The Storyteller: Remembering the Mulligan clan and a lifetime of friendship

It would appear that my year of loss isn’t done with me just yet...

A year on from the deaths of my father and my partner's, whilst enjoying a well-earned walk on Dartmoor, just admiring the sun setting on the end of another adventure, I received a message from a very good friend of mine, sharing the sad news that his mother had passed away, that morning, unexpectedly, but peacefully, in the care home, where she had spent the last few years, in Bristol. By a weird coincidence, just that afternoon, I had posted her birthday card, to mark her 93rd birthday the following week...

Straightaway, I was reminded of all the memories that my friend and I share, from our years growing up in Bristol, in which his mother features heavily. Having lost other members of his family, or clan, as he likes to call them, way too soon, in recent years, I felt I had to dedicate this article to them, and share with you some of those memories, that helped shape our formative years...

I first met Patrick (Paddy) Mulligan, when he enrolled in the sixth form at Bristol Grammar School, and shared some classes with me. As the school is in the centre of Bristol, it attracts pupils from all over the city, so imagine my delight, to find that Paddy, and his family, lived not far from me, on the same housing estate, known as Stockwood. They had moved there from Weymouth, his father being an ex-naval man, a part of the world I know very well. My family owned a caravan, on a permanent site in the area, for many years, giving me lots of happy holiday memories of that part of Dorset.

By another weird coincidence, our families shared the same dynamic, mother, father, two older boys, and a younger pair of boy and girl twins...Paddy and I both being the eldest, but a year apart. With all this in common, it seemed inevitable that we would become friends. There were other boys on the estate, that I’d grown up with at Waycroft Junior School, who also attended BGS (as it’s known), as well as my younger brother, who all got a lift, every day, from my father, who, at the time, worked in that part of the city, and we were able to make room for Paddy. His presence, also helped make the bus journey home more companionable. 

Once our homework was done, Paddy and I, used to hang out together, which invariably meant me ending up in his house, which is how I got to meet the rest of his family, who, very quickly made me feel very welcome, and part of the gang. We would spend our evenings in their front room, chatting and laughing, whilst listening to music...Paddy is an opera buff, he made vague attempts to civilise me from my love of pop music (however I did manage to introduce him to the delights of Madness), but it was his younger brother, Brendan (he preferred to be called Ben in later life) who tried to educate everyone present, by continuously bursting into the room, with a piece of classical music (on vinyl in those days), slapping it on the turntable, and insisting that we listen to the same piece he’d just been listening to upstairs, in his bedroom, over and over again...until he was thrown out of the room.

One of my favourite memories, from my time amongst the Mulligan clan, were these particularly raucous nights, which would be suddenly interrupted by the booming voice of their father, coming from the backroom, commanding us to keep the noise down, as we were disturbing his reading. Everyone present would fall silent, even their mother, who felt equally chastised, and would act like a naughty schoolgirl, giggling away, and curling up on the sofa, so her husband couldn’t hear her laughing, along with the rest of us.

Sadly, it was Ben who we lost first. Now, without going into too much detail, it can be said he had his demons, which, unfortunately, got the better of him, at too young an age, in 2010. One of my favourite memories of him, was when he, and a friend, wanted to join the Headley Players, an amateur dramatics group I belonged to at that time, who were putting on a production of the classic musical, Fiddler on the Roof. I was playing the Russian boyfriend of one of the sisters, and one of the famous scenes, involves a Cossack dancing competition in an inn. Ben, and his mate, became part of the Russian contingency of dancers, and they impressively honed their skills as Cossack dancers, throughout the rehearsals, giving some outstanding displays, each performance, something they were very proud of. I hope that was a skill that stuck with him for the rest of his life.

Then we come to poor Kerry, the other twin, who tragically died from a brain tumour, a few years ago now, in 2017. Coincidentally, I was informed of her passing, at the end of a day on Dartmoor, too. I was parked up in the car park, at Postbridge, when I received the news, another occasion I will never forget, as I wasn’t really aware she was ill, as we kind of lost touch, when she got married, and had children, but Paddy kept me informed of her news. Once again, this sad passing, sent me back to happier times. Memories of joyful evenings spent together in Stockwood, and, latterly, in Whitchurch, not far from my first home as a baby, on East Dundry Road, where she lived, with her mother, once all the boys had left home. I always had a soft spot for her, and felt very protective...maybe because I had a sister the same age...

This protective streak often manifested itself at parties, where drunken lads would often give her unwanted attention, which I felt it was my duty to shield her from, her brothers often being otherwise engaged. I remember one particular house party, where we were staying over, and I felt it necessary to lock ourselves in one of the bedrooms, so we could get some sleep, after both over-indulging, whilst predatory males circled outside...don’t worry, I was the perfect gentleman...

On another memorable occasion (so memorable it got mentioned in Paddy’s diary...he kept meticulous notes of all our adventures together, which is why I asked him to be my Best Man at my wedding...he had all the stories) a gang of us were on a night out, in a pub, by Bristol docks, when a fight broke out amongst a group of lads. It started to involve everyone present, so our group made a dash for the exit. Unfortunately, Kerry and I found ourselves on the wrong side of a big trestle table, so our escape wasn’t so easy! We ducked down behind the bench we had been sitting on, made our way towards the door, and, when it was safe to do so, made a run for it. Kerry always regarded me as her hero for keeping her safe that night.

Now it’s their mother, Ann, we have lost. Always the life and soul of the party. I will never forget all the wonderful people I met during those years, that were drawn to her like moths to a flame. We all benefitted from her friendship.

She was a fine artist, being a graduate of the Royal College of Art. During her time in Stockwood, she taught at Brislington school, where my brother and sister went, and when I told Keith about her passing, he remembered her as an excellent teacher, something that Paddy was pleased to hear. 

Also living in Stockwood, during that time, was Ann’s mum, who we also used to visit on a regular basis. She was a very wise lady, referring to herself as The Ancient Monument, and reached the grand old age of 98. She was often found, surrounded by a collection of her favourite teddy bears...something she had in common with her daughter, as we all had to share sofa space with them, when visiting.

Even though we hadn’t seen each other for many years now, hearing of her passing, brought all those memories flooding back, and it seemed like yesterday, when we were all giggling away in that front room, in fear of upsetting the ogre in the back...

In recent years, Paddy, and his civil partner Ian, have met Sarah and I, on several occasions, during our trips to London, where they now live, and I’m sure the next time we have a chance to catch up, many more happy memories will surface.

God bless you Ann, and all the other members of the Mulligan Clan, that were taken from us far too soon.