Let us tell you about Tom Stopford. A man of letters, his name frequently appeared on this page, taking issue on a variety of subjects with a few, well chosen words. His tone was alternately humorous and serious. He enjoyed that pursuit which is so popular among the most fiercely loyal of readers: grumbling about The Irish Times.
Not that he didn't try his hand at journalism himself. In the past couple of years he was the author of several Irishman's Diaries. The publication of one contribution amused him considerably. A victim of kidney failure in the prime of life, he was writing about his experiences of dialysis and transplants to cheer up others in similar distress. He had agreed to have his photograph taken to accompany the piece. Unfortunately, the photograph could not be found on the eve of publication. However, Tom had thrown in a mention of Mickey Mouse somewhere in his text. So the picture used on the day was that of . . . Mr Mouse.
Breezing into town
Today we make amends by publishing a photograph of Tom, some weeks after his death, aged 50. Spring in Dalkey is not the same without him. The town (it's called the village only by blow-ins) was animated each morning as he breezed urgently in from Coliemore Road to get his potato-cakes from Hicks, and to pick up his paper to digest and comment on the news of the day. He would reappear regularly to express a cheery greeting to all and sundry; and finally he would take his place in the bar of The Club, where a poem by Paddy O'Reilly now hangs in his memory.
Truly a man of fortitude, Tom had experienced an unspoiled and healthy upbringing. He was a choirboy in St Patrick's Cathedral, sea-scout in Dalkey, deckhand on the Shannon, trawlerman in Donegal, a member of Ireland's spear-fishing team in Chile, and a steward on a Cunard liner, as well as a barman of some enterprise in his youth. He always had this advice for present-day lounge boys or girls: "Make sure your tray is always wet, because the customers find it difficult to pick up the change, so their tips will be more generous than they had intended."
Tom, too, had another golden rule: A glass should never be cleared from the counter or table before the drinker has left the premises. He would be aghast whenever a glass was whipped away prematurely. He was particularly chuffed about the civilities he passed on to his sons, Tim and Luke, during their recent years under his roof in Dalkey. Proudly, they have carried his character back to New Zealand.
Misfortune struck
It was in Auckland, when he was married blissfully to Kerri, that misfortune struck Tom about 21 years ago when his kidneys started to malfunction. Two transplants failed, including one from his father Michael, and the second operation also left him with seriously handicaps, hearing trouble and a loss of memory.
It was judged best for him to return to Ireland and with great courage and fighting spirit, and marvellous support from his parents and extended family, he overcame adversity. Eventually, after months of dialysis, he had a successful transplant in Jervis Street Hospital.
Yet a further cruel blow was to follow through the loss of an arm, about which he also wrote. Shortly after the operation - which he described so wittily as "an encounter with a surgical chainsaw" - he went to an exhibition in the RDS of equipment for people with disabilities. He left, apoplectic with rage. It wasn't just the cost of the stuff that annoyed him. It was the fact that some of it was so useless, he felt. With typical energy, he returned home and devised his own bread-board, using upturned nails as "anchors". By this time he had already swapped the laces in his shoes for Velcro, and had found sleeveless jackets most useful for tucking his "vacated" shirtsleeve into the pocket. He began to bake, finding fruitcake a most appropriate recipe because, he said, "the process drove me bananas". When one of us had a child recently, Tom sent over a delicious production, fresh from the oven. It fed many visitors for weeks.
Another challenge
As his brother, Peter, recalls, Tom took on this new status with relish, once he was over the initial shock. Perhaps it was because this was yet another challenge, another adversity to be faced by a man who had had more than his fair share. He threw himself into the novel he had been writing for some time.
Recording his experiences, and the "eerie phantom limb factor", he described in this newspaper how it bothered him when passers-by averted their eyes. He himself was dying to talk about it. One of the most pleasurable aspects, he noted, was receiving meals on wheels. "I thought it was for oul' wans and lads," he wrote, "which is a measure of my ignorance."
Tom, ignorance was never one of your traits. We'll miss those jokes, and we are all the poorer for your passing.
