The Spirit of Christmas

 

Monday 3pm

– Katie, give me your coat and I’ll make us some lunch

– I have to do my homework first

– Not till you’ve had something to eat

Katie sat down at the table, her school backpack at her feet.  Her mother joined her with a cup of tea, and a plate of sandwiches for them to share.

– That’s a good girl, eat a sandwich and I’ll get you some milk.

– We’re doing a Christmas play mum.

– That’s lovely Katie, who are you going to be

– I’m the star.  You have to make my outfit.

– A star!  That’s wonderful.  You’ll make a great star

Monica filled Katie’s glass with milk.

– Caroline’s going to be Mary.  It’s not fair!

– Probably because of her long hair Katie

– No its not.  She always wants to be teacher’s pet

– Your teacher loves you too Katie

– I’m only a star.  Standing at the back

– Do you have to sing anything, Katie

– We all sing

– When have you to practice

– We’ve already started.  I told you

– Oh, never mind, finish your milk

Tuesday 3pm

Katie’s mother went to the fridge.   She topped up the half empty glass. Then she settled back at the table.

– Caroline is out sick

– Ah, poor Caroline.  What’s the matter with her?

– Just sick.  I don’t care

– Now Katie, you shouldn’t say that

– Well I don’t care.  Now she can’t be Mary

– What’s the matter with Caroline anyway

– She’s just sick.  She took one of my sandwiches yesterday

– You didn’t have sandwiches Katie, you had crackers

– Well, I found one, in my bag.

– And she ate it?  Katie, it was probably stale.

-I don’t think so.  She said ‘thank you’

– Anyway, it means I can be Mary now.

 

 

Josephine Nolan

 

 

Thornton’s Place

It was the big house, close to the beach. It was known for its lavish parties every summer. Its wooden front, once white, now dappled by the wind and debris thrown up by the waves in winter. In spite of its drabness, people remembered how it came to life in the summer, once upon a time.

They turned heads. He was tall and handsome with black curly hair and a moustache. Mrs. Thornton, some years younger than her husband, was blond and impish, and flitted between guests throughout the summer season. She loved the splendour of their house in New York, but summer and the old house on the beach at the Hampton’s brought a freedom that she thrived on. Their children, a son and two daughters, were now teenagers. They sailed with their father and played games on the beach. Their friends from New York often spent holidays in the big summer house.

The Thornton family had owned the house for generations. Every summer it opened its doors to family and friends. Mr. Thornton was a big shot in Wall Street. Little was known about his wife, but they were a devoted couple. “Why don’t you come down to the coast” was a frequent invitation from Mr. Thornton to friends and acquaintances.

The house was run like clockwork by Mrs. Bridges and a team of servants. Her word was law, but she was like a mother to Mrs. Thornton. The lawns at the back of the house went on for miles, interspersed by several species of trees, and an orchard. They had stables with four horses and three ponies. The paddock was to the right of the lawns, surrounded by a wooden fence. The horses too enjoyed the freedom of open spaces. It was easy to see that the family loved their animals, including dogs and cats.

The rose gardens were the pride and joy of old Johnny Carlton. He had been with the family since he was a boy, and nurtured the rose beds, just beneath the wide veranda that straddled the house. The fragrance of those old roses drifted upwards to the where the family sat in the late evening, watching the sun go down.

When they arrived at the beach house each summer, trunks of various sizes were brought around to the back of the house. Mrs. Thornton made sure that she had the latest fashion from New York when they entertained. She bought her children several outfits. The girls loved showing off their beautiful clothes and their mother was only too happy to take them to the big stores in the city. The Thornton’s knew how to

entertain, and being the best dressed was part and parcel to being a good host. The house was re-painted every summer before they arrived. Dust sheets were removed from the furniture. Drapes were cleaned, silver polished, windows sparkled. Every room was inspected by Mrs. Bridges down to an inch of its life.

Old Johnny spent days mowing the lawns and tending the plants. Everything had to be perfect and to his high standard. Leaves were taken out of the swimming pool and it was cleaned. The blue marble surround glistening in the sunshine. Large stone pots had been placed near each corner of the pool. They were filled with fresh summer flowers, blue and white lobelia, with petunia cascading down the sides. Honeysuckle weaved its way through the pergola, its sweet perfume wafting through the evening air. All the outdoor furniture were taken out of storage, placed on the veranda and around the pool.

The house lit up as soon as the family arrived. They brought a lust for life with them. The silent house opened its doors and windows to the happy voices of young and old, delicious aromas wafting from the kitchen once more. It was like going from black and white photography to technicolour. The children and their friends burst through the open doors, heading for the pool. After spending two hours in a car, they didn’t waste any time before diving into the clear cool water. Before long splashes and shrieks could be heard. Mr. Thornton looked from the balcony of their bedroom, his arm around his wife. He might have been thinking “how can one man be so lucky”.

That was until the night that Jimmy, after finishing a bottle of whiskey with his friends, argued with his father. The youngster wanted to take out one of the boats. In spite of his father’s warning, he wouldn’t back down in front of his friends. Jimmy left the party. The next morning, the boat was missing, and so was Jimmy. It was found wrecked a few miles up the coast. A dark cloud descended on Thornton’s place, and the laughter turned to silence.

First Entrance

For Harper

She let out a cry and was whisked away by someone wearing white, from head to toe. Everyone smiled, and hugged or shook hands.

She lay in a basket, a soft shawl keeping her warm. The air was pure. The light was bright. There was no sound. She thought she would like it here. It was peaceful.

It didn’t take long before she was being handled again. Her arms and legs were being pushed into small spaces. Something was put into her mouth to make her breath easier. Voices got louder. Doors opened and closed.

Finally, she was put into someone’s arms. She could feel the warmth of breath on her face. The warmth of skin against her skin. It felt like she was finally where she was meant to be.

Bernie’s Intuition

It was getting late.  Julie had said eight o’clock.  She was always so punctual.  I checked the phone but there was no text message. My feet were stuck to the spot with the cold.  A few more busses went past, and still no sign of her.  I tried her phone again, but it just went to voicemail.  I decided to get the bus home.  Maybe she couldn’t get a babysitter.  Maybe she ran out of credit.  I was starting to worry now.  Things at home had been turbulent for her these past months.  Sitting on the bus, my mind spun from one scenario to another.  It was too late and too far to call to her house.  I had a very bad feeling this time.

Julie had started work in the Superstore the same time as I did.  We both stocked shelves for a while, and walked to the bus stop together when the shift was finished.  It suited me as my daughter had started school, and my mother collected her each afternoon.  Derek, my husband, was a travelling salesman and spent a lot of time on the road, so it suited me to get out of the house.  It was a nice change to earn a few bob of my own. My daughter, Amy, loved her grandmother.  Julie didn’t talk about home much in the beginning.  She did show me a photo of her son Jake, with such a smile on her face I knew he was her pride and joy. Jake was not her husband’s child, but it had never been a problem when they started going out together.

As the months passed Julie opened up a bit.  Her whole face changed when she smiled, and had the heartiest laugh when she allowed herself to.  I often saw what I thought was a faraway look in her eyes.  I wouldn’t dream of prying into her business, but decided there was more to Julie than appeared on the surface.  I had my fill of nosey people in the past when Amy was born, and could sense people doing the sums when we eventually got married and Amy was born.  Derek and I were happy regardless of the small flat we lived in, and the fact that Amy was born a few months after our wedding.  The dress hid everything on the day.  I was in love and didn’t care what people thought anyway. We had a small reception of family and friends and went to the coast for the weekend.  Derek promised me a real holiday in the sun when we could afford it, to make up for the penny-pinching honeymoon.  We had a lot of expenses ahead with the coming baby and that was enough for me. Our baby was welcomed like a princess and we fell in love with her on sight. She was going to be fair, like Derek, and had the palest blue eyes, like the sky on a summer’s day. There was no spare cash to throw around, and my once-a-week visit to the hair salon fell by the wayside.  My mother was always careful about her appearance when I was a child, and sometimes gave out to me when my dark brown hair was pulled back with an elastic band, in need of a wash.  “No effort made to take care of your appearance” she would say.  She must have a short memory of how much time a baby takes.  If she cared that much, why didn’t she offer to babysit and treat me to a day of pampering?  It was only when Amy got to about two years old that she started to really take an interest, and Amy knew she had an audience.

I tried Julie’s phone when I got home, and checked to see if she had left a message.  Nothing.  It was so unlike her, but there was nothing further I could do until tomorrow.  Derek was going to be working down the country for a few days.  I spoke to him of my concern for Julie.  There was still no answer from her.  “It could be anything.  Probably not as bad as you think, Bernie”, he said as he grabbed a piece of toast and gulped down the last of his coffee. His tall frame bent down towards me, hand on my shoulder. “I’ll ring you tonight and you can tell me what’s going on”.  With that, briefcase in his hand and his overcoat over his arm, he kissed me, then Amy, and he was gone.  Amy wasn’t co-operating as I tried to persuade her away from the television.  Kids seem to sense when you have something on your mind.  “I’ll take you to the park after Grannies, Amy”.  It worked.  Soon she was dressed, lunch in her back-pack and some fruit.  Her smile had returned and it made my heart lighter.  It was a short walk to the school, and once she joined her little friends and saw her teacher ferrying them into class, Amy was in her element, with hardly a backward glance.

I didn’t have to wait long for a bus.  The shop was bustling when I arrived.  Before I took my place at the cash desk, I looked around for Julie.  Her coat wasn’t where she usually left it, near the door, and after scanning the area, there was no sign of her.  I looked around for the Manager.  Mr. McDonald was middle aged and a big bulk of a man, but fair in his dealings with staff.  I went straight to his office, knocking before he waved me in.  “What can I do for you Mrs. Baker? He asked.  I hesitated for a moment, then said “I can’t see Julie Barnes, Mr. McDonald.  Did she ring in this morning?”  “I shouldn’t discuss staff with you Mrs. Barnes, but I know you and her are friends.  She’s indisposed.  Had to bring her son to the doctor”.  “Oh!” I said,” thank you Mr. McDonald”.

The morning went by at a snail’s pace.  At break I tried to phone Julie again, but still got voicemail.  My mind was racing.  I’d ring my mother and tell her something had come up and I’d be a bit late collecting Amy. If I got a taxi to Julie’s house, I should be back to collect Amy by six thirty at the latest.  The taxi was slow getting through the build-up of rush hour traffic, but left me off by five thirty.  Julie lived in the third house down, by the lamp post.  After ringing the bell a few times, I got no response.  I’ll try her neighbour’s house.  A teenager came to the door.  “Ya” she said (no manners there!).  “Is your mother in? I’d like a word please”.  Miss Teenager disappeared down the hall.  The television was on and I could hear the jingle of ads.  A small, woman, probably in her late fifties, came to the door.  I was expecting a hostile reception like the daughter, but this woman looked more amenable.  “I was looking for Julie Barnes” I said.  Before I got another word in, I was told “ah, poor woman, her son fell down the stairs last night.  He was rushed to the local hospital.  Havn’t seen her since.  Lovely child too”.  “Was her husband around at the time?” I asked.  “That fella.  She could do better than him”.  She paused for a moment, then said “who’s asking anyway.  Can I take a message for Julie?”  I smiled at the woman with the gentle voice, and said “I’m sorry.  My name is Bernie Baker.  I work with Julie.  We’ve been friends for ages”.  I wasn’t sure what to say next.  “You could tell her I called, and to phone me when she can.  She has my number”.  With that, I thanked her and closed the gate behind me.

In the taxi back, my mind was in turmoil.  If Derek was here, he’d say “no point in projecting until you know what’s happened”.  Easy for him to say.  It was close to seven o’clock when I got to my mother’s house, and I could see by her expression that she was none too pleased at my delay.  I didn’t want to go into the whole thing with her, so made some excuse about an emergency at work.  Amy had her coat on, back pack by her side, ready to go.  “I hope you get paid for overtime” she said, as she waved us off.

When I got Amy to bed that evening, I phoned the hospital, asking about Jake Barnes.  “Are you a relative?”.  I wasn’t quick enough and started waffling.  “I’m sorry, we can’t give out any information about a patient” I was told.  “I’ll have to go to the house again tomorrow”, I thought.

When I arrived at Julie’s door the following day, Julie was edgy and it took a few minutes before she asked me into the house.  “Mrs. O’Shea told me you called”, Julie said, taking my coat and walking ahead of me into the kitchen.  “Sorry about not meeting you”.  At first there was no explanation offered. I watched Julie go to the sink and fill the kettle.  She put cups on the table in silence.  I thought I could see bruising on her neck, but it could be a shadow.  Her eyes were puffy and her skin the colour of chalk.  Her blond hair looked lank and unkept. The tea was poured and we sat opposite each other in silence.  “Sugar?” Julie offered.  After the awkwardness passed, Julie skirted around Jake being in hospital.  “I’m leaving him Bernie.  I have to” she finally said.

Julie and Andrew had been arguing the night of the accident.  Andrew, who was out of work for a while, was looking for money from her.  He already had a few drinks on him, having spent the afternoon in the pub.  At one stage, he had Julie pinned up against the wall, his hands around her neck.  Little Jake tried to get between them, and Julie yelled at him to go upstairs.  Suddenly, there was a thud, then another.  Julie screamed and Andrew let her go.  Jake was lying at the bottom of the stairs.  An ambulance came and before she knew it, Julie and Jake were in the back, sirens blaring, on their way to the hospital.  She was told it might be a fractured skull, and Jake would be kept in overnight.  The doctor said she could stay with him.  If she expected sympathy, it was guilt she experienced.  It had gone out of her head completely that she was to meet Bernie in town.  Even if she had, her mobile was at home.  As dawn appeared, she lifted her head to look at Jake.  He was sleeping and his breathing was even.  She prayed as hard as she ever prayed that he would be alright.  There was a resolve creeping into her thoughts.  “This will never happen again”.

With Derek away for a few days, Julie took Jake and whatever she could carry, and stayed with me.  Julie’s mother and father were coming to collect them and bring them back to their house.  Julie and Andrew rented a furnished house, so there wasn’t much of importance to leave behind.  When Amy and Jake were settled in that first night, Julie suddenly started to cry.  “You know I love him Bernie.  He’s wonderful when he’s not drinking and has always treated Jake like his own”.  I moved my chair closer and put my hand on Julie’s arm.  She sobbed for a while without saying anything.  “It’s my fault that Jake fell down the stairs” she said.  “No it’s not Julie” I said, “you were trying to protect your son”.

Andrew had been in and out of work for the last twelve months.  He was often in a bad mood when Julie came home from work, after collecting Jake from the babysitter.  He complained about her cooking, sometimes throwing his dinner into the sink untouched.  She kept quiet while Jake was around.  By the time Jake was in bed, Andrew was gone out of the house again.  When he returned later, there was a smell of booze that would knock you down.  It even lingered in the house the next morning.  She tried to play along with him, frightened of raising his temper.  He would provoke her, and grab her arm, telling her to sit down, when she tried to leave the room and go to bed.  She made all sorts of excuses for him.  He was different when he was working.  There’s never enough money to go around now.  Somewhere inside her though, she knew that there were lots of people in the same situation, living from week to week.  Their husbands didn’t behave like him.  Sometimes she would shout back at him, then think of the neighbours.  She felt so ashamed.  She didn’t want anyone to know what was going on, least of all her parents. They thought he was such a charming lad. Everyone did. They didn’t even know he was out of work.

I was glad I hadn’t left my telephone number with Julie’s neighbor.  Andrew couldn’t trace me. He wouldn’t get a good reception at her parent’s house, now that the truth was out.  Mind you, he thought he was the golden boy, so would get a surprise if he did turn up at their house.  Julie’s parents arrived the following day.  She ran out to them, and her small frame was almost invisible when they hugged her between them.  Jake ran out to the gate, and arms embraced him too.  They all had tea in the kitchen, and I made some sandwiches to keep them going on their return journey.  Amy was amusing Jake on the mat near the back door, warm where the sun was streaming through.  Their cat was pawing the glass on the outside, asking to be let in.  “My daddy hates cats, says they’re dirty” said Jake, looking up at his mother.  She smiled at him, but no one commented.  My heart sank for the little boy.  He was too young to understand what was going on.  Maybe it was as well.

By the time Derek came back from the country, things looked back to normal.  “Jake and his mum stayed with us” Amy said to her dad, after she gave him a big hug.  Derek looked over Amy’s head, his eyebrows knitting together.  “It’s a long story, love.  Dinner’s nearly ready. We’ll talk later.

Return Home

For eighteen years they had lived a quiet, ordinary life, in a quiet ordinary street in Manchester. Gina’s mother was Italian and her father was Irish.  She took her dark looks from her mother.  Her Father only lasted five years after his wife passed away.  On his death-bed, she promised her father she would visit Ireland, and spread his ashes near the bridge in the town where he was born.

Gina packed her case with great care.  She preferred dark colours, but had a few blouses and cardigans to ring the changes.  Rainwear and good walking shoes would be useful.  When she closed her hall door, there was no one to ask to keep an eye on the house.  At work in the supermarket, only one girl knew she was going to Ireland, and why.  To the others, she was just taking a week’s holiday.

Her dark shoulder-length hair was windswept when she came out of Castlebar station.  The taxi driver thanked her for the tip, leaving her and her case on the path outside Forest Hotel.  It was dead quiet inside.  She hit the bell on the reception desk, looking around as she waited for someone to appear.  The busy floral carpet and old furniture were well worn.   When the proprietor, Mrs. Brown, made an appearance, her smile  took the edge off the creepy feeling Gina was experiencing.  She was shown to her room.   The pale carpet and blue bed cover gave it an unexpected brightness.  As she took her leave, Mrs. Brown said “breakfast is between 8 and 10 am.  If there’s anything you need, just let me know”.  With that, she was left on her own.

Gina fell on the bed exhausted.  It had been a long day.  After a shower next morning, she felt awake and fresh.  “I’ll have to find out where the bridge is” Gina thought.  “I’ll ask Mrs. Brown at breakfast”.  “You’re not related to the O’Connell’s who live just over the bridge, are you?” Mrs. Brown said, surprised. Gina’s face lit up.  “Yes, they’re my father’s people”.  Mrs. Brown looked at her with a strange expression.  “Your father, was his name James?”  “Well, Patrick James.  Everyone called him Patrick” replied Gina.

Mrs. Brown said she would make a fresh pot of tea and disappeared into the kitchen.  Gina couldn’t wait to hear all about her father’s people.  Mrs. Brown returned, this time, with her husband, who had a wizen face and a slight stoop.   He extended his hand to Gina, and she was struck by how cold it was.  It gave her a shiver.  “The James Patrick we knew crashed his car into that bridge. A freak accident in bad weather.  His car was pulled out of the river, but the remains were never found.  It must be some other O’Connell you’re looking for, dear” the old man said.  “Who is the family who live near the bridge then?” asked Gina. “She’s on her own now, his widow”, said Mr. Brown.  “She had four children.  They’re all scattered now.  It was a long time ago”.  They could see the confused look on Gina’s face, and left her alone.

Gina sat at the back of the local church.  It stood on a hill overlooking the fields and woodlands that stretched out for miles.  The hills and valleys were breathtaking.  Her mind returned to the present.  She had been stunned listening to the Browns.  “How did we not know?” she thought.  “Did my mother know, and kept it to herself?”  She was tortured with all the questions running around her head.  “What do I do now?”, she thought.  “Do I find this woman and tell her?  No I can’t do that, she wouldn’t believe me.  She’d say I was mad.  Maybe I’ll just scatter the ashes over the bridge and go home.  I loved him!  How could he have deceived us?  What was his reason for leaving?”

Gina suddenly felt very tired. She had to cross the bridge on her way back to the hotel.  It had rained all night. The current was strong.  White waves shot up and rushed past where she was standing.  As she stared, she could feel herself being drawn into the water.  A car passed and sprayed her.  She was now cold and wet.   She opened her bag and took out the box that held her father’s ashes.  Gina let the next wave engulf the box and take it on its journey down the river, and out to sea.  In her mind, it was symbolic.  The way it was meant to be.

Napoli

My 70th birthday was one of the most memorable.  My two daughters, Natalia and Andrea, and son Dylan, paid for a four day trip to Naples.  After getting up really early, Natalia, her six year old daughter Beth, Andrea and myself crossed the skies from Dublin Airport at around 7 am on Saturday, 18th April 2015.

“Buongiorno Napoli”

Continue reading

Bealtaine Festival

Bealtaine Festival

Celebrating Creativity as we Age

I Remember, I Remember ………

In May of this year, I joined a class at the local Library for a six week session.  I didn’t know what to expect, except that the purpose was to recall early memories of childhood, good, bad or indifferent.   Our local Library is very diverse.  Naturally, there are books for every age group, for small children up to pensioners and every subject you could think of.  I think the staff have been the same since my children were small.  One of the interesting things I’ve noticed, is that groups of people meet at the library.  There are different areas where you can see people studying or groups sitting around talking quietly.  Exhibitions are often held there.  I was part of one this year where our framed posters of stories and poetry were exhibited.

Our first session with Brigid, our teacher/facilitator, was getting to know the group, which numbered about nine, mostly women and one man.  Brigid brought along some items to engage our senses and memory.  There were some wild flowers, a bar of carbolic soap, a Dinky car, some old “Secret Seven” children’s books by Enid Blyton, and a few other things.  When I saw the soap, I immediately thought of Life Buoy soap, the big bars of red soap that my mother hand washed the clothes with years ago.  The Dinky toy and the children’s books certainly evoked memories of my childhood.  My mum actually worked for a while in the factory in London where they made the Dinky toys!

Each week Brigid brought along something new to get our thoughts flowing.  We wrote what we were thinking, and we took turns reading out our memories.  It was fascinating to hear how parents had met, what the husband did for a living (women rarely worked outside the home in those days).  There were heart-warming stories about family holidays and recollections of different things that happened during the family’s early years.  One lady who grew up in Birmingham, remembers the bombing during the Second World War.

One week we were asked to draw a map showing where the house we were born in was. That was a bit daunting for most of us.  It was one thing talking about early memories and writing about them.  Drawing was entirely different.  The week after we were asked to draw the first house we lived in.  That was easy enough, though my family standing outside the house looked like matchstick men.  (When my son called in that evening and saw the drawing on the worktop he said “Did Beth do that?”  Beth is my six year old granddaughter!)  I really laughed!

On our last session, Brigid brought along blocks of wood for us to paint with acrylic paint. This was the real deal! I was getting a bit nervous at this stage about expectations.  Brigid did a quick painting to show us what we could do.  The only stipulation was that we had to paint something we remembered as a child.  A few people did memories of the seaside, caravan holidays, one abstract, one of a house that had been bombed in a row of houses during the war.  Mine was of a neighbour, Mrs. Doyle, who lived opposite us when we lived in Ireland, standing at the door of her cottage.  My memory was of the beautiful scarlet rhododendron bush in her front garden.

During our sessions, the lovely people in the Library supplied us with tea, coffee and biscuits.  Brigid varnished each of our paintings, and they were hung in the Library for a few weeks.  Some of us typed a little piece explaining what the picture was about.  Carmen Cullen, Writer, (a friend and neighbour also), opened the proceedings for us, and did a wonderful introduction.

It was a most enjoyable exercise and none of us thought at the beginning that we could produce something worth hanging in the Library.  Brigid organised an evening to launch our paintings.  She brought along bottles of wine and a jug of the most refreshing drink I have ever tasted, made from sparkling water, orange juice, crushed strawberries and pieces of orange.  Gorgeous.  What a wonderful six sessions we had from the start, and our thanks to Brigid for the experience.  I was delighted one of my daughters, Andrea, and son Dylan came along for the launch.  They said they really enjoyed it, and the paintings weren’t too bad either!

IMG_4260

IMG_4257

IMG_4258

IMG_4261

IMG_4262

IMG_4263

IMG_4264

IMG_4265

IMG_4266

IMG_4268

IMG_4269

Boyne Berries 17 Launch – Spring 2015

I had been invited to the launch of Boyne Berries 17 magazine, in Trim, Co. Meath.  The date was Thursday, 16th March 2015.   Last summer, and to my amazement, my story “Play it Again Sam” had been selected to be included in the Spring edition of the magazine.   I had been asked to read my story at the launch.

When I first got the e-mail to tell me that my story had been chosen, I thought I was seeing things.  I could not believe it.  But I was thrilled also.   When the time of the launch drew near, my son Dylan said he would drive me down toTrim, and my daughter Natalia said she would come too.  They both had a long day at work.  Dylan and myself left Bray, and drove over to Ballinteer to pick up Natalia, who drove the rest of the way in her car.  It was busy on the motorway.  People were heading home so the traffic was slow in parts.  On the outskirts of Trim, one of the roundabouts had a monk ringing a bell in the middle of it (a stone replica of course).    There were a few ruins of castles on the outskirts.  It looked a pretty town.  We eventually found the Castle Arch Hotel, with an hour to spare.  Natalia and Dylan were starving, so we had time to relax and have a meal in the hotel.

The launch was due to start at 8 pm.  We walked up the stairs, arrows directing us to the function room where people were already taking their seats.  The proceedings were introduced by the young lady whom I had been in touch with by e-mail, Orla Fay, the Editor of Boyne Berries magazine, 16 and 17.  (It is in book form more than a magazine).  There was no microphone, so you had to project your voice as best you could.  I’m not sure how many people were there, but the seats were three-quarters full.  Above us were the most beautiful chandeliers, befitting the rest of the room.  It was an old hotel, very elegant and efficient.

The entries consisted of poems, fiction and prose.  Each person was introduced by Orla, with a little biography, then they took the podium to read their piece.  Initially I was a little nervous but not as bad as I had been in the days before.  Eventually my turn came.  The fiction and prose were towards the end of the proceedings, after the poetry.  There were people from all around Ireland, some from America, Canada and New Zealand, Europe and the UK.  One lady originally from Dundalk but now living in Arizona introduced the proceedings.  Another lady from the USA sent an audio message as she could not attend.  The man who came from New Zealand (or was it Australia), said, jokingly, he wished he had thought of that, it would have saved him the journey to Ireland!  We were all invited to have tea and biscuits after.   It finished about 11.30 pm. Then we had to make tracks to drop Natalia home and get back to Bray and Greystones, where Dylan lives.

It was a privilege to be part of this launch.  I was amazed at the achievements of most of the writers and  delighted and grateful that my daughter and son made it possible to be there.

Boyne Berries 17 3 Boyne Berries 17 2 Boyne Berries 17 1 Boyne Berries 17 4

Partings

They had all arrived for their father’s funeral, from all the far flung countries that our young people go to find work.

The house had been full, even joyful.  Stories of their childhood, of their happy home had been told, and different versions of events.

She stood at the gate, watching Dennis, the last of her family to leave, getting into the taxi. She expected to see his hand waving to her from the rear window, like when he was a child.  She waved until he was out of sight. The taxi turned the corner, and he was gone.

She sat in her chair, looking out through the French doors, as the early afternoon sun moved up the garden. In her mind, she saw him at the airport.  She stood at the large windows as he boarded the plane.  She could see him putting his hand luggage above his seat, and imagined tears in his eyes.

She didn’t know how long it would be until she saw any of them again.

Josephine Nolan

What Could Have Happened?

It was getting late.  She said eight o’clock.  She was always so punctual.  I checked the phone but there was no text message. My feet were stuck to the spot with the cold.  A few more busses went past, and I decided to get on.

Maybe she couldn’t get a babysitter.  Maybe she ran out of credit.  I was starting to worry now.  Things at home had been turbulent for her these past months.

Sitting on the bus, my mind spun from one scenario to another.  It was too late and too far to call to her house.  I had a very bad feeling this time.