Fare Thee Well

When Dad was in hospital in the Adelaide, he was often in rare form, telling tales and gags to the always-supportive patients. Dad wanted to get home, because, as he said, “Hospitals are for sick people!”

He was on oxygen most of the time and would always want a cigarette, but as soon as the tube was removed so he could have one, the urge left him. I cannot say enough about the doctors and staff at the Adelaide, who gave the most wonderful and caring treatment.

I remember visiting Dad one day and my brother Glynn was with him. Sez Da:
“Me number’s in the Frame!”

(He had been saying this since 1970, when he hit ‘Three Score Years and Ten’)

Says Glynn: “Well, let me know when, so I can rent the dark suit”

Da: “Don’t bother yer arse!! And I’ll tell you something else, some miserable hoor’s pinching me Paddy!”

The nurse whispered to us that no one was pinching it, that dad wasn’t remembering having any. Actually, virtually all his visitors, from The President of Ireland to famous theatrical names came bearing gifts of the Water of Life, so his bedside cupboard was loaded to the gills with the stuff.
The staff at the Adelaide took the utmost care of dad and I want to thank them for making his last weeks on this earth as comfortable as possible.

Oonagh and I stayed for two weeks and, due to work dictates, we had to return to Sydney. We got the final call two weeks after that, on 6th March, 1985. Dad had faded and was very low and Mum asked him if he’d like a glass of water. He nodded, and Mum went to find a nurse. When she returned, she was met by my brother Vic, with tears in his eyes and the words “He’s gone”.

Just as he had always done Dublin proud, so the City returned the compliment, with a huge funeral and, as Dad had been honoured with the Freedom of the City of Dublin, the City’s flag was draped over his coffin. That flag is now my proudest possession.

As the procession went from the Adelaide, past the Gaiety, St Stephen’s Green, the Olympia, and all the other theatrically famous places, the population of Dublin stood and farewelled him, especially those with whom he felt most at home, the ladies of Moore Street, Sandymount, the North Wall, his racing chums and all the ‘ordinary’ people.

I put the ‘ordinary’ in parentheses, as Dad was convinced there was no such thing as an Ordinary Dubliner. Each was unique to him. Sure, there were the chancers, the rip-off merchants, the hard-chaws and the gurriers and gougers and, of course, the Internal Revenue(!), but all in all, Dubliners had that personality and ability to charm that kept him from moving to more lucrative movie-making cities. He loved Dublin and Dubliners with a passion and they, in return, loved him.

He was buried in Deansgrange in a simple grave off the beaten track, even at the end trying not to big note himself. He had wanted to be buried in the Cemetery in Raheny, because “There’s a nice sea-breeze there, very healthy!” I recently obtained permission from Pete St. John to put the final verse of ‘The Rare Oul’ Times’ on the gravestone as his epitaph, and I honestly cannot think of a more appropriate one.

Fare thee well, sweet Anna Liffey,
I can no longer stay and watch
The big glass cages rise
Up along the Quay.

My mind’s too full of memories,
Too old to hear new chimes,
For I was part of what was Dublin
In the Rare Oul’ Times.

Noel is pictured signing autographs during the making of ‘Moby Dick’ at Youghal in 1954.