Galway Girl

The fine Australian crime writer Peter Temple died aged seventy-one.

Ireland beat Scotland to win the Six Nations, and if they beat England at the dreaded Twickenham they’d have the Grand Slam.

We hoped, as this fixture was set for St. Patrick’s Day, we had some hard-core charm on our side.

I Never Sang for My Father,

A grueling emotional ride with Gene Hackman, was on cable.

Did I watch it again?

No.

My own father was great.

Few people in my life had such an impact on me. He was that rarity, a good decent man, as opposed to my mother, the walking bitch.

He once said to me,

“I’m not an aggressive person and I rarely feel aggressive but sometimes...”

Pause.

“I do feel the need to cut loose, be reckless, and be a man.”

I was twelve and this meant little to me. I always felt aggressive and vented on the hurling pitch.

My father worked on the railways. After a particular shift, his overtime and a win on the horses collided to leave him with the grand total of 1,500 pounds.

A friggin fortune in those days.

He hadn’t yet told my mother and I think he was on the verge of handing it to her when she from nowhere exploded,

“When do I get a new kitchen set?”

Before he could flash the money, she sneered,

“What kind of pathetic excuse of a man are you? I could have married somebody in the Post Office.”

He grabbed his coat, said,

“C’mon, Jack.”

And we were out of there.

Walked to Salthill, my father silent most of the way.

I didn’t care. As long as I was in his company, my world had a foundation.

The Castle Inn had just opened and was doing a thriving business, mainly due to the extras from Alfred the Great filming in Galway then.

They were earning mad money as Anglo-Saxons fighting draftees from the Irish army.

For a pound, you’d get eight pints, ten cigs, and change for chips on the way home.

My father ordered a pint and a Paddy chaser.

Boilermaker.

We didn’t know such terms then, it was simply a short one to keep the pint company. He got a mineral for the boy.

All soft drinks, which were either Claddagh orange or bitter lemon, came under the heading of that.

My father rarely drank spirits, had said,

“Road to hell.”

True that.

The very first Wimpy bar was due to open and we’d soon be able to try the very first hamburgers to hit the country.

My father drank fast; again, unusual for him, said,

“There’s a poem titled ‘If.’”

He paused.

Then,

“Lines in it that if you can make a pile of your winnings and roll them on one turn of the dice, it says...”

He looked at me,

“You’ll be a man.”

This seemed to deeply sadden him.

We crossed to Claude Toft’s, the only casino in the town. Such things as online betting, a myriad of bookies were all in an unimaginable future.

My father went straight to the roulette table, took the money out of his jacket, looked at me, the wad of cash in his right hand, hovering, asked,

“Red or black, Jack?”

I near whispered,

“All of it?”

He nodded.

I watched the wheel spin, looked up into my father’s face. He said,

“Choose.”