Let Me Tell You About My Dad.

 

My dad was a good man. He was born in the same village as me, Killyleagh, County Down, Northern Ireland. That's where the similarity in our lives ends. My dad was one of one of eight children. Sadly his mother and older sister died of TB when he was a young child. The effects of this loss would haunt him in one way or another for the rest of his life. His father had a difficult time raising the remaining seven children on his own. In Northern Ireland, at that time, poverty was crushing and widespread. In those days poverty was not, as now, measured by the fact that you could not afford the latest set of Reeboks or a new DVD player. My dad's family went hungry.....young bellies were empty for long periods of time. This poverty would also mean that my dad missed out on a lot of the education which nowadays is taken for granted. He left school at fourteen because he was needed to earn money for his family, not for himself, for his family. Dutifully he handed over his pay packet every week in order to support his younger siblings. In those days this was normal because in those days it was family first, self second.

When he was old enough he did as many Irishmen did, he left Ireland to earn more money overseas. The bulk of this money would be sent back home to his father...... family first, self second. My dad and his elder brother Chris travelled the length and breadth of England and Scotland working anywhere there was an honest shilling to be had. He eventually married and along came three sons. I was the middle one.

As a father my dad always tried his best. He was hampered by his lack of education. He joined the police not long after my elder brother was born.The police was seen as a steady job, not the best paid but it did give you security and a certain amount of social status. My dad liked being a policeman and he soon became what was then called "a good copper." His lack of education made it unlikely that he'd ever be Chief Constable but he was good at talking to people and they respected him. In those days police work was not about criminal profiling or the study of demographics, social awareness as it is now. My dad was liked by the law abiding and feared by the wrongdoers. If something happened on his "patch" it wouldn't be long before the culprit's name was whispered in my dad's ear. That's how it worked back then and my dad was a master at the art of social interaction.

My brothers and I would often accompany my dad into town on a Saturday morning. There was a large outdoor market in Sheffield on the site that is now Park Square. We'd have a stroll round the market stalls and everyone seemed to know my dad. Shouts of "hey up Paddy" would ring out every few yards as the stall holders would beckon my dad in their direction. Quantities of fruit would be passed to my dad and then onto me and my brothers usually without any payment being required. My dad never paid full-price for anything....he didn't have to. My dad had the role of Sheriff and we were his deputies. To me my dad was John Wayne and I'd scan the faces in the crowd looking for Liberty Valence and his gang. We'd tag along behind my dad who always walked very slowly and deliberately. You see in those days policemen walked at "regulation pace." The purpose of this slow walking speed was so that the officer could see and be seen. Today policeman whizz by in their patrol cars but back then "regulation pace" was mandatory for my dad, even on his day off. Our journeys round the market were punctuated by stops at various stalls where the owner would usher my dad to a quiet spot and have a sometimes lengthy conversation with him while I continued to scan the faces in the crowd looking for Liberty and the boys. After a time we'd continue for another few yards and the procedure would start again. I never minded or got bored because we'd always done this and anyway it gave me a chance to walk tall with my dad who was obviously held in high esteem and this rubbed off on me because I was his lad. Middle aged ladies made a fuss of us and sweets would arrive unannounced. I could get used to this police work I thought.

My dad did have some idiosyncrasies to his personality. These were usually the result of him being embarrassed by his lack of schooling. He could read and write OK and do basic maths, but anything requiring intellectual reasoning was a blind spot for him. This caused him a lot of pain and frustration and it also made him resent people who'd had a better start in life than he'd had and didn't appreciate their luck. He didn't have much time for student demonstrators who abounded in the sixties. To him they were lazy drop-outs who needed a hair cut. He was probably right as too many people back then didn't realise how lucky they were...me included. By the time I was in my early teens I had an opinion about everything which I expressed often rather loudly. Like all young men I thought I'd discovered new things that had laid dormant for centuries. The truth was that men of my dad's age had discovered all my breakthroughs twenty years before but now had mouths to feed, including mine. This meant that they were not that interested in my opinions about life, politics, the war in Vietnam and why should they be?

My dad hated long hair....whereas I wanted to look like the bass player in Black Sabbath, hence some friction. My dad said I looked like big girl. I dug out some old photos the other day and my forty seven year old eyes told me that I had looked like a big girl and my ambition of looking like Geezer Butler fell somewhat short. My dad and I never fell out but I could tell that the two impostors of my extensive education and my total neglect to realise how lucky I was did rub him up the wrong way. Luckily for my dad hairstyles changed and as a thirty-something I arrived with a crew cut shorter than his. His mild rebuke made me laugh. "You've changed your tune dad," I said as I reminded him of my Black Sabbath days. He laughed too.

My dad died in 2001. It was painful for me to see him in his last weeks. His mind had started playing cruel tricks on him and during his last days he thought that I was his brother. We never did find out why, probably just as well.

I miss my dad terribly...his Irishness...his corny jokes...his funny cop stories....his everything. To me he was John Wayne but like The Duke he's ridden off into the sunset.

 

My Dad- Police Constable John Patrick Joseph "Paddy" Hanna

1930 - 2001

My dad on duty in Fitzalan Square, Sheffield- early 1960s