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August 30, 2015August 21, 2015 / dylanvnolan / Leave a comment

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.

Boyne Berries 17 Launch – Spring 2015

May 14, 2015May 14, 2015 / dylanvnolan / Leave a comment

I had been invited to the launch of Boyne Berries 17 magazine, in Trim, Co. Meath. The date was Thursday, 16^th 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.

Partings

April 6, 2015March 24, 2015 / dylanvnolan / Leave a comment

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?

April 3, 2015March 24, 2015 / dylanvnolan / Leave a comment

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.

A Sports Car, a Dare, and an Obnoxious Ex-girlfriend

March 20, 2015February 16, 2015 / dylanvnolan / Leave a comment

They were like chalk and cheese. Paul met Jackie at a music festival. He and his pals were squelching around in the muck when she slipped in front of them and he came to her rescue. His friends stood by laughing. There she was, her black hair in a ponytail, wearing a yellow mini skirt skin tight top and yellow wellies to match, when suddenly she slipped and fell spread-eagled in the dirt. Paul stretched out his hand to help her up. “I can manage” she said with a look of disgust on her face. She couldn’t get her balance, and eventually but unwillingly took his hand. He wiped his own hands in his jeans, and picked up her handbag. As she fumbled around for tissues, getting more dirt on herself from her bag, he handed her his handkerchief. She looked a sorry sight. The lads fell silent but kept their distance. “What are you lot looking at?” she yelled at them. Paul still wanted to help and offered to buy her a drink. “I can’t go anywhere looking like this” she said, like it was his fault, and stormed off.

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Wishful Thinking

February 16, 2015February 16, 2015 / dylanvnolan / Leave a comment

It was so long ago. George was the last boy I went out with in Australia before my return home. He was supposed to follow. I didn’t hear from him for a few months, then the letter finally came. He couldn’t get out of his contract. He wasn’t coming home. My dad found me crying in the front room, George’s letter on my lap.

The following summer, myself, my sister and two friends decided to go to Ostend in Belgium for a week. We were dithering for a while about where to go, and finally picked Ostend because it was ‘abroad’ and cheap. All the shops, restaurants, pubs and night clubs ran the length of a long street, parallel to the beach. We decided to have a night out at the White Horse Inn. There were rows of long tables. People were served large tankards of beer. Waitresses were dressed like Frauleins, wearing pretty head-dresses and short frilly skirts. They made it look easy carrying their heavy trays of beer. It had a Bavarian beer garden atmosphere. The band on stage had the boisterous crowd swaying from side to side to the music.

I saw him on the other side of the room. He looked exactly like George, tall, dark haired and that lovely face. I kept looking at him. Willing him to come over. He was moving in my direction. Oh my God, my heart was racing, what would I say to him.

I introduced him to the girls. He told me his name, but I’ve forgotten. I’ll call him John. The following day, he took me on a bus tour. The countryside was very flat, pretty houses, lace curtains that didn’t come down fully to the bottom of the window. We held hands as we walked around. I thanked him for a lovely day and kissed him, very quickly. That was it. I think I told him we were leaving the next day. Going home.

Anyway, my mind had played tricks with me. I wanted him so much to be George. I’d lost my reason the moment I saw his face. He looked like George. His smile was warm and welcoming. He responded to me as I caught his eye. John was from the south of England. He spoke with a Somerset accent, you know, “where the cider apples grow”. George was from Edinburgh. I loved his accent. It was soft and wrapped itself around me.

The bubble burst when I spoke to him. How crazy was I to expect to hear a Scottish accent. He was a nice boy, but he wasn’t George.

Our Town

November 12, 2014 / dylanvnolan / 1 Comment

Once like a diamond on the coast

That people flocked to see,

Smart shops and buildings she could boast,

She showed them off with glee

But things were left to slip and slide,

They didn’t feel the breeze,

How could they not have seen the tide

Would bring her to her knees?

We love this town, we need it back,

We yearn for things to change,

We need the beauty, not the tack,

To make her shine again

We have to fight before she’s lost,

We have to make them see

She’ll loose her spirit – at what cost

To her, to you and me?

She’s like a princess in a dream,

Her skirt beneath the shore,

She cannot wait for miracles

Or she will be no more

Josephine Nolan

A Day in the Life – Lizzie

September 25, 2014January 15, 2015 / dylanvnolan / Leave a comment

Lizzie had three children, two boys aged seven and six and a three year old daughter. Her husband worked in a grocery shop in Main Street owned by his brother. It was the early 50’s and things were tight. They thought themselves lucky that they had a roof over their head and food on the table. Lizzie was very careful with her husband’s small wages. They lived in a two bedroom house. The children slept in the bigger bedroom. The house had an outside toilet, which was not unusual those days. Once a week a tin bath, kept in the shed, was brought in to the kitchen to give the children a good scrub and wash their hair. They were like new pins every Saturday night as they sat around the fire. Lizzie and Andrew often looked at each other and smiled as they watched their shiny little heads and smiling faces. They thought they were truly blessed.