Martin Bridgeman

Billy O Hanluain, in his beautfully observed post on Facebook, described the scene of an older couple in a café, exchanging glances and intimate moments which Billy was there to witness and describe. It was pitch perfect, gorgeously observed and done with a tenderness that’s hard to define.

Check it out, it’ll do your heart good:

https://www.facebook.com/plugins/post.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fbilly.hanluain%2Fposts%2Fpfbid033Z8wcjC7eWrVuQ1emd2GZ6oWbFf3E1Ap2uSdCRTyAW6U3ru4ybhi9UhCjpZEQARDl&show_text=true&width=500

It brought me back to one or two memories of my own parents.

When my Father, Mick was dying in our house, he would say on an afternoon, that he was “off for a pint”, and my Mother, Maisie, knowing the situation, would accompany him. He would get the coat on with the best of intentions, confident, but only to a point of making the short trip, but my mother would walk with him. They sat in the bar while he nursed his small bottle of stout, she with her “fizzy orange”, he swam in the banter with the mid afternoon pint nursers, each of them knowing what was was going on.

Nothing was said directly, but everyone understood. It was, back then, a place for men only, but this was not an issue.

It wasn’t feeding any sort of serious addiction, just trying to hold on to a sort of normality for a man who had worked from the age of 16, who was then sitting at home under his wife’s feet. That was his impression. On his days off before his illness, he would head around, maybe put on a bet, but maybe just head in for ‘one’ before dinner, not an untypical pattern for men of his age.

Maisie was happier to have him at home. So was I, but only she knew the full extent of his illness. She had made the long trek on the 18 bus to Vincent’s hospital more than once during the summer of 1974 and heard the consultant’s warning that the next stroke could be the “one”.

She also did not want him to die “alone”, so she fought in her own way to have him come home, where he stayed until the inevitable happened and he returned to hospital in early October, 1974. She had managed to feat of keeping the details from me and shipped me off and distracted me as much as she could a 13 year old who was confused and anxious.

So, there they sat, of a summer’s afternoon, collaborating in the efforts, among his peers, her enjoying seeing her husband blend in, not feeling useless.

Many years later, after my mother died, I took a break from what I was doing, and dropped in to the bar again. There, as I watched the creamiest of pints settle, I chatted with an old neighbour, who remembered and confirmed the story of their afternoon visits. He also told me that while the bar had been understood as a ‘men only’ place, the lads had understood and let the couple have their time together and become an occasional part of the mid-afternoon crew. No doubt they toned down the language, too, but I was naturally delighted to have the details confirmed.

He shook my hand, said he was sorry for my loss, saying they were lovely people and great neighbours.

“Your mother always had you looking smart, and your Father was always well turned out. A gentleman… and they absolutely adored you.”

I knew that and always felt it, but it was also nice to hear that from someone else.

I sat down in the seat, perhaps even the one they had sat in, raised my pint in thanks and smiled. I had a newspaper and did the crossword.

As I walked out , having said my goodbyes, the 18 arrived and I was tempted to hop on, just to have more time to myself, taking in the winding route to Rathmines and on to Ballsbridge to catch a bus to St. Vincent’s.

Instead, I went back to my parents’ house and continued packing and boxing more tangible memories.