Christina's Journey

Every day, I take the underground from, Mile End, in east London to, Charing Cross Station, in central London. From there it's only a ten-minute walk to the fashion boutique where I'm a paid slave. Most days this involves a ten-minute dash in High heels, which is nine minutes too far. Lately, I've started bringing a pair of flats in my handbag and changing into the four-inch foot killers when I get to work. I've been here for six months, on minimum pay and extra-long days. The main reason I'm doing it is for the huge discount I get on designer clothes.

Mile End is a lovely place. I have a tiny studio apartment overlooking leafy, Mile End Park. I’ve not always lived in the city and having this little patch of green to look out on reminds me of the rolling pastures of home.

My first trip on the underground during rush hour was an experience. It was still dark at 7.40am, when I closed my apartment door and faced the cutting wind and mist. Bundled up in a thick winter coat, cut too fashionably to be effective, I clip-clopped into the miserable November gloom in my killer heels. The sounds of the city are different than you might imagine, the constant road noise forms a backdrop to everything else. What is unexpected is how little other noise there is. Hundreds, even thousands of people, walk along in silence, the occasional buzz of music from ear phones or hushed conversation, but mainly just the sound of feet on pavement.

This silent throng condenses in places like train platforms or subway stations. Silent armies stand mute, shoulder to shoulder, waiting to launch themselves at the next arriving train. The high-pitch sound of the electric motor, whirring down under breaking, followed by the whoosh of hydraulic doors springing open. At Mile End, only a few disembark but a great herd of humanity surges forward, cramming themselves aboard. The train is packed so tight, only the thickness of your clothes separates you from the next person. This orgy of morning movers, do so, in complete silence and without ever making eye contact.

Whoosh goes the doors, and everyone holds on. The carriage rocks forward and back, as the electric motor takes the strain. The whine begins low, building steadily to a welcome hum. Clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety clack. The tracks beat out the time of our progress. These are the sounds that let us know all is right with the world.

Behind me, a man's briefcase is rammed, corner first, into my rump. An arm-pit, freshly washed thank God, curls behind my ear and grasps a handrail, all around I’m hemmed in with human flesh, damp clothing, and bags. I stand like all the others; uncomplaining, unmoving, in silent acceptance of this short enforced intimacy with the great unwashed.

Ten stops and twenty minutes later, we arrive at, Charing Cross Station. The doors open and the unstoppable tide of morning workers charge fourth, it is as if the train vomited multicoloured moving creatures. I shake myself mentally, rushing toward cool fresh air, ridding myself of the touch of others. Perhaps it’s due to this unnerving, and unwelcome, closeness with strangers that I’m so repulsed by the sight of the tramp sitting on a bench with his begging cup held aloft with little expectation. I can still feel the thick vapours of unwashed humans drifting in my delicate nose. I look away and hurried past the man, like everyone else.

This twice daily baptism of humanity continues mostly undisturbed for six months. Every day, morning and evening, the dirty tramp is a permanent fixture. This morning just like all others. Working in the shop for more than six months has elevated me to the rank of senior member of staff. With such lofty heights comes added responsibility, which is the reason my trip home tonight has been delayed. A delivery coming after closing and of course, the boss, couldn’t stay to check it in herself. She passed me the bunch of keys, and the security code for the alarm, like a royal bequeath.

"The truck will be here about seven, just check off the boxes and we will do the unpacking tomorrow," she instructed. "I’d trust only you, Christina," she said, fixing me with cow-like vacant eyes. Truth was, she’d have trusted a semi-competent monkey if she had one. At six, we locked up, and I went to a nearby wine bar to wait for the delivery. Two glasses of Pinot Grigio and forty minutes late, they arrived. Ticking off the delivery was not straightforward either. The invoice was itemised individually, and the boxes were unlabelled. In the end, I was forced to open them all.

It was nearly nine when I finally entered the code into the security panel and turned the key on the steel shutters. Feeling jaded, and cheated, I treated myself to one last glass of vino before catching the late train home.

Comfortably shod in my flat shoes, I descended into the bowels of the earth to catch the tube. It was my first time here outside of rush hour, and it was eerily different. The tiled walls reflected each footfall, echoing away into the distance, with no soft human bodies to impede their progress. I reached the platform and the tramp was in his normal position but this time he had slipped to the side and was snoring openly. I walked to the far end of the platform, away from him, to wait on the train.

Around the corner came three men, all dressed in clothes way too big for them. Puffy jackets and thick gold chains, swinging in time with their exaggerated walk. Two were dark skinned, one was white, but all wore baseball hats pushed high over spotty, cruel, faces.

"Brov what have we got here? banging gyaldem," the middle one said to his minions, as he sauntered up to where I stood. I tried not to look at them, hoping they would go away and leave me alone. No such luck, he moved even closer, with the other two hemming me in against the curved tiled wall of the station. He reached out, placing his hand on the wall over my head, getting very close.

"You look like a bitch that knows a thing or two," he leered, grabbing my breast through my coat. His touch broke the spell that held me.

"Leave me alone," I screamed, slapping away his hand. More hands pawed me from all sides, grabbing at me, and my bag. I hold on tight, screaming and lashing out, but I was alone on the platform and at their mercy.

From nowhere, a dirty hand punched the middle thug, sending him flying. It was the tramp from the top of the platform. He pushed the others back and stood in front of me, blocking them.

"Brave boys, ait you, against one little girl," he said, in a surprisingly cultured accent.

"Kotch, brov. This ain't your beef. Sketch, or it be dred, in-it," the downed yob snarled at the tramp. God knows what he’d said, but I prayed the tramp wouldn’t abandon me.

"Then dred it will be," said the tramp.

He was buried in an avalanche of fists and feet. He fought back but was soon overpowered. The steel of the blade flashed bright as it arched towards his body, glinting in the cold light of the florescent bulbs high above the platform. It thumped into the soft giving body of the tramp. I screamed, but couldn’t run. I screamed, and no help came. The blade pulled back and a fountain of red splattered my legs and coat. The knife sunk into him again, its hilt covered in the ruby blood of this poor man. The high whine of an approaching train filled my ears, the hoodie scum faltered and ran.

I kneeled beside the old tramp. I was a sobbing mess of snot, tears, and blood. I tried to hold back the flow, but it came from everywhere. The tramp looked at me with clear eyes and did the strangest thing. He smiled.

"Help is coming," I told him. "Help is on the way."

"It is alright, darling. Everything is going to be alright now. I’ve made it right again," he said in a weak voice but still smiling at me. The lake of blood spread across the tiles at an alarming rate. I waited for help that would never come. I cried as he closed his eyes, and watched helplessly as the growing puddle of blood reached the edge of the platform and cascaded away.

That had been three days ago. I’d spend hours answering questions, looking at mug-shots and filling out statements. Since that night I’ve not been able to leave my flat. I couldn’t face what might be out there. Today, I watched the park from my window, and knew if I didn’t go out, right now, I’d never leave the flat again.

I walked slowly through the surprisingly quiet mid-morning streets, naturally ending up at the train station. I had let my feet go where they would. I boarded the next train and it started its journey, like it always had, but today I got a seat. Counting down the stops, I neared my destiny, and my nightmare. At last, the train slowed. I saw the signs saying Charing Cross and my skin crawled. The doors opened with their customary whoosh, and I nearly didn’t get off. I steadied myself before stepping out on the platform. I looked to the left, at the spot, but the platform was unmarked. It was as if nothing had ever occurred and a life had not been taken so savagely.

I was pulled to the spot by an irresistible force, no stains remained, no mark of a man passing, or a life destroyed. Nothing except a single shirt button nestling against the base of the wall. I collapsed to my knees and dug the button out. I don’t know if it was his, or not, but seeing that button in the palm of my hand broke the last string of control I had.

I don't know how long I sobbed, lying on the cold tiles, but the warmth of a hand stroking my hair invaded my desolation.

"There, there, darling," cooed a soothing voice. I wiped my eyes on my jacket sleeve and looked into a kind, but grief drawn face, a few years older than mine. In her hand she held a bouquet of flowers. I watched as she laid them against the wall, a card sellotaped to it said, Dad Xxx. She kissed her fingers and brushed the card with them, all the time holding me loosely with her other.

"You must be, Christina, the girl my Dad helped," she said with a sad smile. I nodded searching her face for some shadow of the tramp I’d passed time and again, but his face was a blur of sideways glances, half remembered.

"I’m so sorry, it was all my fault," I sobbed. "He would be alive if I’d gone home earlier." I said, giving words to the feeling of guilt that I was suffering.

"My Dad, died years ago," she said. "You brought him back to us at last. Thank you," she said, cryptically.

"I don't understand."

"Fourteen years ago, Dad was coming home. It had been a double shift and he fell asleep at the wheel. He woke up without a scratch, but the car had crashed through a bus stop. He killed a young nurse. In Court, he received a suspended sentence but he would have preferred if they gave him life. Dad never would, or could, forgive himself. Outside the court house was the last time I ever saw him. He took off his tie and hugged me, he told me he loved me very much and I would be fine. He said he hoped I would understand, one day. He said he had to make things 'Right Again'. I never saw him again. All he took was the clothes he was standing up in."

"He said that to me, before he died," I said, putting the pieces together. "He said, he had made it right again."

She bent over me and kissed the top of my head. She whispered in my ear, "You are his angel, you gave him peace. Thank you. Thank you from us all."

I cried again, but this time it felt different. It was not coming from such a dark place. This woman, whom I’d never met before, but who I owed so much, helped me to my feet. Together we took the first steps on my new journey, a journey to live up to a brave man's sacrifice.

Help, I'm locked in.

One day while working at reception I got a call from an elderly American lady.

"Good morning, reception, how can I help you" I said on picking up the phone.

"This is Mrs Bally in room 214 and I am locked into my bedroom, please get someone to let me out," said the irate woman. I happened to be by myself at the time and it was impossible for someone to lock themselves in so I thought I would see if I could talk her out.

"Sure thing Mrs Bally someone will be straight up but before you hang up the phone are you sure that it is not just a bit stiff," I asked.

"I am completely sure, I have been twisting and tugging at the door for the last ten minutes, it is definitely locked," she said tetchily. Just then it struck me that 214 was joined to 215 by an interconnecting door which would indeed have been locked.

"How many doors are in the room Mrs Bally," I asked.

"Three," she said.

"Have you tried the other doors," I asked.

"What do you take me for, the bathroom is behind the other door," she said.

"What about the third door Mrs Bally have you tried that one," I asked.

"Of course not, there is a 'Do not disturb' sign on it" she said. Once I got my laughter under control, I successfully talked Mrs Bally out of her self imposed imprisonment.

Gluttony

Hello friend, I hope I find you in good form today.

Did you ever have a moment that sneaks up and takes you by surprise, a moment not unlike any other but it resonates for reasons difficult to identify at the time? Earlier today I had such a moment and it took me quiet some time to figure out why it was bothering me.

On the surface it was the most ordinary of ordinary events. I was working in the bar, a man came in for a drink, he sat at the counter, opened his newspaper, ordered a pint, which he proceeded to drink while flicking through the days events. He had a second pint, finished the paper and left all within the space of 40 minutes.

Ok you say, "What about it,". It was a quiet day for a Saturday so I tried to take in his essence and here is what struck me. He was a glutton. The first pint was finished in 3 or 4 long swallows, his Adams apple bouncing as he gulped down the tasty dark beer. He flicked page after page on he paper, his eyes skimming the words someone, somewhere had worked so hard to craft into an interesting tale. What was this man getting out of all this. Was he actually tasting the beer he drank, did he get pleasure from the time he was spending on the paper. It is the question that has vexed me for the rest of the day.

I got to thinking about the nature of how we live, how I live. In the end I came to the conclusion that I, like a lot of others, was living my life without wringing the full measure out of my experiences. Not big things like seeing the Grand Canyon but smaller experiences like a lazy Saturday afternoon pint and a paper.

For some reason the image of a huge humpback whale rising from the depths appeared in my mind. The beast gulping in tonnes of krill and seawater, gushing it between enormous baleen curtains before ingesting the lot. Ask that whale to describe the subtle flavours of a krill and I am sure you will get no answer. I feel I am this whale hovering up daily experiences, racing to get more and missing out on so much in the process.

I have more than enough money but strive to make more wealth, to what end?

I have not been hungry in years but have trouble describing to you the flavour of my last meal.

I am not thirsty but still I go out to take a drink.

I surround myself with people but do I take the time to really enjoy them?

My hours pass in constant activity but rarely do I take the opportunity to fully appreciate what I am doing.


So there you have it, my little epiphany. The question is what to do about it. Am I going to embark on a  radical life changing course of action? I am not. Am I going to do anything about this situation? Yes I am.

My next meal I am going wait until I am truly hungry, then I am going to eat a very small meal, very slowly, trying to savour each flavour.

When I next read, I am going to take my time over the words, give them the attention they deserve, paint the picture the author wanted to convey in my mind.

In my next conversation I am going to stop and give all my time and attention to the person, take in all they have to give, delve deep into them and extract all I can from it.

I am going to go to bed after a hard days work, in my dry safe house and wish for no more.

I am going to enjoy my little blogging hobby where I can share my thoughts and tails with one person. To make that single connection and rejoice in it. To share with them and learn from them.

Today you are that connection and I am delighted I was you. There you have it, a tiny window into my day. I hope I have not bored you too badly and hope you will take the time to let me know what has been happening with you. It has been lovely talking to you today, I wish you all the best and look forward to meeting up again real soon.

Squid.

Forest Sprite

Forest Sprite

This forest is an ancient place where time and history have scant meaning. The trees and their forbearers have watched the eons pass, civilisations rise and empires fall. Their memory stretches far back into the mists of creation were mystery and magic were commonplace. Even now, in the age of space exploration a little of that ethereal essence remains.

Look closely into the gloom, be still and wait, perhaps you can glimpse it for yourself.

She welcomes the dawn, throwing her arms to the sky, gossamer threads of mist rise from the warm soil to hang suspended about her naked body. Her form so sensual it seduces even the earth and the sky, the very elements of life. The first rays of light flicker through the woodland canopy to dance over her in pinpricks of brilliance, roving where desire may take them. Her alabaster skin prickles at each warming touch, her toes flex to bury themselves deep in the blanket of moss and her back arches in ecstatic abandon.   

She leaps forward with the grace of a gazelle. Her feet, light as a butterfly's touch, leave no sign of her passing. She flies through the air, using low slung branches to hurl herself forward. She races across open ground on all fours, bounding from fallen log to barren rock, with a skill long since lost to man. Soon, she's lathered in sweat, panting through smiling lips, she gulps down the morning air.

Ahead lies a mired stream, the ground beneath her feet oozes rich dark mud. She launches herself in a shallow dive, rolling and writhing in the grime, using her delicate hands to coat every inch of her skin with the slippery earth. Her head lolls back as she relishes the feel of her slick hand passing over her body. Her breath deepens until the groans coming from her throat can only be described as base.

At last, exhausted and sated, she rises from the mud and follows the rising sun towards the edge of the lake. Crystal clear, the water beckons her in. She vaults forward piercing the surface without causing a ripple. Her hands push the cool liquid aside as she delves deep. She welcomes the icy touch which explores her like a well acquainted lover. Her skin tingles as the clinging mud is washed from her deepest pore, the chill of the lake cooling her after the exertions of the forest. She dives deeper still, kicking strongly for the bottom until she's floating above the swaying weed anchored on the lake bed. She turns to watch the rising sun transform each surface ripple into a million glittering diamonds. Soon, her lungs need to taste air and she drives for the surface, alas the morning commune is nearly over.

Strong strokes take her back to the bank where she retrieves her clothes from the hollow log. Once dressed, she finds her keys where she'd hidden them. It was nearly time to wake the kids for school. She left with a heavy heart, the magic of the place would sustain her until the next time she could be free...alive...without constraint.  

Inspired by the thoughts and words of Bobbi

What was that

I am awake, why am I awake? Why is my heart racing?

Shhh, Listen did you hear something? 

I search the darkness but all is familiar, shadows rest as they always have. I breathe in tentatively, testing the air for danger but the only scent is my own. Something woke me, but what? I'm sure something is amiss. My mind says I should get up and check, my legs disagree. I hold my breath and strain my ears.

Outside, the wind makes the leaves sing a sweet lullaby, the summer rain on the slate above my head plinks and plonks with merry rhythm, otherwise the house slumbers peacefully.

Seconds pass without incident and my breathing returns to normal. The heat in my bed seeps deep into my weary body, robbing it of its resolve, my eyes flutter and close.

The creek is hushed but unmistakable.

I'm fully awake now but I can't pinpoint its origin. I lie and wait, unable to do anything else. I'm frozen by fear. It comes again, this time closer, or is it just a trick of the night air. I lean out of the bed and flick on the light.

"Who's there," I call with more conviction than I feel. No response. I throw my feet out of bed and search the house. All is exactly as it should be.

With nothing left to check I go back to my room, chiding myself for such childish notions. I close my door firmly and listen for a moment. There is nothing. I climb into my bed, only because it is where I should be and wait for sleep to come. Then I hear it, rough skin slipping over timber, and my blood turns to ice. Its close and getting closer.

I lie paralyzed but I can feel my heart race inside my ribcage. A shadow shifts and glides were no shadow has ever been, it is distinct and hazy at once. There, but not there. It drifts over the bed, invisible talons plucking at my sheet. It leans over me, infecting my eyes with darkness. I try to scream, but that's a mistake. The shadow rushes forward, spilling over my teeth, stretching my jaw to breaking as it dives down to feed on my soul. My last sound dies in my throat as my heart explodes in my chest, and as my brain grows dim I get my first glimpse of the afterlife and begin screaming for real.

What Kids Think

(I did not write this but it is so funny I just had to share it with you. Hope it makes you smile as much as I did)

What Kids Really Think About…

…Love

“One of the people has freckles and so he finds somebody else who has freckles too.” Andrew, age 6

“No one is sure why it happens, but I heard it has something to do with how you smell… That’s why perfume and deodorant are so popular.” Mae, age 9

“I think you’re supposed to get shot with an arrow or something, but the rest of it isn’t supposed to be so painful.” Manual, age 8

“It’s like an avalanche where you have to run for your life.” John, age 9
“If falling in love is anything like learning how to spell, I don’t want to do it. It takes too long.” Glenn, age 7

“If you want to be loved by somebody who isn’t already in your family, it doesn’t hurt to be beautiful.” Anita C., age 8

“It isn’t always just how you look. Look at me. I’m handsome like anything and I haven’t got anybody to marry me yet.” Brian, age 7

“Beauty is skin deep. But how rich you are can last a long time.” Christine, age 9

“Mooshy…like puppy dogs…except puppy dogs don’t wag their tails nearly as much.” Arnold, age 10

“When a person gets kissed for the first time, they fall down and they don’t get up for at least an hour.” Wendy, age 8

…Lovers Going To The Movies

“All of a sudden, the people get movies fever so they can sit together in the dark.” Sherm, age 8

“They want to make sure their rings don’t fall off because they paid good money for them.” Gavin, age 8

“They are just practicing for when they might have to walk down the aisle someday and do the holy matchimony thing.” John, age 9

Sargent Kelly

In my dad’s time, the law in our town stood six foot two, and was stronger than a Russian power lifter. Sargent Kelly had an on-the-spot interpretation of the Irish penal code, and dispensed justice with personality. Things back then would best be described as very wild-west, without a hint of political correctness.

Sargent Kelly (or just Kelly if he was not in ear shot), was the angriest man ever to walk in shoe leather. I don’t think he once smiled while in uniform. In every town there the bullies who pick on the weak, then there are bigger bullies, who pick on them. Sargent Kelly liked to pick on the biggest of the bullies, but if they were unavailable for a punch, of the smaller ones would just have to do.

Sargent Kelly universally terrified everyone under the age of thirty, was loved by everyone over the age of sixty, and mistrusted by all in the middle. He'd walk up and down the town in massive strides, his hands clasped menacingly together behind his back. He didn't stop for chats, nor friendly nods of recognition, because Sargent Kelly was hunting, hunting for someone just asking for a thick ear. He'd pass the pubs were the tough lads gathered, and anyone with an ounce of sense made a close examination of their shoes when he appeared. A glance at the wrong time, or at the wrong angle, would result in a little tap.

That phrase became legend around the town after Sargent Kelly arrested three men for fighting in the street, one night after pub closing time. When they appeared in the dock the next day, the Judge was horrified at the state of them. Their clothes were in ribbons, each of them had black eyes, busted lips, and a sideways nose. Sargent Kelly was in the witness box, about to give his evidence when the Judge asked, “What in heavens happened, Sargent?” 

“Your Honour. I was coming down Main Street at 11.50pm, when I saw three men arguing in the street. I approached them, and told them to make their way home, but they continued to argue and refused to follow my instructions. I then took the men into custody.” Sargent Kelly said matter-of-factly.  

“Can you identify which man lashed out first, Sargent?” asked the Judge.

“I don’t follow, Your Honour,” said Sargent Kelly.

“Which of these men, hit one of the other men first, Sargent,” repeated the Judge.

“Oh, they were shouting, not hitting, your Honour,” said Kelly.

“Then, how did they end up in such a state,” asked the Judge, clearly confused.

“Well, they refused to stop shouting and leave the area, so I had to give them a little tap,” said Kelly, not quiet understanding what all the fuss was about.

After the Judge gave Sargent Kelly a dressing down, and instruction on excessive force, he dismissed the case against the defendants feeling they had suffered quiet enough. Outside, Sargent Kelly was heard to complain that in his day, "fellas like those, would never get to see the inside of a cell, never mind the inside of a court house. The whole world was going soft."

But the story that best represents peace keeping Irish style happened on a sunny Sunday morning. Sargent Kelly was making his presence felt in the main square, when a young lad of about sixteen came speeding through a stop sign on his bicycle, forcing an oncoming car to break hard. With two huge strides, Sargent Kelly was straddling the line in the middle of the road, blocking all escape for boy and bike. The teenager came to a skidding stop.

“Young McCarthy, I should have known. Did you not see the stop sign? The made it nice and big, even painted it red, you gobshite,” Sargent Kelly barked at the young man. 

Brian McCarthy was not renowned for his brains, but his cheek was legendary. “I did, Sargent. I slowed down, and saw it was fine, so kept going,” said the young man with a little grin. Kelly’s blood began to boil.

“Is that right McCarthy? Well that’s all right then, isn’t it?” said Kelly, his words dripping sarcasm. “Stop means STOP, McCarthy, not fucking slow down.”

“What’s the difference?” asked the young-lad, pushing his luck to the limit.

“Get off the bike and let me explain it to you,” said Sargent Kelly, his hands planted firmly on his hips, and his face glowing read with rage. 

The young lad swung his leg over the bar of the bike, but before it even hit the ground, Sargent Kelly grabbed the back of his jacket, and with one twist of his wrist, the kid was on the tips of his toes. Sargent Kelly swept his foot up, with a footballer’s skill, and planted it firmly in young McCarthy's arse. The boy screamed in pain while Kelly booted the young lad about eight more times. 

Young McCarthy tried to run but ended up going in circles around the massive Garda. He looked like a dog, chasing his own tail. Before long, a large crowd of mass goers had gathered to watch the fun. As suddenly as the attack started, it stopped. Kelly held the lad up so they were eye to eye. “Right so, McCarthy, would you like me to slow down, or stop?”

“Jesus Christ, STOP!” yelled the young lad. 

Kelly dropped him and said, “Glad you get the difference,” before stomping up the street in a rage. 

Get more stories like this - The Misadventures of Father Tom

Father Tom & Marilyn.

“Father Tom, it’s time to get up,” Jane called, while she happily washed the pans used for cooking breakfast. Soon, Father Tom came thumping down the stairs. He wasn’t cranky, or anything like that, but a man of his size thumped wherever he went.

“Morning Jane,” he said, mid-yawn, enjoying an energetic stretch. He was a great stretcher. He arched his back and stuck out his substantial tummy, before crouching down like a sumo wrestler. Not finished yet, he did a three hundred and sixty degree turn on his way up, sending a box of cornflakes flying off the kitchen table.

“Oh God, Father, what will we do with you!” she scolded, even though she was fifteen years younger than the priest, she often felt like his mother.

“Sorry Jane,” he said, starting to pick up the spilled cereal. Jane shushed him away with a tea towel, cleaning up the mess herself.

“Leave that, Father, God knows what you’ll break next.” In reality, she enjoyed the fact he was a bit clumsy, it made her feel needed. He lowered himself into a chair, scratching his chin through his fluffy black beard. Jane had offered to trim it before, but the only person he would let near him with a scissors was his barber. His hair was starting to get long, nearly reaching his collar, Father Tom would soon be needing his bi-annual visit to Marco.

He poured a cup of tea from the pot and flipped open the newspaper, as Jane dished up sausages and bacon for him. Father Tom mumbled a constant stream of nonsense while he read, “Hum”, “Would you believe it”, “For the love of God”, “Holy Mother”. The stories could be about anything, she could never guess whether they were happy or sad from listening to his noises.

“By the hockey, Jane, will you look at this,” he said, shoving the paper across the table at her. Jane read the article Father Tom was pointing at, ‘An exhibition of Marilyn Monroe memorabilia is going on display in Dublin, including some never before seen photos of her and John F Kennedy’.

“I’d love to go see that,” he said, shovelling sausages into his mouth and washing them down with buckets of sweet tea.

“Why don’t you go? It’s only two weeks away. You can book tickets in that music shop in town,” Jane said.

“Do you know, I just might do that,” he said, with a little smile. “I hope they have that white dress, from the photo.”

“Which dress is that, Father?” she asked.

“You know, the famous one. When she stood on the air vent and the wind blew up her skirt showing her – em,” he said, stopping mid-sentence and going a little red.

“Father Tom, you should be ashamed of yourself,” she chided, making him go even redder. She couldn’t stop the corners of her mouth twitching upwards in a smile.

“Ah! Would you go way out of that,” he said, flapping his hand at her, and going back to read the rest of the paper. 

***

A couple of days later, Father Tom was walking past the music shop and decided on the spur of the moment that he was going to go to the show after all. He entered the shop which was filled with long racks of CDs and video games. The walls were adorned with dozens of wildly coloured posters, and one whole side of the shop was filled with computers and mobile phones. Behind the counter a bored looking girl in her twenties watched him approach. Her hair was bright red, the colour of a traffic cone, and she had a steel hook stuck through her nose.

“God almighty, that looks sore,” he said. “Do you need to see a doctor?”

“Are you trying to be funny?” she sneered.

“Not at all,” he said, unzipping his jacket. When she caught a glimpse of his dog collar, her attitude softened like magic.

“Oh, sorry, Father. It’s only a piercing,” she said, unscrewing the lethal-looking fashion accessory to show him how it fitted together.

“Whatever will you young people think of next?” he asked and shacked his head in disbelief. “I was told I could buy tickets for a show in Dublin here?”

“You sure can, Father. Who were you going to see?” the girl asked while punching keys on a computer mounted under the desk.

“I wanted to see Marilyn Monroe, it’s happening next week,” he said, leaning on the counter, coming very close to knocking over a revolving rack of headphones. The girl searched on the computer for a while before saying, “I can’t see anything by that name, Father, are you sure you have it right?”

“Certain, my dear,” he said.

“The only thing even close, is Marilyn Manson, in the O2 next Friday,” she said.

“That’s the one,” he said thinking they must be using her married name or something. The flame haired girl tapped a few more keys, and looked at the priest with concern. “Father, are you sure this is right? This stuff is a bit sexy.”

“Between you and me,” he said leaning closer, “I always thought so, myself, but what is the harm in it?” She looked shocked, but in a good way.

“All I can say is, fair play to you, Father. What seats do you want?”

“I wasn’t planning on sitting. I thought I’d walk around, and make sure I saw everything,” he said.

“The only standing tickets left are in the mosh pit,” she said.

“Where is the mosh pit?” he asked.

“Right at the front.”

“Sounds like just the spot for me,” he said smiling. The girls eyebrows arched so high, they nearly vanished into her thatch of red hair.

“Do you want two tickets?” she asked.

“Ah no, one will do. I’m sure I’ll meet someone nice to keep me company,” he said. The red haired girl took payment, and handed over his ticket.

“I must say, I admire a priests who’s not afraid to get in touch with modern culture” she said happily and waved him out of the shop.

***

On the morning of the show, Jane drove him to the train station. From her bag, she pulled a tartan flask of tea and a Tupperware box of ham sandwiches. “Take these with you, Father, the prices on the train are scandalous, and they only use cheap old ham anyway.”

“Jane, what would I do without you,” he said, whisking her up in a massive bear hug, the excitement of the trip making him lose the run of himself. She vanished in his trunk-like arms, like a toddler vanishes in a parents embrace. When he let her go, she was blushing from top to toe. She gave him a playful slap on the chest and said, “Father! Stop it will yea, people will talk.”

He smiled back at her and thought that the blush suited her. It was then that the train pulled into the station. He tucked the containers under his arm and jumped aboard.

He felt like a kid on a school trip. He loved being a priest, but sometimes he missed being just “Tom”. Today was like a holiday back to himself, back in time when he sat as a kid in musty old movie theatres, watching Marilyn on the silver screen. Tom wondered if he’d get to touch something that was actually hers, imagine that. He passed the journey by daydreaming, and remembering more innocent times. It felt like he’d only sat down, when the train pulled into Huston Station. Father Tom wandered out of the station in a crush of commuters and found a row of taxis waiting near the gate. He got into the back seat of the first one he came to.

“Where to,” the driver asked, without looking over his shoulder.

“The O2,” he said with happy authority. At this, the driver turned in his seat and glared.

“I didn’t think that would be your kind of thing, Father. Are you protesting or something?”

“Goodness no, I’m a big fan,” he said. “Do you know about the show?”

“I’ve spent all day bringing people to it, if you can call them that,” the cabbie said, pulling into the late evening traffic. The driver spent the rest of the ride shaking his head, tutting and mumbling. “What is the world coming to?”

The taxi pulled up outside a building on the quay. There were a lot of barriers and the street was strewn with rubbish, it wasn’t quite what he had expected. There were a lot of young people and some were wearing the wildest clothes. It was amazing what passed for fashion these days, he thought remembering the girl with the fish-hook through her nose. He got out of the taxi, and heard music coming from inside the place, it added a lovely party atmosphere to the show he guessed. At the door, several men in bright yellow vests with “Security” across the back, were lounging around, so Father Tom walked up to one of them and presented his ticket.

“You’re a bit late, Father,” said the man, tearing off the stub. They insisted he open the flask of tea and sniffed it, as well as looking in the sandwich box. They were taking this security thing very seriously, perhaps there’d been a bomb threat.  The security man studied his ticket with a smirk and said, “The mosh pit, Father? Are you doing research on the other side?”

“I didn’t want to miss anything, and I like being able to walk around,” he said, not liking being subjected to this interrogation one bit. “Which way do I go?”

“I’ll take you down there, the show is about to start,” said the man in the vest.

Father Tom found himself walking down a long aisle, bordered on both sides by thousands of people. There was so many wild costumes, it was like Halloween. He couldn’t get over some of the get-ups. As he was escorted through the crowd, he was smiled at, high fives were given, and they even cheered him at one stage. He had to admit he was feeling a little bit like a celebrity.

“Great idea, man, wish I had thought of it,” said one guy, patting him on the back as he passed. Half the man’s face was black, the other half red, and his hair was spiked.  By now, it was occurring to Tom, that something had gone very wrong with his tickets.

“This is your section, Father. Good luck!” shouted the security man, as he opened a crush barrier for him to enter.

Father Tom was surrounded by a solid mass of humanity, dressed in the wildest costumes yet, the ones that were dressed at all. In front of him, on a massive stage, was a huge statue of a woman in white suspenders, bra and knickers, who oddly wore a bunny rabbit’s head, of all things. This was no exhibition of memorabilia and he was on the verge of leaving when a black haired girl crashed into him, knocking him flat on his back. She landed right on top of him, lying with her face only inches from his.

“Oh, hi,” she said. “Great costume.”

“Hi,” said Father Tom. “Why do you all think I’m in fancy dress?” Her eyes widened, cracking her thick black eyeliner.

“Feck off! You are actually a priest,” she said, pushing herself up on her elbows to get a better look.

“Yes I am. My name is Tom, nice to meet you,” he said, holding out his hand. She took it, and shook.

“My name is Sandy, Father, nice to meet you, too.” She got to her feet, helping him to his.

“Are those sandwiches?” she asked, pointing at the box. Father Tom offered to share a sandwich, which she devoured with gusto.

“Cheers, I have the munchies bad,” she said, blowing bread crumbs out of her mouth as she talked. Father Tom took a good look at the girl. She was wearing platform boots, laced all the way up to her thighs. Next came tiny black leather shorts, and her upper body was stuffed into a black and red corset, which could only contain half her bosom. Her pretty little face was painted powder white, with thick black eyeliner, all topped off with a mane of long black hair. He thought she looked rather well, actually.

Just then a thunderous roar came from the crowd, as a band appeared on stage. Sandy grabbed Father Tom’s hand and shouted in his ear, “Come dance with me, Father.” He only hesitated for a second, before disappearing into the moving throng of humanity, hand in hand with a busty stranger.

***

As luck would have it, the same taxi driver picked him up after the concert. The man smiled in a snide kind of way as Father Tom climbed into the back of the car.

“How was Marilyn, Father?” he asked.

Leaning forward, Father Tom said earnestly, “She’s sure let herself go.” 

Fr Tom

While I was attending college, I got a part time job as a hospital porter, which is a fancy title for the guy who moves things around the place. While the job only lasted a few months, the experience has stayed with me a lifetime. Of all the memorable people I bumped into while working there, Father Tom was by far the most memorable.

Father Tom is a lovely man, not always what you would describe as ‘with it’, but lovely, none the less. Once, he spent an hour searching the ward for his glasses, which he happened to be wearing at the time. He was a regular visitor to the hospital, speaking with the sick, praying with those that wanted it and always brightening the day with his smile. Most of the time you’d hear him coming long before you ever saw him. He talked constantly, chatting to anyone and everyone he’d meet along his way. Occasionally, he would even be heard muttering to the odd inanimate object. 

Another stand-out feature of Father Tom is his size. He is as big as a bear, with a robust belly to match. He sported a chest-length beard, and was blessed with the shoulders of an ox. I always thought he looked like a lumberjack in fancy dress. Given his size, Father Tom’s next most notable trait was downright dangerous. He’s the clumsiest man I’ve ever met. When he wasn’t knocking things over, he was dropping them. He left a trail of destruction behind him that a hurricane would be proud of. It’s lucky he didn’t work as a lumberjack or he’d be minus an arm, or a leg, perhaps both.

The last thing you should know about Father Tom is that he is universally loved. What I want to share with you is the story of how we first met.

Once, while on night duty, I was summoned to a ward. When I got there, the matron was busily stocking a medicine trolley for the morning rounds. She was a lovely woman, a few years older than me but that didn’t stop me from having a bit of a crush on her, something I think she knew. It was well after midnight and a lot of the lights were off so that the patients could rest.

“Thanks so much for coming, do you think you can do a job for me?” she asked, giving me one of her devastating smiles.

“Sure thing, what will it be?” I asked, as I followed her to the far end of the ward. 

She stopped beside one of the private rooms for patients. She pointed inside through the little window and said, “This is Mr Ryan.”An elderly man lay peacefully on the bed. “I’m afraid he is no longer with us. The thing is, someone needs this room, so we have move Mr Ryan up to ward C. I was waiting on Father Tom to come but he’s not shown up. Do you think you can manage the move?” said the lovely young matron. 

Mr Ryan was the first real dead person I’d come across, since starting the job, and it was creeping me out.

“Sure,” I said, not wanting to look like a sissy in front of my heart’s desire, but when she left, panic set in. I knew nothing about moving dead bodies, boxes they’d shown me, corpses weren’t even mentioned. I opened the door and entered the little room. Mr Ryan had been laid out with his hands clasped loosely on his chest, his head was resting lightly on the pillow, and for all the world, he looked like he’d just nodded off to sleep. It was only when you noticed that he wasn’t breathing that the truth of the situation became clear.

I wondered, should I pull the sheet over the man’s head before moving him, but I thought better of it, I might upset any other patients still up at this hour. Pushing a shrouded body through the hospital was never a good advertisement for its services. I guessed the best thing would be to leave him like he was, and hope no one noticed. I’d just disengaged the brakes when the door was filled, from jamb to jamb, with a dripping wet Father Tom.

“God bless all here. Wicked night out there, lads. Mr Ryan isn’t it?” Father Tom asked, shaking the rain from his coat.

“That’s right, Father,” I said.

“Good, good, and what is your name, young man?” he said to me, moving to the far side of the bed. He placed his bag and coat on a chair behind him before turning back to me, flicking his gaze from the man lying under the sheet and back to me again.

“Squid. Sorry, Harold, Father.” Sometimes only your given name will do.

“Harold, lovely name,” he said, and then his attention shifted to the man in the bed. “Mr Ryan, you’re not feeling so well, I hear?” he said, placing a soothing hand on his forehead.

“You could say that Father,” I answered for the dead man.

“How about we get things moving along, Mr Ryan?” Father Tom said, talking directly to the corpse. I’m not up to date with the rituals of the Catholic Church, or what happens when you die, I just took it for granted Father Tom knew what he was doing, and went with the flow. He kissed a narrow purple scarf and hung it around his neck. He opened his bible and launched into the ‘Last Rites’ with a speed that made most of the words liquefy into each other. He’d say the first word of each sentence loud and clear, before dropping down into a long winded mumble. It was quite hypnotic. Several signs of the cross were whipped across the peaceful Mr Ryan mid-mumble and it wasn’t long before Father Tom began patting his pockets while still pronouncing the world of God. He was clearly looking for something and he didn’t even break the rhythm of his chant when he turned to search through his bag. He didn’t even notice the wallop his substantial bum gave the bed and the whole thing shot toward me. I’d forgotten to re-engage the brakes after he’d appeared. I caught the bed with both hands but Mr Ryan kept moving, his arm flopped to one side, as did his head. Father Tom was still searching in his bag, so I just pushed the bed back to where it had been.

A moment later, Father Tom turned around with a small glass vial clasped between his fingers. He stopped reciting the prayer when he saw the new direction of Mr Ryan’s head and hands. He patted the man’s hand gently, saying, “It is all right, there’s no need to be upsetting yourself, we are all here for you.” Then he picked up where he’d left off with his incantations. Father Tom anointed Mr Ryan, on the hands and the forehead, with holy oil. Once this was done, he turned to put the small vial back in his bag. This time I held on to the bed, in case the priest hit it with his bottom again. While I was at it, I fixed Mr Ryan’s hands and straightened his head. Soon the sacrament came to an end, and Father Tom took off his scarf, which seemed to return him to his off-duty mode.

“Young Harold, do you think you could rustle up a cup of tea for me? I’ll sit with Mr Ryan for a while. I don’t think he’ll be up to a cup, sadly,” he said to me, putting his bag on the floor, and pulling the chair closer to the bed. I returned a few minutes later to find Father Tom talking with the late Mr Ryan. I left the tea on the bedside table and went to wait outside the room. I was watching through the little window when the matron passed by.

“Is Mr Ryan down in ward C now, Squid?” she asked.

“Nope, he’s still in there, chatting with Father Tom,” I said, pointing through the window.

 “You’re kidding,” she said, looking through the glass at the scene inside. The one-sided conversation lasted a good ten minutes, before Father Tom put his coat on and said his goodbyes.

We stood back as he opened the door, and joined us in the hall. “Good night, so,” he said to us, buttoning up his coat. “Just as well you called when you did, he's not looking good, at all.”

With that, Father Tom headed on his way. Five seconds later, a crash of crockery echoed through the hall, as he hit the tea cart with a door.