A column about a father, a son; and finding happiness.

After thirty years in London, I moved back to Ireland. Whilst clearing through my flat, I was feeling reflective and felt the urge to write about my Dad. The resultant piece went viral on Social Media; and now, I’d like to share those words in print as my inaugural ‘WordSmith’ column.

Like many Irish youngsters of the fifties, Mam and Dad travelled to England to find work.

Dad found work on the building sites, Mam found work as a nurse. Then they found each other and married.

They had my brother and sister, and after almost a decade they had their baby – me. I wasn’t like my brother. He was fearless and football mad. I was fretful and football frightened me.

I was curly headed and often mistaken for a girl. “She’s a bonny one Sean, how old is she?” As I got older, this bothered me. But Dad always did his best to deflect and shield me from the misgendering.

At the age of ten, Mam and Dad decided to return to Cavan with me. My brother and sister remained, as they had jobs.

I sobbed throughout the night on the boat, and more so on the bus to Cavan.

Cavan was a universe away from the Manchester Council estate I’d come from. There were no brown or black people, and I sounded different from the locals.

Kids laughed at my accent, not in a cruel way, but I didn’t realise that, then.

I stopped talking, became mute, withdrawn, insular. Mam and Dad were busy re-establishing themselves; I suppose my hermitic state helped them do that.

But they always kept a watchful eye on me.

I grew into an awkward teen, whilst Dad became a popular member of the community. His passions were: GAA, Soccer, Horse Racing, and every other sport on the spectrum. I hated sport, we had nothing with which to bond – yet we did.

Mam worked at nights as a barmaid, so Dad and I would bond over dinner duties.

“Do you want to peel or mash, Dad?”

“Ah sher, I’ll peel, you’ve done it the last two nights.”

We ate together every night whilst watching the old soap, Crossroads.

Mam worked late, and thus slept late. So Dad got me up for school and we always ate breakfast together to the sound of The Shipping News on the radio.

“Will we have chops tonight, son?” The thought of those chops with Dad got me through the tedium of the school day.

Dad’s friend’s sons were all rising up the ranks of Junior GAA. I wasn’t. I felt deeply ashamed for letting Dad down. I wanted him to feel the pride in me that his friends were feeling for their sons. But Dad wasn’t bothered: “Come on son, Crossroads on.”

Now, I had a secret hobby. I had this thing about designing and drawing wedding dresses. I would spend hours in my bedroom sketching the most intricate designs onto long limbed, exotic, big haired goddesses.

To this day, I don’t know how Dad found them. All I recall is the profound shock and shame I felt when I saw him walking into the living room with my sketch pad, him flicking through page after page of my shameful, sissy secret!

My face burned up as my burly builder Dad, my Irish GAA mad Dad looked at what his son was doing upstairs, while he was downstairs cheering on his team.

I should have been sitting with him, not by myself sketching frocks!

Dad looked at me, I braced myself: “Did you draw these?”

“Yes.”

He flicked through the pages again, looked at me. “They’re f**king brilliant!”

He looked again. “I didn’t know you could draw like this.”

When he looked at me the third time, I’m sure I saw pride in his eyes.

When I got into Dublin’s National College of Art and Design, I’d say my Dad was the proudest man in Ireland. I was the first in our family to enter into third level education. Mam and Dad toiled to ensure I graduated.

When I was 35, Mam died suddenly. Dad was bereft. “What am I going to do, son?”

“Build a house Dad, your house.” And he did.

Dad died before my return to Ireland. He knew he was dying. I was in denial – we hadn’t been given a diagnosis for his illness, so I held onto tight delusional hope.

My last living moments with him were in the magnificent house he built, us both sitting silently looking out over the Cavan countryside. He was frail and speaking tired him, so his words, his voice were rare.

I was returning to London. When my taxi arrived I noticed Dad steel himself, getting ready to say something he’d rehearsed.

At the door he inhaled, “Son, I hope you find happiness.” They were his last words to me.

And you know something; I don’t think he ever called me ‘Gerard’, I was always his ‘Son'. I treasure that.