The monumental legacy of builders
WordSmith
Gerard Smith
My dad built Coronation Street, kind of. I loved our Saturday morning trips into Manchester city centre. We’d sit on the top deck of the bus, me always at the window seat.
As the bus approached northern England’s Hollywood: Granada Television Studios, I’d sit up and crane my neck to make sure I got a good view. Right on cue, Dad would nod to his right and say loudly and proudly, “I did all the brick-work on that building, so I did.”
Given the iconic soap-opera was filmed in the Granada building, I can confidently claim my dad had a hand in constructing the street.
Variations on the above scenario happened frequently when we were kids (and adults). In the car with my uncle and Dad, they’d slow down and one would point and announce, “I built that house.”
Recently, when returning from a trip to Enniskillen with my aunt, she gently braked and nodded to her right, “That house reminds me of Sean, when he was building it we’d always stop for a chat when passing.”
I’ve no doubt these recollections will resonate widely with readers who have builders in the family. I find it a joy to see and hear builders sharing their connection to, and expressing pride in, their considerable accomplishments.
This column was prompted when my aunt and uncle gave me a copy of Dad’s Obituary in this paper. I don’t know who wrote it, but they succinctly described the man, beautifully. Dad would’ve been especially proud of this line: ‘Whilst in England, Sean honed his skills as a bricklayer and he quickly became a sought after master of his trade.’
When Dad returned to Cavan he had no bother finding work; and I don’t recall him ever being out of work. He made close and lasting friendships with the men he worked with; men who probably know aspects of my father that are unknown to me. They say you spend more time with your work colleagues, they often know you better than family – fact.
Dad continued working until he was seventy-five. He loved the job and the camaraderie of the lads he worked with; but he knew the time had come to lay down his trowel.
One Christmas not long after he’d retired, we were sitting on the couch. I was showing him photos on my phone when I heard a rattle in his chest, “Dad, you’re not well? You’re wheezing!”
There followed a hospital visit where fluid in the lungs was detected. It was duly drained, and after a short stay he was home, happy. Until the fluid began to seep in again. Draining the lungs was a short term fix and we weren’t given an underlying cause (in fairness, they didn’t have one at that point).
On one hospital visit the doctor called my brother and I into a room and we braced ourselves for a diagnoses. But first, there came a question addressed to us both, “Can I ask what you do for a living?” Confused, I answered first, “I work in Advertising.”
He nodded, and before my brother could answer came another question, “Have either of you ever worked in the building trade?”
Neither of us had; and feeling my frustration begin to bubble I asked, “Why is what we do for a living relevant to Dad?”
With earnest sympathy he cut to the chase, “Your father has a rare form of lung cancer that’s linked to asbestos exposure during his years on the buildings in England; I wanted to make sure neither of you were similarly exposed.”
Dad eventually succumbed to Mesothelioma, mercifully he never knew it. For the sad irony is, the job Dad loved, a career which contributed so much to his life, ours, and others; was the thing that finally caused his death – there’s solace in knowing he wasn’t aware of that fact.
Shortly after my return to Cavan I was rummaging in the shed and saw his trowel. I found two bricks and put them on the window-sill of the house he built; his trowel was the cherry on top. It has stayed there ever since. I see it as both a memorial to Dad, and a monument to his builder friends and all they’ve built.