Vera

Did you ever get hit by an occurrence in life that absolutely floored you? Of course you have, we’ve all had that life-changing jolt at least once.

Though it was felt that nothing could sideswipe me in the manner which the sudden and tragic death of Cllr Damien O’Reilly almost two years ago did. Until last week, that is.

I honestly can’t remember when there was first an awareness of Vera Farrell in mam’s life and, by extension, our family. The handiest explanation would be to simple put it that she seemed to be always there. To the extent that – in the most Irish endorsement there could be of such a fact – the second name was never needed. It was always ‘Ma, Vera’s on the phone’ or ‘Ma’s going into Vera on her way home from the shops’. No further explanation required.

Which is why, I think, Vera’s sudden passing most recently caused such shock and utter devastation. Most obviously and understandably to her own stunned and heartbroken family, but also to ours and indeed the wider – and Bingo-playing in particular – community in Dunboyne and much further afield.

For you see, it has become apparent to me over the years that Bingo almost has a cult-like following among citizens of a certain vintage. My earliest knowledge of it would have been in its context as a vitally important fundraiser for St Peter’s GAA Club as people including but not limited to Aidan Curley, Brian Smyth, Peter Moran, Oliver Brady, Pat Kelly, Seamus and Rita Lynch and Paddy McIntyre Snr worked their magic on what was as much social event as it was source of income.

On the odd occasion, if there was after being a match out on the field on a Friday night, I’d tip into the old kitchen behind the hall, which was the nerve centre of the entire operation. Not that much of an idea was had of the workings of the process but sometimes I’d end up giving old Paddy Mc a hand bagging up the coin as his conveyor belt of helpers brought the ‘loot’ in.

Where the idea of the cult following comes into the equation is here – long ago in a far and distant lifetime – when I used to adore tipping down for a few quiet pints late on a Monday night, some of the town’s Bingo brigade, Vera included, would be encountered disembarking from the Bingo bus, having returned from whatever venue it happened to be on a given night.

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The first time I can properly recall meeting Vera was when I was about I’m going to say six, when myself and ma would drop in to see her and her late husband Tosh after Sunday morning mass.

While they yapped away in the kitchen for what, to pre teen me felt like forever, I’d be treated to crisps and chocolate while watching The Beat Box – an Irish knock off of TOTP at the time. Usually with their gentle giant of a golden labrador, Bruce, for company.

It is also recalled that, even at that age, no matter how many times I explained to Vera – born and reared in Dunboyne at a time when it really was the country and a place to be proud of, unlike now, that not every bovine animal is a “Cow”, they all came under the one umbrella. Thankfully, the fact that a female of the species was a heifer until they have a meeting with Mr Bull never came up!

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When I became properly attuned to all things GAA in 1990, my post-religious visits – and my dealings with the aforementioned subject area – would’ve come to an end. But, as far as can be recalled, ma would have kept up her habit of calling to Vera every morning after dropping me to school. Until such times as I got a powered chair and was able to get there under my own steam.

Not that I there was any drifting apart between the two ladies or anything of the sort. Just that, as my life became more independent and thus busier, I wouldn’t have been as aware of what was going on with everybody else. Within reason, obviously.

Yet, it is at such times that tradition plays such a vital role in being the glue that holds what’s really important in life together. Which is why the forthcoming Christmas (God I even detest the word itself)  will be such a strange and devastatibg one. With one less basket of flowers to be delivered on December 24th.

Mind you, if I can feel the following, what the family are going through cannot even be contemplated, but, none of it seems real. Vera looked too well, too healthy. I spoke to her as she did her usual on any visit, leaned over the fence to pet Elvis and make a fuss about giving him a dog biscuit.

Even they were best frrriends. In fact, on the one occasion she did forget the treat for my four legged minder, she was so annoyed with herself she insisted on Susie sneaking one out of our own stash so as not to disappoint himself!

Speaking of minders, as so often happens, when times of greatest strife strike in life, the longest standing, most treasured of  friendships come into their own.

Never was this more the case than in the last decade or so. After ma had her stroke and for the weeks, perhaps months, that getting out of bed was a challenge for herself, the regular phone calls and visits from Vera were a huge part of what got ma up and going.

Then, in what felt like fairly quick succession even though there were a couple of years in the difference, both of the friends were widowed. As firstly, Vera’s beloved husband Tosh passed away in May 2019 and then the boss here slipped away in June of 2021.

Thereafter, I firmly believe that Vera’s visits to ma, which always, in recent times, culminated in the two of them going for a walk, and ma popping in in the opposite direction on a Saturday evening after her venture up the village, were great coping strategies for both.

It’s almost as difficult to contemplate Vera being gone as it is to quantify how desperately missed she will be. Foremost by her family but also indescribably so in this house and much further afield. May she rest in peace.