Elaine Garvey

My mother was the makings of my father.

Dad was not to be disturbed when he was writing and no more about it.

The Pope himself would get the door while the clamorous sound of typewriter keys could be heard rat-tat-tatting upstairs.

With military precision and total selflessness, she gave him the space and freedom to write.

In the early 90s, a couple introducing themselves as Gabriel and Ellen casually called the bar asking to meet with John B. Gabriel explained that as a schoolboy, he had exchanged letters with my father and that he would love to meet his hero in person.

My mother told him that he was not in.

Dad could have been working upstairs, walking in the bog, or ambling by the field for all she knew.

She proceeded to have a nammicable chat with her new friends, Gabriel and Ellen, and even asked them to watch the bar while she slipped down to Pat Whelan's shop to buy onions for a stew she was making.

A week later, she, and I quote, nearly died when she was seated with my father beside guests of honour, film stars Gabriel Byrne and Ellen Barkin, at the premiere of The Man from Clare in the Gatey Theatre.

My father was very insistent that I should learn to drive at the age of 16.

Little did I know that there was method in his madness.

Once he had me on the road, I drove him to several football matches and many, many pubs.

We were reared on Nash's red lemonade, the cure for all ailments.

As I was a bit puny, my mother gave me a pony of stout to build me up until Dr. Johnny put a stop to her antics, saying it could give me a tooth for the drink.

Later, my brothers and I became dangerously addicted to what we lovingly called the golden drink, Leukacid.

We called ourselves Leukaholics.

My mother had to stop stocking it in the bar and we were only allowed it at Christmas.

We were out and out townies in William Street.

You could get anything your heart desired on our colourful, eclectic little boulevard.

A child's paradise.