He was a Brother of the Church who went around the parish visiting the elderly and infirm. I tagged along listening to tales of how life was too brief and the past was nothing short of golden. I said little. What could I add? Twelve-years-old, wearing a jacket with frayed elbows and trousers that fitted me a year or two previously. My clothes, like the parishioners’, had seen better days. The Brother of the Church was stoic. He listened. This is what people seemed to crave.

One couple were different. The man had been a Headmaster. He stood ram-rod-like and every part of him seemed as if it had been pressed by a very heavy iron. For whatever reason, he did not smile. His wife was stooped and said little, but did smile as if to compensate for her husband’s inability in the smiling stakes.

The Headmaster was revered by my father. I visited this couple on a number of occasions and each time closely examined the unsmiling and incredibly ‘ironed man’ for reasons why my father thought so highly of him. My mother, who could be cruel and extremely funny when diagnosing anyone, said nothing of the ‘ironed man.’ It was a secret she saved.

Each visit became, for me, an examination, ‘What did he talk about?’ my father would say. A few words of our conversation seemed to satisfy his thirst.  He asked if he ever spoke of him. My answers were brevity itself. Generally, of the ‘yes’ and ‘no’ variety. I must, however, have sated his desire for knowledge as he headed to the bar with a broad smile.

I would sit in the ‘ironed man’s’ council bungalow; I felt I knew the word ‘council’ intimately as it was one of the few the wife repeated. She said it looking to her husband and that was the only occasion he would remain silent. He side-stepped her glance deftly as Fred Astaire, telling us of college days. The Brother of the Church smiled and looked towards me and I felt we had shared a secret handshake.  We were allowing this man to rejoice in his past.

I told my father the story of his rise to become Headmaster: the opponents, a priest who preferred another candidate and eventual victory. At the end of the story, with legs apart, he was king of this particular castle smiling for what seemed nothing short of an eternity.

His reverie was cut short by his wife telling a brutal story with a smile, ending with the harsh words, ‘And now will you tell why the Headmaster and dear wife ended-up in a council bungalow that is so small? And we have had to sell all but what we stood up in.’

As she spoke small red patches appeared on her cheeks. The rouge she used to give her pallid face some colour could not disguise the stigmata of anger. Perspiration deftly followed the contours of steely grey hair. She surprised me by moving quickly round the room, not once looking at her husband, who now sat silently on the high-backed chair. He did not move as his eyes bore into the heavy curtains; I noticed for the first time they were too long and lapped along the thread-bare carpet.

We were judge and jury, this was her summing-up speech. Words she must have garnered over years, vitriol dripped from her now thin lips. I was embarrassed. Sweat ran slowly down my red face. I did not move. She went on and on. Her husband’s anger was tangible yet was stuck in his throat. A bad smell seemed to pervade the room.

I began to capture her words as if they were printed on the dark heavy curtains. The Headmaster had invested all their savings and pension fund into stocks and shares. A man had advised him. Her husband was impressed. She described this man. His movie star moustache, blue pin-striped suit and love of ‘flowery language.’ She underlined this phrase scornfully. Language, with quotes from Shakespeare, won over the Headmaster. Money was transferred to the ‘quoting man’s’ bank account. The man disappeared as did all their savings.

The red mark on her cheeks subsided. The Headmaster stood up slowly. The Brother of the Church nodded to me. We began to leave this domestic storm. The atmosphere was akin to a melancholic Angelus Bell. I didn’t tell the story when dad left for the ‘ironed man’s’ funeral, when I saw him cry for the first time and had me so upset, I held a knuckle in my mouth, not wanting anyone to hear my sobs in the ice-cold toilet.

My mother told me she knew the Headmaster’s story. She thought it best to stay silent. And added, ‘ignorance is bliss.’ After the funeral when dad left for the bar, she held my arm tightly, smiling through near-clenched teeth saying, ‘I have not told your dad. It would break his heart.’ She made me promise never to tell my father.

I remained silent that day and it is only now with dad dead over twenty years I tell the tale of the ‘Ironed Man,’ without hurting him: something I would never do.