his chest area. Finally, it dawned on me that I was, in fact, spreading real axle grease all over the chest of one of the largest gorillas in Dublin.
âDropping the bar of soap in fright, I was just in time to duck out from under the two large, shovel-size hands that were reaching out in my directionâ¦and leaping off the box, I fled in terror down Moore Street. The yells of the docker filled my ears, claiming that if he ever caught up with me he would tear me limb from limb.â
With howls of laughter reverberating around the shop, Hector finished his story by informing us that he was not able to go back to Moore Street for quite a while, as every Sunday the docker came in search of him. It was only months later, when he finally met up with Bob again, that Bob was able to explain to him that on that famous Sunday morning somebody had borrowed his wagon and, with the space vacant, another person had parked theirs next to Hectorâs pitch.
The story was still ringing in my ears as we finally left Hectorâs shop, the father staggering out to the now fully loaded and trussed-up car. We began our journey home through the thickening fog, past the Four Courts, Kingsbridge Station, up to Kilmainham, and finally into Emmett Road. The shop was lit up like a lighthouse, with the yellow gleam from the windows piercing through the fog. Adding to the glow and illuminating the wide footpath outside the shop entrance were the flickering, multi-coloured fairy lights that surrounded both windows and appeared to blend into the orange luminescence of the streetlights, emitting a welcoming aura of safety and warmth.
The two shop doors were flung open and the contents of the car stacked in the middle of the shop floor. This was to be my first introduction to the art of âcreativeâ pricing, rather than the more boring method of applying a standard profit mark-up across the board. The mother would hold up an item for the father to consider, while she read out the cost price from the wholesale price-list in her other hand. Together they then debated what they could get for it. Once decided, the mother used a heavy black marker to write the sale price on all the boxes before storing them on the shelves and placing one aside for display in the shop window.
The morning of Christmas Eve finally dawned and for the first time I was going to be allowed to take part in the shopâs activities: I was to be the fetcher and carrier of the items to be wrapped for the customers. By ten in the morning, the kitchen was cleared of all furniture except the table (which was dragged out into the middle of the room) and the sideboard (loaded with bottles of booze, including a special bottle of orange for me). Large rolls of brown paper were stacked by the table, along with boxes of sellotape and, for the customer who wanted to pay extra, special sheets of Christmas wrapping paper that cost three pence more.
Every shelf in the shop was overflowing with toys and rows of two-wheel bikes, three-wheel trikes, teddy bears of all sizes, toy prams and plastic pedal cars were suspended from hooks in the ceiling. Whirling under them, attached by pieces of string, were large cardboard signs displaying their prices.
By eleven oâclock, as I looked out at the street beginning to fill up with pedestrians, I could almost see the excitement shimmering in the air. It was intensified by the greetings that the women called out to each other as they passed, fuelling the atmosphere with their exhilaration. At first thoughts of the Christmas dinner were foremost in the shoppersâ minds, and the line of turkeys, hanging in the butcherâs window across the street, started to diminish. Then, like a changing tide, the emphasis on food subsided and the masses began to move over to our side of the street to commence the first flurry of present buying. This first wave, led by the women, receded around lunchtime; it was then as if the street were
âDropping the bar of soap in fright, I was just in time to duck out from under the two large, shovel-size hands that were reaching out in my directionâ¦and leaping off the box, I fled in terror down Moore Street. The yells of the docker filled my ears, claiming that if he ever caught up with me he would tear me limb from limb.â
With howls of laughter reverberating around the shop, Hector finished his story by informing us that he was not able to go back to Moore Street for quite a while, as every Sunday the docker came in search of him. It was only months later, when he finally met up with Bob again, that Bob was able to explain to him that on that famous Sunday morning somebody had borrowed his wagon and, with the space vacant, another person had parked theirs next to Hectorâs pitch.
The story was still ringing in my ears as we finally left Hectorâs shop, the father staggering out to the now fully loaded and trussed-up car. We began our journey home through the thickening fog, past the Four Courts, Kingsbridge Station, up to Kilmainham, and finally into Emmett Road. The shop was lit up like a lighthouse, with the yellow gleam from the windows piercing through the fog. Adding to the glow and illuminating the wide footpath outside the shop entrance were the flickering, multi-coloured fairy lights that surrounded both windows and appeared to blend into the orange luminescence of the streetlights, emitting a welcoming aura of safety and warmth.
The two shop doors were flung open and the contents of the car stacked in the middle of the shop floor. This was to be my first introduction to the art of âcreativeâ pricing, rather than the more boring method of applying a standard profit mark-up across the board. The mother would hold up an item for the father to consider, while she read out the cost price from the wholesale price-list in her other hand. Together they then debated what they could get for it. Once decided, the mother used a heavy black marker to write the sale price on all the boxes before storing them on the shelves and placing one aside for display in the shop window.
The morning of Christmas Eve finally dawned and for the first time I was going to be allowed to take part in the shopâs activities: I was to be the fetcher and carrier of the items to be wrapped for the customers. By ten in the morning, the kitchen was cleared of all furniture except the table (which was dragged out into the middle of the room) and the sideboard (loaded with bottles of booze, including a special bottle of orange for me). Large rolls of brown paper were stacked by the table, along with boxes of sellotape and, for the customer who wanted to pay extra, special sheets of Christmas wrapping paper that cost three pence more.
Every shelf in the shop was overflowing with toys and rows of two-wheel bikes, three-wheel trikes, teddy bears of all sizes, toy prams and plastic pedal cars were suspended from hooks in the ceiling. Whirling under them, attached by pieces of string, were large cardboard signs displaying their prices.
By eleven oâclock, as I looked out at the street beginning to fill up with pedestrians, I could almost see the excitement shimmering in the air. It was intensified by the greetings that the women called out to each other as they passed, fuelling the atmosphere with their exhilaration. At first thoughts of the Christmas dinner were foremost in the shoppersâ minds, and the line of turkeys, hanging in the butcherâs window across the street, started to diminish. Then, like a changing tide, the emphasis on food subsided and the masses began to move over to our side of the street to commence the first flurry of present buying. This first wave, led by the women, receded around lunchtime; it was then as if the street were
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