South of Darling Harbor, away from the glittering vastness of the sea and the vessels that coursed into the harbor, away from the cafes, aquariums and offices that surrounded it and attracted a congregation of people from different races and faiths, if you walked for little over an hour, you would come to the suburb of Glebe. Glebe will captivate you with its own charm, though it will not promise the same awe and excitement that Darling Harbor does.
If you take a turn to the west and follow the street that runs alongside of Paramatta Road, you will observe the subdued, sophisticated calm that Glebe possesses. Vintage pubs that encouraged you to bring your dog, cafes that promised you open mic nights as you sipped on warm apple cider, stores that specialized in dealing with second-hand novels and music manuscripts; Glebe was a town of taste. This refined palette was carried to the homes that lined the streets too, and as you passed the rows of flats and apartments, homely structures made from exposed brick, you would see the varieties of exotic potted plants placed on the porches, through a window you could maybe get a glimpse of a piece of abstract art hung inside and other ethereal ornaments placed as decorations on shelves and tables. The streets are narrow in Glebe and you will walk through a quiet corridor of culture that exuded sophistication and an esoteric charm. Your appreciation of Glebe would last little over an hour, where then you would enter new territory; that of Stanmore.
As you walk into Stanmore, you wouldn’t need a board or border to tell you that you were in another town. You could sense it. Smell it. See it. Hear it. Stanmore too had pubs, cafes and stores, but they eschewed all the homely embellishments that the ones in Glebe possessed. The buildings in Stanmore were in pale, monotone colors, like flakes of peeled, dried paint. Their interiors were more austere as well. There was a lot more emphasis on breadth rather than height, resulting in a lot more low buildings, so where walking through Glebe acquainted you with its intimate artistry, the streets of Stanmore seemed vast and immense, almost like the Australia the British had known when they first discovered it. Stanmore was a town of rolled-up sleeves rather than long-sleeved flannels and it would have been difficult to imagine its residents down the streets of Glebe and vice versa, but such stratifications often precede and succeed each other in the shaping of any society.
The difference of Stanmore’s character as a town was what made me surprised to see the Irish shop down the broad road. It was a small shop, roughly the size of a gas station store, huddled between an old furniture store and another that dealt in light fittings, but it really distinguished itself with a great, green board that, quite congruently, made it stand out like a four-leafed clover through a dismal, cracked pavement. Through the glass windows you could see that the store’s shelves and tables were filled with various ornaments, novels, drinks and clothes all pertaining to Irish culture.
It would invoke anyone’s curiosity to see a shop so dedicated to the land of Guiness in a New South Wales town, and it was through that of my own that I decided to enter the store.
I walked through the narrow space between the racks and shelves and on closer inspection, I saw that some of the items had Gaelic phrases printed on them. Then from a door behind the counter at the far end of the room came a tall man dressed in a white checkered shirt with a loose black suit over it and trousers with some black shoes. He looked like he was in his late seventies, for his combed hair was silver and the lines and wrinkled of age creased his visage. Yet all this was quickly forgotten, for the jovial gleam he had in his eyes leapt through his thick-rimmed spectacles as soon as he saw me,
“Hello! How can I help you today? The name’s Doyle.”
His speech was nimble and his cadences were as lively as a lamb frolicking along an open meadow. It took me some time to fully comprehend what he said,
“I’m just here out of curiosity really,” was my response, “I was just walking by.”
My curiosity seemed to have brought him the greatest delight, for he soon began to guide me around the store. His movements were surprisingly spry for a man of his age, and it was poignant to see him being so passionate as he explained some of the store’s items to me, for you would have expected a man of his age and experience to scarcely feel and speak in such a way. He held up a coat-hanger made from and steel and shaped like a four-leafed clover that had a phrase printed on it,
“So the text here is in Gaelic, can you read it?”
I said I couldn’t.
He responded with a warm laugh, “Neither can I, son, but this one, Cead Mile Failte, means ‘one hundred thousand welcomes’.”
He then led me to the bookshelves opposite to where the ornaments were and, with a humble patriotism, showed me various novels authored by everyone from James Joyce to Roddy Doyle.
“That Roddy Doyle one is great, it’s about an Irish father who comes to terms with his daughter marrying a Nigerian man. It deconstructs this silly thing called racism, really.”
I told him that I was a Sri Lankan tourist when he asked me where I was from, to which he responded with a beaming smile,
“It’s funny you say that, most of these books you see here are brought down by my Sri Lankan friend who’s a surgeon…Cha-Chathura, yes. That’s his name. Fantastic lad he is.”
I smiled at the mention of this. I then asked him what motivated him to open such a shop, to which he stated,
“I came to Australia as a young boy from Ireland with my family, but even having spent most of my life here in the land down under, I still felt a connection to the old land you know?
“I felt a connection to the songs, the novels, even that nonsense-sounding Gaelic, everything except the Guiness that is. My father drank a lot and was not a very likeable man. Beat women, beat his children and all that. I’ve never had a sip of the stuff myself.”
He related this last bit to me with a tone that was solemn, but then his spry self returned,
“But it’s a new land, a new life. I’ve moved on and I’ve decided to celebrate the homeland in my own humble way, you know? There’s so many young folk who show an interest in their heritage now, and I think that has come about with this Aboriginal concern and all that.”
As I listened to him, I realized that there was something unique about his accent. It was primarily Australian, but hints of the Irish accent resurfaced, like little wavelets in a sea of cadences, when he said certain vowels. I was hearing the aural transition from the old world to the new. I was hearing all the little yearnings in the back of his mind and the warm, open embrace of the present. I was hearing the inexorable frictions and forces that constituted each individual experience.
I had to catch a bus just outside, so I bid him farewell and he wished me the best in everything. Months later, I still think of this man Doyle, and I believe that he has left a lasting impression on me.
What moved me so much about the incident was this; two human beings of different race, age and experience genuinely enjoying one another’s company, relating personal stories and coming to understand a world beyond them. The world is vast and varied with people full of their own tales and it brings me genuine joy and fascination to meet and listen to all of them.
It was a shame that I only knew him for little less than an hour, but I’d like to think that Doyle is still behind that counter, observing the broad, quiet Paramatta Road, waiting for yet another stranger to enter his store and enthusiastically expatiate his Irish heritage to them after greeting them with a ‘Cead Mile Failte’.
The Piker Press moderates all comments.
Click here for the commenting policy.