Vinny Fitzpatrick didn't usually wear sunglasses but on this Monday morning, a part of him was glad he did. They were a decent pair too, wraparound jet black Ray Bans, behind which no one could see what his observing, slightly piggy, eyes were up to.

Which was just as well, for the 55-year-old bus driver was having a quick gander at the fine string of brood mares milling about the cobble-lock paddock of ‘Ankle-Biters’ Montessori in Clontarf’s Kincora Gardens.

Amid the chatter, charm and low-cut blouses, carnal thoughts briefly crossed Vinny’s mind – for it was one of those post-drink mornings where he felt perky – and he had to check himself to remind himself of his age, and his responsibilities.

He harrumphed aloud to no one in particular, flushed, and shuffled uneasily on his trotters. ‘I’m like a wizened thorn among a bunch of roses,’ he thought to himself.

Vinny held hands with the twins, who were assessing their unfamiliar surroundings with curiosity. Not far off their fourth birthday, Oisin was the spit of his old man, short, fair and plump, while Aoife was the cut of her mother, dark, slender and already tall for her age. Both were ready for the off.

Suddenly, there was a hubbub as the front door opened, and the runners and riders trotted forward.

Vinny thought there might be a problem loading up the twins but they slipped into the stalls like proven handicappers and he blew them a kiss with paternal pride.

Just then, Vinny felt a light tap on his shoulder. He turned to see an attractive, silver-haired lady of mature years, towering over him.

"The great Vinny Fitzpatrick, if I'm not mistaken. It's been a long time," said the stranger in a husky, almost masculine, voice, which reminded Vinny of Lauren Bacall.

Vinny did a double-take. And then, it hit him. Only a week after recalling the grope-a-dope evenings of his teenage years in the Parochial Hall, there was the Ice Maiden herself, Imelda Downing, in front of him.

“Howya Mel,” he muttered. “Jaypurs, it’s been a long time. How did you know it was me?” he asked, aware his cheeks were turning damson.

Mel Downing looked down at Vinny from her immense height, for she was almost six foot tall. “Let me see,” she said, tapping a long finger against her cheek.

“Over-sized head, bulging waistline, tent-like shorts, little has changed. The sun glasses were a distraction but I knew it was you.”

Vinny felt chuffed that Mel Downing, of all people, should recall him. Instinctively, he patted down the few strands of hair left on his pink scalp, and sucked his protruding belly in as far as he could. How he wished he’d changed his shirt from the night before, for it was flecked with curry sauce.

“Well, well, Mel, Mel,” he said as casually as possible. “What brings you back to the green grass of home all the way from Toronto?”

Mel explained how she’d gone through a messy separation – “my fault, not his” – and was staying with her daughter, Donna, in Castle Avenue, until something turned up.

"As I'm at a loose end, I volunteered to bring my granddaughter, Madison, here this morning. I never thought I'd see you on a similar run. The years have flown, haven't they? Look at us now, greying grandparents."

Another story
Vinny held his hands up. "I have to stop you there, Mel. They were my kids going into the Montessori, not grandkids. I do have a grandchild though, little Vinny, who lives in Manchester. But that's a story for another day."

Mel placed her arms on her hips and studied her portly companion. “My, you have been a busy boy, Vinny. Perhaps it’s just as well I held you off in the Parochial Hall all those years ago. Underneath that innocent pony-like exterior, beats the pulse of a stallion.”

A few minutes later, Vinny and Mel were in Bunters Cafe on Vernon Avenue for a pot of tea, buttered scones and a chat. Half an hour passed in jig time and Vinny sensed the soft spot he once had for Mel had never quite left him.

She was engaging company, witty, clued-in and her mid-Atlantic twang was beguiling.

As they vowed to keep in touch, continuing at the Ankle-Biters drop off the next morning, Vinny was startled when Mel bent down, put an arm around him, and whispered in his hairy ear.

“Sorry about kicking you in the you-know-where all those years ago, Vinny. And I’m so relieved it didn’t affect the, er, lead in your pencil.”

With that Mel the magnificent was gone, tossing her wondrous silver mane in the light winds, as she sashayed along the Coast Road. “If only I was a few years younger,” grinned Vinny, aware his sunglasses were starting to steam up.

Turning into the forecourt of Clontarf bus garage, he saw his work place, and a few buses too, were adorned with bunting, dark blue and light blue, the colours of his beloved Dubs.

Sunday’s semi-final duel with Kerry was approaching at a fierce lick and Vinny and the lads were planning a monumental day out.

In Vinny’s mind, an All-Ireland carried far more currency if Kerry were taken out en route, like they were in those captivating battles of the 1970s, and, most recently, the 2011 final.

There was a special buzz around Clontarf that one of their own, Jack McCaffrey, was such a pivotal figure for the Dubs.

McCaffrey was a Cracker Jack, in every sense and Vinny didn’t hold it against him that he chose the red and white of Clontarf over the purple and gold of his own club, the unheralded Dollymount Gaels.

Whistling Blue Moon to himself, Vinny made for his locker ahead of his shift on the 32 to Portmarnock.

He was a few yards away when he stopped as if poleaxed.

Stuck on the front of his locker was a piece of paper, upon which was scrawled, in red marker, one word: SCAB. Instantly, his blood froze.