I Remember by Tom Fynes

I remember my dad as a big strong man. A role model. Not that he sat down with us and explained the workings of the cosmos.  He worked down the Dublin docks during the week, and was in the Pub the rest of the time. Though, I can say, I never saw the man intoxicated. 

When he came back from the Pub on Saturday afternoons, he would have a rest. Which was our opportunity to go to the local picture house. Which lay at the bottom of our street. Audie Murphy Cowboy movies where a Saturday stable diet for us. He was the most decorated US soldier from WW2. Now a Hollywood B western star.

My dad would cover himself in Deep Heat. A spreadable liquid that helped muscle ache. Deep Heat had its very own pungent smell. When you combined it with the backdraft of Guinness generated wind, the aroma combination was lethal. Sometimes, that special dad aroma, will come flooding back, whenever I pass an open sewer.

My dad lying in bed, his mind lost in some Celtic wonder land, was the perfect opportunity to get hit for the picture money. I remember it cost around 6p to go to the Saturday Matinee back then.

“Dad!! Dad!! Can we get 6p to go to the pictures. Please dad!!

“What? He would drowsily say.

“The pictures dad. Can we get some money for the pictures?

He would invariably make a noise. Which we would take for a resounding yes. And raid his pockets.

“Can we take some money to buy sweets?”

Another groan, that sounded like a yes. So, we would help ourselves to the entrance money and a few pennies extra for sweets. Then we where off to see Audie Murphy fighting Red Indians, or putting a stop to promiscuous shooting in some lawless town.

My dad would arise to a very silent house. And make his way down the stairs to the kitchen. Drinking his tea he would say to my mom.

“Where are all the kids?”

“At the pictures,” my mom would say as she cooked the dinner.

“Where did they get the money to go to the pictures,” my dad would say, all confused?”

My mom would give him one of her looks, and say, “From you.”

Which resulted in my dad double checking his trouser pockets to see what the damage was.

We never indulged in a scorched earth policy. So, he was always left enough to go for his evening pints.

That picture house is gone now. Turned into very expensive apartments. But sometimes late on a winters evening, if you listen closely, you can hear on the ghost wind, gunfire and Indians hollering. And happy kids cheering, as their heroes win again.