Wednesday 6 November 2013

Boom!


If you start any sentence with, In my day, it automatically qualifies you as a fuddy-duddy. The truth is, in my day the world was a whole hell of a lot more exciting. Twelve-year olds today spend their free time crushing aliens on x-box or texting. When I was twelve, I built a bomb to blow up the widow Flannigan’s wall.

It all started on a summer’s morning when I went to visit my friend Johnny. Johnny lived with his gran, a few minutes away from my house. Johnny’s grans house was a huge old place with loads of bedrooms, sitting rooms, and parlours. It was always cold, even in the summer time and it smelled like an old man’s coat. The house had once been a bursting full to the seams with people but they had long ago vanished to the four corners of the world.

We explored the house from top to bottom, but it was the attic that was most fascinating. The attic ran the full length of the house and you had to use a hatch in the landing to get up there. It was packed with old furniture, suitcases, and boxes filled with the most amazing things. To a twelve-year-old, this was an Aladdin’s cave of treasures. That morning we’d been rummaging through boxes when we found a steamer trunk pushed into a corner. It looked like a pirates chest.

“Would you look at that,” said Johnny, pulling it under the light.

“Open it up,” I said, imagining it full to the brim with gold and treasure. Little did I realise that the treasure it contained was much more valuable than any ruddy gems. Johnny flipped the clasps, opening the lid gave with a rusty creak. The first thing that came out of the trunk was the stuff of dreams. It was a Second World War helmet, with a bullet hole. Can you imagine, a real bullet hole? This helmet must have saved a soldier’s life, why else would anyone keep a helmet with a hole in it. In my mind I could see him peeking out of a fox hole when, Ping, the German sniper gets him, blowing the helmet clear off his head. Johnny sat the helmet on his thick curls as he ducked behind boxes, making a pistol out of his fingers.
We soon delved deeper into the trunk and found a gas mask, a funny torch with a red lens which was bent in half, a bunch of black and white photos and a load of letters all tied up with a blue ribbon. Down at the bottom of the trunk a uniform, boots and all. We both had a go at putting it on, but it was miles too big. While I was strutting around pretending to be on parade, I felt a strange bulge in the breast pocket. It a field manual for the Irish Ranger Unit – 1943. On the inside cover was pencilled the name, Private James Quigley. Just imagine the places this little book had been. It could have ridden across oceans under bombardment from sky and sea. It could have parachuted out over enemy lines. All the adventures this little book had and it ended up with us.

For the rest of the morning we read through the little book. A lot of it was just lists of rules and regulations, none of which mattered a jot to Johnny or me. It was at the back we came across a section called, Disruption of Enemy Activities. In here, it described how to put a land mine in a sock coated with grease so it would stick to the tracks of a tank, it described how to cut communication lines, report on troop movements and improvise explosives from readily available materials.


“That can’t be true,” said Johnny.

“Why not,” I asked, believing that the Irish Ranger Unit knew more about making bombs than two twelve-year olds.

“I’ve never seen sugar blow up anything, except Mary’s backside.”  Mary was Johnny’s second cousin and they hated each other. She always called him stupid and he called her big arse, which was at least technically true.

“It says here, you have to mix it with an ignition source, and a detonator; whatever they are.”

“I bet we could build one, just a small one,” said Johnny, bubbling over with excitement. Now I know you’re thinking, this is a bad idea, but you have to remember we’re talking about two twelve-year olds with a trunk full of Second World War stuff and heads full of dreams. The only thing better than blowing something up, would be blowing it up twice. That was how, operation boom, was born.

“Read back over that bit,” Johnny said. He preferred to do the thinking and planning; I was relegated to the secretarial pool.

“It says, items such as icing sugar and nitrogen rich dry fertiliser, can be used to create an expanding gas explosion. A detonator is needed to begin the reaction, such as gun powder, or explosive fluid, and a fuse.”

“Most of that stuff is just lying about the place. There are bags of icing sugar in the press and tonnes of 10/10/20 in the barn. But where will we get some gunpowder?” Johnny wondered aloud, walking around the attic stroking his chin like some mad scientist.

“It said we could use explosive fluid. Petrol might work,” I offered.

“It’ll make the sugar all squidgy. I can’t see that blowing up,” scoffed Johnny.

“What if we filled a balloon with it, and put that inside the sugar?”

“You’re a genius,” Johnny said, jumping around like a loon and slapping me on the back.

We snuck in the kitchen and Johnny pinched a bag of icing sugar while I distracted his granny. We took a bucket of fertiliser from the shed and filled a jam-jar with petrol from the lawn mower. I had to run home to get balloon because Johnny had none. We got to work in our laboratory, better known as the potting shed.

“I still don’t see how this will explode,” I ventured.

“I think we have to get it all wrapped up together; good and tight. You mix the sugar and the fertiliser, I’ll find something to do the job,” he said, running off towards the house.

“How much will I mix,” I called after him.

“How do I know. Guess,” he shouted over his shoulder. I found a big flower pot and mixed scoops of sugar and fertiliser equally until I ran out of sugar. Then I poured some petrol into a balloon. Johnny came crashing back into the shed, in one hand he had a pair of tights, in the other he held a pair of his grans thick woollen socks.

“What do you think, will these work?” I eyed the two options. I didn’t fancy handling Johnny’s Granny’s tights, so pointed to the socks. “They’ll do the job, I think. All we need now is a fuse.

“Ah, I was thinking about that,” said Johnny, dropping to his knees stripping the laces from one of his shoes. He held the lace out, “What do you think?”

“Perfect,” I agreed, and we got to work making our bomb.

We tied the lace around the petrol filled balloon, put it in the sock and then packed the sugar/fertiliser mix around it. We tied the top of the sock with a piece of string. I have to admit it came out great. It looked like it could go, bang, at any second.

“What will we blow up?” I asked.  

“What about the stone wall around the widow Flannigan’s paddock. Gran said she is nothing but a strap anyway.”

We ran across the fields and picked a spot in the wall, near a big tree. We could set the fuse and then run behind the tree to shelter from the blast, assuming that is the tree wasn’t ripped from the ground by the explosion. Johnny wedged the furry bomb into a crevice in the wall, then struck a match, but the lace wouldn’t light. The most he managed was to singe the plastic bit on the end.

“Run back to the shed and bring the jar of petrol,” he shouted at me, and I didn’t have to be told twice. My feet flew across the fields. I was back in no time, with the golden liquid sploshing around inside the jam-jar. Johnny unscrewed the lid and dipped the end of the lace into the petrol, letting it fully soak. This time it was sure to work.

You could cut the tension with a knife as Johnny drew the box of matches, one last time. The head of the match flared and he moved the flame closer to the petrol soaked shoe lace. As soon as the flame licked the lace, it shot along it, faster than the eye could see. Johnny had over-soaked the lace. We never got to take a step before it went off, and go off it did. It was more a, Phifft, than a bang. We were enveloped in a huge plume of stinking smoke. Chocking and half blind, we picked ourselves off the ground. When the acidic smoke cleared, the Widow Flannigan’s wall stood exactly as it had before. Johnny turned to me, face streaked with soot and tears, his voice raw from inhaling the stinging smoke he croaked, “Perhaps we should have used the tights.”

Every time I pass that stonewall, I remember that day and all the other days I spent with Johnny. His love of all things explosive never left him as he’s now a captain in the Irish Rangers. The story of his first attempt at making things go, bang, is a favourite with his troops.

Thursday 31 October 2013

It's tough being nine.



Let me tell you being nine is tough and it is even harder when you have a cousin like Tommy. First off, Tommy is ten, and makes sure everyone knows it. Second, he does karate. I’ve nothing against karate, but the way he was always chopping and kicking things made me sick. He thinks he’s so much better than me. Sometimes I hate him, most of the time, I want to be just like him.

In the summer, every kid in my village would hangout above the weir, where the water was deep and slow. Spending long lazy days taking cooling dips in the cold river water. There was a rope hanging from a branch and we would take turns launching ourselves out over the water. Some of the biggest kids had it down to a fine art. They would run hard, letting go of the rope at just the right point, sending them flying impossibly high in the air, seeming to stall before gracefully dropping into the water. They’d stroke back to the shore, under a cloak of hero worship, from us lesser mortals.

One day, Tommy and his gang came biking down the street in a V formation. Tommy was in the middle, his hair slick with hair gel, sweating in the black leather biker jacket. A folded playing card brushed the spokes of his wheel and rattled like a machine gun. They threw their bikes into the long grass basicly took over the weir, pushing others out of the way as they took over the swing.

Tommy stripped to his swimming trunks and grabbed the rope. He ran, but still only managed a feeble swing, hardly getting him clear of the bank before he let go. He spun, like a fat white starfish, and landed with the most painful looking belly flop…ever. Everyone laughed, me more than most. Tommy struggled out of the river, glowing red with embarrassment. He stopped in front of me and said. "What are you laughing at, Dumbo?"

"You did a belly flop," I said, rubbing salt in his open wound.

"You're too scared to even try it," Tommy said, with rage in his voice.

"I'm not," I said. "Anyone could do what you just did."

"Prove it," he said, wrapping himself in a towel to hide his glowing pink belly.

"I will so," I said getting to my feet intending on trying the swing dive.

"That's too easy, get dressed, I’ve something better for you," he said, smiling at his group of goons.

Like I said earlier, most of the time I hated Tommy, but here was my chance to prove myself. I just had to take it.

When we were dressed, we rounded up our bikes and cycled off into the countryside. After nearly an hour, mostly up hill, my legs were getting sore.

"Where are we going, Tommy?" I asked, trying to keep the whine out of my voice.

"We're nearly there, only a few minutes more," he said, smiling over his shoulder at me. You would have sworn he was actually nice. A few minutes later, we dismounted and pushed our bikes through the knee-high grass. We entered a glade which ended in a giant stone buttress. It reared out of the ground like the bow of a mighty ship. At the base was a small opening.

Tommy faced me, like a headmaster addressing his class. "What we're going to show you is top secret," he said. "Only members of our club have ever been inside to see the bones. Do you accept this challenge?"

I was scared but more than anything, I wanted my cousin Tommy to like me. I stood taller and said, "I do."

From under a pile of rocks, Tommy scooped a battered biscuit tin. Inside were a dozen candles and a pile of match boxes. Tommy handed each of us a bunch of candles and a box of matches. Following the lead of the others, I put all but one candle into my pocket and lit the one I held, cupping a hand around the flickering flame, protecting it from the gentle summer breeze. Tommy ducked into the opening, followed by his friends with me in last place.

Under my hands, the rocks were slippery. The passage angled down sharply, the stone roof just inches above my head. I climbed and scrambled over boulders, following the light of the boys strung out in front of me. Soon, the only light visible came from the procession of candles. I felt the cave growing around me, rather than seeing it. No longer did the sides of the tunnel rub my shoulders, the glow of the candles no longer reflected off glistening rocks, it just died away in the never-ending darkness. Down and down we ventured, mainly in a straight line. We were all walking upright now, with lots of room overhead, the floor levelled out and became a smoothly polished grove in the earth. At last, we reached a part of the cave that echoed like a cathedral.

Tommy and his friends formed a tight circle around me, the flickering of their candles making horror masks of their faces.

"No one has been in this cave for hundreds of years, except us," he said.

"Is this where the bones are? Is it an accent bear, or even a wolf?" I wondered, getting excited about seeing them. "Where are the bones?" I asked Tommy.

"The only bones in here will be yours, if you can’t find your way out," he said, shoving me to the ground. My candle spilt out of my hand and quenched on the wet floor. The others sprinted away, howling and shouting in the darkness, taking the light with them. I scrabbled around on my hands and knees, searching cold floor until my finger brushed the warm, soft wax of the candle. I dug the matches from my pocket, and only then, remembered the spare candles I’d had all the time. Shouts echoed all around me, they could have coming from beside me, or miles away. In the complete darkness, I couldn't tell. I struck a match and lit my candle then turned in circles, looking for something I would recognise, but every rock looked like the next.

I thought I could make out the grove of the path, and having no other choice, I started to follow it. Just then, the shouting stopped, not faded out, just stopped. With no idea whether I was going further into the cave, or back for the entrance, I blundered on. I thought I heard voices but they were very faint. Tommy and his friends must be watching me panic, they would surely come and get me.

Time passed, but no one came. I couldn’t just wait here forever. I had to do something, so I pushed on through the dark, guided by the weak light of my candle. I just wanted out of this place.

Soon, my candle burned down, and died. I had to light another one. It seemed like I had only just done that, when I needed to light my last one. I realized by rushing forward the flame was fluttering in the wind, making the wax melt faster than if I walked. My last candle was dwindling when I felt the floor begin to slope upwards. I must have found my way back to the entrance. With tremendous relief I rushed forward, following the grove in the earth as it rose, climbing over boulders and rocks towards, each step taking me closer to safety. The candle burnt down to my fingers and I had to drop it. I felt my way forward on my hands and knees, inching along, finding my way by my fingertips.

I felt the walls and roof bare down on me, like it had been when we first entered the cave. I kept moving forward, bumping my head from time to time. Now and again, I lit a match from the box to see what lay ahead. Every time, it was just more dark.

Panic swamped my excitement. I kept moving, lighting one match after another. The tunnel had narrowed to the size of a barrel. I knew it was not the way we’d come in, but I still hoped it would lead me out. Going up had to be a good thing. The second last match fizzled and died, I lay crying in the moss and dirt for a long, long time.

At last, I wiped away the water from my face. Some was moisture from the cave, but mostly were the tears of a nine-year-old boy. Rubbing them made me realise something, the blackness wasn’t as black anymore. I concentrated on the way ahead, I was sure it was brighter. Light must be coming in from somewhere. It had to be a way out.

I crawled on, and it was definitely getting brighter, but the walls were closing in all the time. I had to wriggle now, there was no space for anything more. The hint of light grew into a promise. Every inch forward made the glow stronger. I could feel the first hint of a breeze, and smell fresh air, but cave was now no bigger than a drain pipe. I stretched my hands out ahead of me and pulled myself forward by my fingers. My shoulders squeezed against the rocks and I fought them for every inch. Freedom was in front of me, I could smell it, I could nearly see it.

One more push and I’d break through. I squirmed hard, but a rock above me shifted, crashing down on my lower-back. I tried to free myself, but the rock was jammed in its new position. I couldn't go forwards, nor backwards. I couldn't even take a deep breath. I kicked my feet behind me, and my hands stretched out in front, looking for a hand hold. Uncontrollable panic gripped me. I beat my fists against the rocks, tearing my skin, as I fought with every ounce I had. Only exhaustion stilled my body, and my mind. My fingers touched the match box and with trembling fingers, I struck it. It flared into brilliant life and lit up my tiny world. Just ahead of me lay a bunch of withered fingers, covered in blackened leathery skin, tipped with long broken finger nails, stretching out towards me. A lifeless skull framed with wisps of wild hair screamed silently in my direction. As the last light my eyes would ever see faded, my screams filled the dark.

Like I said, it’s tough being nine.

Saturday 26 October 2013

The Rip



It was a gloriously bright Tuesday in September when he crested the ridge and got a glimpse of the ocean stretched out to the horizon. He'd never approached his secret cove from the mountain before and the view was breath-taking. It was as if a whole different world lay hidden behind a bend in the road. He eased his vehicle to a stop and rolled down the driver’s window to take in the magnificence of the scene.

"This is what it must feel like to be an eagle," he whispered to himself, as his eyes took in the islands in the distance, dwarfed by the vast undulating water. White lines of surf, tiny from this vantage point, broke on a sliver of golden shore.

He looked down at his tattered wool jumper and fingered his jeans which were ripped from age, rather than fashion. A smile spread across his face as he realised he was the luckiest man alive. Whatever money he had jangled in his pocket, and when the van ran out of petrol, he’d call that place home. He wasn’t ashamed to say, he’d eaten from more than one dumpster, but at moments like this, he wouldn't trade lives with any billionaire you may care to mention. 

He slid the camper into first gear, and steadily descended, past boulders and waterfalls. He inched down the mountain until the road levelled out, and his destination neared.

Once the distraction of Gods personal view was removed, his foot lay harder on the accelerator. He was eager to be one with that vast body of water. The cove was known only to few, and the first time he had stumbled upon it, it had been an accident. The waves were pristine, and looked lonely. He felt they had been waiting an eon for him to come and carve them up with the fins of his surfboard.

With the thought of what was waiting for him looming large in his mind, each second seemed an hour, every foot a mile. At last, he turned into the unmarked Bohereen which ended before he’d reached his destination. He unloaded his board and wet-suit, shouldered a backpack, and trekked the last mile across the fields. As he marched, he thought about the word Bohereen which meant little road. It had such a musical sound, perhaps Irish was the language of happiness. Once he'd asked an old man in a pub, what made a Bohereen a Bohereen? The old fella wiped a Guinness moustache from his top lip and said, "A Boher is a road where two cows can pass. A Bohereene is where there’s only room for one." Such a simple, but beautiful, explanation sums up Ireland nicely.

At last, he stood looking out over his promised land. He salivated over the huge glassy waves, forced to die a virgin death upon the unfeeling shore, without ever knowing the caress of a surfer’s fin. Such an ending is a travesty for waves as perfect as these. Zipping himself into his wetsuit, he had his first twinge of doubt. From the shore, the waves looked substantial. but perfect. The substantial part would be magnified when he got in the grip of them. The question in his mind was not, if he could ride them, but could he get past them.

He strapped the board's leash to his leg and sprinted, undaunted, into the chilly Atlantic swell. His board skimming the surface of the foaming white water with ease, powerful strokes drove him further into oncoming waves. Some waves broke before he reached them and he had to power through the boiling froth, others paused just long enough to let him crest the lip before he plunged down the valley they left behind. Muscles aching, he battled the massive swell. Stroke after stroke taking him into deeper water. Then the feel of the waves changed. The colour of the water darkened from foam flecked grey to dark brooding green.

The water was freezing and his battered wetsuit did little to keep him warm. His fingers were already numb, and his feet were turning blue. He sat up to take a rest, confident he was past the impact zone. He scanned the horizon for an approaching set, and the horizon was filled with promising shadows. Wave after wave marched toward him, but none broke. He wasn’t sure how long he bobbed in the water before it dawned on him that something was wrong. The massive waves should be breaking, but weren’t.

He turned, but the beach was gone. The only land in sight was the upper reaches of the hills he had so carefully navigated earlier. “Damn,” he said and turned his board toward shore. He had paddled right into a rip-current.

Despite his experience, panic made him do the ridiculous. He tried to paddle directly back toward shore. Each frantic stroke sapped him of vital strength. Where he gained a foot, he lost two. Every second, the flow of water carried him further from land. The ocean seemed to have discarded all the heat it gathered from the sun and was now as cold as the grave. Layers of protective rubber couldn't stop the fingers of icy water probing his skin, robbing him of his most precious resource - heat.

He battled the rip for what seemed like hours before the shakes began, torturing his already jaded muscles, but fear made him push through the agony. Slowly, the shakes dwindled, and the cold seemed more bearable, but he was so very tired. He continued to paddle, but his arms had gone to jelly. It wasn’t just tired, this was something more. He knew he was in trouble…big trouble. His body was shutting down. He’d heard about hypothermia but never thought it would happen to him. He dug deep and gave it one last try, but it was futile. He collapsed on the board, in utter exhaustion, letting his arms hang below the surface of the frigid water.

His could see his ragged breathing create tiny waves on the top of the water. He felt drugged, as if he were tripping. Piece by piece, his body was closing down. All the pain was gone, all the fear had vanished, and a state of complete calm descended on him. Euphoria engulfed him with warming hands and he felt start to take him. Heavier and heavier his eyes grew, until he could hold them open no longer. He was past caring when a wave tipped up his board and his body slipped into the ocean. Some ancient part of his brain sensed the danger and forced his eyes open one last time.


In the depths, shadows condensed, moulding themselves into gracefully swirling nymphs. They danced as if to welcome him to the kingdom of Neptune, a brother eventually come home. Without fear, or sadness, the surfer surrendered the last of his strength and accepted this final embrace.

Tuesday 22 October 2013

Liebster Blog Award



The Liebster Blog Award is a way for bloggers to highlight Blog's and Bloggers that have small followings but deserve acknowledgement for their hard work, excellence and contribution to the world of Blogging. I was honoured to be Nominated by AJ Long who is one of the best bloggers out there always ready to give encouragement and advice when it is most needed.

So here we go!


The rules for accepting the Liebster Blog Award:
1- List eleven random facts about yourself.
2- Nominate eleven other bloggers.
3- Notify these bloggers.
4- Ask eleven questions that the bloggers must answer upon accepting the award.
5- Answer the eleven questions that you were asked when you were nominated.
6- Link back to the person who nominated you.


 

11 Facts about me you might not know.

1.       I have been a surfer for 18 years and still in love with it.

2.       I won a jumper once at a Christmas party for having the hairiest chest.

3.       I have wrote off one car.

4.       I have been back stage at a London west end show by accident (During the show)

5.       People are always asking me things in shopping centres as they think I work there

6.       I have a corgi – Holly and Half a corgi – Lofty (More precious than diamonds)

7.       I have slept in a phone box, the boot of a car and a bath to name only a few places.

8.       I like to collect my own fire wood, it makes the fire seem more deserved.

9.       I listen to classical music when alone, studying or writing.

10.   I spend more time on G+ than writing but this is a hobby after all and I Like G+

11.   I still can’t spell to save my life, thank god for spell check.

 

The 11 Bloggers that I would like to nominate for this award are as follows in no particular order.

Karie Thoma - http://fictionalcatterflymusings.blogspot.com
M.A. Barr - http://mabarrjournal.blogspot.com
Nikkah Lubanga - http://factperfiction.wordpress.com
Amy Galmos - http://muffinsandmetaphors.blogspot.com
Ben Roach - http://thewritingwanderer.blogspot.co.uk
Matt Ewens - http://mattrobertewens.wordpress.com
Lynn Marie Le - http://finscribeofwisdom.blogspot.com
Dyane Forde - http://droppedpebbles.wordpress.com
Francine Hirst –  Puts her posts directly on Google +

It was super hard to just pick 11, I avoided picking ones that I knew AJ or others had already nominated.

 

11 Questions for the people I have nominated.

1.       Where were you when you had your first kiss.

2.       Your house is on fire what 3 things would you save (Kids and people excluded)

3.       What is your favourite blog post of your own blog.

4.       If you could switch with one person for 24 hours who would you pick

5.       What 4 famous people would you invite round to your house for dinner (Alive or dead)

6.       Your guilty pleasure.

7.       Nicest thing another person has ever done for you.

8.       Nicest thing you have done for a stranger

9.       What is your partners (Present or past) most annoying trait

10.   Greatest Fear

11.   Your new year’s resolutions from last year.

 

Here is my Answers to AJ Longs questions.
1. What was the funniest movie you have seen?
The life of Brian – hands down the funniest ever

2.What’s your earliest memory?
I remember trading my tricycle for a bag of marbles when I was 3, mom was not pleased 

3. What was your favorite school subject?
Building Technology and Tec Drawing

4. Have you EVER had a need to use algebra away from a school environment? (No, seriously!)

What’s algebra??? Only kidding, no

5. Do you understand modern art (or even know if it’s hanging the right way up?)

Understand it – no, like it - yes

6. Most enjoyable book?
Loved the first half of the stand by Stephen King, it made a great impact on me partly due to where I was in my life but then it got a bit airy fairy in the second half but still a great tale.

7. Ever spent money to buy something you really wanted, although you could hardly afford it at the time?

Yes I once got an advance on my wages to buy a surfboard I fell in love with, wish it was still with me but sadly it went to the surfboard heaven a few years back.


8. Apart from when you were a child, have you ever danced in the rain?
Yes and done a few other things in the rain as well. You should try it.

9. What country would you like to visit that you have not yet been to?
Tonga

10. What makes you grumpy?
Stupidity in all its ugly forms

12. What’s your ’Go To’ switch to make you feel better on a gray day
Lofty and Holly my dogs 100% happy all the time.

 
_______________________________________________________________________________

So looking forward to hearing back from people listed above with their 11 answers and once again Thank you AJ and everyone that I could not nominate for making the world a more interesting place to live in. 


Squid McFinnigan

Sunday 20 October 2013

Seventh and Lombard



Peg Magner and her family tumbled from a rotting ship onto the dock at Ellis Island, and thanked her lucky stars to be alive. It was a miracle they’d all survived the journey, while so many others bobbed in the waves between here and Ireland.

That joy was shattered the moment she set foot in the hellhole called The Five Points. After two weeks of that place, a quick death at sea seemed like blessing. Two weeks was more than enough to convince, Peg, that her family needed to find someplace better to live.

In the year 1872, Philadelphia was growing out of all proportion. It was turning from a waterside town, into a burgeoning metropolis. A constant flood of immigrants streamed from the harsh boroughs of New York to make their home there. Sean, Peg’s husband, was worried they would starve on the roadside before the journey was complete. However, in the end, the ragged family didn’t have to walk one mile.

Sean made a deal with a steam-boat captain. He agreed to load and unload the cargo, as well as paying a small fee, for which four miserable Irish wretches could sleep on deck among the casks of whiskey. Even though the fee was small, it represented nearly half of the family’s worldly wealth.

By the end of the loading, Sean’s hands were the colour and texture of minced meat. The day was all but gone when the boat slipped its mooring, and the smokestack belched dirty plumes into the night air. Sean staggered over to where Peg and the kids were huddled, and dropped to the deck.

“Sweet Mary above, what have they done to you?” she asked, seeing the blood drip from the ends of his trembling fingers. Peg bandaged his flayed hands with strips torn from her underskirts, and let him rest his head on her lap while he slept. The warmth rising from her body kept him warm as a stiff breeze whipped across the deck. Soon, she felt the waves raise the nose of the boat and a sheet of spray rained down on them. Peg gathered the children to her and wrapped her shawl around the tiny family.

The journey took two days and the passage was mercifully calm. The girls, both four, loved the adventure. But Peg herself did nothing but fret. How would they ever survive in this strange new world. The twins use the boat as their playground and raced between the stacks of barrels. Youth is an armour against the world. One girl was called Aishling, the other, Aine. Twin cherubs with flaming red curls and a face full of freckles.

On the afternoon of the second day, the ocean swell lessened dramatically and they entered the Delaware. It was such a huge expanse of water Peg wouldn’t believe it was just a river.

“Sean, is everything in this place so big?  Rivers as wide as the sea, land you couldn’t walk if you lived to be a hundred, and so many people,” Peg pondered, shaking her head at the water. He just made a comforting sound and put his arm around her shoulders. A few hours later, the banks closed in on them and she started to make out building behind the treeline. Soon, the buildings multiplied until there was no trees left.

A fog of smoke hung over the dock, as they moored in Philadelphia. Sean braced himself for the backbreaking task of unloading the boat. Peg had made pads from her only jacket, to cover his hands.

“Ah Peg, you’ve gone and destroyed your coat! Winter is coming, and you’ll need that more than I need these,” he said, when she presented him with the stitched woollen mitts.

“I need a husband able to work,” she said, and shoved him gently toward the gangway.

While Sean toiled, Peg and the girls went in search of lodgings. Wherever she looked, there were signs which said, “No Dogs, No Blacks, No Irish.” It was a mantra that she’d encountered often in New York. At first, she’d been shocked, but she soon became accustomed to the ignorance. She moved further and further into the city. At last she came across a segment of clapboard-houses, thrown up so shoddily, they seemed to be held up by the one next door. This teeter-totter of buildings housed dozens, if not hundreds, of people. Whole families living in one tiny room. Ten such families shared a privy if they were lucky, they slopped piss-buckets into the street, if they were not.

At last, she arranged a lease on a single room. She paid in advance for a month, and that dispensed with any money they had. They had a home, at least for a month, and that was something. It turned out that they were one of the few white families living in this part of Philly. It sat in a no-man’s land between Seventh, and Lombard Street. When Sean finished unloading the steamer, they carried all they owned on their backs, and moved into their new home.

It took a while, but Sean found work at a Tannery on the docks. He moved the stinking hides which were still slick with tallow. Every night, he washed in the freezing water of the Delaware, before making his way home. Even so, the smell of rotting flesh never left his skin.

It wasn’t all bad in their new home. Peg even found a little bit of Ireland in the shape of a small park, aptly named, Star Garden Park. The parks paths were lined with majestic trees. Someone had even hung a swing from a low-hanging bough. The girls loved to play there. Aine was a right whelp, and was always causing mischief. But Aishling was a pet.

On the last day of October, Peg and the girls were in the park, as always. Aishling and Aine were taking turns on the swing, while Peg sat on a nearby bench and fretted over the looming rent. It could have been a minute, or it could have been five, before Peg noticed the chatter of little girl voices had stopped. She looked up and Aishling was alone on the swing, gently swaying over and back.

Peg got to her feet and walked over, calling for Aine to come out of where she was hiding, but she didn’t. Peg checked all the bushes and trees, but her little Aine wasn’t hiding behind any of them. Dread filled Peg’s whole body. She grabbed Aishling from the swing and dragged her along as she searched every inch of the park, yelling herself raw. As a last resort, she ran back to the tenement, hoping against hope that Aine had come home by herself, but the tiny room was empty. Her unnatural cries of agony rang, they soon drew a crowd of black faces to her open door.

“What is it, Lady?” asked one girl.

“My baby is gone. My baby is taken,” Peg wailed at the gathering crowd. The slim young woman who had spoken ran away down the stairs. In minutes, she reappeared, shadowed by a huge breasted woman the colour of a starless night. The crowd parted before this woman like the Red Sea had done for Moses. Her face was a patchwork of long healed welts, raised by an expertly laid whip. Her eyes were brown, with yellowed whites. Her substantial lips were pursed and the flesh of her neck wobbled as she walked. The crowd fell back, respectfully bowing their heads.

“Lady, Lady,” said the thin girl, shaking Peg by the shoulder in an attempt to break through her hysterical crying. “Diss be Mama Tess, she is come to help, Lady.” The elderly woman squatted low on creaking knees. She roughly grabbed Peg’s face between two paddle-like hands. When Peg continued bawling, one hand lifted an inch, then landed a thunderous slap. The sound caught in Peg’s chest and her eyes finally registered the dark face floating inches from her own. Holding Peg’s chin, the woman gazed into Peg’s eyes. It was hypnotic.

After a second, the woman looked away, fixing her gaze on the tiny red-haired girl cowering in the corner. At last, the huge woman spoke, her voice deep and melodic; the words exotic. The thin girl translated the strange dialect for Peg’s benefit.

“Mama says it is not too late, the bond between such girls is strong. Your daughter can be found, but you must take us to where the little one was lost,” the young woman said. Mama dragged Peg to her feet with one beefy hand, while lifting Aishling into the crook of the other. Peg was shoved past the still growing crowd and down the stairs.

To begin with, her legs moved without her mind realising. What was happening was too much to cope with. But sanity returned and Peg burst into a run. This was her only hope of finding Aine.

Peg reached the swing well ahead of anyone else. Collapsing to the ground, she threw her arms around the plank of wood her daughter sat on not an hour past. A moment later she was roughly pushed aside by Mama, who placed a shocked Aishling on the seat. Mama kneeled, getting face to face with the child, then she began rocking over and back. From her huge chest a low hum of noises grew in strength until the air was filled with wild sounding words. Peg’s head began to spin. The crowd following them had swelled to nearly fifty, but none approached the Mama Tess, who they clearly held in awe. As the huge woman stroked Ashling’s cheek, her words grew in volume, and speed. Aishling’s eyes glazed over, Mama was now nose to nose with the child, peering deep into her hypnotised eyes. A second grew into two, two into an age. Peg and the crowd held their collective breaths. It was Mama who broke the spell by bounding to her feet and dashing off towards the far end of the park without even a word.

The crowd sprinted after her, like a pack of hounds on the scent of a fox. For an old woman, she was unbelievably fast. Even Peg, who was driven on by terror, found it hard to keep up. Mama Tess ran out of the small park, heading for the river. Down streets and lanes she led the still growing gang, Peg at the head of them all, with Aishling crushed to her chest as she ran.

Without warning, Mama Tess stopped at the door of a back-alley tavern. She flung it open with such force, she split one of the planks in half. Inside sat a group of rough looking mountain men. They wore untamed-beards and their clothes were made from animal pelt. Mama approached the group and pulled the one sitting nearest to his feet. He struggled in her grasp, but she had no problem holding him. She drew him close and her deep voice erupted in a fountain of blood curdling words. Her clawed hand carved symbol in the air, and the man shuddered. Her voice grew louder, foam appeared on the man’s lips, his eyes bulged and filled with blood. With a tremendous scream, Mama pushed the man away from her. He swayed on his feet, then gurgled, then crumpled to the table, dead. The rest of the mountain men were rooted to the spot. Mama Tess reached out and grabbed another man. This time her words were nearly English as she asked, “Girl chille!”


Mama Tess dropped the man from her grasp and watched him scurry to a bench along the back wall. He shoved a bench away to reveal a trap door. Mama Tess hooked the door with one meaty finger and threw it open. Inside huddled, Aine, her bright red curls shaking with fear. Peg rushed forward and plucked her precious girl from the dank hole, bedraggled, but alive.

As she cradled, Aine, she looked at the strange, Mama Tess, and knew she would never be able to repay her…never. As if reading her mind, the huge black lady smiled, then simply walked away.

Friday 18 October 2013

The Cliff Dive


There are times in your life when going back, or going forward, seem equally impossible, but staying putt is unthinkable.

Since graduating as a fully-fledged grown-up, these situations mostly present themselves in the guise of mental dilemmas; choosing between the right thing and the easy thing. Whenever I have one of these decisions to face, I remember a time when I was truly stuck between a rock and a hard place.

I was fourteen and the summer holidays were more than half gone. I was making pocket money by doing odd jobs for neighbours and bringing in hay for local farmers. A few houses up the road lived a widow called, Mrs Ryan. Every Saturday morning, I would cut her lawn and earn fifty pence. It was only a small lawn and back then fifty pence would buy four bars of chocolate. This particular Saturday morning, when I pushed my Dads rusty petrol mower up the road towards Mrs Ryan's, I found that the normally empty drive was occupied by a brand new car with a Dublin registration plate.

New cars were a bit of a novelty, but the grass wouldn’t cut itself, and I had two more lawns to do. I pulled the ripcord and the mower spluttered into life. I was making short work of the lawn, racing up and down like a kid possessed, when I noticed her watching me. She was about my age or a year older, she stood taller than me, with shoulder length blond hair. She wore a Duran Duran tee-shirt, skin-tight jeans and white deck shoes. My heart spluttered, just like the battered lawn mower, and I was sure it was going to cut out.

I got to the end of my cut, stopping directly in front of her. A cool kid would have said, Hi, or waved, or something. I just turned and started another cut. The sweat was running down my back and my face was as red as a beetroot. I eventually got to the far end of the lawn and was forced to turn back. The excitement in my heart died, she was gone.

In the space of one strip of lawn, I’d fallen in love, ended up broken hearted, and alone. It took another ten minutes to finish the job, but she’d not reappeared. I was giving serious consideration to starting the job over again when she walked around the corner, with a glass of lemonade in her hand, and a snarl on her face.

"Gran said to give you this," she said, thrusting the glass at me.

"Thanks," I said, getting even redder.

"Is your name really Squid?" she asked.

"Yea," I said, not seeming to be able to say more than one word at a time.

"Gan said to give you this as well," she said and held out a fifty-pence piece. The tiny wage shamed me. I really wanted to say, keep it, but money is money.

"Thanks," I said, quickly taking the coin and making it vanish into my pocket. My fingertip brushed the skin of her palm and electricity jumped from my skin to my brain. It was like touching a piece of heaven. She must have felt it because she pulled her hand away like she had been stung.

"Is that your car, " I asked, finally getting my voice to work a little.

"It's my Moms. She made us come," she said with the hint of a sulk in her voice. "I didn't want to come, culchies are boring. It smells like cow shit here."

I was a bit offended but not enough to overcome the stars in my eyes. Actually, her comment just made her appear more worldly. I was quite literally, sunk.

Her name was, Denise, and she was not alone in her enforced visit to her grandmother, who seemed equally grumpy with the invasion of her house. Denise had two brothers, one older than her, one younger. It was great to have people my own age on my door step, it only took us minutes to make friends.

They were world-wise, big-city slickers, and I was the country bumpkin determined not to be left behind. The week seemed to slip by so quickly. We made a rope swings and tied it to the branch of the big pine tree at the end of the garden, we cooked potatoes in tinfoil by tossing them in a bonfire, they told me tales of the city while I tried not to stare at their sister too much. 

Towards the end of the week, Denise made a throwaway remark about how a black-tee shirt made a man look sexy. That night, I begged my mother to get me a black-tee shirt because, 'MY LIFE DEPENDS ON IT'. I’m sure she only wanted to make an eejit of the dumb cluchie, but I didn’t care, I was getting a black tee-shirt, come hell or high water.

The Saturday before they were due to leave, Denise, her older brother Daren, and myself, rounded up three bikes and headed for the ocean. Denise said she wanted to go out along the headland, it was a lovely day and Daren kept racing past, showing off. Truth be told, I wished he'd never slow down, or vanish completely. That hour, riding along beside this gorgeous girl, was perfect. For a time, she even forgot I was a culchie. Freewheeling down a hill, her hair spread out behind her in the warm summer breeze, she was beautiful.

We ended up out on the tip of the headland and abandoned the bikes to walk to the edge of the cliff. It wasn’t very high but standing on the edge, it felt high. I looked straight down into the dark green of the Atlantic Ocean and felt my toes tingle. It was only about twenty or thirty feet to the water, so we sat on the edge, letting the sun bake our already crispy skin.

"I bet you wouldn’t jump," Daren needled me.

"Neither would you, " I countered.

"Ok, I will, if you will," he said.

 My stomach bunched. I don't like heights, but I am a good swimmer. It looked so far down. Perhaps I was wrong about the height, it was growing by the second. I glanced over and saw Denise watching me. She was leaning back, her long legs dangling over the edge. I desperately wanted her to see me as something more than a geeky kid who lived next door to her Grandmother.

"Right, you’re on," I said. Daren and myself got to our feet and began stripping off. He went all the way to his y fronts but I kept my jeans on. No way I was going down to my underwear in front of Denise.

"You first," Daren said, standing back from the edge.

I inched forward, hooking my toes over the edge of the rock and looked out. My legs began to shake, I was sure I was doing something that could actually kill me. I was truly terrified; I could feel the sting of tears come to my eyes. How did I get myself into this? I was sure I was going to wet my pants. How could I get out of this without looking like a total prat?

I was frozen, behind me was a girl I was mad about, in front of me, certain death. That was when I felt a tear slip over my eyelid and escape down my cheek. That tiny tear set me free. There was no way that I would cry in front of her. I launched myself out as far as I could and plunged forever through the air.  The world was silent and even seemed to slow down. The water got closer and closer, but seemed to take forever to arrive.

Boom, it exploded around me, in a cloud of white bubbles. I vanished below the surface. At first, I sank, but when I realised, I was still alive, adrenalin coursed through my veins. I kicked for the light and exploded into the air. Two shocked faces peered down at me from above as I hollered and punched the air.

Then an amazing thing happened, she smiled at me and I was falling once more. Daren never jumped, and the climb back up the cliff was nearly as scary as the jump, but I had done it, and survived.

Then next day, she went back to Dublin. I never saw her again but that's not the point. For one second, nothing was impossible. In that look, I got a glimpse of paradise.