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Caught in Amber

An Anthology of Poetry, proseand Fiction

Edited by Eileen Casey

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Caught in Amber © Lucan Writers’ Group, 2006.

The moral rights of the authors have beenasserted.

First published by South County Dublin Libraries 2006.

ISBN 0-9553798-0-6

Front Cover: Jennifer Phillips.

Typesetting: Graph Print, Unit A9 Calmount Park, Ballymount, Dublin 12.

Printed by: Graph Print.

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Caught in Amber

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Acknowledgements

The Lucan Writers’ Group would like to thank thestaff at Lucan Library, especially LibrarianDeirdre Priestley. Her enthusiasm and support arevery much appreciated.Eileen Casey, for her energetic encouragement inthose vital early days of the writers comingtogether as a group, and also for her editorialskills.Dermot Bolger, Novelist, Poet and Playwright andWriter-in-Residence, South Dublin County, 2005.Dermot Bolger’s contribution towards renewingand re-invigorating the literary life in SouthDublin County is enormous. Those whoparticipated in his series of workshops heldthroughout the County in 2005 are much enrichedby the experience. We thank him for his ongoingsupport.South Dublin County Libraries whose support inthe form of funding made Caught in Amberpossible.

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Special Acknowledgements to:Carlo Gebler, Novelist, Playwright and ArtsCouncil, Writer Fellow, Trinity College, 2006. TheLucan Writers’ Group wish to acknowledge hisgenerosity in allowing the inclusion of a quotefrom him on the cover of Caught in Amber.Jennifer Phillips, her expertise has been extremelyvaluable and very much appreciated.Pat Walsh of Etceteras Jewellers, Dun Laoghaire.Thank you Pat for the use of an amber stone.Kieran Swords, Local Studies Librarian, TallaghtLibrary. Ireland’s Own, where ‘The Trunk’ first appearedand Sunday Miscellany where ‘A Winter Break’was first broadcast.

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A welcome from Mayor Eamonn Maloney

As Mayor of South Dublin, itis my pleasure to welcomereaders to this vibrant,energetic anthology fromLucan Writers’ Group.Indeed, the poetry, prose andfiction in this selection arethe result of each individualwriter’s attention to the craft of writing itself.

Some of the writers in this anthology are beingpublished for the first time. Others have had workpublished in outlets such as The Sunday Tribune,Ireland’s Own, County Lines , a portrait of Life inSouth Dublin County, published by New Islandand edited by Dermot Bolger, successful novelist,poet and playwright and Writer-in -Residence,South Dublin County, 2005. Work has also beenbroadcast on R.T.E. radio, Sunday Miscellany.This anthology is edited by Tallaght based writerEileen Casey who facilitated the Lucan Writers’Group in its formative period. It is a mark of thehigh esteem in which she is held by the group thatEileen has been invited to edit Caught in Amber.

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It has long been the tradition in South DublinCounty to nurture and support the arts. Caught inAmber is a worthy recipient of the faith SouthDublin County Libraries have in the artists in thecommunity. I congratulate all concerned inbringing this anthology to fruition, particularly thewriters themselves. May they enjoy continuedsuccess.

Mayor, Councillor Eamonn MaloneySouth Dublin County CouncilNovember, 2006.

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Contents

Introduction Eileen Casey 11

The Common Market Joan 0’Flynn 14

Seagulls and Oak Trees Joe Mc Kiernan 19

Family Fortunes Dympna Murray-Fennell 24

The Flower Box Louise Phillips 28

Coats Colm Keegan 38

One Kick Colm Keegan 40

Caught in Amber Triona Walsh 41

God (and everyone else) Calling!Patricia 0’Shea 51

Moments Maurice Flynn 58

Long Live the Lost Things Colm Keegan 68

The Wind Elizabeth Reid 70

A New Beginning Joan Byrne 72

Phoenix Risen Patricia 0’Shea 74

Them Eileen Casey 78

The Trunk Dympna Murray-Fennell 80

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Jump into the Unknown Joe Mc Kiernan 84

Mannin Woman Joan 0’Flynn 92

A Place in Time Louise Phillips 105

Blood Marie Tarpey 118

The Washing Yard Louise Phillips 126

Eleanore, Fame and The Evening HeraldTriona Walsh 127

The Man Who Lost Some SleepJoe Mc Kiernan 136

Old Man Joan Byrne 140

A Winter Break Dympna Murray-Fennell 146

38 Buckingham Street Joan Byrne 149

Lakes Colm Keegan 151

Notes on Contributors 165

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IntroductionEileen Casey

In autumn, 2003, on the invitation of LibrarianDeirdre Priestley, I came to Lucan Library tofacilitate a number of Creative Writing sessions.Surrounded by the comforting presence of books,the writing journey was eagerly begun. It seemedthe most natural thing in the world for these writers,to be thus engaged on a Saturday morning. Therewas tremendous vibrancy in those early morningsessions and a huge burst of that creative energyvery necessary to ensure that “beginning at thebeginning” is an enjoyable pursuit and not a chore.

Going back to that first morning however, Iremember reading a piece from Michael Viney’s‘Another Life’ column, published the previousSpring in The Irish Times, about looking for abrambling, a rare breed of bird. In beautifullyevocative language, Viney described how hesearched for the very distinctive markings of thisbird and how, on sighting one amongst a group ofchaffinches, there was no mistaking its orangegorget and pure white plumage. My intention inreading this piece was to highlight the lens throughwhich the writer views the world, that writers arealways on the “look-out” for something startlingor out of the ordinary.

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Over the weeks, I thoroughly enjoyed my visitsto Lucan Library, such was the enthusiasm andwillingness of each member of the group to fill upthose blank pages and to engage in stimulatingways of stoking up creative fires. More often thannot I was rewarded with a satisfying sighting of a“brambling” in the wonderful plumage of apowerful image, the tilt of an unforgettable phraseor the drawing-up of a memorable character. Thejourney home to Tallaght was made lighter as aresult. There was lots of laughter to be ferriedhomewards also, thanks to the camaraderie sharedover cups of coffee.

In completing the pieces published here, thewriters have been generous in opening thestorehouse of memory. Themes of characterstrapped in unlived lives or coming to terms withuntimely death, love lost and rediscovered, theforging together of different characters fromdifferent worlds, are poised between accounts ofpersonal history (some of which take us as faraway as America and to Australia). Here also isfound the poignancy of growing older in a hostileenvironment, the cut-throat world of big business,the slow but agonisingly sure build-up of naturaldisaster but also, that very important element,humour. Indeed, it is the latter which often servesas a prism through which darker tones can filter,

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demonstrating that as O’Casey knew only toowell, with shade there is always light.

Although coming together as a group, theindividuality of each voice in Caught in Amber isindelibly marked on the work. Indeed, this is astrength which I find so heartening about thewritings here, that holding fast to one’s ownidentity, one’s own way of looking at the world. Inthis regard, these writers have got it right. Respectand an enduring friendship have allowed each‘voice’ to flourish.

In 2005, some of the writers in this anthologyparticipated in a workshop facilitated by the thenWriter-in-Residence for South Dublin County,Dermot Bolger. The encouragement and theexperienced guidance of such a much admired andwell-respected writer, has contributed enormouslytowards advancing these writers further alongtheir writing journey.

Triona Walsh’s short story ‘Caught in Amber’gifted the anthology with its overall title. The warmcolour of the amber stone with its ability to reflectvarious falls of light, make it a perfect choice. Thequalities of preservation, which the stonepossesses, have caused amber to be likened to atime machine. I have no doubt that these shortstories, prose pieces and poetry, will continue tostartle, surprise and delight for a long time to come.

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The Common MarketJoan O’Flynn

I know a woman who loves supermarkets. Well,it’s not just supermarkets she loves. It’s her ownsupermarket, the one where she shops every week– and more often than that, if the truth were told.It’s not really the food, (although she really loveslooking at mustard-dressed, pepper encrusted beefon the bone, the red, yellow and green apples, andoh, the wonderful cheeses) nor is it the cleaningmaterials. And it’s certainly not the toilet paper orthe often-wonky trolleys. It’s just the buzz of theplace, the people she meets. There’s a whole lifegoing on in the supermarket that energises her,that kind of rounds off her week.

The Fruit & Veg section is always ablaze withcolour. Apples shine as if polished just minutesago. She once saw a white aubergine, imaginethat! And another time, bananas so small that abunch of them was like a child’s hand with eightfingers. She always feels that the horrid pinkinsipid looking things they call tomatoes bear noresemblance to real tomatoes; certainly not at alllike the ones she used to pick in her father’sgreenhouse when she was young. When shecomments on this to whoever happens to bestanding beside her, they always agree.

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The woman hates to admit it but she reallydoesn’t like the fish counter. It’s not that shedoesn’t enjoy a piece of lemon sole, or a prawncocktail served in a glass dish with lovely MarieRose sauce. But the open-mouthed ugly monkfishand the unnatural red slices of tuna make her averther eyes as she passes. She’s relieved that there isnever a “fishy” smell from them and wonders howthey manage that.

She’s very fond of the people that work in hersupermarket. There’s the gentle fellow at the delicounter, with very long curly hair neatly enclosedin a hairnet. She herself would never be caught inpublic with a hairnet on her head, but it kind ofsuits him. He’s definitely not Irish. She hadthought he might be Romanian or Arabic, butsomeone told her he was French. She would havethought that a French man would have lookedmore romantic or arrogant, not shy and gentle.When she asks for nine slices of Billy Roll for hergrandchildren, she notices that he always makessure to mix the slices, so that there is a dinosaurand a footballer and a teddy bear. Not manyassistants take that trouble. She doesn’t like to tellhim that actually, she doesn’t have anygrandchildren. She buys the meat for the dog, hisFriday treat, but the young man mightn’tunderstand.

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She never even glances at the ready-packedmeat because there’s Jack at the counter in thebutchery, who advises her on how to cook thedifferent joints and who always makes sure sheknows what is the best value this week. Thenthere’s Bill, the security man, who was so kind toher some years ago when her arthritis was bad. Healways made sure that someone would help herget the trolley to the car and the messages safelystashed inside. Bill is great. He makes time for achat and seems constantly to be in good humour.She wonders is he like that at home, but thinks thathe probably is.

She worries about the woman who does theyoghurt samples who is always rather withdrawn.She wonders if she has an ulcer, or corns on hertoes perhaps? It must be hard to have to go out towork if your health is not good. Now the lady atthe cheese counter is another kettle of fish entirely,always eager for her to savour the Cambozola orGubbeen. Quite often she will press her to sip oneof those dainty little plastic containers of Italian orSouth American wine. South America – such along way for wine to travel. She supposes it comesby sea; it would be too heavy to fly all the glassbottles across those miles. Maybe the wine comesin huge barrels and is bottled here.

One of the nicest things about the supermarket

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is that she meets other shoppers. Some of them shethinks of as friends, but they are really just peopleshe sees almost every week and passes the time ofday with, or asks how their children are getting onthese days. And there are others, people she hasn’tseen for years, who only come to her supermarketat Christmas or Easter. Most of them don’t seem aday older than the last time she met them, but havelots of news of other old friends who are marriedor dead or gone to the Canaries for the holidays.

There are hardly ever any children in thesupermarket. Thank goodness for the on-sitecrèches. She doesn’t like big children much. Well,not in the supermarket. They’re noisy, you know?It somehow ruins the rhythm of the place. Butoften there are babies; tiny ones, little eyes shuttight; bigger ones reaching for things fromshelves. And they seem to come in all coloursnowadays; heads of tight black curls, dark skinnedwith almond-shaped eyes, brown-eyed pale facedbeauties, sloe-eyed imps with ornaments in theirhair, blonde pink-cheeked bundles.

In fairness, she knows that there are peoplewho hide when they see her coming, afraid thatshe will delay them for longer than they want withidle chatter. But that’s OK. She herself has to hidesometimes when she’s in a hurry, or in badhumour and doesn’t want to inflict her ill temper

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on others. It’s so easy to get into the habit oftelling and retelling the story about one’s sore toe,or how she couldn’t find the car keys for ages theother day. Some things are better kept to oneself.

When the shopping is all done, she goes downthe escalator with her small trolley full to the brimtilting ahead of her, and sets off home. Sometimesshe’s glad when she forgets some of the things shemeant to buy. She can always go back againtomorrow!

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Seagulls and Oak TreesJoe Mc Kiernan

‘Seagulls and oak trees.’‘Excuse me?’‘I said ‘Seagulls and oak trees’.’Christine, the relationship guidance counsellor

was taken aback at Damian’s response to herquestion, which was a staple of any mediation:‘What do you want from this relationship?’ Andthis was his response? Sarah, his wife, could nothold back.

‘Jesus Christ Damian. This is serious! Aftertwo years I finally get you to mediation and whenyou get here all you want to do is treat it like a bigjoke! Do you just want to leave, is that it? Do youwant to call it quits? Is that it? Well if you do Iwish you’d just tell me straight …’

Christine interrupted. ‘Sarah. Hold on! Let’sjust step back a little.’

Damian had not reacted in any perceptible wayto Sarah’s outburst. Though she had glared at himunblinking throughout he had not turned to makeeye contact, choosing instead to gaze out theFrench doors behind Christine.

‘Let’s take a little break,’ Christine suggested,partly to relieve the tension of the moment butequally to give herself time to think.

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Damian spoke.‘Can I take a stroll in the garden?’ he asked. It

was the first meaningful sentence he had uttered.‘Sure,’ Christine replied and got up to open the

doors.The grounds of the institution, on this most

glorious of summer days, looked nothing short ofmagnificent. The lawn was a beautiful luxuriousgreen carpet interspersed with manicured circularflowerbeds. But Damian hardly noticed thesethings, transfixed as he was on the oak trees thatformed the perimeter of the grounds. The slowswaying of their leafy branches brought himinexorably back to Granny’s house in Dalkey, andto that summer, eighteen years previous.

Her garden had been also been surrounded byfine specimens of this most noble of trees. And inthe centre had stood “Old Faithful” fully a centuryold, granny had once told him, during one of theirmany lunches under its shade.

He would go to Granny’s three or four times aweek during that summer. The sun had shoneincessantly from the start of June until the end ofAugust, or so it seemed. His parents could see noreason to stop him though they would havepreferred if he had socialised a little more withpeople of his own age.

He would help Granny bring out food for the

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seagulls: crusts of bread, coconut halves andbowls of water. Some people saw the gulls asuseless scavengers but not Gran. We all needsomeone to look out for us was her philosophy.Within a minute of the fare being laid out, thegarden would be invaded by dozens of gulls,gobbling and scrapping for the food.

When the birds had gone on their way the mainevent would take place: lunch. Every day, Granwould prepare sandwiches, which were somehowalways of a different variety. In addition shewould proffer fancy pastries, something thatDamian’s mother must not find out about. But thecentrepiece of lunch was the tea, served as it wasin her ornate, flower-adorned porcelain teapot.

Inside Christine and Sarah sipped cups ofcoffee. Christine went to say something, checkedherself and then asked: ‘How long is it since yourlittle girl..?’

Her sentenced trailed off – even a euphemismis loaded when speaking to a mother about thedeath of her infant.

‘Three years now. Three years last month’‘And she was – how old?’‘Seven months. It was a cot-death.’Christine said nothing hoping Sarah might

volunteer more.‘It was Damian who found her,’ she continued.

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‘She died during the night.’‘And how did you deal with her death?’

Christine asked.‘Well y’know. You just have to deal with it.

What else can you do?’Damian had thought that the summer would

never end. But end it did and more abruptly thanhe could have imagined. He was laying the gulls’lunch out on the lawn one day when he heard acrashing sound in the house. He ran into thekitchen to find Gran lying on the tile floor, facedown and motionless. Beside her, in a dozenpieces, lay the teapot.

After the funeral the house was put up for sale.Damian tormented his parents about the need tofeed the seagulls but they could not understand theimportance of this. He was back at school now andeven at the weekend they would not let him go tothe empty house on his own.

When a buyer was found the final contractswere to be signed at the house. Damian saw hischance and begged his parents to bring him. Hebrought all the usual food items in a bag andspread them out in the traditional feeding place.But no birds came. Eventually, after muchcajoling from his parents he left.

The purchaser of the house turned out to be alocal developer who had cannily noted that two

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houses could be built on the grounds. Of coursefor that to happen the oak trees would have to go.

For reasons that he could not explain even tohimself Damian would regularly cycle by the oldhouse. On one of these reconnaissance missions,he saw a team of men go to work on the trees.Though he had held back the tears at Gran’sfuneral he could not restrain himself now as, oneby one, those noble beings were humbled by thesavagery of screaming chain saws. “Old Faithful”was the last to go.

Damian was roused from his reverie by theunexpected taste of saltwater on his lips. He wipedthe tears from his face and turned towards theopen French doors.

‘What do you want from this relationship?’ thecounsellor had asked.

Simple: he wanted seagulls and oak trees. Hewanted things back as they had been. His headtold him this was impossible but nevertheless itwas the non-negotiable demand of his heart.

So many things that he loved were now goneand his marriage to Sarah, who he also loved, wasnow in serious jeopardy. He would try to save itbut he did not feel optimistic as he trudged backtowards the open doors.

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Family FortunesDympna Murray-Fennell

Jimmy would have been on the Titanic – if hecould have raised the fare to travel. But in 1912,his job as a pork butcher’s apprentice in Cork didnot pay very well, so he began to look elsewherefor better prospects. When the recruiting officerfor the Royal Irish Rifles was in town, Jimmygladly signed on. A year later he was in India. Itwas to be a short visit as the clash between Kingand Kaiser called for his presence in Flanders.Maybe he regretted leaving the job in Cork, whenhe experienced the butchery and bloodshed on theWestern Front, but at least he survived thecarnage.

Back in rebel Cork, the welcome home waslukewarm – Jimmy was in the wrong uniform.Even the family did not receive him with openarms. But there were open arms back in Picardy –a petite mademoiselle called Marguerite and soonFrench wedding bells replaced the bells ofShandon.

Three-quarters of a century later, as I stood bythe graves of Jimmy and Marguerite for the burialof their son Jacques, I mused on the chancehappenings that shape individual and family lives.Surrounded by the heavy marble statuary in the

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traditional deep purple of French cemeteries,Jimmy’s descendants gathered from all parts ofFrance, together with a handful of Irish cousins.From Marseilles there was Sebastian, a rugbyplayer with a shock of red hair and a physique likea Munster forward. Chatting with him wasMichel, an athletic gendarme from Grenoble – hewas renowned in family circles for his liqueursmade with alpine plants, a French version ofpoteen but perfectly legitimate, since he had“married into” a farm which had the right to distiltheir own spirits.

Apart from them stood Philippe, the Parisiangrandson – Charvet-shirted and suited, exudingsuccess and urbanity. He winced, just a little, onhearing the broad vowels of the cousins fromLanguedoc and looked slightly pained at thedetermined efforts of the few Irish relatives tobridge the linguistic gap. His handsome face frozewhen confronted with an olive-skinned in-lawfrom North Africa. Fortunately, someone from hisown world rescued him from that embarrassment-Cousin Patrick- wasn’t he in banking in Lille?But no! Patrick had taken up painting, and likeGaugain, had left the bank, and was now workingon his art in a village in Brittany. He was planningto move to West Cork – if he could afford it- andimmerse himself in Celtic mists and imagery.

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This, to Philippe, was madness, a reversal of thenormal social instinct of upward mobility. Heturned away to admire the tall willowy figure ofhis favourite niece, she had all the under-statedelegance of the true Parisienne. Now she waschatting in broken English to a third cousin fromCork, investigating the possibility of a visit toIreland to improve her English!

I wondered how long it had taken Jimmy tolearn French when he settled in Boulogne in 1918.Certainly his family had little trace of theirfather’s mother-tongue. I remember when I firstvisited Jacques’ home and the champagne wasopened, he confused ‘cheers’ with ‘cheerio’, andfor a moment, I thought it was a parting-glassrather than a welcoming toast! But he had justenough English to deal with the tourists at his stallin Boulogne market, where he was a consummatesalesman. I watched him handle three or fourcustomers at once – advising one on the bestsaucisson, passing a sample of camembert toanother, identifying a potential new customer witha special ‘bonjour Madame’- a real Bill Clinton atcharming his audience. He was a connoisseur offood and wine and knew where to find the best,whether simple croissants or top-class foie gras.One taste survived from his father’s homeland andthat was an appreciation of well-aged Irish

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whiskey. After his funeral I watched his oldfriends savour tots of 15year-old Jameson as theyreminisced about the ‘good old days’ of theiryouth and complained about the youth of today,plus ca change!

I wondered what Jimmy from Cork would havemade of the whole thing; I think he would havebeen rather amazed and maybe a little amused.

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The Flower BoxLouise Phillips

Millie was the last to know her Mam waspregnant. Her brother said she had too big a gobfor her own good ‘Tell that one nothin’, unless youwanted it on the six o’clock news’. It was 1966and Millie had just passed her eight birthday. Itbothered her that she had not noticed the bump,but then again her Mam was a little on the plumpside, well actually a lot on the plump side. Millieliked her Mam being plump; she had seenphotographs of her before she met Millie’s Dad,before she had babies. She looked beautiful, likeAudrey Hepburn. Millie didn’t want her Mam tolook like that again, she didn’t want men to fall inlove with her the way they did in movies. If Mamleft, she would be stuck with Dad and that wouldbe no good at all.

When Millie finally discovered the truth, thethought of having a baby brother or sister filledher young heart with such flights of fancy that italmost burst. Being the youngest of four, shelonged to push a pram and talk “baby talk” theway her friends did. Betty Maguire was the worst;she came from a family that had reached doublefigures. Every feckin’ year she had another one toparade in front of her. Sometimes it was a girl,

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sometimes a boy, but always a baby. When Millieasked her Mam, ‘Why can’t we be like theMaguires?’ her Mam would snap, ‘Because we’renot’. Millie hated the way adults gave the mostpathetic answers to thoroughly brilliant questions.She accepted them all the same, despite the factthat they explained nothing, secure in theknowledge that a push for a second answer wouldhave produced a good clip around the ear.

When her Mam went into hospital, Millie wasforced to encounter that brand new world with herDad as the parent. Quite soon into the experience,she caught her smallest finger “pinkie” in thebedroom door; it was a terribly painful event andleft her little finger throbbing to the size of a fatbanana. Millie had expected love and sympathy,but got none of it, instead her Dad roared at her asif she had committed some hideous crime againsthim. His reaction defied all intelligentunderstanding, after all it wasn’t her fault shehappened to be standing holding the doorframejust as her brother decided to slam the door shut.

But it wasn’t all bad; for one thing, they didn’thave to have Saturday night baths. She hated thatlong ugly piece of galvanised steel, the way itsounded when it was dragged across the tiledfloor, like someone’s fingernails scratching downa blackboard. But most of all, she hated those

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three dingy inches of lukewarm water that hadserviced her older sister. It was no fun taking yourclothes off in the middle of winter. Dublin in thesixties knew nothing about central heating, and theclosest Millie ever got to it was a tiny shovel loadof coal in a distant fireplace. Millie did not get onwith her older sister, she was far too much of a“goodie two shoes” for Millie’s liking. In herhouse Millie was known as “the scourge”. Sheloved when her Dad came back from the pub andhe was in good form. He would wake her up andsay, ‘Millie who are you?’

And she would say ‘the scourge’.‘And Millie where are you the scourge of?’‘I am the scourge of the North, the South, the

East and the West’, and she would stick out herchest and he would place an imaginary badge onit. They would both laugh.

The other upside was that each night they gotfish and chips from the local chipper for tea.Gorgeous they were, long fat lumps of potatowrapped in soaky newspaper, oozing withlashings of salt and vinegar. A feast for a Kingwhich ended in the finger licking ritual, each onegot attention, even “pinkie”, which had finallyfinished throbbing.

The news came from the hospital that it was ababy girl, her name was Monica. Millie practisedsaying her name out loud.

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‘Monica, Monica, Monica’.‘Hi everyone, look at my baby sister, her name

is Monica’.She jumped and skipped and dreamt her way

through a maze of baby thoughts, big sister things,testing the baby’s milk on her arm just like BettyMaguire did, singing lullabies whilst standing infront of the mirror, or practicing holding Monicathe way Our Lady held the baby Jesus, all saintlike. When the coming home day came, Millie feltlike she was expecting Santa when it wasn’tChristmas and she knew she had been a good girlfor eight years. It was cold and wet outside; Milliesat with as much patience as any eight year oldcould muster, staring out of the window at therain. Sometimes the rain became hard and tinyhailstones pelted at the pane. She didn’t want hersister to get a chill and worried that her Mamwould wrap her up well. Millie counted to onehundred many times then counted back again. Shestared at the paint cracks in the windowpane andmade up imaginary stories from exotic lands. Sheprayed to Holy God that Monica and her Mamwould come home soon. When praying didn’twork, she opened the front door and jumped downthe one stone step to the street. The step was liketheir front garden and her Mam was very proud ofit, scrubbing it every morning. Sometimes she let

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Millie help and she would run the steel brush upand down the white suds or make circles thatbecame galaxies. But that afternoon there was noMam to make things right and Dad wasn’t aroundso there was no one Millie could ask. Her brotherstold her nothing and her sister never knew anythinganyway. She looked around the room as ifsomewhere held the answer. She waited and waitedas the walls became darker and night time came.The bread and jam sandwich she made herselffilled her empty belly but took none of the worryfrom her heart as she sensed something was wrong.

The atmosphere in the flat hung huge and quiet.A small lamp lit the front room with the orangeglow of its shade. Millie sat cross-legged belowthe kitchen table and watched car lights pass liketorches as they lit the flowery curtains against thedark. She heard her older brothers whispering andtried to make out the words, but it was no good.Then the ambulance arrived, a big white thingwith flashing lights, it pulled up right out front.Millie’s Mam, a dark stooped shadow, filled theirfront doorway and drifted witchlike into the backbedroom. Millie wanted to cry. Why had her Mamnot seen her? But Millie’s Mam saw no one, shehad seen enough.

There was no baby and no mention was madeof one either. The flat was horrible that night, no

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one really spoke and when they did, it was inhushed tones. Millie knew for sure there wouldn’tbe a little sister. Monica, Millie found out laterlived for just three days; then died of a cot death inhospital. That was the worst kind of death,because nobody knew why. When Monica died,Millie’s Dad was asked to identify the body. Hecouldn’t do it and her Mam would never forgivehim for it. It wasn’t long before he learned to hatehimself and his visits to the pub became evenlonger than before. Sometimes Millie heard herMam crying and she’d feel sad for her, but soon,Millie’s life continued with the trials andtribulations of Millie’s world.

One day when she was out of school sick,Millie lay in her bed alone. A fabulous novelty asshe normally shared it with her older sister, Millieat one end, and her sister at the other. It was greatbeing able to stretch out without having to hear amoan that her foot was stuck in her sister’s face.The bedroom was shared with their parents, theboys were luckier, having a whole room tothemselves, they never had to listen to her Mamand Dad snoring. Hours and hours it would go onfor, just as her Dad breathed in, her Mam breathedout. Their snoring had fantastic rhythm, at nighttheir bodies becoming miraculously in tune in away that escaped their daily lives.

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Millie’s eyes travelled around the room, takingin all the bits and pieces and then she noticed it, abig brown cardboard box sitting on the top of herparent’s wardrobe. It looked like the boxes thatheld flowers in the markets; it was the same shapeand size. She wondered how she had not seen itbefore but soon calculated that during the day shemissed it as she couldn’t see up that far, unless ofcourse, she was lying where she was right now!Millie heard her Mam moving in the scullery. Shehad checked in on her a while earlier and it wasunlikely she would revisit very soon. Millie creptout of bed and pulled her Dad’s bedside chair overto the wardrobe. Her hands reached up as high asthey could; but only her index finger touched thebox. There was no way she was going to be ableto see what was inside even if she got the lid tiltedoff. The sickness and temperature of the earlymorning disappeared fast with the arrival of sucha great adventure. Knowing life and limb werebeing risked, Millie made her way into herbrother’s bedroom; convinced that she would findwhat she wanted there and she was right. Piled inthe corner was a load of books that would do thetrick just nicely.

Millie didn’t leave straight away; she savouredthe thrill of being somewhere that she shouldn’t.No one was around, other than her Mam working

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in the scullery and the experience filled Milliewith as much adrenalin as being left alone inside asweetshop with no need to pay. This once in alifetime opportunity had arrived and she was welland truly going to swallow up as muchinformation as the room had to offer.

There was a huge map of the world on one sidetotally contradicting Christopher Columbus’sview of the planet. One of her brothers had startedto put together an Airfix model of an aeroplane. Itwas way bigger than any she had ever seen, herlonging to touch it, just about surpassed by theabsolute fear of reprisal. At the end of her eldestbrother’s bed was his tape recorder; it had twolarge six-inch spools feeding into one another.Millie touched that, because she knew it wouldn’tbreak and the “look and listen but don’t touch”motto held by her brother when it came to Millieand her relationship with the device requiredrebellion. Finally she carried four of the largestbooks she could find into the back bedroom.Making one return trip to the area of enquiry wasvital, any more could instigate capture, and thiswas turning into too much fun by far.

Millie piled the four books on top of her Dad’schair and gained at least six inches in extra height.The brown box on top of the wardrobe wascovered with dust. It made her sneeze and Millie

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worked out that by touching it; she left lesser dustmarks in the shapes of fingers. Millie waited a fewseconds as she prayed her Mam hadn’t heard thesneeze. With no sounds other than the movementsof pots, she carried on and lifted the lid off,allowing it to slide back behind the box. Theinside was filled to the brim. Millie wiped tendusty fingers down either side of her vest andspread both hands across the top as she felt thesoftness of baby clothes.

They lay like a pink and white ocean, smellingof baby powder, and were far prettier thananything she had ever seen. Millie built up thecourage to lift a small pink cardigan, which spreadout like a skirt at the end; it had a narrow pinkribbon laced near the top of miniature rows ofknitting which met in the centre with a perfectbow. There were mittens too, along with items thatweren’t clothes, a rosette in the shape of a heartwith the “Virgin Mary” on the front, a rattle also,that was slightly battered, so she figured it washers. As she stood on top of her Dad’s chair andfour stolen books, Millie, alone with the clothesthat her dead baby sister never got to wear; shethought of her all small and soft and gurgling. Inher imagination they met somewhere betweenhope and loss. Part of her little sister was there,part of what she might have been. Gone were the

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dreams of pushing prams and bottle-feeding,replaced by a connection with a sister that shewould never get to know in any ordinary way. Shecradled herself back into bed and cried, not theway her Mam cried but cried all the same.

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CoatsColm Keegan

My daughter lost her temperAnd swung her little white coat at meMaking me laugh.You should have seen her faceWhen it slipped from her armsAnd took to the air.

I caught it for her.But for a heartbeatIt was as if she thought it might keep going,Fluttering away from the playground,And over the Wicklow mountainsEscaping to the sea and the sunset.

It might’ve met my jacket out thereMy little black jacketSize 3-4With the gold Benson and Hedges logo.The one I took from the wardrobe,And slept in one night.I used to live in itand chew the collarI loved how the fabric felt in my mouth.

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Until that day on O’Connell bridgeWhen I was sat beside itThe wind was ragingAnd whipped it from me,Flung it into somersaults over the LiffeyWhere it landed gently on the oily water,And floated away.

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One KickColm Keegan

One kick, one tiny flickOf his two year old footAnd I was hooked.No matter whatHis mother didMy chubby, soccer mad little kidWould feel my careForever.But I never,Saw a day like thisWhen his broken mother’s courtroom kissWould be all he’d haveFor the next ten years.No sun filled summers, No glittering careers.Just tearsAnd regretFor the man he bet.And the wayOne flick,One drunk and deadly,Too strong kick,Can crush a skull.

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Caught in AmberTríona Walsh

Nora’s world, now mapped by the flat four wallcontours of this room – no oceans, nor mountains– barely noticed the outside sun. What raysaccidentally found their way to the inconspicuouswindow browsed disinterestedly around the room,and then shuffled off. The scuffed and paint-chipped reading lamp, on her mahogany veneerbedside table, was the new centre of her existence.When it was off, her life suspended, and when itwas illuminated she would participate once more.

Katie found a chair, and manoeuvred it with asmuch grace as her eight months pregnant bellywould let her. Settling with relief at the bedside,she looked at her shallow slumberinggrandmother, unsure what to do. She could wakeNora, but that didn’t seem fair to the old lady. But,leaving her to wake and just find Katie there,sitting and staring, might frighten her. Katie wasnow regretting creeping into the room sostealthily.

But a coughing fit took hold of Nora’s shouldersand rudely shook her into consciousness. Katiereached over to the cup of water on the bedsidetable, and proffered it to Nora. She took it, and bythe time the spasm left her, she was awake, though

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drained. Katie managed to haul herself out of thechair and helped Nora to sit up, pillow bolsteringher. Nora took some time to talk.

‘Thank you child,’ she said finally. Then sheslowly reached over and turned on the lamp. Herfingers felt and fumbled for her glasses and atissue. Katie knew better than to help now. Noradabbed her mouth before putting her glasses on,bringing her one-roomed universe into focus.

‘Katie,’ she said, as if only now confident ofher visitor’s identity.

‘Hiya Granny,’ smiled Katie, infusing her firstwords with as much happiness and optimism asten letters could hold.

‘Oh please stop that at once, ‘ Nora griped.‘Stop what?’‘Your cheery cheery. I look a fright, stop

pretending I look like some Hollywood starlet.You never did when I was well.’

‘I’m always happy to see you, Gran,’ repliedKatie as she fought not to sound like a sullen five-year-old.

‘Perhaps, perhaps,’ conceded Nora, ‘I’m just sosick of these grinning nurses visiting me, they patmy hand and turn up the volume to tell me I’mlooking great. I feel like replying, “Yes dearie, I’mlooking so good that the undertaker will have littleto do making me look great in my open coffin!’

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‘Oh don’t say that Gran!’‘Now, Katie, we all have to go, and my time is

well and truly up. I’m eighty-five, that’s aboutforty years longer than my sins should have let mehave. I’ve done well.’

Katie chose to say nothing. She knew hergrandmother well enough that in this sort of mood,there were no winners. She smiled at her instead.Sat and smiled.

‘Good girl. I’ve taught you well,’ chuckledNora at her granddaughter’s silent protest. ‘So,how’s the burden?’ she gestured at Katie’s tummy.

‘Burdensome,’ she replied.‘And that boyfriend of yours, how’s he shaping

up? Going to last the course?’ As she spoke Noraleaned a little further back into her pillow. Sheraised her glasses up, closing her eyes as she didso. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and hereyelids, careful not to smudge the mascara sheonce wore. She left her glasses resting on herhead, and kept her eyes shut, allowing Katie’svoice to be her solo sensory stream.

‘I don’t know. One minute he’s happy about thebaby, the next he isn’t. I don’t know how I’ll copeif he leaves, but what can I do to stop him?’

‘Don’t even try, dearie – he’s not one of life’swinners, that boy.’

‘Gee thanks Gran, but he’s all I’ve got. It’s not

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as if Mum is going to be any use.’ Katie attemptedto move herself in her chair, desperate for herdistorted shape to fit the space’s unforgivingdimensions. Defeated, she slumped back again,resigned to discomfort.

‘How is that unloving daughter of mine?’ Norasummoned the will to open her eyes a little.

‘Mum? The same. Like lice at a primaryschool: virulent and dreaded by all.’

‘How poetic,’ grinned Nora.‘Oh, I’ve got a million of them. So, she’s not

been round to see you then?’‘Well, she made her pitch for her share of the

will. No need for her to visit her dear old Mammyagain.’

‘Does that not make you angry Gran? Why doyou keep smiling?’

Nora’s face retained the wryly amused stance ithad taken since her daughter had been mentioned.

‘Why darling? Is it not obvious?’‘Not really. Not to me’‘It’s because I deserve it all. I was a loathsome

mother to her, just like she was to you, and mymother was to me. Just because age has mellowedme – well, knocked a few rough edges off me now– doesn’t take away the fact that I neglected her,and emotionally abused her as a child. If she didn’thate me now I’d be very worried about her.’

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Katie looked hard at her grandmother. Like asound track played to the wrong pictures, Nora’sdescription did not match the woman Katie knew.She had never been a woman of soft landings andcomforting murmurs, but her intelligence andconsistency had been the shelter of Katie’semotionally perforated childhood. To portrayherself now as guilty as her daughter, a co-conspirator of neglect, was as unsettling as it wasunbelievable.

‘What? You expect me to believe that?’‘Oh honey. It’s the truth. She hates me because

she should hate me. And maybe as my mother laydying, she too understood and forgave my absencefrom her bedside.’

Katie felt wounded. ‘So, what is this? We’re some sort of family of

genetically messed up mothers? Am I going to ruinmy child’s life as well?’

Nora ignored the question. Uncomfortably sherolled slowly onto her side, so that she was lookingat her bedside locker. She pointed to its door.

‘Open that, take out the small brown box youfind inside.’

Frustrated, but well conditioned by hergrandmother’s ways, she did as she was toldwithout expecting her unanswered questions to beanswered any time soon.

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‘That’s for you. It was for when my bodyfinally did with its torturing of me. But I want youto have it now.’

Katie undid the clasp, and opened the lid of thebox. Inside was a pendant, an amber teardrop, ona gold chain.

‘It belonged to my own mother, my father gaveit to her. That amber is twenty-four million yearsold. I offered it to your mother when she turnedtwenty-one but she didn’t want it. She hated itsflaw, thought it was ugly.’

‘Flaw?’ asked Katie, incredulous that thisancient arboreal gold could have inspired anythingbut awe in its beholder.

‘Hold it up to the light. You’ll see.’Gently taking it from its case, Katie dangled the

gem in the light of the table lamp. It took the stonea minute or two to stop spinning, all the whileKatie and Nora stared, like hypnotist’s victims,transfixed by it. As it settled Katie saw what hergrandmother had referred to. A moth, distortedlimbs and collapsed wings, was caught, right inthe centre of the glowing transparent amber.

‘Entombed forever. Such a beautiful piecetainted. I’ve often thought it was a sick joke of myfather’s, presenting my mother with this. It’s moreof a scientific curiosity than a token of affection.And unsurprisingly she never wore it much, but I

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took a shine to it. I never actually liked it but itannoyed her to see me wear it. Most of what I didwas to spite her.’

Katie took the warm stone in her hand and feltits smooth shape mould her palm. Then, she bowedher head and placed it around her neck. The chainwas long, and the teardrop nestled on her pregnanttummy.

‘Don’t be insulted Katie that I’ve given yousuch an undesired family heirloom. I just knowthat your mother would just get rid of it after I die,and even though its an ugly piece, I thought itdidn’t deserve that, and that maybe, you could loveit. You could break the run.’

Katie eased herself out of her chair and movedstiffly to look at herself in the long mirror that leantpropped against the far wall. Now standing, theamber no longer rested on her belly, but gentlyswayed just above it. She looked at her reflection.

‘I think it’s beautiful.’ Her fingers rubbed it likea genie’s lamp, and she smiled, happy with whatshe saw.

She looked at her grandmother’s face in themirror. Nora was smiling at her, a smile not taintedwith a vicious bite or sarcastic word. Katie turnedimmediately and went to Nora’s bedside. She tookher hands, wasted, used up hands. Gently, she heldthem, careful just to touch her grandmother and

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not to add to her pain.‘It’s you, my dear, that’s beautiful. You can

make even a nasty thing like that,’ she looked atthe pendant, ‘look stunning.’

A cough then took hold of Nora. She graspedKatie’s hands as her body used what pitiful energyit had to writhe and convulse. Finally expelled,Nora lay limp and defeated. She closed her eyes,and her breathing was audible in its efforts.

Katie felt a tear well, but knew better than todare offer words of sympathy or comfort. She onceagain got water for her grandmother, though thistime she helped hold the cup to her lips. Nora madeno effort to open her eyes and engage once more.Her breathing became more regular, and Katiehoped that sleep might insist she rest and take herinto its comforting arms. Katie smoothed theblankets around her grandmother, and found anextra one, which she placed over the end of thebed.

She was sure Nora was asleep, but she stoppedwhen she heard her whisper.

‘Katie,’ she said, barely audible. Katie cameround the bed and knelt on the floor, her faceinches from Nora’s.

‘Shush now, Gran. Time to get some sleep. I’llwait here and make sure you’re okay, but rest,please rest.’

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‘You won’t...’ began Nora, still a sleepywhisper.

‘I will wait,’ said Katie softly.‘No, listen to me,’ said Nora, eyes still closed,

and sleep impatiently tugging at her consciousself. ‘You won’t be like your mother. Or me.You’ll be a good mother to that baby. You canmake an ugly thing beautiful.’ And with that shestruggled no longer with sleep and let herself beled away to its rewards.

Katie smiled, and still kneeling, reached up andswitched off the table lamp. Using the nearbychair, and bedside locker for help, she raisedherself off the ground. Keeping her word shedidn’t leave, and wandered over to the window tobegin her watch. She considered briefly closingthe thin curtain that hung there, but realised thatthere was no need as it seemed to make nodifference to Nora’s sleep. Instead she stood thereand looked out at its small snap shot of the outsideworld. A couple of horse-chestnut trees carelesslymaintaining loose grips on their last few leaves.Cars sped by and people hurried on foot. The vastice blue of the late Autumn sky was deceptive inits clear vibrancy. Unconsciously Katie rubbed hertummy as she looked out. As she did so a straywisp of sunlight found its way to Nora’s room andstole in through the uninviting window. It passed

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through the amber pendant that Katie was stillwearing, making it glow, before it retreated to thelarger world outside.

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God (and everyone else) Calling?Patricia O’Shea

I cringed inwardly. Not again! I rooted around inthe bottom of my bag for the phone that alwaysseemed to ring at the wrong moment and alwaysvery loudly – even when it was supposed to be onsilent. As I found it and shut it off, I smiledapologetically at the assistant who was attemptingto conclude the transaction with me. At least I nolonger felt compelled to answer and try to explainwhere I was or what I was doing that I couldn’ttake the call.

I recalled the time shortly after I got the phonewhen I was at, of all things, the official opening ofa new school. A long awaited, much publicisedand well-attended event. A mobile phone began toring. Needless to say, it was in the moment ofabsolute silence just after the main speaker wasintroduced. I looked around with everyone else, inshared, righteous indignation, to find the guiltyowner. This turned to mortified horror with agrowing realisation. For the first time, but by nomeans the last, I rooted in my bag and found it justas it stopped ringing. My relief was short-lived.About to turn it off, it began to ring again. To mymounting horror I was unable to figure out how tostop it nor how to turn it off. Time, and everything

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else, stopped as I made my way, cheeks flamingguiltily, under the cold accusing gaze of thevisiting dignatories, school board, parish priestand all my neighbours, out of the front row ofseats and out of the building. My next, equallypublic, disaster occurred a short while later. I wasat the opening of an exhibition. A smaller, butmore select audience. The famous writer, who wasdoing the honours, was speaking entertaininglyand at length. A phone rang, putting him off hisstride. Red-faced, this time unable to move, Ieventually found and switched the traitorous thingoff. Phones always seem louder and moreintrusive when it’s your one.

That night I sat down and learnt how to workthe phone properly. All went well for a while.Until one night I was at a play in town. A phonebegan to ring. I looked around, secure (I thought)in the knowledge that I had left mine in the car. Ihad learnt my lesson well. It was very close. Infact it seemed to be just behind me. By this timethe principal actor was quite upset. It stopped!And just as the actor began again, so did thephone. Meantime as my searching hand failed tofind my bag at my feet, my sense of impendinghorror grew. The actor stopped and, loudly andquite rudely, shouted for the phone to be silencedor he would leave. I found it before he left but it

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was just as well the play was not being reviewedthat night!

I began to notice that people seemed to fall intotwo categories. Those who were embarrassed bymobile phones and those who seemed oblivious ofany intrusion. At a funeral, recently, a well knownclassical air began to play. I was thinking it was astrangely light-hearted choice for the occasion,when it began to repeat and the penny dropped.The owner, a well dressed man in his forties,spoke firmly in carrying tones. ‘I’m at a funeral,I’ll ring you back’ and put the phone away. A shortwhile later it began again and the same thinghappened. This time, however, the man beside himleaned over and whispered something. The firstman reluctantly turned the phone off beforereturning it to his pocket. Outside, afterwards, thefirst thing he did was switch his phone on andfrom then on, anytime I saw him, he seemed to beon it.

When the music being played at a concertdeveloped a slightly offbeat echo, this rather eeriecoincidence turned out to be – yes, you’ve guessedit, a mobile phone ringing its version of the sameair. Studying in the local library, the silence wasshattered by the jangle of a mobile phone. Theman answered it and turning his back, went behindone of the bookshelves. He then proceeded to have

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a very loud and very personal conversation. Hecontinued apparently completely unaware of hisembarrassed, albeit unseen, audience. A staffmember finally found him and ended the ordeal, togeneral relief. He was quite miffed. Another day,this time in a hospital, despite being surroundedby big red notices requesting that all mobilephones be switched off, three phones began toring, one after the other. Each of the owners turnedand moved a couple of steps away and began totalk as if the person was in the same room. Theother conversations in the room withered away.All three were quite affronted when the matronappeared and, pointing sternly at the notices, stoodwaiting until the phones were switched off.

At a talk recently, where the speaker had juststarted, the doors opened to admit a woman with anumber of bags. As she failed to find a seat at theback the speaker pointed to an empty seat at thefront and waited courteously while she made herway there. When she was ensconced he beganagain. A few minutes later, her phone rang. Againhe waited while she searched through pockets andbags before triumphantly answering it to explainat length why she couldn’t talk. When she finallyswitched it off, she beamed at the still patientlywaiting speaker and began to explain that it wasgreat to have the confidence to deal with these

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things now, as a year ago she would have beenmortified. His, still courteous, silence eventuallystopped her and the talk finally continued.

At a wedding reception, the speeches were,very sensibly, held after everyone had finishedtheir dinner. During the second speech a phonerang two or three times and stopped. Then anotherphone did the same. Then a third. The threecontinued alternating despite everyone searchingfor phones and shaking their heads, with obviousrelief, as they each found their own, silent, phone.As the ringing was definitely located somewherearound the top table, the search intensified. Allpretense at continuing the speeches stopped and‘Hunt the Phones’ took over, with everyonejoining in. When the culprits were uncovered –literally – the entire room gradually erupted intolaughter as the story spread. Three, very young,guests were found sitting under a table, playingphones, blissfully unaware of the rest of the world.

When my daughter was in Australia, she rangme one evening while she was out with friends.Obviously forgetting the time difference, saiddaughter had the brilliant idea of introducing meto all her new friends. Still half asleep (it wastwenty past three in the morning here!) herbemused and increasingly amused mother waspassed, via the mobile phone, from person to

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person. Each in turn introduced themselves andsaid how great it was to meet me and chatted as ifI was really there beside them. One of them evenoffered me a drink, to general hilarity. It was anextraordinary experience. When I eventually metsome of those friends in person, it was more likemeeting them again rather than for the first time.

Phones really have infiltrated everywhere. Afriend once got an urgent call from her son,perched on the side of a French mountain, milesfrom civilisation, asking could she top up his callcredit as he was about to run out and there wasnowhere around for him to do it. Another, verybrief, phone call and within minutes he was backin communication with the whole world. Gettingaway from it all in the technological age!Meanwhile, as my own youngest son approacheshis twenty first birthday and the end of his formaleducation, I am waiting with interest to see will Ifulfill my oft repeated vow: ‘When he’s finished,I’m getting rid of this thing’. This thing being myown much used, very useful and equally annoyingmobile phone.

Finally, at another funeral a phone began toring, loudly, at the top of the church. The priestglared down angrily at the congregation. He waswell known for his intolerance of interruptions ingeneral and mobile phones in particular. The

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phone stopped and began again immediately andinsistently. When this happened for the third timea peculiar look crossed his face and he began thefamiliar rooting through his pockets. In his case,hampered by his vestments. The phone waseventually found and continued ringing, gaily andinsistently, while buttons were pressed. It wasfinally handed to an altar boy who stopped itinstantly. The congregation managed, more orless, to keep a straight face while the red-facedpriest apologised profusely.

I now suspect that God not only has a sense ofhumour but also – a mobile phone!

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MomentsMaurice Flynn

‘Pious Aloysius, did you know that was his realname? I mean everybody called him Tony.’

‘Tony was his father’s name.’ Brendan said inreply to Paddy’s question.

‘His aul’ fella had been working in Englandand he didn’t get back in time for the christening.When he found out what they’d called the baby hewent fucking spare. But you know what Tony’sMa was like; religious in the extreme.’

‘Yeah,’ said Paddy, ‘anytime you met her shewas either coming from or going to the church. Isuppose she got Pious from the Pope. But wheredid she get Aloysius?’

‘St. Aloysius, of course, the patron saint ofpeople with crap names.’

‘Nice one Brendan. But still, when the priestread out his name at the church I thought I was atthe wrong funeral.’

‘You were. You should have been at John’s.What’s the matter with you?’ Brendan turned toJohn.

John had heard them but he hadn’t really beenlistening. He had been looking at and thinkingabout the widow, if widow was the right word. Itwas fifteen years or more since she’d separated

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from Tony. She looked well but Julie always didwith her small, neatly proportioned body. Petite,that was the word to describe her. Yeah, shelooked good; she was holding back at least adecade.

He remembered her standing on the littlebridge in Stephen’s Green, calling him to look atthe swans. She turned to face him as he walkedtowards her. The sun was behind her through thetrees. She seemed to be caught in a halo of light; ithad been a heart-thumping moment, like a scenefrom an old movie. He’d kissed her and she him.Even now he could almost taste the sweetness.

‘John, are you with us?’‘Yes, Brendan, I am. That’s the problem. I’m an

aul’ fella sitting in a pub I’ve been coming to formore years than I should’ve.’

‘It’s your local. What pub did you want to goto?’

‘Shut up Paddy. John, I think you’re losing it.Lately you’ve been acting like a menopausal aul’one.’

‘Maybe you’re having a mid-life crisis.’‘If only I was Paddy. I’d be living to a hundred

and twenty eight. But I’m afraid I, we, are at theburying age.’

‘What the fuck is that?’‘It’s when, Brendan, you start going to more

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and more funerals, including your own. Look,three months ago we were at Wacker Cullen’s andthen, what was it, five weeks ago we are at BillySmith’s. Today, here we are at another one.’

‘Wacker Cullen fell off the roof of his house,’said Brendan. ‘He was trying to reconnect the pipetelevision because he was too fucking mean to payfor it. And Billy was eighty-three. He was dyingfor years.’

‘And Tony,’ said Paddy in a whisper, ‘was anout and out alcho. Sure wasn’t that why his wifethrew him out?’

‘The drink didn’t kill him. He fell down thestairs and broke his neck.’

‘I know Brendan, but he was drunk when ithappened.’

‘I take your point, Paddy.’‘No you won’t, you’ll buy your own.’‘No I won’t, it’s John’s round.’John smiled at them and looked up to catch the

barman’s eye, which he did almost immediately.He held up three fingers and the barman nodded.Yeah, he thought, this place, I’m at the stagewhere I don’t need to talk, sign language will do.

He looked again in the direction of Julie; hecouldn’t quite see her, people sitting at her tablewere blocking his view. He felt disappointed.Jesus. John checked himself. Here I am mooning

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over a woman I’ve only met twelve or so timesover the years. I must be losing it.

But still the memories came. They werewalking down Thomas Street, heading for theTivoli. She was telling him he was lucky to be anonly child. There were seven in her family andhow she couldn’t wait to move out. He told herthen he was going to London. This had surprisedand seemed to upset her. She was quiet for a whileand thenÖ. Shit, he thought, it was a long time agoand these are my memories. What are hers? Wehad only gone out with each other for about twomonths. I remember nearly everything, sheprobably a whole lot less and probably a whole lotdifferent. She’d asked him, ‘Why John? Sureyou’re a qualified electrician; you’d get plenty ofwork here.’ He remembered telling her it wasn’tjust the work. In London he could go to nightclasses and get better qualifications, and hewanted to travel. Travel, he thought, now that hadbeen a joke. He’d gone to Spain once; the rest ofhis travelling had been between London andDublin. By the time he had decided to stay homeshe was married to Tony.

Mostly over the years they had met at weddingsand funerals. There was one wedding in particular.Julie was still with Tony at the time. He was at thebar with some of the lads. Tony was with them,

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telling a story about the one he’d had on the sidethat week. That was Tony – flash bastard, and notmuch flash either. He remembered Tony making aderogatory remark about Julie. He’d felt likesmacking him one. ‘Who am I kidding? I neverdid anything on impulse in my life.’ This, thoughhe hadn’t meant to, was said aloud.

‘What...what are you on about?’‘Steady, being steady, that’s what I’m on about

Paddy. I was just thinking, I never did animpulsive thing in my life.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Brendan.‘I mean... look, my Da used to always say, no

matter what I was doing, take it steady son, andthat’s what I’ve done all my bleedin life. I checkedup steady in the dictionary the other day. ìNotfaltering or wavering, controlled, sensible andreliable.î That’s me to a tee. Isn’t it an awfuldescription, sensible and reliable?’

‘No it isn’t, it’s...’The drinks arriving interrupted Brendan. John

paid for them and started to speak.‘Hang on a minute John, I think you’d want to

start counting your blessings.’‘I know the good things I have Brendan. Lately,

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.’‘Always a bad sign, that.’‘Shut up Paddy. Go on John.’

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‘I got myself the good job with a pension. ButI planned on starting my own business. I justwouldn’t take the risk. When I bought my house,the plan was that in a few years I’d sell it and buya bigger one. Never happened. Don’t know why.Got too set in my ways I suppose. When I went toLondon that first time, it wasn’t to work orwhatever; it was because I wasn’t going to getmarried and wind up with the life my Da and allthe other aul’ fellas around had. What happened?Except for the married bit, I’m exactly the same.’

‘No you’re not. I mean our aul’ fellas were aul’fellas. Anyway, sixty four isn’t considered oldthese days.’

‘Well it’s not considered young Paddy and ourfathers probably said the same about theirs. In anycase I don’t care about being sixty four. I mean,we all get old, lose a bit of hair and –‘

‘Or in Paddy’s case a lot.’‘Don’t start with the bald jokes, Brendan, or I’ll

start with the fat ones.’‘Ooo, sensitive, aren’t we? Sorry John, you

were saying.’‘Ah, I don’t know. Forget it.’‘Go on. We want to hear it. Don’t we Paddy?’‘Yeah, just one thing. You sound like you’re

regretting you never married. If you were meyou’d be regretting you did.’

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‘You don’t regret getting married Paddy, or youeither Brendan, for all your guff about it. You twospent years boring the arse off me about your kidsand now it’s your grandchildren.’

‘At least we’re not boring the arse off youabout our mid-life crisis.’

‘TouchÈ, Brendan.’‘I was only joking, John.’‘I know, Brendan. I amn’t that bad yet.’‘Here,’ said Paddy, ‘this thing you were on

about, being reliable. That time I got myself inhock up to my eyeballs you bailed me out. That’sa good thing. I mean, you can always be dependedon.’

‘And me.’‘What? All you did that time, Brendan, was tell

me to ask John for help.’‘I know. And you never thanked me you

ungrateful fuck. Here’s another thing, you talkabout being sensible; we’ve known each other aright long time and I can remember times whenyou went a bit wild.’

‘Brendan’s right John, you had your moments.’‘I don’t remember ever being wild. But you’re

right. I had my moments. Not many and they’re allin the Had file. I’m not having them now. That’sthe thing I think about most. Moments. You knowthose times when you can feel life. The joy of it,

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the feeling that things are good, that you have areason for your being. Even if you don’t knowwhat the reason is. I want to feel like that again.Jesus I want to feel anything but the sheer poxylethargy I’ve been feeling lately. When I lookback, my life wasn’t bad; it was worse than that, itwas mediocre, and what’s even worse is – Iplanned it. I was always planning ahead. Thesecond pension, the best, safe, low-risk savingsschemes. What I’d do when I retired. Shite, I’mretired now and all I’ve done is swap the rut of apoxy job for the rut of no poxy job. Memories,here’s the thing about them. At my age, they’resupposed to be the icing not the whole, fullfucking cake. And, if you’re using them to fillyour day, then it’s a bad day no matter how goodthe memories. There is nothing wrong with beingold; it’s only wrong when you stop being, whenyou stop feeling life. God, but I’ve let my life getstale.’

John stopped. Paddy and Brendan said nothing.They’d both noticed John’s eyes mist over as hewas speaking. John stood up from the table.

‘I’ll be back in a minute.’As he walked away he wiped his eyes and

thought, Christ I’m an embarrassment. I’m turninginto a right fucking eejit.

‘Hello, John. How are you?’

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He’d almost walked straight into her.‘Julie, how are... I’m fine. How are things

going with yourself? God that’s a silly question toask you on a day like this.’

‘John, you and everybody else knows Tony andme were finished for years. Sure I’m only here forthe kids’ sake. As bad as he was he was still theirfather.’

‘Yeah Julie, I was going to ask you...’ John’svoice trailed off.

‘What John. What were you going to ask me?’‘Em, nothing really. I was just thinking – ‘Ma, sorry for interrupting you but we’re ready

to go when you are.’‘All right, Mary I’ll be with you in a minute.

Oh sorry, John this is my daughter Mary.’ Andturning to Mary, Julie said, ‘John’s an old friend ofmine.’

John said hello. Mary nodded and remainedstanding there.

‘Go on with you Mary, I’ll be over in a minute.’‘It’s okay Julie I have to be going myself. I’ll

see you around sometime.’‘Alright John, it was nice seeing you again.’He thought she sounded disappointed but he

said nothing. Julie said goodbye and as she turnedaway the words blurted out of him so fast he

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almost shouted them. ‘Julie would you like to goout some time?’

Julie looked at him. Julie’s daughter looked athim. Some people nearby looked at him. He couldfeel the embarrassment flood over him but hecould feel something else as well. He could feelhis heart thumping.

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Long live the lost thingsColm Keegan

Deep down in my dreamsWhere memories playA strange crowd singsOf lost things.In chorus their voicesLament failed choices.

Somewhere near the centreThe poet stands raginganger never aging,Words spun round his headLike a crown of thornsAround him old people gather,Young faces wrapped in wrinklesMy memories wrapped in sleepCelebrating a release from isolation.

Outside in the wildernessLies a trail into the past,Into some forgotten estate.

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The sagely poet points and warns‘Out there you’ll find madness’Cradling conkers like eggsHe says ‘never go back’The sentence slithers through my mindLike snakes down a spiral staircaseI argue after it

‘Long live the lost things’ I shout‘The smashed soulsThe dark thingsFrom the deepest placesThe light shines clearAnd everybody knows where they’re going,’Skipping through the frozen grassNaked, but for my lunatic’s coat My last words like dead birdsHang from me,As I Chase Hope and faithBack to the past.‘Look!’ I sing ‘They dance before my brightfrantic eyesLike feathers on the breeze!’

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The Wind Elizabeth Reid

Narrow, bustling streetsAir still, expectant,No rain for weeks, whenWill it break?

Ice cream melting, straightOut of the fridge.Air heavy, waiting,Sky monotone, blank canvas

At last a puff.Heads up, thankful for reliefHearts lighter, minds coolerAnxiety lifted.

The puff grows stronger, a breeze cooling cheeks.Still no concern.But leaves are still, grasses wave.

A mother holds on to her child,Her steps quickening, chivvied alongBy a relentless, unseen presence.

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People worried now.Looking to the sky for answers,Nothing comes, but the wind,Stronger, yet stronger, rattling shop fronts.People run for shelter, roofs giveUp their slates. Shop fronts crash!

Wind’s keening song hides frightenedCries for helpPeople huddle together.A child presses to her mother’s bosom

Quiet. Silence. PeopleCrawl out of ruined buildingsFaces drained, shocked, beatenThe wind goes by,Uncaring.

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A New BeginningJoan Byrne

She stands on the threshold of his bedroomobserving the detritus of his life. The bed with itsvacant mattress is pulled out from the wall,revealing ruffles of dust and an old once whitesock. Blue tack litters the walls, reminders ofposters and flags from his travels. A half filleddirty glass of water sits on the windowsill, leftthere, after a night out with the lads.

She had great plans for this room. Herbookcase would go against that wall and hersewing machine in that corner. All her memories,from christening robes to photographs of birthdayparties, could be stored neatly there. Her ownbedroom would then be a quiet sanctuary; she haddreamed of that for years. This could also be aguest room for visitors, who were bound to come,her sister from England or her brother fromCanada.

He had finally found his way. No longer amodern statistic, an adult son living with hismother. She hoped the girl would suffer hisuntidiness and his belligerent impatience. And hiselectric guitar playing, which would tremble theglasses in the kitchen, when he wanted to play itloud. She hoped he would be happy, she really did.

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Determined to make a start she drags thevacuum cleaner up the stairs. Shuffling it aroundthe floor she has to stop as there is somethingrattling in the hose. Taking it apart she discovers aplectrum. She holds it between her fingers, sits onthe bed and is overcome with unexpected despair.

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Phoenix RisenPatricia O’Shea

I came across them while I was looking forsomething else. Searching through a box of oldbooks, I had pulled them out of their half-buried,half-forgotten ‘temporary’ resting place. I’d pulledthem out and was putting them aside when thetitles registered – The Sun is My Undoing, Twilighton the Floods and Phoenix Rising. The FloodTrilogy! By Marguerite Steen.

Suddenly, I had a flashback to the kitchen Igrew up in. My mother arriving home,triumphantly waving a book. A look of delightedsatisfaction spilling out of her eyes. The wordstumbled out:

‘I’ve got it! I’ve found the third one. Nowthere’s only one to go. When I find Twilight, I’llhave the set.’

My mother loved books. Books on crafts likeknitting and sewing, crochet and leatherwork,G.A.A., taking photos, gardening – the list wenton! And that didn’t include the novels! She usuallyhad a few books on the go at a time, a habit shepassed on to me. She fitted them in around thedemands of rearing six kids and running a house,practising said crafts and attending her belovedG.A.A. (matches or meetings) whenever she had

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the opportunity. She’d read when we were gone tobed. She’d read with her cup of tea after lunch,after we’d gone back to school. Sometimes we’dburst in to find her still reading. The kitchen wasnever bright enough because there was a return onthe back of the houses, so the light waspermanently switched on. Her favourite place wasat the kitchen table, in front of the window. Thebook was, at first, propped up on a few others.Later she used a wooden book rest. Ever practical,she doubled the lip to hold one of her biggervolumes. On the wall beside the window,overhead, she had a shelf which held her currentcollection. Whichever novel she was readingwould be next to a G.A.A. book, an anthology ofpoetry and/or a collection of songs. Some aspectof history, particularly Irish history, and often abiography would be awaiting her attention besidethe next volume of some series. Stephen Hawkinshung around for years in a fascinated struggle forcomprehension. But there was more to books thanjust reading.

For as long as I could remember, my motherhad a book treasure hunt on the go. The listchanged as she found one and crossed it off, ormore frequently, grew as she added yet anotherone that caught her attention and interest. Usually,but not always, part of a series. I remembercoming home with one of the ‘Jalna’ books from

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the library. When Mam saw it, she went upstairsand came back with the first in the series andhanded it to me saying

‘The first book often contains backgroundinformation that you don’t get in the rest, so if youcan, read it first. After that, it doesn’t matter somuch. It’s more satisfying to read the series inorder but not usually necessary. There’s more ofthese upstairs.’

Already an avid reader, that marked myintroduction to the joys of pursuing a series. I’dwait impatiently to see who’d have the next onefirst – the library, or Mam in her sporadic forays tosecond-hand bookshops or sales of work. Bread,cakes, occasionally plants, but mainly books werewhat arrived home from whichever school or localsale of work she was helping to organise.Organising provided a preview and facilitated theputting aside of a particular prize before opening tothe public. One of the perks!

She always had a list of books she was watchingout for. After I started working I once made themistake of buying her one from the list, new, forMother’s Day or her birthday, I forget whichoccasion. Never again! The delighted interest thatusually greeted a book was decidedly subdued, andI learnt that reading the books was the last and notalways the best part of the enjoyment. The

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searching. The waiting. The finding of other,unsought and unexpected, treasures on the way.And finally the finding it and the taking it home,triumphantly, to read. The hunt was every bit asimportant as reading the book.

The feel of the plastic that she covered all herbooks in brought me back to the Flood Trilogy.Sitting there I looked at its torn dustcover, like ajigsaw with pieces missing, held in place by theplastic. The hunt for that second volume, Twilighton the Floods, was to continue much longer thancould have been foreseen that far off day in thekitchen. Out of print for a long time, the search wasto span over thirty years. As she got older herforays became less frequent, especially after shehad to give up her beloved bike. But one day, as weboth moseyed around her local bookshop, shefound it. Her face, lit up with a mixture of delightand disbelief, lost the thirty years and, just for amoment, I was no longer the mother of teenagersbut a teenager myself again.

She re-read The Sun is my Undoing, readTwilight on the Floods and, finally and at last, thelong held and long unread Phoenix Rising. Not toolong after she had finished reading it she died,peacefully and at peace, leaving me with warmmemories, her book rest and my own equallywide-ranging and ever-changing book list.

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ThemEileen Casey

He has no mention how the Africans-especially the women -walk with a sway to the hip by Jesusthat would knock the eye out of your head,shame the best jivers in the place;

or how the multicoloured rig-outs they wearlight up jaded streets and thoughdouble Dutch and rameis at the best of times,the sounds they make have a rhythm to itthat would do the heart goodand when all’s said and done, wasn’t it gas,all the same,how a man from as far beyond, it might beTimbuktu,could have a mind for ceili music?

Nothing of the journey that brought them,how it might have started like many anotherbefore-and not too far from him either -with the prick of a knife against a throator a belly swollen up from hunger.

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Nothing, after spitting on the pavement,except that a body couldn’t get up or down thestreetswithout being blinded by the sight of them.‘It’s like the Congo now’ he says,‘this poxy town’.

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The TrunkDympna Murray-Fennell

The middle room was a good place for the girls toescape to when there were lots of jobs to be done.It had their parent’s big brass bed with a hugepatchwork quilt, where with a bit of imagination,you could rig up a passable tent.

There was a heavy wardrobe which Mammysaid was a converted settle-bed; whatever its pastlife, it was a great place for hide-and-seek. Highon top of it, was the double-barrelled shotgun thatDaddy took down occasionally, to shoot ducks orrabbits. Beside it was a rusting toy gun that no oneever spoke of – the girls had vague memories ofthe small brother who died years ago. Mammyalways cried when she heard the song “Little BoyBlue” on the radio.

The Virgin Mary in the heavy gilt frame had asad face too, even though she had a chubby InfantBoy in her arms, and a couple of angelic cherubsguarding them. The Infant had a rathersupercilious look on his face – he must not haveknown what was going to happen to himeventually. That was graphically depicted in thecrucifix on the opposite wall.

Not that the girls were concerned about suchtheological niceties – there was a much more

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interesting object in the far corner of the room,Mammy’s trunk. This was the nearest thing intheir experience to Pandora’s box or Aladdin’scave. All those years ago, before any of them wereborn, it had come to the house with Mammy. Itwas already a much-travelled trunk, having comeoriginally from Argentina where Mammy’s oldersister lived. Judging by her letters she led a veryexciting life, though Mammy always referred toher as ‘poor Bridie’ – something about her hopesof re-settling in Ireland not working out. Therewere still labels on the side of the trunk, faded andpeeling, but you could just make out the name ofthe liner that had carried it across the ocean … s.s.Mauritania

It was hard to open the clasps on the trunk, butit was worth persevering with. Such treasureswere in there – wrapped in tissue paper, smellingof a mixture of lavender and camphor. Maura’sfavourite were the soft fox-skins with danglingpaws. She loved draping them over her shouldersand snapping the clasps in the fox’s mouth on tothe bushy tail. One fur was the deep auburn of afully-grown fox, the other the honey-colour of acub – this one had been part of Mammy’shoneymoon suit.

In the hatbox there was a jaunty red hat with acurling feather; with the fur stole it made a very

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glamorous outfit – Maura loved to parade in itbefore the flaking mirror on the creaky olddressing table. Then there were a couple of pairsof long sleeved gloves, and flimsy blouses withrows of tiny buttons, but you would need lots oftime to dress up in those.

Not that Mammy ever considered wearing anyof these lovely things any more, except for thecolourful silk scarves that she sometimes pulledout of the trunk to dress up the “serviceable” coatsthat she wore nowadays.

Another fascination were the little velvet-linedjewellery boxes; one had Mammy’s five-stoneengagement ring, (a couple of the stones weremissing), another had a little gold brooch with aspider’s web and fly, which Daddy had given heras a wedding present – though the girls could notimagine their parents having any romantic history.There was a string of pearls with a broken clasp, aheavy silver fob-watch permanently showing sixo’clock, a vividly coloured fan from SouthAmerica – all the memory-laden bric-a-brac of avariety of lives.

Sometimes when the girls were exploring thecontents of the trunk, Mammy would discoverthem. If she were initially cross with them forshirking the jobs to be done, usually she could bemollified by getting her reminiscing about the

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past. Old photographs would be pored over,serious-looking wedding pairs facing the camera –and the future – with a look of grim determination,family groups posing self-consciously for aspecial occasion, wide smiles squinting into thesun on summer outings.

But the past would soon have to give way to thepressures of the present. There were endless farmchores to be done, cows to be milked, calves to befed, missing animals to be tracked down.

So the trunk full of memories and secretswould be closed; the old room which had seenconceptions, births and deaths over thegenerations, would return to its brooding and themoths and mice could re-appear.

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Jump into the UnknownJoe Mc Kiernan

Airlie Beach, Queensland, 1997

The “OZ Experience” bus reached the outskirts ofAirlie Beach. It was there I saw the sign. If only Ihad been looking the other way, or been having anap or been chatting to someone. But no, I waslooking out the window and I saw the sign:“Highest bungee jump in Australia”.

Damn! Now that I knew of its existence Iwould have to do it. It would not be my first jump– I had done the one from the bridge over theKawarau River in Queenstown, New Zealand, ashad Teresa. So why did I feel unable to ignore it?Simple – this was the highest one in Australia –there was no way I could leave behind the biggestadrenalin prize in the country. In my mind itwould have been the equivalent of going to thetown of Niagara Falls and neglecting to have alook at the local waterfall.

We arrived into the town and I booked into ahostel (or “backpackers” in the vernacular). Afterclaiming a bed by dumping my stuff on it, I wentdown to the office and asked about the jump. Nowyou might think that the world of budget travellingis not synonymous with efficiency or customer

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service. Wrong! A phone call was made and anhour later a minibus arrived to collect me. TheAussie backpacker circuit was a finely tuned andwell-oiled machine, which ensured that anybackpacker who required a product or servicereceived it. The oil in the machine wascommission.

The minibus brought both prospectivejumpers and observers to the jump site. Amongtheir number was a girl and a guy from NorthernIreland. She planned to do the jump while he wasthere as photographer, observer and moralsupport. The girl had short spiky hair that wassnow white due to the merciless application ofbleach while the guy sported a metal rod that hadbeen inserted through the skin of his temple.

The jump site was not quite what I expected.The setting at Queenstown had been a raging riveroverarched by a bridge – weren’t all jumps thesame? Well, no is the answer – the highest bungeejump in Australia consisted of a crane, from whichdangled a metal cage over a small inflatableswimming pool.

I went through the standard bungee jumpprotocol, which consists of signing a disclaimer (ifanything happens it’s your problem mate), payingover a significant wad of money and stepping on aweighing scale. This bit is damned important, as

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the bungee cord must be adjusted to compensatefor each person’s weight. Otherwise you may falltoo far, putting a distinct crimp in your day.

Which reminds me of Garreth, a mad Kiwiguy I had met a few years earlier while travellingin the U.S. (to describe a Kiwi as mad is a bit of atautology really). He told of the time he did a jumpin Auckland. Due to a miscalculation on hisweight he had fallen further than intended; until hehit the concrete ground that is, breaking his wrist.I asked him what he had done: had he sued themfor criminal negligence, had he put them out ofbusiness? ‘Nah mate,’ he told me. ‘They gave meanother jump.’

After the preliminaries were dispensed with,I went into a dressing room and five minutes lateremerged, wearing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.Let the games begin.

I was led to the cage where I was trussed upturkey-style. Padding was placed round my anklesbefore they were bound together with some plasticwebbing (the material used in seat belts). To thiswas attached the end of the bungee cord. Whilethis was all being done the people doing thetrussing made reassuring sounds regarding thebreaking strain and other technical things, thatwent in one ear and out the other. All too soon itwas time to go.

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At the risk of stating the obvious, yourmobility is distinctly restricted when your anklesare bound together. As a result the only way Icould enter the cage was to hop in. Thejumpmaster, an Aussie guy, shut the gate andwithin seconds we were ascending. I had crossedthe Rubicon.

We chatted amicably over the ominouswhirring of the winch. I suppose he was justwaffling to another punter with the intention ofminimizing my nervousness – thus reducing thepossibility of a refusal, which no one wants. In mycase I was just responding as expected but theprimary focus of my mind was the up-comingevent and no amount of chitchat was going tochange that.

The mechanical whirring stopped with a joltand all was silence. The jumpmaster then gave memy last minute instructions. He wanted me tojump outwards, not just to fall off the edge. Hecould have described what he wanted using purelyverbal means but that would not have been in anyway surreal or bizarre. So instead he chose toshow me the desired technique by use of a smallplastic frog, which was in jumping pose with apiece of string tied round its ankles. With that heopened the gate, and helped me to hop over to theedge. At a height of sixty metres the only soundwas that of a gentle breeze.

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There are a few pieces of advice I wouldoffer to anyone doing a jump and the primary oneis not to look down. Unfortunately there was noone there to give me this advice and so I decidedto survey the scene below me. Allow me todescribe it. There was an area covered in grasswith a couple of buildings which, in size terms,looked like those little plastic houses from amonopoly set. A miniscule white object was, Irealized, the van in which I arrived. But the piecede resistance was the swimming pool. Imagineyou place a blue postage stamp on a floor coveredin green carpet, stand up to your full height andlook at it. That was the target into which I wouldsupposedly be dunked. I seriously questionedwhat reason there was to believe that we werepositioned over it.

The next piece of advice I would offer to anyprospective jumper is not to hesitate. If you go tojump and then you baulk then all is lost – itbecomes all the more difficult to do on the secondattempt. The jumpmaster offered to give me acountdown from five to one followed by theubiquitous ‘Bungee!’ but I declined his offersaying I’d prefer to do the countdown myself.That’s exactly what I did. I bellowed out eachnumber as loudly as I could and by the time I gotto ‘one’ I was so pumped up that I jumped offwithout thinking.

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While you live with gravity all your life, it’sonly in this sort of situation that you reallyappreciate its power. While I did my bestimpression of the plastic frog, jumping outwards,I found myself immediately heading in adownward direction. The ground below loomedinto sight with unbelievable speed. For a couple ofseconds the sensation was of uncontrollableacceleration. The sound and the feeling against myface were those of a strong gale. Before I had timeto think I was face to face with the stark bluenessof the swimming pool. The cord had kicked in,initially slowing and then stopping me.

I was whipped upwards and as I reached theapex I could see the clear turquoise Queenslandsky. Almost immediately I was descending again.A few more bounces and the motion stopped.Although I had asked to be dunked, in the event Inever actually touched the water, getting no closerthan a metre or two from the surface.

People who haven’t done a jump think thatthe actual fall through the air must be scary but infact it’s not. The scary bit is the lead-up, themulling it over, the preparing to jump. The fallitself is exhilarating, a rush. Hanging upside downI was close enough to the ground to hear somespectators cheering. After a minute or two I waslowered gently to the ground where I was untied.

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When I stood up it felt like the area was beingassailed by an earthquake but this was all internalto me – the combination of adrenalin anddizziness.

Many people think that bungee jumps are apointless waste of time and money and I canunderstand their argument. What’s the point ofjumping off a height with an elastic band tiedaround your ankles? Having said that, the feelingI had was one of hard-to-describe euphoria – thefeeling I imagine you experience after a closescrape with death.

There is one final piece of advice I wouldoffer to any potential bungee jumper – make sureto take everything out of your pockets beforehand.Unfortunately I had left the key to my room in thepocket of my shorts. It was now sitting at thebottom of the pool, probably with dozens of otherkeys and coins. This oversight cost me five bucksand a scowl from the girl at the office.

Now I don’t agree with those who considerbungee jumps to be dangerous. However I wouldalso take issue with those who would say they areperfectly safe. As the evening arrived I becameaware of a slight twinge in my back, duepresumably to a twisting motion somewhereduring the jump. In the event it was gone a day ortwo later.

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Notwithstanding this I was on a high and feltcompelled to ring someone and tell them of mydaredevil exploit. I considered the options: mysister, one of my brothers, one of my mates.Certainly this was not one for my mother whowould simply rack it up as further evidence that Ihad lost my marbles. None of my potentialcommunicants had done a jump themselves and Ifelt I needed someone who would empathise, whowould actually feel the story. Slowly it dawned onme: Teresa.

But was the time right to ring her? It had beena week since I had last spoken to her, two weekssince we had separated in Bali. Our last call hadbeen very awkward – she had been very upset. Onthe other hand we had agreed we should keep incontact. We had shared a lifetime’s experiences injust a year, or so it seemed, and despite our parting,I still considered her to be my closest friend wherecertain matters were concerned. In the end, unsureif it was a good idea, I called her.The conversation was strained. Yes, she saidencouraging things as I rabbitted on about the jumpbut her underlying tone was undisguised gloom.Our break-up had hit her hard and she told me asmuch. I put down the receiver very much sobered.My feet were well and truly back on the ground.

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Mannin WomanJoan O’Flynn

When Sheila left the house that morning she hadno intention of being out of doors for very long.She was delighted to waken so early while thehouse was still silent and when she slipped frombeneath the bed covers and pulled on her jeans andbright blue top, she had no thought other than tosteal a half hour of peace before the daily bedlamerupted around her. No fear of waking Jim. Thesecond bottle of claret he’d opened last night hadleft him snoring vigorously until she nudged himover on to his side. He would sleep for some timeyet. She crept past the open door of the bigbedroom where three tousled-headed faces made apeaceful picture that would be shattered once theboys opened their bright eyes and faced anotherday. One glance at last night’s debris in the kitchenwas enough to make her swiftly tie a chiffon scarfaround her long auburn hair, reach for an appleand open the back door.

It was early. The sun had just climbed over theTwelve Bens, brushing their misty peaks withlemon glaze. Birds were rustling and chirruping,hidden in the reeds on the edge of the fresh-waterlake. A diver bird was motionless, like anEthiopian statue carved from ebony, on a white

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rock, way out in Mannin Bay. The pebbles on thedrive crunched noisily underfoot but soon she wason the sandy path that led down the hillside pastNora’s empty house and heading for the coralbeach. Climbing over the rusty barbed wire, sheabandoned her sandals beside a mound of stones.The glow of the fossilised remains surrounded herand filled her with wonder at their beauty, as herfeet sank into the coarse, receptive warmth.Already she could hear activity from the fish farmaround the headland. She was unwilling to let herblessed isolation be invaded, or to view the uglyfeeding containers. Salmon that should beweaving and diving majestically through thewaters of the Atlantic were caged instead, writhingand twitching from the fleas that formed beneaththeir silver scales. Turning in the oppositedirection she started to walk along the shore. Thesea sparkled in the sunlight as the tide began tofill. The winking reflections formed a flickeringmosaic as Sheila meandered along the curvingcoastline. Coral was replaced by dry seaweed andthen by hard golden sand.

She must have walked a mile or more. Thesilence was almost tangible as she sat down on anupturned boat to savour the scene. She could seethe occasional car passing on the road that twistedits way between the inlet and the lake, the sound

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of their engines swallowed up in the vastness ofthe scene. Even the huge truck that careereddextrously around corners as it headed for the fishfarm made not a sound as it raised a dusty cloud inits wake. The smoke from Fahy’s house on thelakeside went straight up in a thin blue line fromthe broad chimney, without a puff of wind to makeit falter. Alice would have already kneaded thedough for the brown bread that she sold to theshops in the town. Sheila could almost see thecrusty loaves that were puffing up in oblongshapes in the oven and would soon be placedcarefully to cool on the windowsill; she couldalmost smell their nutty flavour. Half way up thehill was a plain white cottage, with scarlet doorand window frames. At the gable end a man sat,brush poised, before an easel bearing a large blankcanvas. Tubes of oils were strewn on the seatbeside him. High in the heavens white wispyclouds hovered against an azure sky.

The birds seemed to have given up on the ideaof rising at all this morning, for not one was to beseen except for the diver who, like a mime artist,had changed position but was once againimmobile, black wings stretched in the growingwarmth of the sun. Sheila pulled at her scarf andreleased the chestnut coloured curls, shaking herhead from side to side in a burnished cascade.

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Shrugging the straps off her shoulders, shestretched her arms wide, mirroring the diver’sstance and like him, she felt the warmth across herback and neck. No tension could remain after sucha glorious spiritual massage. It was as if timestood still, so lost was she in the beauty aroundher.

The sun climbed high in the sky overhead anddrew her back from her reverie. She must getback. The children would have woken up ages agoand God only knew what havoc they would havewreaked on the house. Jim was willing enough,and capable of pouring cereal into a bowl, but hewas not gifted in keeping three lively lads amusedand out of trouble. She smiled as she thought ofhow he, an only boy spoilt by two older sisters,sometimes found it hard to cope with his livelyfamily. It would be easier when they were bigenough to join him fishing at the White Lady orhelping to bring in turf from the bog. Her morninghad been so refreshing that she now felt more thanready to face her all-male family and embracethem, full as she was with the beauty of the day.Sheila never felt the call of Greek Islands, orgolden Spanish beaches. She was quite contentwith her annual holiday in this isolated part ofConnemara where they were seldom disturbed byanything more exciting than a fresh westerly wind,

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or a storm that blew itself out in a day or two.That was in August, the first day of their

summer holiday. Sheila thought back on all theyears they had spent in this spot and all thememories she had stored up. They had beencoming to Connemara for ten years now, eversince Jack was a baby. He had been wheezing andthe doctor said not to worry, that a spell by theseaside should clear matters up. And it had, almostmiraculously. A couple of days sitting on Omeybeach with Atlantic breezes wafting around themand the wheeze had been silenced. Jim and Sheilahad fallen in love with the ever-changing skies andthe peace of this western tip of Galway and hadcome here regularly after that as their family grewin number. Two years later Donal, born in theprevious November, was only creeping by thesummer holidays, and had spent hours sittingamong the rounded grey pebbles on the drive,cascading himself with them as he launchedhandfuls into the air over his head. Sheilaremembered sitting in the big picture window oftheir holiday home with Neil snuggled in her armssucking lustily just six years ago, only one monthold but already sturdily enjoying his accession tothe kingdom he was to hold on to as “HisHighness The Baby”.

This year’s holiday more than lived up to

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expectations. The weather, often fickle in the west,remained remarkably warm and sunny. Therewere only two wet days, one of which they spentin Water World in Galway city, taking theopportunity to do some shopping and visit BurgerKing. The fourteen days flew past and, as theypacked the car on Saturday morning and drovethrough the town and on towards Maam Cross, theTwelve Bens had never looked more beautiful. Foronce Sheila was impervious to the squabblingcoming from the back of the car, almost enjoyingthe pang of sadness she always felt when theholidays were over and they were forced to faceback to Dublin and the bustle of city life.

It was the last week in September when theirlives were shattered. The boys had settled intotheir new classes in school and the excitement ofpleasing their teachers had not yet faded. Jimcomplained of a headache one evening, so Sheilagave him some tablets to relieve the pain, kissedthe top of his head where his hair had started tothin, and went off to bed. Sheila was an early-to-bed person; one has to be when there is morningchaos to be faced. She was in a deep sleep whenshe woke to find him standing beside the bed,hands pressed tightly to his temples as if trying tosqueeze away the pressure within. His face wasashen, eyes glazed with pain. He could only groan

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as she coaxed him to lie down beside her, it wasobvious that this was no ordinary headache. Sheilapunched in the numbers of the emergency servicebefore dragging on jeans and sweater and runningnext door to rouse her neighbour, somebodywould have to mind the children if she had to takeJim to hospital. It seemed an eternity before theblue flashing light cruised down the road and up tothe door. Neither Jack nor Donal woke, but littleNeil was disturbed by the commotion andwandered onto the landing, eyes befuddled withsleep. Seeing strangers everywhere he opened hismouth and wailed for his mother, before crawlingbetween the legs of the paramedics and wedginghimself firmly under the bed.

Stretcher, oxygen, blankets; her husband waswhisked into the ambulance and Sheila followed,no time to comfort her baby. It broke her heart togo, but she had to be with Jim. The next few hourswere hectic. A brain haemorrhage was diagnosedand an emergency operation performed. Sheila satin the corridor, frantic with worry. She phoned hersister and told her where she was and why. Eileenwanted to come to the hospital to keep Sheilacompany, but the pressing need was for someoneto go to the house and care for the children. Sheundertook to pass the dreadful news to Jim’sfamily. Hour after hour dragged by. The nurses

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were very kind and when Jim’s family arrivedthey too were full of concern for her, but Sheilawas cold to the bone, stunned with this suddenpassage of events.

The operation was a success, but the damagehad been done. The patient didn’t recoverconsciousness. Day after day Jim lay in theIntensive Care Unit in a coma. Sheila sat besidehis unresponsive body, the rhythmic suction of theventilator ticking away the minutes. She refused tobelieve that the damage to his brain wasirreversible and she sat beside him for hours, andheld his hand, and talked to him, urging him torespond. After a few days the doctors thought hemight be able to breathe unaided, so they removedthe machine. It was more peaceful then, althoughthe ward he was allocated was small.

As the weeks went by, a new routine becameestablished at home. Her mother, leaving Dad tofend for himself, moved in to mind the childrenand be some company for her. The morning dashto school was followed by a crawl through citytraffic to the hospital. All the time during her dailyvisits she talked to him. She told him how thechildren were, and how much they all loved him.Work had not started on the house extension theyhad planned, but Sheila told him that she wasthinking of making a bedroom there, so that whenhe was better and came home she could chat to

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him in the afternoon while she cooked his dinner.Sometimes the silence from the bed wasoppressive and Sheila stood at the window, thetears that rolled down her face mirrored byOctober rain that flowed down the outside of thewindowpane.

On All Souls Day when she got to the ward thenurse told her that Jim had been very agitatedduring the night. They were monitoring himcarefully, and had changed his medication, but itwasn’t looking good. They feared there was apossibility of another haemorrhage; they wouldcall her if there was any change in his condition.When the children were settled for the night,Sheila placed her mobile phone on the pillowwhere Jim’s lovely gentle face had lain beside herfor twelve short years. She didn’t undress fully,but stretched out on the large double bed staring atthe blank panel on her phone. Every so often shefeared the battery had run down and pressed oneof the buttons to reassure herself. The digital clockdisappeared almost instantly, but not before shesaw that only minutes had elapsed.

The call from the hospital came at 5am. It wasover. The frantic hope she had clung to for fivelong weeks dissolved into cold black despair. Shecould feel her heart break in pieces and her hoarsemoans of agony awoke her mother and the boys.

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Not even the children could help Sheilathrough the months that followed. She was lostwithout Jim. She retreated from a world that nowheld nothing for her. She cried hardly at all, noteven at the graveside, her misery was too deep fortears. Her mother stayed on for the first few weeksand it was almost a relief when she returned to herown place, because then Sheila didn’t have tomake conversation or even eat if she didn’t wantto, and mostly she didn’t. How Santa found thehouse at Christmas was a mystery, but Sheila wentthrough the motions of admiring the presents, laterdutifully joining the rest of the family at Eileen’sfor Christmas dinner. They all tried very hard buttheir conversation failed to rouse any response. Ifthey hadn’t loved her so much they would havebeen rebuffed by her monosyllabic answers andgiven up trying to entertain her, but they acceptedthat she needed more time to come to terms withthe fact that Jim was dead.

The boys squabbled a lot as the new year tookhold, she hadn’t the heart to divert their energy tosomething more productive. Jack’s schoolworkdeteriorated and Donal wet the bed a few times.Only little Neil, ever her baby, demanded his shareof attention. Occasionally she felt some warmthcreep back into her body but she never quitemanaged to catch hold of it.

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When the envelope with a Galway postmarkdropped in the letterbox at Easter, Sheila wasreally not interested. It was confirmation of theirannual booking of the holiday house. She meant toreply, but the letter somehow lost itself in theclutter that reigned these days and it was weekslater that her mother found it when she was tryingto bring some kind of order to the chaos. Shewouldn’t hear of Sheila cancelling the reservation.She insisted that the boys needed a holiday andthat she herself would bring them if Sheilawouldn’t. They agreed to compromise, and that ishow one damp August day they arrived at the laststage of their journey, the long road fromOughterard to Clifden. The blue-grey mountainskept their distance as they headed west and theboys started to point out places they remembered.

Neither Sheila nor her mother spoke, one lost inmemories, the other understanding how difficultthis must be. For some inexplicable reason, Sheilaswung off the main road at Ballinahinch Castleand approached the town by the old ribbon-likeroad through the bog where she and Jim had oftencycled; the younger ones strapped behind andJack’s plump legs going round and round on thepedals of his first bicycle. The sun burst frombehind a cloud as the wilderness unfolded aroundthem in a riot of colour. Brown peaty lakes, the

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stony ground between them dotted with fluffywhite bog cotton and tiny purple and yellowflowers. The scene resembled a carpet woven byangels, a magic carpet that could carry you offeffortlessly, weightlessly, all cares forgotten. Thebeauty overwhelmed her and her eyes filled up asshe pulled the car over onto hard ground. Hermother encouraged the boys out of the car beforethe tears began to fall and drew their attention totwo lambs that were bounding from rock to rockin pursuit of their mother. The children were in nohurry, glad to stretch their legs after the long drive.By the time they clambered back into the carSheila had recovered her composure, and therewas an air of tranquillity about her. As the twoyounger boys continued chattering, Jack placedhis hand on her shoulder with a gentlenessreminiscent of his father.

Before collecting the key to the house, theydecided to lay in some provisions. Parking wasdifficult, but they eventually found a spot andSheila and her mother got out, the three boys intow. The bags of food got heavier as they trudgedtheir way down Market Street back towards thecar. ‘Hey, Mum,’ cried Jack. ‘Look, look.’ Shecalled to him to hurry up but he refused to bedragged away from the window of the Art Gallery.‘Look, I think that’s you!’

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There in pride of place, complete with broadgilt frame, was the most wonderful painting. Thescene was clearly Mannin Bay. The central figure,slight, clad in bright blue jeans, had coppercoloured hair haloing her head, untamed curlstumbling around her bare shoulders. Her armsreached out and upwards to sea and sky, like adiver bird, and from her fingers trailed a longchiffon scarf, like a banner of hope.

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A Place in TimeLouise Phillips

It was three o’clock in the afternoon and Rachelwatched her mother Eileen sleep. Apart from thewrinkles that told of Eileen’s seventy years onearth, she looked more like a baby than an oldwoman, resting, temporarily at peace with theworld. For Rachel, the loss of her mother hadstarted long before that afternoon, although overtime, she had managed to lie quite successfully toherself. She wanted to believe that things wouldwork out, that this woman, whom she had lovedall her life, would soon come back.

Eileen had stopped remembering the simplestof things, the names went first and then familiaritywith places, soon what happened ten minutesbefore just disappeared, one moment it was thereand then it was gone. Everything became a victimto the loss of memory, falling off an imaginarycliff and ending in the gulf of nowhere. Twoweeks earlier Rachel found her mother lyingunconscious on the floor. A fractured arm was theresult of the fall. Eileen had mislaid her keys andher attempt at acrobatics using a kitchen chair tofind them proved a futile one. Today her motherhad taken a carving knife to the plaster cast thatwas in place to repair her fractured arm. Eileen did

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not remember the fall, she did not rememberfracturing her arm, she simply had an itch and itrequired scratching. Why that moment wasdifferent to all the others Rachel did not know butas she sat at the kitchen table alone, her onlycompany a large kitchen knife and a discardedplaster cast; she came to the hardest decision ofher life.

The nursing home Rachel found for Eileen wasan eighteenth century building with beautifullandscaped gardens. She hoped her mother wouldthink of it as a hotel, somewhere pleasant to stayjust for a little while. She had largely taken on theresponsibility of finding the right place on herown and it had been a long and agonising searchthat finally led Rachel to be standing in the hugehallway of a place in which she could find nofault. Everything looked ship shape and up to themark, but even on that first encounter, there wassomething surreal about the place. Rachel hadlooked around her carefully; had watched the oldwomen as she was escorted past the lift, throughthe expansive kitchen and finally upstairs to thecorner bed where her mother would take in theloveliness of the garden. The strangeness Rachelfelt that first day repeated itself over and over, aseach time she entered that tiled hallway and the

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heavy wooden door closed behind her, so too didthe rest of the world.

The inhabitants of the nursing home weremainly women. There was Lizzie who chain-smoked all her adult life, the home had a specialplace for her to light up. Underneath herwheelchair was a decade of burnt tobacco stains.Lizzie could only ever smoke in one place, herworn and dishevelled piece of three foot by threefoot carpet held the higher ground against her socalled sad addiction. But to Lizzie, her world wasa perfect place and it was with great joy andfondness that she sucked on her Benson andHedges, each intake of breathe savoured as if itwere her last, heaven on earth right down to thelast piece of fag end.

Emily believed her son owned the nursinghome and wondered why he let so many peoplestay. She would stand alone, staring into rooms orbend her head sideways, as her eyes followedstrangers up the stairs. ‘What are you doing?’ shewould ask ‘Who are you?’ No one botheredanswering. Emily sat at a table shared by four andgrowled through gritted teeth ‘My son should notallow this’. Her companions at the table spreadbutter across their bread and happily accepted asecond round of tea.

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Eileen settled into the nursing home far quickerthan Rachel might have hoped. Her chair and bedlocated right next to a woman called May. Maywas Eileen’s life long friend and spoke endlesslyabout their years together laughing on the beach orclimbing trees in her Granddad’s orchard. Mayhad known Rachel’s mother Eileen for just fourweeks, but they held hands like lovers and Eileennodded, smiling, compliant in this newfound lifelong friendship.

Kathleen sat just inside the hallway; winter orsummer she would be found creating intricaterows of knitting patterns. ‘Is it cold out there?’ shewould ask when someone entered from outside,looking up at them; her needles like magic wouldcarry on without her as she waited with theeagerness of one embarking on a great adventure.If the answer was yes, Kathleen would shiver andfire herself into the knitting with even more vigourthan before. Somehow this small act of creativitymade sense to Rachel, as with each passing daymost things became hinged on either nothingnessor madness. No one knew who Kathleen knittedthe jumpers for. In the visitor stakes, she had veryfew. Once Rachel saw a well-dressed man come tovisit, he was accompanied by a little girl. The manappeared awkward and the girl with two identical

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yellow plaits sat silently as she swung her legsbeneath a high mahogany chair. Rachel wonderedwhy neither of them wore jumpers.

Bridget was the crazy one, God could shescream. When she got going, dinner plates, cups,knives and forks, would all be sent flying. Rachelbelieved Bridget fought hard against giving up thefight, part of Bridget knew things were differentand she didn’t much like it. Bridget’s outburstswere mainly ignored, much like Emily’s questionsor Annie’s cigarette stains. Everyone just carriedon in their own little world as if Bridget wasn’tpart of it. One afternoon Bridget went completelywild, kicking out, screaming hysterically at the topof her voice. Rachel watched the saliva as it spatfrom Bridget’s mouth, sliding down the crevicesof age either side of her chin. Rachel saw the lookof the unknown in Bridget’s eyes and felt scaredfor her. Eileen stole Bridget’s jelly that day, sheroared at Eileen to give it back. Rachel satpetrified for her mother’s sake, as she figured shewould have to jump in like a referee at someprizefight. Rachel had visions of having to beat upan old woman in the need to defend her mother’slife, she shouldn’t have worried. Eileen just staredright back at Bridget. ‘You could fry an egg onyour face’ she roared. It was the most Eileen had

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said for months and stopped Bridget dead in hertracks while Rachel sat wondering, how hermother had become this stranger.

Mags was a tiny woman with soft delicatewhite curls that allowed you see right down to herpink scalp. Mags liked to suck her buttons, a habitRachel remembered doing as a child. She hadglazed eyes that could dance and everyone washer mammy. ‘Are you me mammy?’ she wouldask and laugh. When Mags wasn’t sucking buttonsshe picked imaginary spots off her clothes. Thespots never went away and all the searching forthem kept her busy. She was lucky, Rachelthought, having a purpose, something to do.

Most weekdays were spent watching Live atThree, an absurd name, when placed in a roomfilled with geriatrics. Once in December, therewas snow outside and the grounds adopted apicture postcard pose. Rachel sat in the grand halllooking at the large Christmas tree, the lightstwinkled and the white flakes drifted across thewindowpanes. It reminded her of a scene fromsome old movie with all the bits mixed up. Butthere was no Ginger Rodgers or Fred Astaire orJudy Garland for that matter, just Lizzie holdingcentre stage amongst the burnt tobacco stains.Then Bridget started shouting at the top of hervoice ‘fuck off, fuck off, fuck off’. Emily began to

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sing and the words of “Auld Lang Syne” floatedthrough the air, its soft tones lingered overhead asthe notes seemed to waltz with energy aroundBridget’s latest outburst. Emily had a voice ofhoney; both sweetness and innocence combined.That afternoon as Rachel watched Emily dance tothe rhythm of her song, she saw her as she mighthave been, a young pretty girl beaming with life,bringing in another year. Eileen fell asleep andRachel wondered how she could, what with theshouting, the singing and the fall of snowhappening all around her. May headed off to findher Granddad’s orchard, content in a quest thatwould lead her to the downstairs toilet. The sightof snow speeded Kathleen’s knitting as Live atThree ended for another afternoon.

There was a different world inside that nursinghome, one that defied the logic of the human racehiding just outside its front door. Rachel would goabout her daily life, shopping, school runs, endlesslists of things to do, then she would enter that tiledhallway and everything changed. Time stood still,the women all had different lives; none of themconnected with the other. The only common bonda nursing home and having reached the end oftheir world together. Aged bodies with minds thathad left before their time. There was nowhere elsefor them to go, no hills to climb or children to

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keep safe. Rachel had learned about Purgatory atschool, a place of suffering where souls were sentto undergo punishment for their sins, a place towait for entry to heaven. As Rachel watched thesewomen exist within a shared bubble of space, lostlives before lives lost, she saw Purgatory in all itsglory.

As the days passed, Bridget soon stoppedsaying ‘fuck off’; soon, she said nothing at all.Every day became a shadow of what went before;they all seemed trapped, trapped in a spell that wasonly ever broken when a new visitor came to stay.Once that new visitor was a lady called Melissa.Those in the room that could, smiled in greeting.Mags sucked her buttons and Emily babbled onabout her son. Eileen had grown to hate change; itscared her because she had no way of knowingwhat it meant. Anxiously she held Rachel’s handwith the same fight and might as you would holda trophy or fire the “last throw of the dice”.Melissa got introduced to her new two foot by twofoot chair as Rachel herself frantically tried toremember who sat in it the previous year andwondered if she too had been taken by the spell ofemptiness. Melissa had lots of visitors; she was inthat early stage when people came in groups. Thenew faces felt like change. Melissa rocked in herchair, her upper body like a pendulum, moved

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back and forth in that hypnotic way that kept youstaring. Mostly she looked content; mostly sheknew very little. Melissa’s daughters spoke aboutthe past week’s events; they fetched drinks andwrapped a napkin up tight around her neck,underneath a large plastic scoop was placed tocatch the food that missed its mark. As thespooned food was eagerly placed inside Melissa’smouth, her tongue pushed upwards as she rejectedit much like babies do. Rachel could senseMelissa’s daughters had given up the fight.Melissa did not last long; she died well before thegroup visitation faded and long before winter hitthe nursing home for another year. Melissa cameand went so quietly, it was as if she never reallyhappened.

Mostly the days were like Melissa, quiet,sleepy, forgettable. They were soaked in routine,the time you woke, the time you slept, days andnights made up of breakfast, dinner and tea. Yourbed, your chair, photos of loved ones just aboutremembered. It was often the complete absence ofanything new or different that sent you mad.Everyone needed a Bridget to fire some dinnerplates around so they could feel alive again.‘Where am I?’ Eileen would ask and Rachel wouldsay ‘Mom, you are home’. Eileen had forgottenmost things, most things except Rachel. Somehow

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the daily visitations had just about managed tohold the last cobwebs of memory together. Rachelbecame to Eileen a part of life much likeKathleen’s knitting or Mag’s imaginary spots,familiar, constant.

When Rachel changed Eileen’s nappy for thefirst time Eileen cried softly and whispered, ‘I’msorry’ over and over. Rachel had protested, told hermother it was nothing. ‘I am only doing what youdid for me’. The repeated act and words finallyrested gently on Eileen’s shoulders. When thevacant look came in her eyes it was easier and sheallowed the task to be completed and assistedinitially like a willing doll, but finally as shefollowed Rachel’s commands she became morelike a well-tuned machine.

The summer before Eileen died she madefriends with a toy monkey called Charlie. No oneknew where the monkey came from other than hewas Eileen’s new best friend. When she cuddledhim, a part of Rachel worried if she’d lost herplace, replaced by an ugly monkey with a plasticface that would send most innocent childrenrunning for their lives. Then Eileen grippedRachel’s hands in that “last throw of the dice way”and Rachel knew she had her small place for ashort while yet. That afternoon they watchedBridge over the River Kwai together. Eileen stayed

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awake until the second interval; as she snoredRachel pulled the blanket past her mother’s chestand placed her own head against the stone wallbehind. She watched as Lizzie fumbled in her bagfor her Benson and Hedges and Kathleen too wentoff to sleep, the right arm of another jumpertemporarily abandoned for a greater joy.

The following winter Eileen died. Rachelcollected her mother’s belongings in a black refugesack. She carried the black bag out to the boot ofher car, her mother’s things seemingly disposablelike the trash. She looked at the plastic bag for along time before finally placing it at the back of awardrobe. After the funeral she thought aboutmany things. The pain and loss, enormous at first,gradually hid itself, only to reappear at thestrangest of times. Standing at a bus stop, outshopping, or in the dark of night, the tears wouldflow without fear of being seen and Rachel’spillow became a sponge for all the loss. Thenfinally the afternoon came when Rachel thoughtonly about the contents of the bag. She opened itand became instantly engulfed with her mother’ssmell. It was not the smell of years before, thatbeautiful mix of sunlight soap and cookedvegetables, no, it was the smell of old age, it firedright up through her nostrils and her motherlingered. She removed the contents of the bag,

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garment by garment, item by item and placed themaround her in a protected circle. The pain in herheart took on the physical sensation of an achedeep inside her chest. Rachel went down on herhunkers and held herself like a baby, embryonic asin a mother’s womb and cried until she could cryno more.

Later, as exhaustion and grief joined thepassing of the day, her mind drifted back toanother afternoon. Eileen had stepped out of thelift, a bunch of flowers in her arms, the remaininggift of a recent hospital stay. The lilies covered hermother’s upper torso, Eileen had forgotten she hadbeen in hospital, forgotten who had brought theflowers; she just stood there on that beautifulSpring afternoon, her smile erupting from abovethe white petals as she saw in her near eye herdaughter Rachel and her smile spread further still.It lit the room just as the sun shot through thevelux window above and created a white speckledpath that reminded Rachel of a roadway to heaven.It reached down and touched them both. Rachelsmiled through the tears as she savoured that smallpiece of memory, holding it close so she could feelher mother once again and grab those few fleetingseconds of joy before death finished what life hadbegun; the separation of mother and child. Butsomehow sitting there, surrounded by her

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mother’s things Rachel finally understood. Littleby little she had lost her mother in life, but bybeing there in those final days, months and years,life had gifted Rachel tiny moments of a love thathad once filled every hour. She knew to have beenthere, to have seen her mother smile, happy,however briefly, was all that mattered.

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BloodMarie Tarpey.

Blood as in sweat and tears. I bet you know whatthat means. You know where you spend yourwhole life trying to achieve something and at theend come to a realisation that the Holy Grail thatyou were seeking, the quest for success, is notyours. Well, in my case, I found actually that I hadachieved very little but sadly instead was leftclinging to life by the barest of barely remainingstubs of fingernails and not a lot else. I worked forthe firm. The real deal. The big white whale kindof a firm. The kind you most certainly have heardof or know. That may also be the company whereyou work yourself perhaps. The same company ora carbon copy of the one I am wandered into. Theyare all the same to me now, you see. I amsomewhat disillusioned and their margins andtheir subtle differences have blurred. I do not seethe firms now with any of the new untainted,young or even idealistic new designer shades thatyoung graduates starting out in life experienceyear after year as they begin their journey. Thesecompanies deal in stocks and commodities,whatever the hell they are. Marketingdepartments, what on earth do they do? I never didmanage to find out. I think that a lot of those types

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that are commonly known as professionals orbusiness people are just doing, well little morethan nothing in reality. It’s little more thanillusions to keep some of us off the streets and outof the bars preferably. For example, projectmanagers I think are quite simply having us on.They are not programme managing at all. Oh no,they are just bloodsucking, albeit very successfulbloodsucking. From their lowly but wellestablished and well respected work colleaguesmore commonly known by such terms as theworker bees. I was a worker bee. That was stupidof me to take on that role. Oh yes. I chose my role.I was not conscripted nor dragged along. I was notimprisoned by the big bosses (that is theprogramme managers to you and me). Oh no, Imisguidedly chose the worker bee role. Silly me.

As to what type of worker bee I was, that isalmost irrelevant at this stage. I was a burnt outworker bee if that gives you any idea of my state,not that it matters now. The end is near for me soI am at peace with my final days and my finallying in, of state, as it were. Yes, I am resigned tothese my final days on this earth. Strange you maythink that I am so disillusioned at this late stage,why didn’t I sort this all out years ago? I willexplain if you can bear with me while I try andtake a few breaths before I attempt to continue

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with my small but still important, at least to me,tale if this is what this is all about. It is a hugeeffort just to breath as this moment. The dull painin my lower back and my stomach eat away at mygut so much so that I try by deep breaths to expelthe pain. I pray I hold your interest so I cancontinue this, my tale of betrayal and somemediocre woes. I hope I will not bore you toomuch. The only light in this dark mood I findmyself in is my little grandson is here in my roomtoday and as he is playing happily with his train onthe ground I am hopeful his mother will leave himhere with me for a time. Every second with him isprecious to me. So today is a good day. The quietone who has stolen into my heartstrings withouteven my realising he was there.

Getting back to business though for that is whatwe call it. As if it’s God. As if our lives depend onit and for some of us it appears it does or at leastin my case it did. More than just a living for myfamily you may ask? For a very long time, yes, Iadmit it, it was. The business world as you knowor may have guessed can indeed be dreadfully dullalmost all of the time. Foreign trips to China or bigsweet pay rises do actually occur now and then. Inorder to get these trips or alternatively hear allabout them if you cannot go, you must keep your

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eyes peeled and your ears firmly to the ground andlisten to the rumblings of those far off horses.Smoke signals, now that’s a myth. Well almost allof the time anyways, these occurrences areextremely rare in the business world). Stock pricerises and falls effect us all, you know this.

Again I digress. Forgive me, I am just a lonelyold man. I am getting near the end and mymortality is too close. If I may use furtherhyperbole and exaggeration to which I am prone,my mortality is deafening me. Yes and I amindulgent, of course I am. I led a pamperedexistence. Pampered from the point of view ofabundant financial success and security since Ijoined that world of international business andfinance. I have allowed my life to become onewhere I worked all the hours that were possible tome and as a result I have ended up starved of loveand real companionship through my own fault. Noone forced me to do anything. My wife issometimes like a stranger even though I do loveher, as best I can. It’s just she learned years agothat in order for her to remain with me and surviveshe had to learn to keep her distance or I wouldhurt her severely with my complete indifference.Cruel perhaps? It’s just the way I am. She knowsthat. We have discussed it on at least one occasion.

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Briefly. She tells me she is not unhappy with herchoice. Maybe she has regrets? I try not to thinkthese thoughts. They will severely cripple me andI am not able for any more now. I have to acceptmyself and the way that I am. It is too late for meto change. I don’t have any time left for that now,let’s face it.

Getting back to what I am trying to do here.That is to pass on my small wisdoms before I die.I am dying as we speak. Stomach cancer they toldme and that was six months ago. The first fewweeks I was able to pretend it wasn’t happening tome but I can hardly do that now. The last two fullweeks I have been in bed and I have faced the factthat this may be it. I may never walk outside in thefresh air again. I may never dance or hear musicagain. The cancer has spread and my cards aremarked. I dare not ask how little time I may haveleft. I don’t need to. I can feel death in my airways,the pain that comes more and more frequently andby the amount of time I am able to even stay alertbefore I must top up on morphine again before Iloose my mind and weep with the searing pain thatrots my body more each day.

Let me give you my plain observations on thebusiness world; that I built around myself for thelast sixty years now. My work friends, my family

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are but secondary characters in this play thatbecame my life. I wish only to tell you of itbecause it was a dreadful mistake on my part. Tohave lived only to have worked. This is all I amtrying to say, honestly. Pass on my feelings andhope that when they are older my grandchildrenwill know them and understand me a little better.For my sons have no interest in anything I have tosay now. They haven’t for a long, long time. Thistoo is hard for me to accept. Now the end iscoming I wish with all my heart that I had theirlove. I don’t. I must be brave. I must in order toenjoy these last precious weeks as peacefully andhappily as I am able. I have to try. What else isleft?

Yes. Business managers. That near and dearspecies to all of our hearts. I will let you in on alittle secret. They are actually very small bitplayers in the big picture of a day-to-day existenceof a company. They are but puppets. Puppets totheir teams firstly; who pull their little stringslocated just below their armpits at least twice onaverage on any given day. Puppets to theirdemanding families. Now that they have theappearances of a taste of some small success; theirchildren will crucify them with demands for thisand that. Various luxuries they want and need but

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dare not ask for directly. Instead they needle andwhinge hoping to get some big crumbs if theykeep it up long and hard enough. That or they askfor a job. That happens. You know this. Puppets totheir superiors. God no. For they are but morecolourful puppets themselves of the whole Punchand Judy show. The big bosses. I think not. It’sthose bloodsuckers the project managers who callthe shots. The real troublemakers for us all. Usbeing the poor and abused worker bees who mightloose their place in the queue at any moment. Yes,I am bitter. So I tell you about it in the hope it willclean my soul. It won’t. My soul is too far-gonenow to hope for much reprieve at this point. I havesinned too much, too hard and too happily. I amstill hopeful of leaving this stage with some smallgrace at least I hope so. Why did I do this tomyself? I know I haven’t even come close toanswering any of these questions in full yet. Howdid this sad life which was mine come aboutexactly? Was it a conscious decision on my part ora gradual erosion of a man’s soul? I have barelytouched the surface of how and why I threw mylife away in this fashion. It is too long a story totell you further today. I will have to break intopieces to even try to begin to explain myself. Formy beautiful grandchild I also want to leave this

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story in safe keeping for when he is older so untiltomorrow when I shall continue from this point ofmy tale when I hope to have regained some smalladditional strength to continue for another day.There is still enough time tomorrow for at leastone more go at recording the story of my life.Until then, I must rest.

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The Washing YardLouise Phillips

Rows of dance on washing linesBeneath one hundred sheets a child can flyCurl metal bars and catch blue sky.Turn snowstorms to a Milky WayLaugh and play too young to knowThe children blow at Jinny Joe.

And as the night light fills its skyBanshees wail and babies cry.Strange voices haunt the Washing Yard.Windows switching on and offEach pane a different story toldA zillion words bound metal poles.

Then in morn all night sounds forced to hideWhen from its sky come seagulls high.Hoards of birds create such clatter Swoon and squawk discarded matter.Magic, to a young child’s eyeAs adults watch their lives pass by.

Buried in some human tombA child’s joy,In an adult’s gloom.

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Eleanore, Fame and the Evening HeraldTríona Walsh

My ambitions for greatness were stirred again. Icould only blame the Evening Herald. As I sat intraffic, assaulted daily with their wonderfulheadlines, I began to fit myself in there. Don’t getme wrong, nothing too sensational, but perhaps ona slow news day they could trumpet a jobpromotion I got, or my new flattering haircut. Ican see it now:

ELEANORE O’BRIEN – NEW JUNIOROPERATIONS MANAGER HORROR!

Ever since I was a small child I wanted to standout, to be really noteworthy at something. I wasprobably only five when I realised that wasn’treally going to happen. Perhaps it was having twobrilliant older sisters that did it – it’s hard todelude yourself that you’re the next big thingwhen you’re related to Flora, eight (prodigalviolinist and science fair winner category 5-6 and6-7 years) and Lilly, ten (gymnast extraordinaireand junior Nigella). If I’d only been a little lessmaudlin about my mediocrity I might have seenmy precocious perception as my elusive talent.

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As it was, when I ran out of the typicalactivities to shine in, I got a little desperate andtook to looking for some more, shall we say,unconventional ways to be special. I tried my bestto conjure up some short-sightedness – glassescould make me different! But my perfect sight justlet me down. Next, in vain, I searched for someexotic and exciting allergy. I could be allmysterious and interesting as I pronounced to myfellow class mates – ‘Sorry, I can’t eat bananas –I’d be dead in minutes!’ But again nothing. I couldeat a prawn smeared with peanut butter, sprinkledwith cat hair, and I’d remain fit as a fiddle.

And as I’ve grown older life hasn’t producedany hidden surprises. No phenomenalcharacteristics have lain dormant only to burstforth to life when I least expected them. No, lifehas plodded that middle course, no significanthighs, no lows. My sisters never even had thedecency to hit burn-out in their teens, and aretoday disgustingly fulfilled and happy.

So, here I was, 30 and single, employed in a jobthat a trained monkey could do and utterly, utterlyunremarkable.

‘Eleanore? Wakey wakey.’That voice woke me from my self-pitying

daydream like a sloth with M.E. On the PC screenin front of me were the first two words of a 5,000-

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word report I had to compile for the end of the dayfor my boss. Some big wig upstairs wanted a run-down on the domestic retail sales figures for thepast 5 years. Dan Brown would be quaking in hisboots when I got through with it.

‘Oh, sorry Kathleen, I was miles away.’My colleague Kathleen Prendergast, a well

meaning if bossy girl, was peering down at me, athick folder in her hand. She waggled it in myface. I sat upright, and took it from her.

‘It’s the figures you wanted. I hope youappreciate them now, I had to drop everything justto get them ready for you. And why you didn’t askme for them last week I just don’t know. Really,you should be more organised Eleanore. Really.’

‘Yes, Kathleen. You’re right. I’ll be sure towork on my personal development, just once Ihave this monstrous waste of paper finished.’

Kathleen didn’t like my flippant attitude. Shemade tea as if her life depended on it. Filing hadthe urgency of an emergency helicopter deliveringa much needed transplant organ. But it did haveone advantage, she never hung around very long.Always busy busy busy.

Like a flower gradually following the sun Ireturned my gaze to the PC screen. The cursorflashed after the words “Sales 2001”. My jawunhinged itself in its rush to yawn. And before

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another word was typed my attention skippedgaily off.

When I’d hit my teens I had changed tack. Iknew that I would have to make my ownspecialness. If I didn’t have a talent nor aninteresting affliction, then I would have to throwmyself violently in luck’s way, determined to havespecialness thrust upon me. I bought raffle tickets,entered competitions, that sort of thing. I ran withscissors. I ate a few yogurts past their use by date.And unless you’d count a violent case of foodpoisoning or a useless holiday voucher a result, Iplodded on with nothing more on my “Interesting”CV to recommend me.

By my college years I thought I would trythinking outside the box. I decided to surroundmyself with fellow nonentities. Having shivered inthe shadows of Lilly’s and Flora’s greatness, I feltI could only glow in tedious company. But sadlythis route only served to thwart me. Yes, I didn’thave to feel the daily pain of inadequacy like whenI was with my family, but – hanging around Clare,Gerard and Derek – somehow the wholepointlessness of our group was so much greaterthan the sum of our pointless parts. You won’tbelieve me, but I used to witness people in thecorridors of our college walk straight into Gerardor Clare, as if they hadn’t seen them. They

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couldn’t have been more invisible if in fact, they’dbeen invisible.

The day a student walked right into me was theday I ditched “the gang” and disrobed my lastvestiges of hope. While I can’t say I embracedordinariness, I at least made an uneasy peace withit. I only sighed a little when I got a pass degree.My lack of a lovelife only depressed me threenights a week rather than seven.

And so, for eight years I’d plodded along untilI got this job here, at Dellutec, twelve months ago.The new job meant a new route to and from work.On the way home in the evenings as I waited at thelights I stared at the Evening Herald sellers,touting their newspaper up and down the rows ofcars. My longings revived. Like those JerrySpringer type shows, which offered even the mostlowly, unimportant person a few moments offame, the Evening Herald with its often desperateattempts at sensational headlines, seemed to offermy own personal path to recognition.

‘Bye Eleanore.’ Kathleen’s smug little smileswept past me. She had her coat on. Confusionseeped through me until I looked at my watch andwas upset to see that it was 5.30. Already? Andwhat about the report? The two words on myscreen had managed to multiply themselves, butsurely only by a process of asexual reproduction

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as I had no memory of touching the keyboard inthe last three hours. I focused my gaze and readwhat had been added to “Sales Year 1” ... ‘rdfjierperiotiopehtiophnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn’. Ah,I must have fallen asleep and rested my head onthe keyboard. Still, it was an improvement onanything I would have written while conscious.

I picked up my phone and dialled Alan, myboss’s, extension.

‘Hi,’ his gruff voice answered.‘Ah, great, you’re still there.’‘Eleanore. Why am I not surprised? I’m still

waiting on that report, I’m leaving in ten minutes,and it better be in my inbox by the time I shutdown.’

‘Aha, of course, well, that’s why I was calling,just to tell you to head off home, I’m just spell-checking it now, it’ll be winging its way to youany minute.’

I stared at my monitor and winced. 5,000 wordsin 5 minutes. 1,000 words per minute.166.6666666(etc) words per second. Even takingthe four words I’d already written into account,my confidence was waning that I might meet mydeadline. In the end I did what had to be done. Isent Alan his email, with the largest file I couldfind on my PC: the first chapter of a romancenovel I had started but hadn’t finished, attached.

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He was never going to actually check thedocument tonight, and by the time he noticed thatthe throbbing menhoods and heaving bosomshadn’t actually affected the net sales for Dellutecfor the last few years, I’d blag more time to do thereport tomorrow.

I clicked “Send”, hit the “Off” button on my PCand legged it from the building. There was noneed to hang around, because knowing my luckAlan would open the file tonight.

Fresh air battered me upon my exit. I pulled mycoat closer and headed left out of the buildingrather than right to the car park. It was Wednesdayevening and I always bought a lotto ticket. I wouldnever admit it to myself that this was all part of mygreatness agenda, I kidded myself that I was justlike the teeming millions who bought a tickettwice a week. But lately I had been seeing my selfin 96pt font: ELEANORE O’BRIEN – LOTTOWINNER!

The local shop was only a couple of yards fromthe office. A spotty youth worked behind thecounter and I sensed in him a kindred spirit, but henever managed to look at me in the months andmonths I’d been going there. I presented him withmy Saturday ticket to check and see if I’d wonanything. Y’see, look at that, a ticket that was fourdays old and I hadn’t checked it. This was the

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facade I constructed to prove to myself that Iwasn’t still on the hunt. I so wasn’t bothered aboutwinning that I waited this long to check. Wasn’t Imarvellous?

So of course, when the spotty youth mutteredthat I’d won something, I was so cool anddisinterested that I only erupted wildly withfervent excitement. Finally! The gods hadlistened, my moment in the sun. It had been worththe wait. I was dizzy, the little corner shop wasspinning. Now I understood why fate had waitedso long to bless me. Success would be so muchsweeter now, after the years and years ofanticipation.

Spotty was looking at me now.‘It’s only a scratch card, Missus.’The sound of perforations of the scratch card

being ripped was, in my ears, the ripping apart ofmy very hopes and dreams. The gods were sick totoy with me like that. Or maybe I was the fool tothink that there was another path for me than thehard packed mud trail that transported the herds ofhumanity through their forgotten existences. Notmeeting his eyes, I took the scratch card and leftthe shop.

I guess I was probably blinkered by theemotions I ‘d just experienced, otherwise I guess Iwould have been more careful. I stumbled on the

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edge of the path, the scratch card fell from myhand, and I followed, right onto the road. Rightinto the path of Alan, my boss’s, car. At least hehad the decency to stop the car, and ring anambulance. He also made quite a nice speech atmy funeral. Lied about what a dedicated worker Iwas.

Of course I was tremendously annoyed by allthat. What better than a hit and run to get me in thepaper the next day? Couldn’t he have been grippedby the fear and legged it? No, no, he had to do thedecent thing. And the headline in the Herald thenext day? Yeah, of course, KATHLEENPRENDERGAST – FINDS SCRATCHCARD,WINS €250,000!

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The Man who lost some sleepJoe Mc Kiernan

I know a man who once lost some sleep.At first he didn’t think too much of it –

assumed he had just mislaid it in the way youmight mislay your car-keys. After searching thehouse he asked his wife if she had seen it.

‘Where did you leave it?’ she asked, promptingthe obvious response: ‘If I knew that it wouldn’tbe lost now would it?’

The kids were brought in on the search as wellas some of their friends who had been playing inthe back garden. When it became obvious that thelost sleep was not to be found in the house or itsenvirons there was nothing for it but to widen thesearch. The neighbours were only too happy tohelp. It was a tight-knit community and, as hedgeswere prodded and refuse bins inspected, eachperson counted their blessings that the loss wasnot theirs.

As the true gravity of the situation began todawn on the man, he realised that he would haveto speak to the Gardaí. At the station, his fraughtwife at his side, he was told, to his disbelief, thatthe authorities could not become involved in acase of lost sleep until it had been missing for atleast twenty-four hours. Somewhat in shock he

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returned home. As night fell the number ofconcerned citizens began to swell. Every backalley was checked; every door was knocked upon.

At noon the following day the Gardaí becameofficially involved and the search went citywideand, soon thereafter, nationwide. Knowninsomniacs were hauled into stations and grilled.Those found shopping for bedding were leaned onfor leads. At the airport all passengers bound forthe Land of Nod were interrogated and theninterrogated again.

Civil defence was called up to comb theWicklow Mountains. They walked one hundredabreast holding hands, prodding the ground withsticks. It was said that the sleep might simply haverun away but everyone knew the real reasonbehind this search. As time ticked by the realistsbegan to outnumber the optimists.

On day three it seemed a breakthrough hadbeen made. A boy in his early teens hadapprehended some sleep that had been roamingwild on his parents’ Kildare farm. A nation’s joyturned to heartache when it was discovered thatwhat he had caught was merely a catnap.

Similarly a member of the now-mobiliseddefence forces was said to have located the targetbut it transpired he had merely caught some “Z”s.

But the most dramatic moment of the search

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was surely on the morning of day four. A routineinspection of a container truck at Rosslare, en-route to France, revealed the presence of fortywinks. The driver was immediately arrested andthe truck was cordoned off to await the arrival ofdetectives and forensic staff. In less than half anhour the media was on the spot. In addition to Irishtelevision, radio and print media, there were crewsfrom the BBC, CNN, ABC and NBC as well ascrews from France, Italy, Australia and Japan. Thestory had gone global and locals going about theirdaily business were quizzed in an internationalmedia feeding frenzy.

Over an hour after the white-suited forensicsteam had entered the container they re-emerged.They spoke to the senior Garda of their findings.He nodded but in a grim way and could be heardto ask if they were definite.

‘Double-checked and triple-checked’ they wereheard to say in reply. With that it fell to ChiefSuperintendent Malachy Gilhooley to break thenews to the waiting world. From Singapore toSydney, from Tokyo to Toronto, TV programswere interrupted for the announcement. TimesSquare came to a standstill. With profoundembarrassment Chief Super Gilhooley announcedthat the container believed to have contained fortywinks had, on examination, been found to contain

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only thirty-nine. The search for the lost sleepwould go on.

On the fifth day the senior Garda liaisonofficer, Susan Murphy, gave the man’s wife thenews she had feared. Garda headquarters haddecided to abandon the search. No sleep had everbeen recovered this long after going missing. Thetwo decided to break the news to him together.They went upstairs to the bedroom where he hadearlier gone. There he lay, in a deep slumber underthe covers of the bed. The two ladies looked at oneanother and without a word they exited thebedroom. Closing the door silently the liaisonofficer gave voice to their mutual sentiments.

‘There’s no point in disturbing him now,’ shesaid. ‘We’ll tell him the news when he wakes up.’

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Old ManJoan Byrne

Willie couldn’t breathe. He sat up in bed andturned on his oxygen machine. As he grabbed themask and sucked in the plastic air, the slow hissfaded away, leaving his bedroom totally silent.The bloody thing wasn’t working again, what washe going to do now? Four in the morning, he’d nochoice, but to call an ambulance. He didn’t carewhat they said.

‘Hello’ croaked Willie, ‘I need an ambulance’.The operator put him on hold as she tried toconnect him. Willie took a fit of coughing and ittook him a few minutes to get his voice back. ‘I’mhaving an asthma attack, you’ve got to help me, Ineed oxygen, and I’m all alone’. The ambulanceservice eventually got his details and told him onewas on the way.

He remembered the days when Eileen wasalive. She would have got up and made him a cupof tea and they would have talked until the crowsflew, almost silently, over the sky and gradualdaylight calmed his anxiety. She had collapsed inthe back garden while carrying in a bucket of coal.He’d been calling her, as he could hear thewhistling kettle screaming in the kitchen. He uses

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a pot to boil his water now and the kettle sitssilently on the back of the cooker.

He’d get the nurse to ring Declan in England.That would put the frighteners on him. He hadn’tbeen to see Willie since the funeral. Ungratefulbastard. He came running home when Eileen wasin hospital but didn’t care that Willie was too sickto go and see her. And he better not bring thatstupid wife with him or those two surly brats, nomanners, no respect for their elders. They wouldn’tbe getting their hands on this house. He’d madesure of that.

Willie struggled to put on a clean vest and tomove the bucket he used for spits and constantpiddles to the corner of the bedroom. He stashedhis few bob under the mattress because the homehelp was due in the morning. He was convincedshe was robbing him; the last time she did hisshopping she didn’t bring back the receipt, lost itshe said. He knew better. She drove him mad withher cheerful chatter and the way she clatteredaround the house. Hopefully he wouldn’t have tostomach that mush that passes for a dinner fromthe meals on wheels people for a while.Yesterday’s dinner was in the fridge, uneaten.

Willie lit up a cigarette and looked out thewindow for the ambulance. The neighbourswouldn’t notice what was going on. He could be

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dead for all they cared. He would have to throwthe keys out the window; he wouldn’t be able tomake it down the stairs.

‘Well, Hello again Willie. Just calm down,you’ll be all right’ said the ambulance man. ‘ We’llget you up to the hospital. Hope you’re preparedfor a long wait. Casualty is packed out tonight.Just put your slippers on, that’s it, sit in the chair,we’ll carry you down the stairs, we’ll take care ofyou’.

‘Mr. Brennan, are you awake’, said the nurse. Willie had been on a trolley for ten hours.

When he arrived at the hospital the casualtydepartment was like a war zone. Drunks litteredthe corridors and car accident victims were rushedpast him for urgent treatment. They had given himoxygen and he was still waiting to see a doctor.

‘Mr. Brennan we are going to move you into acubicle now’, said the nurse, ‘and a doctor will bewith you shortly’.

The doctor opened Willie’s file as he examinedhim.

‘I see you have emphysema’, he said.‘I can’t detect any infection but we’ll get some

blood tests organised. I’ll be back to you when weget the results back from the lab’.

The nurse came to take Willie’s blood andmade him comfortable in the bed.

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‘Do you think they’ll send me to St. Joseph’sward?’ said Willie.

‘The nurses were very nice to me there lasttime, and if I go soon I’ll be in time for tea’.

‘Lets wait and see’, said the nurse.

Angie was just putting the phone down asDeclan came in from work.

‘That was the hospital in Dublin’, she said. ‘Your father’s in casualty and they left a phone

number for you to ring’. ‘Is he alright?’ said Declan. ‘They said he was very distressed when he

came in but he’s comfortable now and he waswaiting to see a doctor’. Declan stood numblyholding his briefcase.

‘Well are you going to ring them?’ askedAngie.

Declan said nothing and turned to go upstairs tochange. Angie sighed at his troubled face. She’djust leave him alone for a bit, she decided.

Declan sat on the edge of his bed. This was allhe needed; he’d had a particularly bad meetingwith his Sales Manager that morning. They hadraised the quotas again even though he wasworking ten-hour days to reach the present ones.Angie came quietly into the bedroom and satbeside him on the bed.

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‘Are you OK?’ She asked.‘You look very stressed. I’m sure he’ll be fine,

it’s probably his asthma again, he got over itbefore’

‘You’ve no idea, have you?’ said Declan. ‘Well I know you’re probably worried about

him and being so far away doesn’t help, saidAngie.

Declan put his head in his hands and took adeep breath.

‘He killed her you know. She spent her wholelife looking after him. I remember when I was akid, he would come in from the pub and Mamwould jump up to get his dinner. I would run tobed and hear him shouting. She would hide herbruises from me but I always knew. That’s why Ihad to get away as soon as I could. I’ll neverunderstand why she stayed with him. I used to tryand tell her but she’d never listen. But he’s notwell, she’d say, and look what happened. I can’tdo it anymore; I can’t pretend to care about him.He’s always been sick. I really believe he onlymarried my mother because his own mother died.Even when Mam had her heart attack he was “toosick” to go and see her in hospital. She died threedays later and all he could say was what was hegoing to do without her. I’m not going over to seehim this time. I can’t forgive him.’

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Willie sat up in bed when he saw the doctormaking his way over to him. He hoped they wouldgive him pyjamas when he got up to the ward andmaybe give him a bath and a shave.

‘Hello Mr. Brennan’, said the Doctor. ‘We’ve got the blood tests back and it’s good

news. There is no infection and you can go home’. The doctor went on to talk about getting a

health nurse to call to his house. But Willie was nolonger listening. He closed his eyes and cursedunder his breath.

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A Winter BreakDympna Murray Fennell

‘Special offer –– mid-winter break in the sunnysouth- east’.

‘Just what we need after Christmas’ my friendenthused. ‘Get away from it all. It’s a great placefor bird-watching’

Not exactly a subject I knew much about. Iknew a swan from a seagull from a starling, andnot much more! But New Year being a time fornew discoveries, I agreed to go along.

It seems that in bird-watching circles inIreland, the slobs of Wexford is the place to go.These reclaimed mud flats on the edge of Wexfordharbour are the winter-feeding grounds forthousands of wildfowl from the Arctic. You and Imight dream of wintering in the Caribbean or theCanaries, but these birds come to our “sunnysouth-east” from the cold north each October; upto ten-thousand of the white- fronted geese movefrom Greenland to survive here and enjoy ourwinter. So armed with a pocket guidebook and apair of borrowed binoculars, I set off to make theiracquaintance.

As soon as we arrived on the reserve there wasa chorus of cackling and quacking from areception committee of geese, ducks and swans,

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(actually the swans being mute, don’t contribute tothe greeting). These are permanent residents, tameand well fed, almost like the ducks on Stephen’sGreen. But a few hundred metres further on, it’s adifferent world out on the North Slob. Here,spread over a wide expanse of grassland and watercourses, are thousands of wild birds of everyshape and size; they say two hundred and fiftyspecies have been recorded, of which sixty- nineare regular visitors in winter.

We settled into the “hide” to watch the displayof activities, feeding, preening, strutting around,fighting (I watched a pair of godwits sparring – allwings and long rapier-like beaks – my friendsdebated whether they were bar-tailed or black-tailed, I was more interested in which one won thespat) Our seasoned bird-watchers whispered theidentity of different groups – geese, brent andbarnacle, greylag and pink-footed; ducks ,wadersand divers and dabblers.

I was beginning to get some bearings on thevast display, when a small boy just arriving, calledexcitedly to his mother and “whoosh”, the air wasfull of departing wings, our cover was blown! Afew birds stayed put; plump male mallardscontinued to preen their glossy feathers; eventhough they are residents, with their metallic greenheads and purple wing inset, they look more

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exotic than many of the visitors. A fewmagnificent native swans glided past, with a lookof disdain for the lesser breeds around them; keenbird-watchers enthuse over the visiting Bewickand whooper swans, but for me, our own muteswan with its orange beak and elegant curvedneck, is the king of the birds.

The flocks having moved on for the moment, itwas time for us to do likewise. Bird watching on aJanuary morning sharpens the appetitewonderfully, and while the Reserve has lots offood for its feathered visitors, it doesn’t cater forthe watchers. So we repaired to the restaurant atthe National Heritage Park and over bowls of hotsoup compared notes on what we had seen. Thensuddenly someone whipped out the binoculars andall eyes reacted.

‘Look, there, a heron’. Over in a sheltered spoton the riverbank, a solitary heron stood, hunched,motionless, with a long scarf of black plumesaccentuating his upright posture. ‘There’s acurlew’ someone else noted. They were all onlookout duty again, bird watching is that kind ofactivity.

Me, I think I could become an addict, but firstI must invest in a good pair of binoculars.

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38 Lower Buckingham StreetJoan Byrne

My mind is wandering through Stable Lanethen around by the creameryto Masey’s house for bananaswith the top off the milk

Dark stairs entice me downto her wondrous kitchena giant pink conical shellglistens on her wide windowsill

The old gas cooker with a stewalways bubblinglong scarred table laid with newspapersironing on one endmilk and butter on the other

She will allow me into the sitting roomto tinkle on her piano “Rooney Dooney”bathed by the tasselled shade of thecurly standard lampinhaling lavendered furniture

Remembering her long grey hairrevealed unexpectedlywhen she changed hats for Mass

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Her scathing witHer elitist forward thinkingMy MaseyMy Father’s motherMe

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LakesColm Keegan

Chi-Hing walked along the main road which wasbordered by interweaving oak and sycamore trees,dense with leaves that were moved by a wind hecould barely feel on his face. He reached the top ofa lane and looked around. Heavy clouds filled thesky, through the trees on either side theBlessington reservoir could be seen, dark andsilent with orange light from houses sprinklingcolour on its edges.

He carried his last three, most importantsculptures with him, keeping each in a separatepocket to protect their polished surfaces. Two ofthe flat stones had been carved to look like boys,one like a small girl. When he arrived at the lakehe planned to skim them across the water,bouncing the carved discs over the surface untilthe energy he’d flicked into them disappeared andthey’d sink, making sweeping slow arcs all theway down to join the other stones he had throwninto the depths.

At the bottom of the lane a souped-up black carlay idle in the car park, its engine purring outexhaust fumes that crept towards the water. Insidethe car Sarah sat between two young men in theback seat. She knew the man on her right, Aidan,

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well enough and had spent the night by the lakewith him last week. But his friend was a strangerand was starting to worry her. Especially since shecaught him glancing at Aidan as he swigged fromhis can, frowning and nodding urgently towardsher skirt when he thought she wasn’t looking. Nowords had been said since they’d arrived, the menglugged alcohol and danced in their seats to thedance track on the radio. Sarah rooted in herhandbag for a cigarette. She looked in surprise atAidan getting out of the car.

‘Where are you going?’‘The jacks. I’ll be back in a sec,’ he said.As soon as Aidan left his friend moved closer.‘Jaysus you’re a good lookin’ bird Sarah.’She faked a laugh and a smile that fell quickly

from her face. She felt relief when Aidan cameback but he got into the front seat. The friendtrailed his little finger along Sarah’s goosepimpled thigh and snickered. Sarah crossed herarms. She saw the men make eye contact in therear-view mirror. A palm wrapped around her kneeand she batted it off.

‘Ah c’mon Sarah you didn’t mind last week.Aidan said you’re a right goer’

She knew where this was going. She put theunlit smoke back in her bag and reached over tograb the door handle. Her way was blocked.

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‘Let me out’‘You’re not going yet are ya?’ said Aidan. ‘Sure

it’s miles from anywhere.’ There was a pleadingtone worked into his voice.

Then his friend spoke. ‘The party’s onlystarting, gorgeous.’

‘Fuck you.’Through a leathery smirk he answered. ‘Don’t

talk to me like that. Slut.’The too familiar word stung. She punched him.

He lunged and grabbed her arms, the noise of theirscuffle mixed with the beat of the radio. Sarahtried to hit him with a beer can but it was open andspilled all over the car. Aidan laughed. Sarahfought as hard as she could, and prevented himfrom pushing her arms over her head. His handsclawed at her dress, a button popped. She gave asmall scream of outrage before her face wasscrunched into the seat.

Chi reached the bottom of the lane and saw thecar parked by the lake. There had never beenanyone here when he’d done this before. It feltinappropriate to him. He checked his watch. It wasfive to four. Back home it would be almostmidday. He took the figure of the young girl out ofhis pocket and gently rubbed his thumb across hertiny stone brow. He tucked her safely into hisbomber jacket pocket and walked by the car.

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Closer to the vehicle, he frowned when he sawthat it was rocking. He bent and searched thetarmac until he found a pebble, which he threw atthe passenger door. Through the steamed-upwindows he made out two shadows. The carstopped shaking. A hand rubbed fog from thewindow and a man peered out. Content that he hadstopped their activity Chi started towards the lake.Then Sarah flung open the passenger door andtumbled out of the car.

Chi watched her get up, expecting someone tocome out to her. No one did. Not even when shebegan to beat the car with one of her shoes,screaming words Chi had never heard as shesmashed a headlight. The car revved loudly and heran towards it, thinking it was going to run the girlover. But it reversed, wheel-spun across the carpark and tore up the lane, leaving clouds of dustand the leaves on the trees shaking in its wake.

Chi thought she hadn’t noticed him and walkedtowards her to ask her if she was okay, oneconcerned hand out as if to touch her elbow. Whenshe turned to him he said nothing. Her eyes wereblack with wet mascara, and her lipstick wassmeared, but her face wore a certain clutcheddignity. She saw his arm reaching and flinched.

‘What the fuck’s your problem?’ was all shecould say. Chi raised his eyebrows in bemusement

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and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Sarahsmoothed her dress and straightened her hair.

‘Do you live nearby?’ He asked, even thoughhe knew by her accent that she was from the city.

‘None of your business,’ she stood on one legto put her shoe on.

As she forced her heel into the shoe she wentoff balance a bit and was forced to grab Chi’s coat.He moved closer to support her. Realising whatshe was doing she let go of him and straightenedup. Taking a bobbin from her wrist she tied herupset hair in a ponytail, flicking it from her neckwhen she was finished. Chi realised he was gazingat her. He checked his watch again and headed forthe shore.

‘Nice to have met you.’ He said ‘Goodbye.’ andthen he waved, and cringed.

‘Wait’ she said. He started back towards her.‘Where can I get a taxi?’He mimed making a phone call. She shook her

head‘I’ve no phone’‘Walk that way’ He pointed up the lane and

swept his arm to the side in a grand motion ‘Thenround the lake over the bridge and left.’ The wayhe said round sounded long and tedious. He beganto leave again.

‘Is it far?’

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‘One hour’s walk.’‘Are you going that way?’‘Yes, but not yet. After’‘After what?’He walked on quickly. She looked at him

becoming a shadow as he neared the shore, heardhis feet crunching lightly on the coarse sand. Shefollowed him.

Chi sat near the water and took the figures fromhis pocket. He scrunched his knees up close andheld the stones together in both hands and closedhis eyes. The dull knock of them off each otherbrought enquiry from Sarah who’d stoppednearby.

‘What’s in your hand?’ she said, as low as thelap of the water.

‘Little villagers’ He held out the figure of theeldest boy. She noticed Chi wore no socks.

‘Take it’The stone was warm from his touch. The

workmanship made it feel vibrant in Sarah’s hand.‘Did you do this?’Eyes still closed he nodded and placed the

other two stones by her on the sand. A little awecrept into her eyes as she knelt and looked fromthe stones to Chi.

‘They’re gorgeous,’ she said. ‘Who are they?’He didn’t answer. He didn’t really know, anddidn’t want to say.

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The breeze tickled ripples across the laketowards them and gently tugged at their clothes.She put the carving with the others and drew acircle around all three in the sand. Chi consideredtelling her the reason for the sculptures. Withoutknowing he chewed at his cheek as he sank intohis memories.

He had had been standing on the side of afertile mountain that tumbled into the churningwaters of the Yangtze River. It had just stoppedraining, and the memory of the downpour filledthe air. Little streams formed to gurgle along thetrail under Chi’s feet and the leaves of the treesand ferns all around drooped and dripped water.He stood amongst a row of about fifteen men, allwearing grubby working clothes, some carryingheavy sticks. They stared impatiently at theiremployer, a local official, who was reading from adocument. In front of them stood a group of fourfarmers and their wives, some grandparents andteenage children. Over their shoulders Chi couldsee the bamboo huts they’d built, with youngchildren peeping from within.

Across the river Chi could see a sign reading175M in large black letters. Further down themountain the ruins of a village lay near theriverbank, torn down by government bulldozers,and then smashed to small pieces by migrant

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workers. Just like hundreds of others, from smallvillages to bustling towns up and down the river, itwas emptied and destroyed to make way for thereservoir swelling up behind the Three GorgesDam, the most audacious building project in theworld. Anyone below the future water line markedby the sign – almost two million people – werebeing encouraged to relocate. But these fewfamilies, disgusted by the quality of their newland, had returned.

The official finished by asking the locals toleave without protest. When no answer came hedropped his head and waved his hand. Theworkers walked towards the huts, the line ofresidents broke and ran at them. A crazed womanattacked Chi, scratching his face in her frenzy.Adrenaline surged through him when he pushedher to the ground as if she wasn’t there. Hereached her home and took out a knife to cut at theropes holding it together. She ran towards himagain and he braced himself. But she ignored himand pulled her children from their home, theyoungest wearing only his underpants. All aroundwas chaos. Workers trampled over a smallvegetable patch, an ancient woman wailed andthrew stones at them. Goats bleated and werekicked. A farmer started to cry. Pots spilt and vasessmashed. Three teenage boys wrestled a stick

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from a worker and beat him to the ground. Butdespite all resistance the huts came down easily,rickety walls crumpled and their plastic roofsruffled in the air. It was almost over in less thanten minutes.

Everyone heard the howl soar up fromsomewhere near the river. The workers followedwhen Chi descended towards the sound. Near thevillage rubble he spotted the woman he hadpushed over. She was soaked through and had herempty eyes on a muddy brown pond. Beside herstood her husband, looking at his children. Thethree of them floated face down in the water. Anold couple took the woman away. As peoplespilled onto the scene it started to rain again. Thedrops fell like stones that made the trees shudder.

Silent faces watched the father take his childrenfrom the water. The official did not wait toproclaim they could not be buried here. The fatherslumped to the ground beside the bodies, hisdignified face marred by mud and loss. No onewent near him, too afraid of his grief. Some staredat Chi and his eyes dropped to his hands. Hepicked up some rubble that was splattered withred; stone broken from a wall that had stood forgenerations, until marked with a large red ‘Chai’,the symbol for tear down. He took out his knife,

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and started chipping at the ink. Within a couple ofdays he would leave China forever.

He opened his eyes and looked at Sarah. Hesilently watched her curl a strand of hair behindher ear.

On the horizon the night-time gloom was beingchased out of the sky. Sarah took the girl andcradled her in her palm. Chi picked up the boysand rose to his feet. He cast them across the waterto meet the others he’d created as company. Theysank slowly. He watched the ripples from eachskip expand into the other, as if they sought to beone. When he did this he always aimed for thesame area of water, hoping the stones would settleclose together, imagining little groupings of themon the lakes bed. He pictured the old couple, onwhose faces he’d etched tiny wrinkles, restingtogether, or his few well-sculpted mothers sittingclose enough to gossip in the depths. The visionhad nothing to do with the reality of their lives.But he had decided to honour them and this washis way.

‘There are houses under there, sometimes achurch steeple emerges from the water’ Chi said,pointing out to the centre of the lake. Sarah waslooking at the statue of the little girl in her hands.A child’s innocence had been skilfully worked

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into the stone. Despite the difference in features itwas as if she was looking at herself at that age andcradling the girl made her remember her father,when he used to swing her around and the worldhad felt so big. So much bigger than the back ofAidans’ car, she thought.

Sarah looked up as if she had forgotten he wasthere.

‘What happened earlier?’ he asked.‘You don’t want to know.’He nodded his head.The crackle of gravel made them look towards

the lane. Two cars turned into the car park, thesecond one with only one headlight. Both stopped,three men got out of the front car and walkedtowards Chi and Sarah. She closed her fist overthe sculpture as the first man, a gruff frowningredhead, stopped in front of her.

‘You’re wanted’ he said to Sarah. Aftergesturing towards the cars he nodded towards Chi.‘You’d be better off waiting here, bud.’

Chi looked over the lake. In the glare of theheadlights mist danced like ghosts on the water. Heassumed Sarah would make up with whoever wasin the car and leave. She was an attractive girl andhe was looking forward to walking with her, but ifshe was to leave it was okay, he thought. Then he

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remembered the final sculpture and started afterher. The big redhead stepped in his way.

‘I said stay here. Leave them to it’ Chi heardthe engine start as Sarah reached the car.

Sarah stopped beside the driver door. Aidansmiled out the window at her.

‘You calmed down now?’‘What do you think you’re doing back here?

You’re lucky I didn’t call the police’Aidan looked around the secluded spot and

laughed.‘Yeah they’d be here in a flash. Sure we both

know you wouldn’t call the police anyway Sarah.You’re not that type. Listen I’ve ditched my mate.He was only messin’ but I let it go too far. Comeback to town with me’.

‘Not in a million years.’‘Here look’ He reached into the glove box and

took out Sarah’s mobile phone. She snapped itfrom him.

‘And here take this as well’His hand held out a bag of cocaine.‘I can’t take that.’‘Go on, it’s cool,’ said Aidan, shaking the bag.‘I already owe you too much.’‘Look it’s okay. That’s a freebie. My way of

sayin’ sorry. I really enjoyed our time last week up

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here Sarah. I really like you. We can worksomething out with your debt. C’mon back withme.’

Sarah looked at the bag dangling in his handand felt a flutter of want. Her eyes dropped to thesculpture in her hand.

‘No thanks.’ She said. ‘I’ll find my own wayand pay what I owe you.’

He let her see his face sink into disappointment,and looked at her for a long moment beforeclosing up the window. ‘Fuckin’ right you’ll pay.And you owe me for the headlight as well. You’relucky I like you so much.’

She went to say something but Aidan startedbeeping the horn.

The men left Chi and returned to the car park.They got into the second car and followed asAidan drove up the lane. Before the second cardisappeared Sarah saw Aidans’ friend from earlierrise up in the back seat.

‘Bastard,’ she said and walked back to Chi.‘I take it you are waiting for this.’ She said

showing him the stone. Something about the wayshe held it made Chi not want to take it. Hethought for a second, and then nodded at the lake.

‘I would like for you to throw it in.’She walked so close to the water that it licked

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at her toes. She looked at Chi.‘What’s your name anyway?’‘Chi’‘I’m Sarah,’ she said, and sent the stone across

the surface.He wasn’t surprised when she threw it as well

as he could have. It bounced along the surfacethree times, scattering drops as it skipped beforedisappearing in a silvery glimmer. Chi toldhimself that sometimes, maybe, if the watermoved right, the stones would be stirred into lifeand the children might move together, floatingalong the scar of the river that lay at the heart ofthe reservoir, skirting around the parents and otherstatues as if at play.

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Notes on Contributors

Eileen Casey: Poet, fiction writer and journalist,originally from the Midlands, I’ve lived inTallaght since the late l970’s. A part-time tutorwith County Dublin V.E.C., it gives me greatpleasure to share some of the writing journey withnew writers. In February, 2007, my first solovisual art exhibition Reading fire, Writing flame,using encaustic art, photography and text, goes onshow at Aras An Chontae, Tullamore.

Joan Byrne: Born in Dublin, I’m the mother offive grown up children and grandmother of two.I’ve always been a “scribbler” and started writingseriously five years ago after completing aCreative Writing course. I took part in The FusedFestival, 2004 (South Dublin County) where Iread my poetry. My prose piece ‘Fettercairn’ wasincluded in County Lines, a portrait of life inSouth Dublin County, published 2005 by NewIsland. My main creative influences are lifeexperiences and my late father’s love of words.

Dympna Murray-Fennell: I have dabbled increative writing for many a year. My work hasbeen broadcast on Sunday Miscellany and hasbeen published in both recent editions of the

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Sunday Miscellany anthology. My work alsoappears in County Lines, a portrait of life in SouthDublin County and in that bastion of memoirwriting Ireland’s Own. I have gotten a new leaseof creativity from a Creative Writing programmewith Lucan Writer’s Group facilitated by EileenCasey.

Maurice Flynn: I’m a Lucan based writercurrently completing a novel and working on acollection of short stories.

Colm Keegan: Thirty-one years old, I live with mypartner and three daughters in Clondalkin, Co.Dublin. In 2005, I was short listed for the SundayTribune/Hennessy Literary Awards (First Fiction)for a short story ‘Slaughter-house Rat’.

Joe McKiernan: Born in l967 in Walkinstown Iattended Crumlin CBS. In l994 I began a period ofliving and working abroad, travelling duringbreaks in work. I’ve worked in England, TheNetherlands and Australia and travelled in Europe,Australia, North America, South America andAfrica. I’m currently writing a novel ‘Here’s to thePrimary Colours’ which tracks the experiences ofthree people who travel to Australia. I also like to

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write in several genres including science fiction,fantasy, humour and drama.

Joan 0’Flynn: I have lived in Lucan for the pastthirty-eight years. ‘Love Affair with Lucan’ waspublished in County Lines, a portrait of life inSouth Dublin County’. Currently, I am working ona collection of short fiction together with anumber of short stories for children, inspired bymy own grandchildren. I have had fictionpublished in Ireland’s Own and I’m a regularcontributor to the weekly ‘Lucan Newsletter’where I’m a member of the editorial team.

Patricia 0’Shea: Five years ago, having rearedfive wonderful children, I moved into the vicinityof Lucan. In Lucan Library I attended a CreativeWriting course, facilitated by Eileen Casey, whichrevived a long buried ambition to write. Theopportunity to participate in a writing workshopby Dermot Bolger, Writer-in-Residence for SouthCounty Dublin, provided further encouragement.While interested in poetry, I am currently focusingon prose, both in the short story form and finally,‘that’ novel.

Louise Phillips: Married with three children, I livein Templeogue. I returned to writing a couple of

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years ago when I joined a writing class (facilitatedby Eileen Casey) in Old Bawn CommunitySchool, Tallaght. Following this, I completed awriting workshop with Dermot Bolger, Writer-in-Residence in South Dublin County, 2005. I havewritten a number of short stories and poems and,together with other local based writers, I read atthe annual Reader’s Day in the Plaza, 2005 (aSouth Dublin County Libraries’ event). ‘AnotherRoad’ formed part of the recently publishedanthology by New Island, edited by DermotBolger, County Lines, a portrait of life in SouthDublin County.

Elizabeth Reid: Writing has been an importantpart of my life for many years. I have recentlycompleted my first novel and have just started mysecond. I work as a full-time carer for my mother.The written word has always been my adviser andfriend, my solace and delight.

Marie Tarpey: I live in Lucan, Co. Dublin and I’mcurrently working on a novel about adoption. I amoriginally from Mayo and work as an electricalengineer in West Dublin.

Triona Walsh: I’ve been writing since my teensand have been happily toiling over a novel for the

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past couple of years. I write short stories for theinstant gratification and to remind myself that Ican finish something. My husband is very muchlooking forward to the day my first novel ispublished and he can retire. I try not to disillusionhim.

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