My father joined a book club. Why he did still remains a mystery, perhaps it was to please my mother.

This was an enormous win for her. “Twill open your mind a bit” I can still hear her after all these years, accompanied by my father mumbling about intellectuals and communists and those people next door who think they’re James Joyce incarnate.

The people next door, the Walshes read a lot and had the “Irish Times” delivered to their door, an action that somehow infuriated my father. “God has given them two good feet, why can’t they just walk to the shop. And reading the “Irish Times”? Well that says a lot doesn’t it.” He’d then shuffle his “Irish Press” in indignation. “I bet they just sit down and read and sip Coffee. Coffee how are ye, what’s wrong with tea?”

Unknown to my father, the Walshes belonged to the same book club.

The book of the month was “Count Dracula” and my father loved it. I remember him reading snatches to us before bed time, my brother and I were scared out of our wits while he read aloud, acting out various parts. It seemed to possess him. My mother would then step in and switch off the lights while dragging father, still reading, out of our bedroom.

The book was almost finished. He could barely put it down, the blood, the scary trips, the evil looking Count, and the vampires all played out in my father’s mind. He loved reading out loud and we were mesmerised by his performance and transformation. The living room became his stage.

One evening in order to lend more realism to his act,

he disappeared into the bathroom, brushed down his hair in the Dracula style and then, noticing the two nail files on the window ledge, he carefully put them under his front lip with the sharp points sticking out on both sides of his chin. As an added prop he threw a dark towel over his shoulders and entered the room.

We howled with delight. His voice was loud and his pacing up and down the room was better than anything we’d seen on television or films. My mother was laughing and had tears rolling down her cheeks as she tried to calm her family.

We didn’t hear the knocking on the door.

Mrs. Kelly, an agile seventy two year old, was outside. She wasn’t one to leave a house when she knew the family was at home. She was collecting names for those willing to give blood at the Blood Bank Open Day. She stood outside and kept knocking.

My father had reached the end of a chapter and, with a flurry; he left the living room and entered the hall. He heard the knocking and immediately answered the door.

She gasped, he looked down at her, smiled, and she fainted.

He knew that you can check someone’s pulse by feeling the side of the neck so he rolled her on her side and bent down feeling her neck for some signs of life.

Just then the next door neighbours, the Walshes, opened their door. Mr.Walshe had his copy of Dracula in his hand. He stared in horror at my father. Mrs. Walshe screamed and with marvellous quick thinking, ran back into the house and then reappeared and began throwing cloves of garlic at my father. My father turned to them and tried to smile, which made things worse. His fangs gleamed in their hall light.

He was bundled into the Paddy Wagon. He told me that on that journey when he peered out of the little window at the passing traffic, one poor man on his bicycle looked up, stared, crossed himself, and then erratically veered away off the road and into the dark night.

The Gardai (police) were very patient. My father spent some time at the station. All was explained.

The police asked him to go with them down to the cells and wish goodnight to some of the prisoners through the small hatch in their cell doors. My father obliged.

Later they reported a significant drop in re-offenders.

Mrs. Kelly recovered but stopped collecting blood. She was seldom seen again in the neighbourhood.

My father went to the monthly meeting of the book club and enjoyed the discussion. He said that both the Walshes were there but said nothing all evening. He thought that Mrs. Walshe had gone very religious, because every time he tried to speak to her she held a crucifix towards him and backed away muttering some Latin mumbo jumbo. He noticed that Mr. Walsh had a lot of wooden stakes in the back of his ute. “He must be going to finally build that fence.”

And then, with a flourish, he said:-

“But this month’s book is called Frankenstein” he said holding up the book to show us the lurid cover.

“It’s written by a woman and it’s about a monster, isn’t that odd?”

“They should know” my Mother said quietly and then smiled and slowly shook her head.

My brother and I noticed over the following days how my father’s walk had become strange and angular. He kept his arm straight and developed a slight limp. His voice had an unusual pitch.

We waited in eager anticipation for the readings to begin.