Wednesday 11 December 2013
The First Turkey
This is a story told to me by my mother, about her mother, from a time before she was born. Granny Begley was only mammy Begley back in those days but I can never bring myself to call her anything other than Granny Begley, it would be too weird in my head.
This takes place in the late 1930's, Granny Begley was married a few years at that stage but already had three small boys out of a family that would eventually encompass a full nine brothers and sisters. Granddad Begley had just began working for Captain Raskin as a farm hand. Working as a farm worker was not a well paid job and with a growing family, existence for the Begleys was hand to mouth. The few coins in Granny Begley's purse never went far but Christmas week highlighted just how little they had.
The Begley family had three forms of transport, Granddad Begley had a bike, weighing as much as a small car and made from the indestructible metal that comets are made of. The second was shanks mare, or walking to you and me. The final mode of perambulation was Neddy and his little cart.
Neddy was the family donkey, who once secured between the tines of the cart, could move heaven and earth, if he felt in the mood. On the day of the dreaded Christmas shop, Granny Begley hitched up Neddy, with the three kids loaded aboard, she struck out for the town. She had a week's wages in her purse which didn't amount to a hill of beans. Christmas dinner would be sparse. Granny Begley hoped she could stretch to a broiler hen for roasting on the most holy of days.
As they clip-clopped the five miles to town Granny Begley drifted off into a world of her own and failed to hear the flat bed truck rumbling up behind the cart. It over took them on a bend, wobbling dangerously on its hard rubber wheels. The back of the truck was stacked high with wooden crates, each stuffed with a huge gobbling turkey. The driver shook a fist out the window as he raced away at the break neck speed of 30 miles an hour.
Neddy bucked and skidded between the tines of the cart. Granny was too much of a lady to say anything bad about the driver of the truck, but she went very red. She got Neddy steadied and it was a minute or two before they were ready to continue on their way. Three bends later that they came across a smashed timber crate in the middle of the road.
"Woah," called Granny hauling back on Neddy's reins.
"Would you look at that lads," said Granny to my tiny uncles hunkered down in the back of the cart. "I wonder where the turkey got ta?"
As if in answer to her question the turkey gave a loud gobble from the field next to the road. He was wandering around clearly dazed from his confinement, as well as having just survived one of Ireland's first car accidents.
"Come on boys, don't let him get away," called Granny Begley bounding over the dyke, into the sodden field followed by three very excited little boys. So began the great Christmas rodeo. They chased in circles but the outcome was never in doubt. A turkey never lived that could outrun a hungry Irish man. Once the gobbling tearaway was apprehended, Granny Begley wrapped it in her shawl so he couldnt fly again. The Begley clan raced back to Neddy who was nibbling at the grass growing in the middle of the road. Granny dropped the turkey in the back of the cart instructing the three boys to hold on to it. They had their work cut out as the turkey out-weighed the oldest boy by a couple of pounds. Granny turned the cart for home spurring Neddy into a gangly trot.
This is the story of how the Begley family came to have a huge glistening turkey steaming on the dinner table that Christmas day for the very first time. Everyone dove in to their dinner except Granny Begley who could only look at her plate, downcast and worried.
"Why are you not eating Mammy," asked Granddad Begley.
"I can't touch it, tis a sin," Granny mumbled to her husband.
"Whisht woman, eat your dinner," he said with a laugh.
Granny picked but got no satisfaction from it, neither did sleep come that evening. Nothing would do her but to be waiting at the gate the next morning when the priest came to open the church.
"Morning Mrs Begley," said the priest when he arrived.
"Father, I think I've done something terrible. I need to make a confession,"said Granny Begley
.
"Just give me two minutes Mrs Begley, I will be right with you," said the priest walking through the church turning on the lights. Ten minutes later Granny Begley found herself in a confessional shaking in her boots. The shutter slid back, "Bless me father for I have sinned it has been three weeks since my last confession" said Granny Begley.
"Tell me your sins, my child," said the priest from behind the grill.
"I have taken what is not mine father and defiled the most holy of days with my treachery," Granny said.
"What do you mean Mrs Be - my child," said the priest.
"I found a turkey on the road father, I killed it and feed it to my family when it was not mine in the first place," said Granny knowing this was a damnation offence. She was taken aback by the laughing from the far side of the grill.
"Mary, it's God's will that you found that turkey before a hungry fox. He works in ways that none can understand and if he intended you to find the bird, that is what he made happen. Leave here with a clear conscience, enjoy what God has delivered to you."
Despite this reassurance, from this day to the end of her time, Granny Begley could never eat turkey.
Sunday 8 December 2013
Granny Fitz
Two
of my most regular customers are, Mary Fitz and Bobby. Mary Fitzgerald
lives four miles outside town and she’s the mother of twelve
grown children. They're all married now but have never quiet cut the apron
strings. Every last one of them are living within ten minutes of where they
were born. I've no idea how many grandchildren Mary has, but it seems half the
towns calls her Granny. With so many people calling her that, it’s
only natural the name spread to the rest of us. Bobby is the latest in a
long line of dogs that have shared Granny Fitz's life and all of them have been
border collies.
Every
Thursday, Granny Fitz and Bobby would walk the four miles into town. Regular as
clockwork, she’d collect her pension, and do whatever shopping she needed. At
each stop, Bobby would wait patiently at the door until she came back out. When
a full round of the town was done, they'd stop by the church for
a chat with Mr Fitzgerald, who's been resident in the cemetery for
over ten years. Bobby never felt the tug of a lead on his neck, he
never needed it. You'd always find him six inches behind Granny Fitz's heel,
watching every move she made with utter adoration.
When
lunchtime rolled around, Granny Fitz would call in to me for a bowl of soup and
a toasted ham sandwich. At first, she left Bobby outside, like
everywhere else she visited. One rainy day, I insisted she bring him in. Bobby
slinked inside the bar, not believing he was being allowed. That first
day, Bobby lay at Granny Fitz's feet, expecting to be hunted out at any
moment. But since that day, he walks in with a huge doggie smile on his
face. I always get lick and a head nuzzle from him before he settles down at
Granny's feet while she eats. After lunch, one of Granny's brood would
come and collect the shopping, while Mary and Bobby walked the four miles
back. For some reason, she never liked travelling in cars.
A
few weeks ago, Granny didn't turn up for lunch. I didn't think much
on it but when it happened again a week later, I called her daughter.
Granny Fitz had taken a serous turn. She was in hospital but things were
not looking good. For a woman who'd never seen dawn in bed, her end came
quickly. Not a house or business in the town greeted the news with a dry eye.
In
Kerry, when a person dies, the funeral always goes to the graveyard via
the departed’s house. Like I said earlier, Granny lived four miles from town
and despite the graveyard being next door to the church, Granny Fitz's remains
were slowly driven the long way out, to stop before her front gate. A final
farewell.
If
you ask me to explain what happened next, I can’t. As the hearse stood outside
the gate, Bobby launched himself over the hedge, barking like crazy. He was in
an awful state. It wasn't an angry bark, it was a pleading, heart-broken cry.
Bobby clawed at the glass separating him from Granny Fitz, howling like he was
being ripped limb from limb. The hearse pulled away and gathered speed, but
even in third gear, Bobby kept throwing himself against the glass. It was
a heart-breaking sight.
The
whole four miles, Bobby ran faster than I've ever seen a dog run. When the
hearse finally stopped at the grave-yard, Bobby's chest was a blur as he wolfed
air into his lungs. He wouldn't budge from the back of the hearse, remaining by
his loves side till the very end.
As
the coffin was lifted to the shoulders of her six oldest sons, Bobby lay prone
at the head of the mourners, keening. I looked into the eyes of that dog
and I'll never be told that they don't feel pain. If a dog could cry,
Bobby was shedding floods. He was a dog no more, but a mourner, pure and
simple. As the six sturdy men carried Mary's coffin to the freshly opened grave,
Bobby remained, as he ever had, six inches behind Granny Fitz.
When the
coffin was lowered, Bobby inched forward on his belly until his muzzle and
front paws hung over the edge of the grave. The priest began the service but
Bobby couldn't contain his grief. Surrounded by a dozen Fitzgerald children,
and nearly seventy grandchildren, everyone knew the chief mourner had
four legs. Bobby whimpered loudly, whining with sorrow. In the end it got too
much for the priest. He turned to the undertaker and said, "Can you do
something with the dog, Sean." The burley undertaker had taken two steps
towards Bobby before a deep voice rumbled from the assembled crowd.
"Sean
Ryan, touch that dog and you'll regret it for many a year." The sound of
Michael Fitzgerald's voice was enough to stop any man in his tracks. The whole
Fitzgerald family closed ranks around the little black and white dog. The
undertaker retreated quickly. A few tension-filled seconds passed, everyone in
the crowd held their breath. Then, the mollified priest finished his prayers
and the congregation shook hands with the family. People drifted away, many to
McFinnigan’s, where we raised a glass to a wonderful woman who'd be long
missed.
That
night, after I'd cleaned and locked the bar I walked for home. Passing the
grave yard, something made me turn. It didn't feel right to go to bed without
having a final word with one of my favourite customers. I walked through the
moonlit headstones until I came to the freshly closed grave - but I wasn't
alone. Bobby lay across Granny Fitz, his eyes huge and sorrowful. I hunkered
down and rubbed his neck. He managed one lacklustre wag of his tail but his
chin never lifted.
Sunday 24 November 2013
Mr Scrunch
When
I was a young girl, the town was much smaller place but that didn't stop it
from having the most interesting people. One in particular was Scrunch, an old
man with a huge bend in his back. Poor old Scrunch was so twisted, he only ever
saw where he'd been, never where he was going. He was a jolly old lad who
delighted in playing tricks on us children, making us jump with good natured
frights. Far from seeing his affliction as a hindrance, Scrunch enjoyed the way
his deformed back made him stand out from the crowd. He was surprisingly nimble
and used two tiny walking sticks to help him get around, dispensing smiles and
greetings with all he encountered.
Time
ticks by, as it inevitably does, and Scrunch shuffled off to a better place.
Back then, funerals were major social events, attracting huge numbers of people
to pay their respects, and catch up with friend and foe alike. Mr Scrunch
presented a particular difficulty to the undertaker. Not one day in his whole
life had Scrunch ever lain straight in his bed, his final resting place proved
to be no different. Try as he might, the undertaker couldn't get poor old
Scrunch into the coffin. In the end, he drilled holes in the bottom and winched
Scrunch flat with some bailing-twine. Scrunch's bones groaned with the strain,
as his back straightened for the very first time. Once finished, the man draped
a silk sheet over Scrunch's chest to hide his handwork.
People
came from far and wide for the funeral. Every one of them commented on what a
fine tall man Scrunch was, when he was lying down. The parish priest was a stern
old bugger, but he said a good mass. Every seat was taken by the time he began.
The priest was in full flow, raging against the evils of drink, when a loud
snap ricocheted around the church. Scrunch sprang forward, sitting up straight
in the coffin and scaring the life out of everyone there.
If you enjoyed Mr Scrunch, you can find a collection of similar stories for your reading pleasure on;
http://www.amazon.com/Misadventures-Father-Tom-Squid-McFinnigan-ebook/dp/B01AGW4PU2/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1456185974&sr=8-1&keywords=the+misadventures+of+Father+tom
Monday 18 November 2013
Where's Laura?
In
my mind, I was a superstar waiting to blossom into utter fabulousness, darling.
The reality was much duller. I was a tall thin girl, as straight as a beanpole,
with wire-rim glasses and hopeless taste in fashion. I dreamed of performing on
stage, but sadly I possessed the most terrible voice, even I knew it was
horrendous. On the first day of High School, societies set out their stalls to
entice freshmen to join their ranks. The queue for the drama society was by far
the smallest. Even so, the gang of giggling drama-Nazis sitting behind the
table eyed me with utter disdain.
"Name,"
said the one in the middle with the perfect make-up and professionally styled
hair, which looked ridiculous on a sixteen-year-old.
"Sally
Ann Farmer," I said, handing over my pre-filled application form.
"You
actually look like a farmer," said Miss Middle America, causing her
bookend groupies to stifle mock giggles. She plucked my form off the table, her
pinky finger cocked high, as if it were a bag of dog poo. As she read, she
made a decidedly unimpressed litany of, uhmms, and ahaas.
"What's
your singing voice like?" she snapped.
"I'm
not much of a singer, I'd be fine with speaking parts."
"Our
group...," it was clear that our meant her, "is
primarily concerned with musical productions. All speaking parts would be held
by lead actors, and all would be required to sing. Sing something now,"
commanded the hard-faced beauty queen.
"What,
here?" I said, looking round at the milling students signing up for
societies.
"Well,
if you can’t sing here, you'll never manage on stage?" chirped in left-bookend-girl.
"Exactly,"
added, right-bookend-girl, not wanting to be outdone.
"I
can't," I whispered, going red to my toenails.
"Then
the stage is no place for you," said blondie, stabbing my dream with her
pitiless eyes and icy words. "However, we're always looking for stage
crew," said blondie, with a sniff. That was how I became one half of
the costume department, the other half being the lovely Laura.
***
Laura
was strikingly beautiful but she did everything she could to hide it. She
draped herself in over-sized dungarees: huge knitted jumpers, chunky glasses
and always some kind of floppy hat pulled down over her face. She seemed
determined to cover every possible inch of skin. Some days, the only part of
Laura visible were her eyes, huge pools of innocence beaming from a frame of
auburn curls. The other reason Laura went unnoticed was her near complete
silence. Laura had a stutter, which got worse when she was nervous. Often Laura
was so quiet you wouldn't realise she was in the room until she materialised in
front of you with her angelic smile.
As
well as beauty, Laura had grace, a quality most people failed to notice, but
not Sarah Callaghan. Sarah was the blond tyrant that murdered my artistic
dreams with one cutting remark. She had an extra nasty bit of her withered
heart reserved specificity for Laura. She deliberately crumpled costumes,
ripped seams, dumped stuff on the floor, but mainly she was just down right
spiteful. She would yell at the top of her voice, "Where's
Lalalalala-Laura," something her troop of evil minions found
side-splittingly funny. Any lesser girl would have snapped and slugged her, but
Laura just let the abuse slide. Only her eyes betrayed the hurt with an occasional
tear.
Late
December and rehearsals were ramping up in preparation for the Christmas
show. Try as we might, Laura and I just couldn't keep up with everything. We
often had to stay behind to finish up while the rest of the cast went home.
Tonight, was worse than any other.
It had been a full dress-rehearsal with opening night only a few days away. Laura and I were mired in a blizzard of costumes, all needing to be to ironed, pressed, mended or steamed. Everyone else had vanished in a whirlwind of air kisses - bitches. It was nearly dark when I said good night to Laura, leaving her ironing one last shirt in the costume room. She smiled and waved as I left, banging the fire exit door behind me. I was outside the school gates when I remembered I'd left the Sarah's finale costume steaming in the dress bag. It would be in tatters if I left it there all night. I had to go back.
I caught the janitor as he was locking up the main doors. He let me into the auditorium where the lights were out. I had to feel my way through the cavernous room, eventually finding the stage door. I pushed it open and heard a noise coming from the costume room. As I got closer, the noise transformed into the most wonderful singing I've ever heard. I inched closer and listened. It couldn't have been Sarah, she wasn't that good, in fact, none of the cast were this good.
I peeked in but the room was empty. The iron stood on its end, steam gently swirling upwards from its ticking hotplate. The wonderful melody filled the room, it seemed to be everywhere at once. I tip-toed in, afraid to make a sound, for fear of breaking the spell. I honed in on the perfect notes until my hands were resting on a lid of a wicker costume hamper. With a heave I threw up the lid and there was Laura, sitting in the dark and singing like an angel. I was about to say something when a voice boomed from behind me.
"Is
that you singing, Sally Ann?" It was Mrs Wiscon, the drama teacher.
I nearly jumped out of my skin and let the wicker lid fall back in place.
"Jesus,
Mrs Wiscon, you scared me," I said, clutching my racing heart.
"Don’t
take the Lord's name, young lady," she scolded, "but that was
amazing! Why didn't you tell me you could sing like that?"
"I
can't, Mrs Wiscon, honest," I said, telling the truth.
"Of
course you can, I just heard you. If it wasn't you, who was it then?" she
asked, waving her arms about her. I heard a near silent, "no," come
from the basket beside my leg.
"I
can't sing when people are watching me, I get nervous," I said.
"Don't
be such a Silly Billy, its only me," she said, getting a little cross.
"Please,
Mrs Wiscon, I can't."
"You
can, and you will, young lady," she said, her tone stern.
After
a long pause, and a little time to think, I said, "Okay, will you just
stand outside the door, and I'll try."
Mrs
Wiscon gave me a look, but did indeed step out into the corridor. I stooped
very quickly and whispered to the basket, "Laura, you better sing now, or
we are both in trouble, and your secret will be out in the open."
Several
seconds passed before the first notes of Bring in the Clowns came
dancing from the wicker basket. The song was perfect in every way: each note
crystal clear, each tone super-rich, but more remarkably, every single word
without a hint of stutter. When the song was nearly finished, Mrs Wiscon
appeared at the door, I hid my mouth behind my hands and tapped the basket with
my shoe, silencing Laura in perfect time. Mrs Wiscon's cheeks were glistening
with tears as she crushed me to her heaving breasts.
"You’re
a miracle, child. A miracle," she half sobbed, half laughed, into my wiry
hair.
"I'm
not, and that's the truth," I said, but my words were muffled, and she was
beyond listening. She babbled on and on about, a star is born, and diamonds
on a beach of sand, as well as other such rubbish. The thing is, she
was right, she just had the wrong diamond. I'm ashamed to say, I wanted it to
be me, I wanted this reaction, this love to be showered on me.
"You
must come to my office in the morning, we'll talk about what part you'll play
in the show. I know, I know, the show is nearly upon us but that will make this
all the more special."
Somehow,
I ended up nodding as she left the costume room, blowing kisses as she went.
Once the emergency door slammed shut, I flipped the lid off the wicker basket.
Laura sat there wearing a Snow White costume, with her hands clasped to her
chest. She was so pale she was nearly white herself. I dove into the basket and
gave her the most enormous hug. "Why didn't you tell me you could sing like
that?"
"I
can only do it bbb-by myself," she said, echoing the lie I'd told Mrs
Wiscon.
"But
you did it when you knew me and Mrs Wiscon could hear you?"
"Yy-you
couldn't see mm-me, and ss-she did not know it was mm-me."
"We'll
have to figure some way out of this mess," I said. We sat in the bottom of
the hamper, excited and terrified, without the faintest idea what to do next.
***
The
next day, I sat in Mrs Wiscon office and tried one more time to get her to
forget the whole idea. "Honestly, Mrs Wiscon, you don't know how
terrifying it is, getting up in front of all those people!"
"Let
me tell you, Sally Ann, if you only sing one tenth as well as you did last
night, you'll be the hit of the show. What's the worst that can happen? You
forget the words? Or freeze up? It happens all the time! Trust me, Sally Ann,
it will be fine."
It looked like there was no way out of this for me, or Laura. Secretly, I was glad she was so persistent. Deep inside I wanted to be on that stage; too feel the adoring eyes of the audience on my skin, and hear the thunder of their applause. I wanted to feel that, if only once in my life, and Laura was my secret weapon.
After hours of persuading I got Laura to agree to do it.
"Sss-so
long as ppp-eople ccc-can’t see me!" she said, her only condition.
"They won't. I got this all figured out. Trust me," I said and it took me a second to remember how Mrs Wiscon had used the same battering ram on me only a while ago.
"We
need a sad song. Something that I can dress like a widow for. A black dress and
a black veil. We'll bring down all the lights, just have one spotlight on me,
standing over the coffin."
"C-c-c-c-coffin," said Laura, aghast.
"Yea, coffin. We'll drape the hamper in cloth, you can hide inside with a mic and sing, I'll stand on stage and mime."
"I-i-i-it will n-n-n-never work."
"Sure it will, trust me!"
I was going to hell for this.
***
"What
are you going to sing?" asked Mrs Wiscon, on the morning of the
performance.
"In the arms of an Angel, by Sarah McLoughlin," I said, it was Laura’s favourite, and one hell of a song, it would fit our plan.
Mrs
Wiscon sat back in rapture, "That's a perfect! We must keep this between
ourselves, do you think you can pull it off without a rehearsal?"
“I'll
give it my best shot," I said and hurried out the door.
Laura
was waiting outside for me. “Wwww-what did she say?” Her eyes were huge and
terrified under today’s hat selection.
“She
said we – I have to do it, I’m sorry Laura. I tried to talk her out of it,” I
lied. Her tears gushed. Laura had pleaded with me to get Mrs Wiscon to
forget the whole thing. I'd lied that I would. For the first time I saw how
vulnerable Laura was, but she was the key to my dreams. Just once, I wanted to
stand on that stage and have the whole world love me. Was that too much to
ask? I wrapped my arms around her.
“I
cc-can’t,” she blubbed.
“You
can, sweetheart. It’s our only chance. Or, should I tell Mrs Wiscon that it's
you who sang, not me.”
“NN-NO
, Please!” Laura grabbed my arm, terrified that she would be made go on the
stage herself. It was a nasty trick, but I had to play it.
“You
can do it. One way or the other, I'll be right there with you,” I said, with as
much compassion as I could get into my voice. From my shoulder, I heard a tiny
“O-K”, and our fate was set.
***
That
night, Mrs Wiscon was constantly fussing around me, making sure I knew what I
was to do, while trying to keep our plan from everyone else. The lead up to the
curtain-call was dominated by Sarah, faffing around, like the world depended on
her performance. She kept throwing tantrums, and saying how everyone was
letting her down. I actually overheard her tell one of her minions that she was
carrying the whole cast on her back – wagon. Wait till she
gets a load of my song, I thought with an internal smirk.
The curtain went up, the lights blazed into life and everything was forgotten. Two hours later the curtain fell on a huge success.
"More! More!" Yelled the crowd and the whole cast went on stage to take a bow. This gave me and Laura the chance to get into our positions. I gave her a hug as she got into the basket.
“I
love you Laura, your amazing!” I had no intention of saying that, it just came
out but because it was true. She smiled, and took the microphone from my hand
as I closed the cover and draped it in black cloth with a white cross sown on
it.
I pushed my makeshift coffin behind the backdrop to the mark Mrs Wiscon had shown me earlier and waited. The applause began to wain and the cast scurried off stage in a gale of teenage squeals. I heard high heals click across timber and the crowd grew quiet. Although I couldn't see, I knew what was happening.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you could bear with me for one more minute. We have a very special, last minute addition. I introduce to you, a first time performance by, Ms Sally Ann Farmer,” boomed Mrs Wiscon's voice and the curtain before me slowly hoisted high into the rafters.
I couldn't see much. The room was dark and a shaft of light lay heavy on my black-clad body. There was a scattering of polite applause followed by silence. I could only imagine the worried look my own parents must be wearing. I knew they were in the audience. It was now or never. I took a deep breath and bowed my head.
The
music began very softly, only barely audible, but growing in volume. I
raised the fake mike to my veiled face, and gave the basket a gentle tap with
my foot. Even though I knew what was coming, I was knocked sideways
when Laura began to sing. A voice, hand-picked by God himself, enveloped
the room. I was so captivated I nearly forgot where I was. I could feel
every heartache she had suffered, every frustration, every disappointment life
had dealt Laura, pouring out in that song. The beauty of it moved me more than
anything before in my life and then I remembered the selfish way I had
manipulated my friend to make this happen.
As if in a dream, I walked to the front of the stage and made the gestures we'd practised in the dark recesses of the costume room. I looked at the sea of amazed faces gazing up at me and realised that none of this was mine. I was a thief.
How could I steal this magical moment from a girl that never once asked for anything, but deserved so very much. I knew what I had to do. I lifted my veil and lowered the microphone. I pressed my finger to my lips, in the gesture that every kid knows, “Shussssh”.
I felt the whole audience hold its breath but the powerful song kept them silent. In the wings, I could see Mrs Wiscon plonk herself on the nearest flight case, unable to watch what was happening. I could see the delighted smile on Sarah’s face. She must have thought I was miming to a recording, they all must.
In the end the song finished and the lights come up. Not one sound was made. Two hundred accusing faces stared at me with hatred. I turned my back on them and threw the cover off the basket. When I opened the lid, Laura was curled in the corner like an abandoned kitten. I smiled at her and held out my hand. Thinking our trick had been found out, she started to cry and climbed out. Laura stood beside me on stage, shaking from head to toe. We stood there in silence, looking at the bewildered crowd before us. I reached down and took the microphone from her shaking hand and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen. Laura,”
Nothing happened. Now my hand started to shake and the microphone fell to the floor with a thundering clunk.
We
joined hands and began to walk off when one man stood up in the middle of the
audience and began to clap. We stopped and looked over just as the dam burst.
Everyone in the room shot to their feet and the applause was thunderous, nearly
lifting the roof clear off the building. They cheered and shouted while in the
wings the cast went wild. There was one notable exception, Sarah just stood
with her mouth in a very unflattering O.
Beside
me, Laura had stopped shaking. After a full two minutes of wild rapture, I
pulled Laura by the hand and walked toward the wings. Waiting there were her
friends, many of which were not her friends before, but they sure were now. As
we reached the curtain, I felt Laura’s hand pull out of mine. She turned back,
and slowly walked to the middle of the stage. The applause died away. This this
little weird girl, who had sung so wonderfully, stood stoic in the middle of a
single circle of light. When the room was silent, Laura stooped down and picked
up the dropped microphone. I saw her fist tighten around it, as she raised it
to her trembling lips.
“Thank
you all so very much,” she said, clear and stutter free.
This time, the roar of the audience did take the roof off the place, and even the black heart of Sarah broke, because she clapped like her life depended on it, crying like a baby.
That was when Laura finally took her bow.
Sunday 10 November 2013
Last Sight
He
knew the world looked at him as a third-class entity, or even fourth, if there
was such a thing. He was a three-time loser: drugs, laziness, and greed. They
made sure he stayed locked up.
If
anyone ever asked what he was in for he'd reply, "stupidity." In
prison, he was even more of a nobody than he'd been on the street. Any mystique
he'd welded with the fools he called friends cut no mustard with the hard men
behind bars. Life in prison was long stretches of boredom, punctuated with
moments of outright fear. That's what prison was - fear.
Jerry's
eyes were stinging.
“Hold
still,” the doctor had said, pinning his eyes wide open as he sprayed that horrible
smelling stuff in them. “This will make defects clearer on the scan.”
For
months, his eyesight had been failing. His vision was blurred and narrowing.
Now, things were just smudges of light and dark.
He
gazed through the grill fitted outside the bus window. He wondered if these
snow-covered fields were going to be his last glimpse of the world. The trip to
the eye specialist, in Fargo, had been a welcome break from the daily grind of life
in the James-River Correctional Facility.
The
James-River bus was decrepit. He was surprised it still ran. It was colder in
here than outside, if that’s possible. He shivered, despite the duffel coat he
wore over his prison jump-suit and the shackles on his wrists rattled. Fat
Pauli was driving the bus and guarding him. Fat was no understatement when it
came to Pauli. He was two hundred and eighty pounds of bone-idle blubber. They
didn’t bother sending a second guard, with Jerry being nearly blind. The
falling apart bus, and lack of guards, reinforced Jerry's belief that he was
less than worthless.
Fat
Pauli fumed behind the wheel as they crawled along at four miles an hour, his
massive bulk blocking the tiny farts coming from the air-con unit. Whatever the
hold-up was, it didn't bother Jerry, he had years to kill. Pauli, on the other
hand, was going to be late for his Friday night poker game. When they reached
Casselton, his minder had had enough of the tail-back. He swung the creaking
rust-covered bus off the Interstate, and onto a rutted back road.
"Hold
on to your breeches, this is going to be bumpy," he yelled over his
shoulder, as he ground up through the gears. They gathering speed and shimmied
on down the road, sliding on the frozen snow. They should be using
snow-chains for going on such backroads, but Pauli probably knew what he was
doing.
"I
know every shortcut in the state," he yelled back at Jerry, sounding like
a red neck tour guide.
"Don't
go rushing on my account, Officer," he said, settling back like he was
being chauffeur driven. He caught the angry crease in Pauli fat forehead and
smiled to himself. The bus picked up pace, making the ride even more
uncomfortable. The road narrowed and soon trees replaced open farmland. Then
the road began to snake. Pauli’s fat foot was still planted firmly on the
accelerator, when a deer bounded out of a bush. It was only a reactionary flick
of the wheel, but it was enough to send the rickety bus sliding full force into
a massive pine tree. Like all the bad luck in his life, Jerry never saw it
coming.
***
Cold
air brought him round. He was sore but not the searing pain of broken bones or
ripped flesh. His eyes took in what they could and he picked out the slumped
figure of Pauli, his jelly belly swallowing half the dash. Jerry got his feet
under him and moved to the front of the wrecked bus.
"Hay,"
he called, but the guard didn't move. "Pauli, wake up man!" That was
when he noticed the trickle of blood that ran from the man's cauliflower shaped
ear.
"Aww
shit man, what the fuck Jerry?" he said to himself. He didn't like Pauli
but he didn't want him dead either. The cold rushing into the wrecked vehicle
soon snapped him out of his stupor. He couldn't just stay here; he'd freeze to
death. He was on a tiny back-road, miles from anywhere and in the middle of a
blizzard. If he was getting out of this, he was getting himself out. Through
the separation grill, he could see the bunch of keys dangling from Paulie’s
belt. He reached his fingers through the metal lattice but couldn’t reach. He
looked around and noticed the grill on a window near the back of the bus had
popped off. He shuffled back and got his fingers around the edge, then pulled
for all he was worth. He shot back on his ass as the grill came off.
He
eased himself out the smashed window and sank up to his knees in the fresh
snow. He waded toward the crushed front of the bus and climbed into the cab. He
shook Pauli by the shoulder, but it was useless. He was gone.
"Looks
like you took your last detour, Chief," he said to the dead man and unclipped
the keys from his belt. Once he'd got his handcuffs off, he took Pauli’s winter
coat and snow boots. They were no use to him now. Jerry took the guards wallet
but left the gun. It was one thing to be on the run, but another thing to be on
the run and armed. That was sure to get you shot first, questioned later. Time
to move.
***
All
night, he ploughed through the woods of Fort Ranson State Park, the trees
blocking the worst of the winter wind. Even double coated, he was frozen to the
core and now it was snowing again.
"Just
keep moving," he said to himself, but his body desperately needed to stop.
His limbs were numb and he was dog tired.
"You
stop, you die," he told himself again and again, but his lips couldn’t
stop trembling. At least the falling snow covered all signs of his passing, not
that his eyes could see his trail anyway.
Morning
came, and with it the first helicopter. Twice he had to bury himself deep in snowdrifts
to hide from the thermal cameras. Eventually, they moved off and he trudged on.
The woods thinned out as he rose higher into the mountain. Scrub, covered by
deep snow, made the going hard.
"Shit!
Fuck! Bastard!" he exclaimed, each time his numb legs vanished under him,
threatening to break a bone or twist an ankle. Eventually the inevitable happened.
"For
fuck sake! Fuck!" he shouted, grabbing his shin. His fingers came away
covered in blood. His numb hand felt a taut string of barbed wire, hidden under the
snow.
"Barbed
wire means livestock. Livestock means farmers, and farmers mean
farmhouses," he said, trying to see the best side to his injury. His
deficient eyes scanned the vast expanse of white, squinting to help them focus.
In the distance, he had a notion of a darker area, squarer than nature is fond
of making. He moved toward it slowly, testing each step for hidden dangers.
The
barn was abandoned, or only used for high grazing in the summer months. The
door hung by one hinge and slammed in the wind. He slipped inside, pulling it
shut behind him. This felt like heaven, anything to be out of that wind. Gaps
in the timber siding let in beams of winter light but they did little to dispel
the gloom. In this half-light, he was as good as blind. He felt his way deeper
into the barn and found a mound of brittle hay. He threw himself into it,
exhaustedly, and sleep came in an instant.
It
was fully dark when he woke, the growling of his stomach rousing him. He hadn’t
eaten in two days now, and was starving. But worse than the hunger was his thirst.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, hearing another low, rumbling, growl, but
this one came from his left, not his stomach. Wolf, was all he could think. He backed
away until his shoulders brushed some tools leaning against the wall. He
grabbed a handle and held whatever it was out, to fend off the attack that was
sure to come. The growl came again.
"Easy
boy," he said, and felt along the wall until his fingers found the door. He
pushed it open and felt the bite of the storm outside. Inside were fangs, and
outside was freezing. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place. Keeping the
door open, he huddled out of the worst of the wind and waited for something happen,
but nothing did. The hours passed and the growls subsided. An uneasy truce
seemed to have been called. Both beasts realised shelter would have to be
fought for, or shared. Sharing seemed to be the common choice.
Dawn
came, sending golden light creeping into the barn. In the far corner, Jerry could
just make out glowing yellow eyes, hovering in the darkness. As the light grew
stronger, the wolf in the corner was transformed into a skinny mongrel, its
ribs standing out under paper-thin skin. Jerry lowered his shovel, and said,
"You scared the shit out of me boy." With the immediate treat lifted,
his thirst returned with a vengeance.
He
found a rusted bean tin which he filled with snow and held it close to his
body. As he waited for the snow to melt, the dog watched his every move. He
searched the building for something edible, and came up empty handed.
"I may as well be on a desert
island," he mumbled to himself. He was soon getting sips of metallic
tasting water from this can. As he drank, the dog watched him, pleadingly.
"What
lockup are you running from?" he asked the pup, and as if knowing the
question was for him, the dog's ears pricked up. This got Jerry laughing and the
dog settled his chin against the floor.
"We'd
picked a hell of a barn to hide in," he said to the mutt. With that, the
dog began to whine.
"Oh,
come on! It's not that bad," he said to his new cell mate, but soon the
dog began to shiver and shake. Jerry edged closer, a step at a time. That was
when he found out this little dog wasn't a dog at all, but a bitch, soon to be
a mommy.
"Good
Girl, it will be ok," he cooed at her, but stayed out of snapping range.
She eyed him with pain filled eyes, deep pools of hurt and mistrust. They said
to him, I got bigger fish to fry right
now, you can stay but no touching -OK. Jerry got the message loud and
clear.
The
morning hours passed as the mangy little dog shuddered through labour and into
birth. Jerry found a dish and poured some water into it for her, shoving it
towards her mussel with his toe. She cocked her head and lapped it greedily. Jerry
topped it up as quickly as his body could melt more snow. The hours ticked by
and three little puppies arrived. Two flopped to the ground, slimy and still.
The little black dog nursed them with her long pink tongue, but her efforts
were for nothing.
"You're
a great little mommy, you know that girl? It’s not your fault," he said,
but the sight of the two little puppies broke both their hearts.
As
the third pup entered the world, the little dog licked with vigour. She cleaned
his baby-pink nose and rubbed his chest with her glistening snout. She licked
and licked until the puppy let out a weak cry. The dog's ears perked up, and if
a dog is capable of smiling, this one grinned from ear to ear.
"Would
you get a load of that," Jerry said, forgetting himself and reaching out
to rub the little dogs head. As his palm touched the dog’s neck, she went
rigid, looking sideways at him. They both stayed like this for what seemed like
ages but she made the first move. She lowered her head and she resumed cleaning
her new-born, happy to have Jerry’s hand resting on her fur. He stroked her
neck and felt the touch of another living creature for the first time in years.
There’s not much touching in prison, well, not the enjoyable kind anyway. When
nobody else on earth could give a damn, she accepted him. He watched as the
little mother pushed her baby toward painfully empty teats and that was when he
noticed a small dribble of blood.
"That
don't look right girl, that don't look right at all," he said, but what
could he do about it. He watched as the little pup began to suckle, as its momma's
head flopped to the floor. Jerry stroked the dog’s neck. Slowly the pool of red
was getting bigger.
"You
did so good," he said, feeling his eyes grow misty. In the distance he heard
the, woop-woop-woop, of a chopper as
he looked into those innocent eyes. They were closing in on him. It was only a
matter of time. Her eyes began to close and her breathing was getting rapid and
shallow. The life was draining out of her and Jerry hoped she wasn’t in any pain.
She lay her head against his leg as the effort of holding it up became too
much. She was slipping away. She had given up everything for her baby, but it
hadn’t been enough. It was going to become an orphan, and in this frozen
wasteland, survival would be impossible.
"No
more pain for you. Rest now, Girl. I'll take care of your little one," he
said, rubbing the dog’s neck one last time. He scooped up the tiny crying pup
and laid it where the little dog could see it. Weakly, her long pink tongue
licked the tiny blind pup, and with three happy swishes of her tail, the light
in those beautiful eyes faded. Wiping away tears, Jerry held little pup against
the dog’s tummy, helping it to find a teat, and take in whatever milk it could.
The next few hours could be very long for the both of them.
Jerry
found some old sacking and made a pouch, which he stuffed with straw, to keep
the pup warm on the journey. Once the pup was well wrapped up, he opened his
jacket and put little fella inside, where it could feel the beat of his heart
and get the heat of his body. He trudged out into the night, heading back
toward the road. It was a huge chance to take but this little guy needed his
help.
He
hadn’t gone very far when a bull horn blared, "Freeze! US Marshals. Put
your hands in the air."
"Don't
shoot," he yelled, to the voice he couldn’t see.
"Get
your god-damn-hands in the air," came the reply.
"OK.
OK, don't fuckin shoot," he shouted, realising that this was going to be for
the best. It was a pipe dream to think he could have made it back to
civilisation and still keep his freedom. This way, he'd be back in custody, but
the pup would be warm and safe. They might even let him keep it. Jerry raised
his left hand high, but as he tried to pull out the hand holding the pup, a shot
rang out. It was like being kicked by a mule. He’d never been shot before. He
lay on his back, gasping for air when a forest of gun-barrels filled his
vision.
"Get
that god-damn-gun," a faceless voice commanded. Jerry sucked at the air
but it wouldn't go in his lungs. He felt the blood bubble up in his throat.
A rough hand ripped open his jacket and grabbed the piece of sack cloth. The
pup gave a cry.
"Jesus,
it wasn't a gun," the trooper said, pushing back his helmet, reviling a startled,
but kind face.
Jerry
managed to wave the man closer, and whispered, "Take care of that little
guy, he's all I got." Jerry looked down and saw the tiny black puppy lick
once at his knuckle, before the sight finally fell from his eyes.
The End.
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