‘The Man me mother married was a smashin’ lookin’ chap,
With a lovely suit of Navy Blue and a gorgeous stripey cap,
That’s accordin’ to a photo that was took so long ago,
Me mother swears it was me Da, I’m sure I wouldn’t know!’
(Poem by Leo Maguire)

My father, Noel Purcell, Actor, Comedian and Freeman of the City of Dublin, was born in December 1900. He grew up in the same way many children did in those days, going to the Christian Brothers schools and doing odd jobs for pocket money.

He became a call boy at the Gaiety Theatre in Dublin and, from that, developed a love of the theatrical life. His mother persuaded him to take up a trade before trying anything so chancy, so he apprenticed as a shopfitter and cabinet maker to Bex and Co.

His theatrical and movie work are legendary, and have been ably described in ‘Noel Purcell’ by Michael B. Ryan. I want to share his humanity, the real man behind the stage and screen star, his pride in his work, his incredible humility for all his success and his vulnerability to a sob story or anyone in trouble. But, most of all, I want to show him as MY DAD.

Dad married Eileen Marmion, in 1941 and had four boys, Michael, born in 1942, Glynn, 1943, myself in 1946 and finally Victor in 1953.

My first memory of Dad was as a result of a major incident. I was born at home in Sandymount. I must have been about two or three years old. Mum was in the kitchen doing the laundry in an electric washing machine with one of those clothes rollers on top for squeezing the water out.

Well, sure enough, muggins put his little paw into the moving rollers and mum heard me calling and was able to hit a quick release bar on top to stop me being sucked all the way through! I was up to my armpit by then and so, when the spring loaded top flew up, it got me smack in the mouth.

I can remember the blood all over the clean washing and crying fit to bust when this enormous, yet gentle, arm picked me up and carried me to the car and off to the hospital. My face was a right mess and I swallowed a few teeth, but it was the memory of feeling secure in Dad’s big hug and that everything was going to be all right that I remember, rather than the pain.

I remember Dad coming home from somewhere (Fiji, I think,) having gone through the USA and I got a green satin one-piece insulated jump suit. Of course, I had to test this in the first snow and so nearly froze to death, because it was warm at first, but not waterproof.

I loved water with a passion. Dad was a great swimmer and had a beautiful crawl action, which he taught me. We used to go down to the Pigeon House and out along the South Wall to the Half Moon Swimming Club, Costello’s and the Shelley Banks.

We lived for quite a few years at 2, Newbrige Drive, Sandymount. I was sent (screaming my head off!) to St. Mary’s Star of the Sea School. It was there I discovered, painfully, that I wasn’t like other kids. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I must have seemed to the others from less well-off families like a really spoilt brat.

I wasn’t aware, naturally, at the time, that jealousy existed, so I thought I was a freak of some sort, because I got beaten up so regularly. The funny thing is we weren’t that well-off at all.

Dad, for all his fame, wasn’t that well paid, like actors are today. I couldn’t go to the secondary school of my choice, Blackrock College, because the fees were more than we could afford. Anyway, at ‘De Star’ I did have a few chums, mostly from Newbridge Avenue and Strand Road.

I remember Dad used to get a good deal on cars from Tommy McCairns, of McCairn’s motor fame. He had the General Motors franchise and so Dad used to get Dodges, Chevrolets and Vauxhalls at a good rate. I didn’t realize is at the time, but Tommy knew his onions from a marketing point of view, in that Dad made an excellent salesman just driving around.

I remember Dad with a trailer he got on loan from the Abbey Delivery Service on Mount Street, driving us kids up and down Newbridge Avenue in the trailer, hanging on like grim death and yelling with the fun. Of course, he would be had up for that kind of thing these days, but it was so innocent and I’m sure what we thought was 100 mph was a far more sedate pace.

The father of Rodney Devitt had a motor bike and we used to be on the pillion (no crash helmets or anything) and whizzing along at an insane 15mph. At that time, the trams used to still run to Sandymount Tower, and all the kids, including my brothers, made various trips to the Emergency at Sir Patrick Dunn’s Hospital with broken limbs after getting our bicycle wheels caught in the tram tracks.

Dad’s Mother lived in the house he was born in, at Lower Mercer Street, close to St Stephen’s Green and 100 yards from the Gaiety Theatre. We used to visit her there regularly and she lived over her (by then closed) antique shop.

I remember her as a lovely, white-haired lady, who always had little presents or sweets for me and my two brothers. I was six when she died in 1952, aged in her eighties, and I remember Dad being so very sad. I still remember the funeral to Glasnevin.

It took Dad a long time to get over it, but being the trouper he was, he never let it interfere with making the punters laugh at the Theatre Royal or the Gaiety.

Patrick has kindly allowed us to print extracts from his book, as yet unpublished. Watch out for more recollections in future editions. (Ed)