I have always felt a bit of a fraud when I say I am one of 14 – even though it is true – because two of my siblings died before I was born: a sister named Peggy, aged four, and a brother named Stella, a stillbirth, at full term. My mother said he was a good 9lb and came out with the cord wrapped round his neck. Not to mention them would be to deny their existence and dishonour my parents. They are the memories of my older siblings and, although we are now 12, I am one of 14.

Some of my older siblings are now in their 70s, while the baby of the family is in his 40s. With the age gap, it has always felt like a family of two halves divided not only by age, but also by country of birth: the older ones were born in Dublin, and the “English kids” – my three younger siblings and I, born in England. Language was another divider. The Irish children called my parents Ma and Da and we English kids, with our English accents, called them Mum and Dad. Yet united we are, not only by blood, but also by a willingness to keep the fold together.

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We are each named after saints, not surprising, being Catholic, and the girls all have Mary as their second name, if not their first. At the baptism of my brother John, the last of the brood, the priest took my mother aside, hearing tittering among the congregation, and explained to her what a John Thomas was. It was August, just after the feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, so my mother told the priest to use Mary for his middle name, instead. Poor boy, when he joined the army, he tried to fool his sergeant into thinking his middle name was Mario.

Noise was constant in our home. With so many jostling for attention, vying to be heard first, it is a wonder anybody got to say anything. Apart from when we were asleep, there was noise – although when the Nine O’Clock News was on, or Panorama, we had to sit in silence, the lights switched off to save on electricity – and bed was the best place to be as there was never enough room to sit comfortably, unless you fancied the floor. Bed was also the warmest place. A coal fire heated the sitting room, but the rest of the house was cold. In winter, a Calor Gas stove was put at the top of the stairs to warm the bedrooms, and heavy blankets and even coats put over us. There was never enough room, or rooms, to hold us all. I shared a bed with at least one sibling, or more often three, until I left home.

At dinner, there were too few chairs for us all to sit together, so the smaller ones would sit two to a seat, and whoever was left standing ate at the draining board. Dad, at the head of the table, would ask us about our day in school. He was a very slow eater and, amazing as it may seem, given that he was born in 1914 in poverty, he encouraged us to leave something on our plates. “Always be a bit hungry,” he would say. “It’s good for the digestion.” With only two meals a day – breakfast and dinner – lunch was not served in our home – we never took his advice.

After breakfast, we were sent out to play and expected to stay out all day, while our mother put the house back together. In a carrier bag we would take a bottle of diluted squash, and a packet of custard creams or bourbons. Then at the corner shop with our 20 pence pieces we would get bags of Black Jacks, Fruit Salads, Dip Dabs. The feast would be eked out slowly until dinner time.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Liz Lawler (third from right) at a wedding with her 11 siblings. Photograph: Courtesy Liz Lawler

On Christmas Day, the dining room was crammed with garden chairs or a plank set on bricks to make a bench to squeeze more of us in at the table. We would grab cushions to sit on and stay seated as there was no room to start wandering about. If you needed the toilet you had to crawl under the table on all fours to get out of the room. Squeezed in, we would wait for the food, the noise and raucous laughter making it impossible to hear anyone clearly. Invariably, a child would fall off a chair trying to pull a cheap cracker and either tears or belly laughs would erupt. Father would bring things to order – until we burst out laughing again. Our mother was a natural cook and licked plates were handed back before she got the chance to rebuke us for bad manners. Presents would be secondhand: a doll’s house, repainted, a pair of skates with new laces, a doll washed and dressed in clothes from a Christmas fete or jumble sale. The only brand-new gifts were the socks and pants. New underwear and socks that were solely yours until after the first wash – they then went into the socks and knicker bag for anyone to wear. I often went to school with one sock stretched up high to a knee as far as it could go to match the one I had folded down.

By the age of 10, I could change a plug, fit a lightbulb, light a coal fire, unblock a sink, make dinner or mind a baby

Growing up in a large family has made me who I am. Having parents teach us things from an early age gave us an advantage. By the age of 10, I could change a plug, fit a lightbulb, light a coal fire, unblock a sink, make dinner or mind a baby – skills that were naturally taught with no more thought than to show you how do it, so that next time that job needed doing, you could do it.

Having so many older brothers and sisters gave plenty of opportunity to earn pocket money: polish shoes, iron a shirt or shave the back of a neck in preparation for a date. I got a clip around the ear from one brother for putting polish inside his shoes because he had withheld payment. When he took them off at his girlfriend’s place, his white socks had black ring marks that stained her parents’ pale-blue couch. It was exciting having older siblings and hearing adult conversations, even though banished from the room. You discovered keyholes and got to hear about the girls brothers kissed, fights, breakups, makeups, money owed, cars loved, the brother in trouble, the sister pregnant.

If I have painted a picture of a mother who merely produced a dozen and more children, I have only given a blurry image. Interesting beyond words, she mastered the art of having eyes in the back of her head. “I can see you,” she would shout, even though at the top of the house and you in the kitchen having a crafty pull on the cigarette she had asked you to light off the gas cooker and bring up to her. “I can see you,” she’d warn.

I hope she can still see us – her life’s work – her 14, still standing Dirty Dozen children.

Liz Lawler is the author of Don’t Wake Up (Bonnier Zaffre, £7.99). To order a copy for £6.79, go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min. p&p of £1.99.