin that it would be closed immediately. My great-granny went into hysterics when she saw Jimmy asking where his hands and legs were as his hands were not on show.

We do not know the extent of his injuries or how he died. I spoke with Seamas Kane a few times over the years and he has always told me that he was speaking with Jimmy after the initial explosion and he seemed fine. I also read in a book ‘Too Long a Sacrifice Makes a Stone of the Heart’ by Jack Holland, that according to a detective who saw Jimmy in the morgue that there was not a mark on him and that his heart gave out. The only sign of injury on him was a small cut just below his right nostril going sideways to his lip. I have often considered trying to get any autopsy report or photographs that may be available to resolve this matter. This photo, left, was taken in his New Lodge home in happier times. Jimmy, up to mischief, is pulling my hair. In the right-hand corner is his sister, Julie, and Adrian who died of cancer a few years ago.

Great-grandfather Cromie had fought in WWI in the navy along with his brother James. They lived in Trafalgar Street. James was shot dead 1 September 1920 by Loyalist gunmen at the docks. My great-grandfather then served in WWII. The only time he ever referred to his time in the war was in 1974 when he brought me into the room where Jimmy had lain. It had been closed since then except to put up photographs or memorabilia sent out from the Crum or the Kesh in memory of Jimmy. He ridiculed the Empire Loyalist claims. Then he took a hanky out of his pocket and in it was a handful of medals. He said, ‘I fought for their empire and this is the thanks I got.’

Of course, by the time I had the sense to ask questions about any of this they were all dead or dying.

Jimmy’s death, like many others, was a turning point in all our lives.

Nothing was ever the same again.

By Gary Roberts, cousin of Jimmy Cromie.

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