between the mother and the grandfather. I recall my father driving him for the last time to Kingsbridge Station to catch the train to Cork. As we arrived at the door of his compartment, Grand Pappy reached into his waistcoat pocket, extracted a half-crown coin and, turning to me, pressed it into my hand. A whole half crown: I was rich beyond belief and it was
all
mine. On the way back home I kept staring at it to make sure that it didnât dissolve.
Even though the grandfather had returned to Cork, I was not allowed to move back into my old room. Instead the mother converted it into a small, upstairs living-room. Once it was decked out with new furniture, I was never allowed back in there, which I felt defeated the purpose of having the room in the first place. I was told that it was to be used only for entertaining âspecial guestsâ â which I took to mean her brothers and sisters and the local parish priest. Also, according to the mother, my fatherâs âlotâ was never going to set foot in that room.
*
It was approaching Christmas and, as I was now nearly six and had given up believing in Santa Claus, the father thought I was old enough to introduce to the ways of the business world and to bring around the wholesale outlets in Dublin. Now it was not the case that I had stopped believing in Santa as a result of my own process of logical thought. It was just that one day the father took me aside and told me that it was a load of made-up rubbish and that, in fact, all the toys for the kids in our area were bought in our shop. But, he warned, I wasnât to tell any of the other children that I came in contact with, as this bit of news could ruin our business.
To me, visiting the wholesalers was like discovering the New World. There was Millard Brothers on the quays, which supplied our fishing-rods, tackle, knives and, most importantly, guns of all descriptions. There were pellet guns of every make and size, from repeater rifles that looked identical to the Winchester rifles all the cowboys carried in the films, to hand pistols that fired all sizes of pellets. And there, standing shoulder to shoulder in the long gunroom (which appeared to be carved out of oak beams), were rows and rows of
real
guns, from rifles to shotguns and everything else in between. As soon as I entered that room, the smell of gun oil seemed to overpower my senses and set every fibre of my body tingling with excitement. I stared up at the racks of weapons that conveyed a sense of power, strength, and gave off an aura of potential, awesome destruction. Turning towards the aisle that ran the length of the floor, I saw endless stacks of large boxes containing packets of every kind of bullet imaginable. I lifted one small packet (which seemed to weigh a ton), carefully opened the top, and there, glaring out at me, were the polished tops of .22 calibre bullets. They looked so perfect and of such faultless beauty that I felt it would be criminal to even think of firing them. The smell of gun oil seemed to penetrate the very pores of my skin, lingering with me for weeks on end. So much so that, in later years, every time I entered the gunroom at Millard Brothers the same feeling came rushing back.
Entering Hector Grays on Liffey Street was akin to entering Aladdinâs Cave, since the two storeys were filled to the brim with every sort of toy you could imagine. I was welcomed by old Hector himself and told that, since it was my first visit, I could choose a present for myself. I had such a huge choice that I could settle on none, for as soon as I spotted some toy of tremendous interest I would find something else and run off to look at that, until another would catch my eye.
The father was engrossed in haggling prices with Hector when a very tall old gentleman with a mop of white hair and a long white beard, who had been sitting quietly in a chair in a corner of the shop, called me over and enticed me to sit with him. If I had
all
mine. On the way back home I kept staring at it to make sure that it didnât dissolve.
Even though the grandfather had returned to Cork, I was not allowed to move back into my old room. Instead the mother converted it into a small, upstairs living-room. Once it was decked out with new furniture, I was never allowed back in there, which I felt defeated the purpose of having the room in the first place. I was told that it was to be used only for entertaining âspecial guestsâ â which I took to mean her brothers and sisters and the local parish priest. Also, according to the mother, my fatherâs âlotâ was never going to set foot in that room.
*
It was approaching Christmas and, as I was now nearly six and had given up believing in Santa Claus, the father thought I was old enough to introduce to the ways of the business world and to bring around the wholesale outlets in Dublin. Now it was not the case that I had stopped believing in Santa as a result of my own process of logical thought. It was just that one day the father took me aside and told me that it was a load of made-up rubbish and that, in fact, all the toys for the kids in our area were bought in our shop. But, he warned, I wasnât to tell any of the other children that I came in contact with, as this bit of news could ruin our business.
To me, visiting the wholesalers was like discovering the New World. There was Millard Brothers on the quays, which supplied our fishing-rods, tackle, knives and, most importantly, guns of all descriptions. There were pellet guns of every make and size, from repeater rifles that looked identical to the Winchester rifles all the cowboys carried in the films, to hand pistols that fired all sizes of pellets. And there, standing shoulder to shoulder in the long gunroom (which appeared to be carved out of oak beams), were rows and rows of
real
guns, from rifles to shotguns and everything else in between. As soon as I entered that room, the smell of gun oil seemed to overpower my senses and set every fibre of my body tingling with excitement. I stared up at the racks of weapons that conveyed a sense of power, strength, and gave off an aura of potential, awesome destruction. Turning towards the aisle that ran the length of the floor, I saw endless stacks of large boxes containing packets of every kind of bullet imaginable. I lifted one small packet (which seemed to weigh a ton), carefully opened the top, and there, glaring out at me, were the polished tops of .22 calibre bullets. They looked so perfect and of such faultless beauty that I felt it would be criminal to even think of firing them. The smell of gun oil seemed to penetrate the very pores of my skin, lingering with me for weeks on end. So much so that, in later years, every time I entered the gunroom at Millard Brothers the same feeling came rushing back.
Entering Hector Grays on Liffey Street was akin to entering Aladdinâs Cave, since the two storeys were filled to the brim with every sort of toy you could imagine. I was welcomed by old Hector himself and told that, since it was my first visit, I could choose a present for myself. I had such a huge choice that I could settle on none, for as soon as I spotted some toy of tremendous interest I would find something else and run off to look at that, until another would catch my eye.
The father was engrossed in haggling prices with Hector when a very tall old gentleman with a mop of white hair and a long white beard, who had been sitting quietly in a chair in a corner of the shop, called me over and enticed me to sit with him. If I had
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