still believed in Santa, well this would have him; he was just short of the red coat and black boots. Introducing himself as Noel and sitting me on his knee, he told me a story about a whale called Moby Dick. In a rich Dublin accent he entranced me with his tale of a sea captain who spent a lifetime in search of a white killer whale that had eaten his leg. It was some years later that I first associated my memory of the storyteller with the well-known actor Noel Purcell, recalling also that he featured in the film
Moby Dick
, which was made in Youghal, County Cork, in the late 1950s.
That week leading up to Christmas was the most exciting of my young life to date, as we had to make frequent trips to the wholesalers. Owing to the fact that we had a large shop and a small car that could only hold a little at a time, despite my fatherâs attempts to jam in as much as he possibly could. There was many a trip home that found me sitting on top of boxes stacked on the front seat, my head jammed up against the roof. I would be given strict instructions to watch the boot, as this too would have been overfilled and tied down with string. Hectorâs shop was always the last port of call, being the one place that doled out generous quantities of alcohol to all its customers.
By the time we had completed the ordering and loading, nearly everyone in the shop was well on their way towards complete inebriation, both staff and customers. I could always tell when the father was reaching his limit of consumption, as his ordering slowed right down and he concentrated more and more on the booze table. Until eventually Hector or Enda presented the full bill, which was haggled over; once they came to an agreement the father would reach into his back pocket and extract a bundle of five- and ten-pound notes. To me the notes appeared to be as large as newspapers and he would make a great show of counting out the tally. However, nobody really wanted to leave with plenty of half-empty bottles of booze still lying around like magnets (especially magnetic to the father), so the customers would encourage Hector to tell one of his stories about his start in business. Hector, if he had made a lot of money that particular day, would refill their glasses and reminisce about what he described as âthe good old days before the taxman found meâ.
âEvery Sundayâ, Hector would begin, launching into one of his favourites, âI took a patch down on Moore Street, where I set up my stall and flogged to the masses anything cheap that I could get my hands on. In those days the multitude descended on the street around noon, with their wives and girlfriends attached to their arms.â At this point all work in the shop would stop and the staff would angle over to hear the rest of the tale. âWell, this particular time, I got my hands on a gross of some very cheap âmagic Japanese soapâ that was supposed to remove every conceivable stain from any type of clothingâ¦it didnât work of course, but since I was stuck with it, well, I had to sell it on.â Turning around in mock modesty he would raise his arms in the air and say, âWell isnât that what all good Jew boys are taught to do by their fathers?â, which brought roars of approval from the gathering.
âKnowing that it would barely remove fly shit from a black shirt, I had to be a small bit creative and sort of âinventâ my own dirt that the soap could remove, otherwise I would have been eating the bars for my Christmas dinner.â At which one of the group would remind Hector that, as he was a Jew, he shouldnât be celebrating Christmas anyway â which brought more laughter, but Hector would continue unabated.
âOld Bob who had his stand alongside mine flogged rags that he passed off as cloths, and which he bought from the Jew boys on the North sideâ¦and he always arrived early with his horse and cart and parked his wagon
Moby Dick
, which was made in Youghal, County Cork, in the late 1950s.
That week leading up to Christmas was the most exciting of my young life to date, as we had to make frequent trips to the wholesalers. Owing to the fact that we had a large shop and a small car that could only hold a little at a time, despite my fatherâs attempts to jam in as much as he possibly could. There was many a trip home that found me sitting on top of boxes stacked on the front seat, my head jammed up against the roof. I would be given strict instructions to watch the boot, as this too would have been overfilled and tied down with string. Hectorâs shop was always the last port of call, being the one place that doled out generous quantities of alcohol to all its customers.
By the time we had completed the ordering and loading, nearly everyone in the shop was well on their way towards complete inebriation, both staff and customers. I could always tell when the father was reaching his limit of consumption, as his ordering slowed right down and he concentrated more and more on the booze table. Until eventually Hector or Enda presented the full bill, which was haggled over; once they came to an agreement the father would reach into his back pocket and extract a bundle of five- and ten-pound notes. To me the notes appeared to be as large as newspapers and he would make a great show of counting out the tally. However, nobody really wanted to leave with plenty of half-empty bottles of booze still lying around like magnets (especially magnetic to the father), so the customers would encourage Hector to tell one of his stories about his start in business. Hector, if he had made a lot of money that particular day, would refill their glasses and reminisce about what he described as âthe good old days before the taxman found meâ.
âEvery Sundayâ, Hector would begin, launching into one of his favourites, âI took a patch down on Moore Street, where I set up my stall and flogged to the masses anything cheap that I could get my hands on. In those days the multitude descended on the street around noon, with their wives and girlfriends attached to their arms.â At this point all work in the shop would stop and the staff would angle over to hear the rest of the tale. âWell, this particular time, I got my hands on a gross of some very cheap âmagic Japanese soapâ that was supposed to remove every conceivable stain from any type of clothingâ¦it didnât work of course, but since I was stuck with it, well, I had to sell it on.â Turning around in mock modesty he would raise his arms in the air and say, âWell isnât that what all good Jew boys are taught to do by their fathers?â, which brought roars of approval from the gathering.
âKnowing that it would barely remove fly shit from a black shirt, I had to be a small bit creative and sort of âinventâ my own dirt that the soap could remove, otherwise I would have been eating the bars for my Christmas dinner.â At which one of the group would remind Hector that, as he was a Jew, he shouldnât be celebrating Christmas anyway â which brought more laughter, but Hector would continue unabated.
âOld Bob who had his stand alongside mine flogged rags that he passed off as cloths, and which he bought from the Jew boys on the North sideâ¦and he always arrived early with his horse and cart and parked his wagon
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