Uncle Tony

In truth, I was in Tony’s company only maybe a dozen or so times in my life, but in that time he left a huge and positive impression on me, as I’m sure he did on so many people. The sportif Burkes (well, they were before all the knees and hips went) will understand the importance of not leaving anything behind on the park, and I think that’s a great metaphor for Tony’s life – a life as fully lived as it possibly could be. To me he always came across as energetic, colourful ,  perceptive, funny, fearless,   and sometimes outspoken. But more importantly of all he was one of the warmest and most generous men anyone could hope to meet, never mind share a bloodline with.  A few personal memories then:

Boxing Day,  Holywood, 1973(?) – meeting a hero for the first time.

Early evening Boxing Day at 17 Victoria Road, Holywood  - might’ve been 1972 or ’73 or thereabouts. There’s a knock on the front door and a muffled sound of laughter from outside.  I know who exactly who it is -.it’s a group of uncles who have returned from England and from some further flung places for Christmas. Tonight they, and Belle, have made their way up from Belle’s flat to our house for a get together. I’m 8 , maybe 9, years old and painfully shy – anticipating their visit just as much I had as the fella in the red suit a couple of nights previously,  but utterly unable to deal with it.  So, when he door knocked I scarpered for cover in the den under my bed  - a regular refuge from my siblings -  and hid. The door opens,  and upstairs drifts the cool air carrying with it laughter and greetings, and in that mix was this unfamiliar and exciting  sound of what to my ears was an American accent…an American accent with a laugh that sounded much like Belle’s smoky rasp. Now I knew, and loved, all my other uncles who were more regular returnees –every one of them exotic and otherworldly to a wee boy who got a nosebleed if he ever got as far as Bangor. But Tony , until that evening,  had been almost mythical to me. I knew something of his legend , and of his travels ; South America, Canada, Alaska maybe(?), and imagined him to be the most adventurous and storied  Burke of them all - and that takes some doing.  And of course, on top of all that we shared a name -  and ‘hollow legs’, whatever that means.  But I hadn’t actually met him until that night and I was as nervous and star-struck as I would’ve been had George Best or Captain Kirk himself arrived to spend Boxing Night with Larry and Claire. But I couldn’t move for shyness,  and it took Claire several trips upstairs to eventually coax me out from under the bed and lead me downstairs.  

So the living door opens and I’m shoved right in amongst it. The party is in full swing. The Christmas tree lights twinkling through a smoky haze, that distinctive babble of a crowd of Burkes talking at the same time,  Claire’s sandwiches ; mince pies,  stalks of celery with cheese spread squeezed into the grooves (this was the 70’s – such things really happened) doing the rounds,  and tangible magic in the air.  And in the middle of the room,  perched on a dining chair requisitioned from the kitchen, animated and laughing like a drain at some story told or heard, was the great man himself.

And he did not disappoint.  Moustached ,  already slightly balding but making the most of what he had,  wearing clothes not often seen in repressed Norn Irn, still speaking in that fascinating mid-Atlantic accent , smoking elegant looking cigarettes which I’d never seen in Herons  – he was like a magnet.  To me, and with all respect to all the other uncles in the room that night, there was just no-one else in the room. Within seconds he was off that chair and down on the floor beside me.  I can’t remember too much of what we talked about – he certainly  teased me about my beleaguered team, Spurs (by the way, I remain disappointed half a century later to hear that my London  uncles, and maybe Tony himself (?) are Gooners), and told me stories about teachers at St. Patricks Primary  who had been there when he was my age like Whispering Delaney and Baldy Adams.  But it wasn’t what he said that I remember -  it was the magic, the charisma, the otherworldly whiff of adventure that was so  thrilling. He was family, blood,  that much was obvious, but he was also something of a hero to an 8 year old. And whoever said that you should never me your heroes hadn’t reckoned on Tony Burke.

Summer 1981 -  Tony buys me my first beer

I’m 17 years old and we are on a family holiday in Switzerland -  I’m happily billeted in a tent outside Tony’s house (hiding from siblings) and being typically anti-social  , preferring the company of a fat anthology of American short stories that Tony gave me  to what seemed like tiresome family activities to a 17 year old male.  Anyway, one morning when yet again  I hadn’t surfaced for breakfast Tony storms out to the tent, rattles the poles,  and gives me a bawling out like I had never had before. He’s not at all happy with his namesake.  Faint notes of his Northern Irish roots are leaking out from underneath the Canadian drawl (just as well because Canadians don’t do angry particularly well, the Northern Irish are world class at it) , and whole tirade is punctuated with the sort of words he wasn’t allowed to use in Shore Street.  In short - Tony didn’t want me hiding away and being so anti-social, and I was to get my [bleepin’] sorry [bleep] into gear and join in.  He was absolutely right of course - ten minutes later I felt mortally embarrassed as I sheepishly made my way into his kitchen to be met by my now smiling host  plating up a fabulous breakfast and a mug of the best coffee I’d ever tasted…and no mention whatsoever of the what had just happened.

So, later that same day,  and I like to think related in some way to what had transpired that morning, Tony cemented his heroic status in my eyes. For a few days previously a certain tension was building between the liberal, well travelled  Uncle Tony and my more small c conservative (absolutely small c for the avoidance of doubt) parents over the thorny subject of whether I could have a beer. As it happens I grew up the West of Scotland (the North of Ireland with even more swearing but without the guns) and was no stranger to underage alcohol consumption.  But a beer in a glass and in a public house – well that was something else entirely. 
So,  over the previous few days Tony had tried a few times to convince Mum and Dad to let me have a beer , but they had held firm…and fair play to them for that.  But around about teatime that  evening, Tony asked me help him with some grocery shopping. Now, hand on heart,  I can’t say  that I was thrilled at this prospect -  this man, in my eyes, was an amalgam of Fionn McChuill and Jack Keroauc,  so I wasn’t overly excited about a trip to the cheese counter. But I went anyway in case of another telling off. Of course,  I should’ve known better.  As he gave me the neighbourhood tour,  he told me tales (not all of them repeatable) of his upbringing in Holywood, and his experiences in the Americas. He spoke to me like the sort of grown up I wasn’t,  and I loved every second of it!.  As he chatted he drove purposely past any number of supermarkets before  pulling the car into some sort of roadside café. And then IT happened.  He BOUGHT ME A BEER -  in fact he bought me more than one beer -  and the stories of course continued to roll out. Later, when we got the back to the house, he made no secret of what had happened, and noticing that I was surprisingly upright and, even more surprisingly ,  actually speaking for the first time in a week,  Mum and Dad relaxed the rules – and so for the rest of that holiday I was allowed a beer after meals.
Now some rites of passage are overated -  first day at the big school, first trip to Celtic Park, first shave, first love even - but the one that needs to be celebrated more is that first pint. Uncle Tony did the honours for wee Tony and I’m still grateful. 

1999(?) – A Confusion of Burkes

I’m standing with Tony outside the church after Elaine and Bernards’ wedding in 1999. The photographer is trying to organise the traditional group shot,  struggling  manfully to make himself heard over the babbling noise of two large Irish diaspora families in a state of some excitement. Of course, no Burke gatherings could ever really be quiet affairs,  so it was no surprise really that the release from the enforced silence of the wedding ceremony, combined with  excitement of meeting with extended  family for the first time in in a while,  created a moment of noisy familial chaos. To a by-passer the scene must have resembled a flock of squawking migratory birds milling around trying to  find their mates on a beach somewhere. So this runs and runs for what seemed like an eternity, a very thirsty eternity,  and Tony becomes more and more animated and amused at the photographer’s pleas , at one point trying  in vain to help the lad by calling for order himself.   Anyhow, after a while a miracle happens, and we all shut up for just about long enough for the job to be done. As we finally head off in the direction of the bar Tony is still amused,  and speculates on what might be an appropriate  collective noun for a gathering of Burkes.  We exchanged a few forgettable ideas before Tony absolutely nails it…”the collective name for the Burkes” he declared “ is a Confusion – a Confusion of Burkes”.  I’ve never forgotten that -  so well observed,   so funny,  so affectionate, so….Tony.  Postscript :  Accurate too,  as anyone  watching and enjoying the spectacle of the clan elders wrestle with the technology on Friday’s Zoom call will testify.

 
And other encounters…

 
1978 -   I’m 14 and uptight about a forthcoming appointment with a surgeon.  One morning, an airmail letter arrives addressed to me. It’s from Tony who has heard that I’m in a pickle, and who has taken time out from his adventures to write me a brilliantly funny and re-assuring letter.  Much as the letter was great,  it was just a little bit overshadowed by the wodge of US dollars which were folded inside it ;-)

1983 -  taking him out drinking in Saltcoats,  proud to show off this exotic creature to friends. Two things I remember. Firstly the fact that he was not the slightest bit embarrassed to be out on the lash with a crowd of spotty, excitable teenagers. And secondly, it was later that same night, after embarrassing us Ayrshire lads with his knowledge and appreciation of Robert Burns, that he asked for a scrap of paper and wrote out a poem of his own which he was justifiably proud of - To Create is to Live -  I won’t replicate it here as I’m sure it will appear elsewhere over the next few days.   I’d forgotten all about it, but with ironic timing it turned up just few weeks ago during a clear out,  and it stopped me in my tracks.  Hopefully it will be shared widely now,  and not just within the family, as it deserves to be read by everyone.  Tony was a modern Seanchai and I hope over the coming months and years that some more of Tony’s poems and stories will surface for us all to enjoy.

Rest in Peace Uncle Tony