My Uncle Yank
After living in Walkinstown during the early 1960s, my parents moved the family just across the Grand Canal to a place called Keogh Square in Inchicore, to live with Granny Larkin in her cottage. As us children were still fairly small at the time - there was five of us then, Marion, yours truly, Bernie, Jimmy and Dorothy; Linda and Anto came afterward - we never really knew why we moved there, but I guess with Granny getting old and Grandad having died, Dad may have felt duty-bound to look after her. She would pass away herself not too many years later. Before we moved, however, Jimmy and I became quite ill and had to be taken from our house to Cherry Orchard hospital where we spent a considerable amount of time. I don't know about my brother because I've never really spoken of it with him, but when we were discharged from hospital I naturally expected that we were going home to our lovely house. Therefore, I was perturbed to find instead that the family was now living in Keogh Square, and already had been for some time. No one had thought to tell me beforehand, but by then I was a deafened child and would rarely, if ever, be told anything that was happening in the family.
Dad was the only one of his siblings to have remained in Dublin, the rest having long moved to England where they lived in London and Birmingham. One of his brothers later moved on to Perth in Australia with his family. So there were no paternal aunts and uncles around us as we were growing up, but Mam's own family, the Bates, lived close to Granny in a building called 'Block J' which was one of many tenements that were in the area. I remember these used to be known locally as 'Halls'. Granny and Grandad Bates were alive then, and some of their grown children were still living with them.
Out of all the Bates my favourite would have to be my uncle, Yank. He wasn't a particularly big man, having only grown to about five feet, more or less, but he was broad-shouldered with it and a fierce, hard drinking and straight talking man who wouldn't take shit from no one, as I heard from stories of the fights he used to get into. The Square had many good residents living there, but it was also very rough and the kind of place where you had to stand up for yourself, or suffer the consequences. Yank was known for his effectiveness as a 'dirty little fighter' when facing boys and then, later on, men who were twice as big as he was. I believe this was not just a macho thing for him, but also a matter of necessity. By rights, then, I really should have been scared of him as I was growing up but he actually did have his gentle side and I loved the times I was privileged to spend with him, which were sadly all too rare. He was a marvelous comic and storyteller, the latter of which mainly revolved around him! One such story pertained to the moniker he went by because 'Yank', of course, wasn't his real name. He was christened Anthony, and by all accounts he was a bonny little baby. The story was that he was sitting outside in his pram one day when some ladies came along and remarked on what a lovely child he was. So much so that one of them was moved to exclaim, "Oh, isn't he like a little yank!" From that day on the name had stuck.
Another story was about when he visited us when we were still living in Walkinstown. He always liked to relate how I would sing "Around The World In Eighty Days" for him in perfect pitch. I think this was before I became deaf so I can't really vouch for that, but he always insisted it was true and so did Mam, and I took their word for it. Ironically, though, I couldn't sing a note today if I tried!
As I said earlier, I was rarely informed about events within the family, so I never knew Yank had left and gone to Birmingham until a few days later. When I did find out I was so devastated; it was bad enough that he wasn't around any more, but it was worse because I hadn't even been told. As it turned out, none of the family would see or hear of him for several years after that and, because there was no forwarding address from him, we lost touch completely. It was even feared at a later stage that he had died and was buried where he couldn't be found.
And then out of the blue, he finally made contact and came back into our lives. Apparently he'd had some adventures throughout those absent years, and for a while was known to the UK authorities as 'Sean Fleming'. I never fully discovered what happened to him or why he'd needed to change his name, but from what I could gather he may have had some encounters with certain agencys.
By that time the Square had been demolished for some years, and St Michael's Estate had been built in its stead. We were one of the few families from the old place that accepted a flat there. I can't imagine how Yank must have felt when he came home for the first of many visits he would make for the rest of his life, and saw all the changes to his old hometown; it must have been a lot for him to take in. But he was really moved when he walked through our door for the first time and, as pre-arranged, the strains of Peters and Lee singing "Welcome Home" burst forth from our record player!
He was getting old then and had recently suffered a stroke, which resulted in some reduced mobility with his walking. His speech was also affected because he could only say a few words at a time, and then had to pause before starting again. I suppose all those years of hard living finally caught up on him. I might be wrong here, but I also had the sense that he was slightly bitter at how his life turned out. In some ways, he just wasn't the same Yank I'd known before. But his indomitable spirit was still evident and his mind ever so sharp, because he could still crack a joke, and verbally cut people down to size if need be.
The first few times he came home he stayed with us, but after that he stayed with another of his sisters, Patty, in Ballyfermot. By then I was a young adult getting on with my own life, and any subsequent contact I had with him gradually decreased as the years went by. I didn't think too much of it at the time, but today this is one of my big regrets. Another is that when he died some years ago I didn't attend his funeral, mainly because of personal difficulties I was going through at the time. But the devastation I felt at his passing was much the same as when he first went away when I was a boy.
I've been thinking about Yank a lot lately, which is what prompted me to write this. So many wonderful memories; sometimes I break out laughing about certain things, or get a lump in my throat at others. For the truth is that, despite his wild and sometimes crude ways, to me he was a lovely man at heart who'd brightened up my lonely childhood, and passed on some invaluable advice as I became a young man. He would point out mistakes he had made and the pitfalls I should avoid. I've since made my own mistakes and committed a sin or two, of course (who hasn't, in all honesty?), but I do believe that the advice he imparted stood to me in the end. I may not have always appreciated what he said at the time... but I do now.
So there's one thing I have to do, sooner or later, which is to go to Birmingham and visit his grave. I need to apologise for having forgotten about him as he came to the end of his life, and also to say goodbye properly to the little big man I loved and admired so much. It's the least I can do.
(c) Eddie Larkin 2012. All Rights Reserved.
(Footnote: the Square referred to above should not be confused with the shopping centre of the same name in Tallaght, Dublin.)