My Dad was a workaholic.
He seemed happiest
when he was working,
busy, and away from us. As a
child I couldnʼt understand that
for some people their job is a
stamp of success. The pride that
is rooted in a dayʼs work. The
pint at five past five. The jingling
of change in your pockets. The
fraternity of working men.
For him work was important,
seemed to be the most important
thing. “Sorry baby I have to
work.”

And then, one freezing Monday
morning, we had finally had
him. At home, and all to ourselves.
We woke up, the whole
gang of us, me, Mum, Gemma
and Brian. All running around
for school, college and work and
Dad was still in bed. He was still
in bed when I came home for
lunch.

I figured he was sick so I
brought him up a cup of tea.
Knocking gently I crept into the
room. The TV was blaring soccer
or cricket or something that
involved a ball and the curtains
were still drawn. “Hiya Dad,
you feeling ok?” “Yeah fine. Ta
for the tea.” “You need anything
else?” “No thanks love.” “Grand
see you later.”

And that was it. The daily
precedent was somehow established.
Nobody said anything. I
would come home every lunch
and bring a cup of tea up to his
smoky bedded lair and in the
evenings we tried to keep hushed
so as not to disturb him. “Your
Dadʼs not well, heʼll be better
soon,” my mum would whisper
conspiratorially.

We never discussed what was
happening. It was a big secret
even between our own family.
Once I tried to ask Mum what
was going on. Her face had
grown pinched with worry, her
hours as a classroom assistant
recently cut back to a three-day
week. She got angry with me,
telling me to mind my own business.
So I didnʼt broach it again.
As far as I know nobody else did
either.

She picked up a few hours
giving French grinds to some of
Gemmaʼs leaving cert schoolmates
in the evenings and I started
gathering the ESB and gas
bills as they came through the
door. Mum never asked me about
them but I presume she knew I
was paying them. She wasnʼt
stupid but my Dad had always
paid the bills and I think she was
ashamed she couldnʼt pay them
now so it was easier not to bring
it up. She was lost without him to
run the show.

Dad must have been signing
on but as far as I could tell he
rarely left the house. My brother
Brian worked locally for an electrical
repairs shop. He helped
out too but his wages were low
enough and he was saving for
a house with his girlfriend. He
would normally pick up a few
essentials on the way home from
work, milk, bread, and always a
packet of cigarettes for Dad.
He had started smoking again.
After smoking for nearly twenty
years he finally, and with great
difficulty, gave up a few years
before. His best friend died suddenly
from a very advanced lung
cancer and it was the scare he
needed to quit. He said he felt
healthy as a horse as a result and
he and Mum started going for
walks in the evenings.

She would meet him from
work a couple of times a week
and they would sometimes get as
far as the end of the Bull Wall.
They would arrive back fresh
and joking. I saw them returning
one evening from the bus window,
holding hands and Dad was
laughing at something Mum had
just said.

I think it was the first time in
years that they had time alone
just for the sake of being together.
Mum started wearing a bit of
make up again. Dad was never a
big traveller but last year for their
25th anniversary he surprised her
with a trip to New York.

She wept like a baby when
she heard and he was mortified,
but they both came home laden
with presents and photos and big
smiles. But that was all before.
A long few months slipped by
and things settled into a weird hiatus
of Dad doing nothing, Mum
being stressed, Gemma studying,
Brian working, me working/
studying and nobody mentioning
the war

Subconsciously we all stopped
inviting people over so nobody
really knew what was happening.
Iʼve no doubt they figured
it out, since if they happened to
catch a glimpse of Dad on one of
his trips to the outside world, he
did not make a pretty picture.

He had aged years and despite
sitting in bed day in day out he
was gaunt and thin. His appetite
had disappeared and I think
it was because he felt he didnʼt
deserve anything that would give
comfort or pleasure.

There was a sadness emanating
from him, a deep sorrow for
his old life that was gone and
wasnʼt coming back no matter
how long he sat and waited for it.
He was no longer the big daddy.
The provider who was always
first up, whistling along with the
kettle before leaving a pot of tea
on the table for us and a handful
of change for our school lunches.

He was a shadow, and in his
own eyes a useless one. I worried
so deeply for him, afraid
he would never find his way
back out of this black cloud of
self-pity. It seemed to be almost
a physical pain, akin to grieving
a loved one. His job was his
old friend, his grounding point.

Without it, he was at sea.
And it affected us all. Our family
was getting ground down. We
talked and lived all the one but
we rarely looked each other in
the eye anymore. We just came
and went. Left covered plates in
the microwave and handed out
tea to whoever was in the sitting
room.

Brianʼs company went into
foreclosure and he was let go
just after Christmas. He couldnʼt
stand being around Dad like
this. Scared he would end up the
same I suppose. For those first
few weeks he would leave the
house with us, not coming back
till late in the evening. I have no
idea what he did all day during
those long cold January hours.
I think he walked a lot, read a
lot of newspapers and thought.
Thought long and hard about his
next move.

He arrived home one day
buzzing with excitement, his
eyes alight and his shoulders
held straight. He was leaving,
on a working visa for Australia.
His girlfriend had got a pretty
generous redundancy package
and they had decided to cut their
losses and head off. I was happy
for him, glad he was avoiding
sinking into the hole but I felt a
twinge of jealousy. He was abandoning
ship and not taking any
of us with him.

My family took the news with
a mixture of regret and encouragement.
Something was finally
happening. Things were moving
out of the frozen scene we had
been occupying. But we were
scared too. If Brian was breaking
the cycle then we had to react
and reassemble.

Dad had to be told of course.
I heard Brian climb the stairs,
knock on the door and the murmur
of his voice giving the news.

I donʼt think Dad said anything,
not that I overheard anyway. Brian
ʼs bedroom door clicked shut a
moment later. It must have hurt
him, the indifference and the silence.
If he had any doubts in his
mind about going it was decided
after that.

In the weeks before he left,
there was a fresh breeze in our
house, Brianʼs enthusiasm was
infectious, and I began to see beyond
Dublin and downward spiralling
economies. Apparently,
the world was still out there!
The night before they left, we
had a party. The house was full
of voices and coats again, and
Dad even came down for a bit.

He sat in the corner picking at
a plate of food and talking to
Uncle Jimmy. He kept himself
to himself but he was there and
Brian was chuffed. Iʼm not sure
when he went back upstairs, but
I suddenly noticed his chair was
empty at about 10.

We were all up early for the
big send-off at the airport, Dad
didnʼt come but he stood at the
porch until the car was out of
sight, waving a heavy hand.
Mum cried the whole way
home, her only son, her baby boy
and all the rest. We did our best
to comfort her knowing there
wasnʼt much we could do.

As we bustled back in the
front door, I was stopped in my
tracks by familiar noises I had
almost forgotten; Dad whistling,
the radio buzzing, and the
kettle boiling. He was dressed
in a shirt and freshly shaved.
He was busy and tall.He didnʼt
say anything and neither did we,
just resumed our normal places
at the table and waited for Dad
to dish up the eggs.