Mog & Mrs Pat

In the 1950's, life in rural Ireland was much different than today. The work was hard and neighbours looked out for each other. Horse-power on the roads could normally be measured in ones and ran on grass. The single greatest power in the land was not government, but the church.

The church and the priests were figures of near absolute power, only eclipsed by the saints which watched over the faithful from their marble plinths.

During this time, two elderly sisters called Mog and Mrs Pat, lived down the road from my Grandmother. Mog was short for Margaret -we think. Mrs Pat's husband was long dead but the sisters managed to keep a farm running between them. The land was coarse and massive lumps of limestone made any sort of tilling a fearsome task. In this time of hardship, migrant labourers followed the growing seasons and worked in exchange for a night's lodgings, a hot meal, and a few coins for their pockets. Francie was one such man and he called on the sisters one spring day. He just forgot to leave. Over the years that followed, the three became inseparable.

Nancy, my mom, was only a child herself at this time and was often sent to the sister’s farm on errands. Nancy hated going there, the place was always caked in dust and cobwebs. The kitchen floor was hard packed dirt, mixed with ash and whatever fell off Francie’s wellies. Nancy would often be sent with a bag of groceries from the village, or to get a pail of warm creamy milk. One afternoon, my Granny sent Nancy over to Mog, so she could help bring the shopping back up from the village. Nancy pushed open the door and went into the dingy kitchen. She found Mog scribbling on a sheet of writing paper.

"Come in, girl, and leave the cold outside," called Mog, not looking up from her task. Nancy took a stool by the fire and waited patiently.

"Can you spell, sincerely," Mog asked, and Nancy did her best, but got the word wrong.

"What in God’s name is that headmaster teaching you," snapped the old lady, as she tried to rub out the pencil marks she had made. Nancy wanted to remind her that she was only eight, and not in the headmasters class, but she held her tongue. Mog folded the paper and put it in a little white envelope, along with a coin from her purse. She wrote, St Anthony, across the front.

Mog threw on a thick black coat that swept down to her ankles and wrapped a scarf around her head. Nancy took the basket from behind the door and they struck out for the village. It was nearly all downhill to the village but you paid for it on the way back. When they got there, Mog turned for the church, which was unusual, as it was the middle of a working day.

Nancy watched as Mog went inside, she knelt before a statue of St Anthony. She heard the old lady begin to pray and when she was finished, Nancy saw Mog slip the envelope under statue.

Later, when the shopping was done, and the hill home climbed, the secret envelope still was on Nancy's mind. She longed to find out what Mog had scribbled on the piece of paper.

On Sunday, the Begley clan filled one pew, all wearing their best clothes. Nancy couldn't help glancing at the statue of St Anthony and she wondered if the envelope was still there. Once Mass was over, the church emptied quickly but Nancy made an excuse to slip back inside. She fished under the statue with her slim, little-girl fingers, and retrieved the envelope. She looked around to make sure she was alone before opening the envelope. A brand-new penny and a slip of paper, fell into her hand. She excitedly read Mog's shaky writing.

Dear St Anthony,

Could you see you’re way clear, to having a few days fine weather for Francie, towards the end of next week. He wants to plant the barley in the top field, it would be a great help. Mrs Pat also said that one of the hens is laying out in a ditch and she needs help finding the nest. We'll say a rosary each night this week. 

Yours sincerely

Mog, Mrs Pat and Francie

Nancy pocketed the letter, along with the penny, delighted with herself at having found out Mog's secret. She giggled at the silliness of the old woman. Later, Nancy got a huge slab of toffee in the shop with Mog's penny.

Every Sunday after that, Nancy would check under the statue for messages. Most of the time there was nothing, but every now and again, she found a letter with the all-important penny.

A few months later, Nancy was about to buy her slab of toffy with a penny from Mog, when Mr Power, the shopkeeper, told her the toffy had gone up to two pence.

Nancy looked at her penny in despair, "But why has it gone up, Mr Power. I only got one penny."

"That's inflation, Nancy. What can we do?" said Mr Power.

A few weeks after that, Mog got the fright of her life. She’d gone to pray to St Anthony and when she got there, she found a note with her name on it sticking out from under the base of the statue.

Dear Mog, Mrs Pat and Francie,

I hope you were happy with finding the eggs in the ditch, and all the fine weather I’ve been able to get. I want to say thanks for the pennies, but next time, can you leave two. The price of good weather is going up. It’s the inflation, what can I do.

Yours sincerly 

St Anthony.

As Mog told Granny Begley the story, she kept blessing herself and looking up to heaven. Nancy sat quietly in the corner, saying nothing, but when Granny pointed at the note and said, "Well, would you look at that! Didn't St Anthony spell, sincerely, wrong. And him an educated man!" Nancy slipped out as quietly as she could and vowed never to play tricks on Mog, or St Anthony, again.

Wrecking Ball

Times were hard and work was scarce, when I was offered the chance to apprentice in a radiator factory. I was told the first three months were a trial. I practically jumped at the chance. The first morning I tuned up for work was bitterly cold, the wind drove the rain with a vengeance.

As I approached the factory, I knew something was wrong. It was already after eight and the gates were still closed. No cars occupied the yard, the factory was eerily silent. Near the main gate, a shiny new Mercedes sat with its engine running. Behind the steamed-up windows, a fat man sat cocooned in an expensive suit. As I approached, the man powered his window down. A finger dangled a bunch of keys in the rain soaked morning air. I tried a dozen keys before I found the one that opened the giant padlock. The powerful car to swept into the yard and stopped before the roller-doors of the factory. Another padlock, another maddening search for a key. By the time the car drove into the shelter of the main building, I was soaked to the skin. Inside, the factory was as silent as a graveyard. It didn't take a genius to know that this place needed no new apprentices. The fat owner heaved himself out of his car, leaving it running without a care for the wasted petrol.

“Dirty morning,” the boss said, nodding to a puddle that was gathering around my feet.

“Soft enough,” I said. “Am I in the right place?”

“You are, if you want to work,” he said, looking at me like I was dog shit he was about to step in.

“I want to work alright but what kind of fitter do you need here?”

“It’s like this, boy. I need this place gutted. I get a grant for employing an apprentice, you get paid. I get this place ready for the wrecking ball and everyone is happy. Do a good job, and I might, might, consider keeping you on in one of my other factories.”

“It's not what I had in mind,” I said, not liking the situation one little bit. This fat twat was using me.

“I don’t give a fuck what you thought,” the man growled with the authority of cash in his voice. “If you don’t want the job, there are a hundred more willing to do it.”

 “I didn’t say that…Boss,” I mumbled into my boots. What other option had I? I needed the work. The fat man glared at me for a while before walking further into the building. It looked like I was hired. 

“Right, not much to this. A trained monkey could manage it,” he said, waving at the air around him. “Everything has got to go.” On all sides lay abandoned machinery and rubbish. “When you’re finished, the only things left should be holding up the roof.”

In the middle of the factory floor stood a selection of skips and a small mobile generator. The boss pointed out the skips for metal, rubble, timber, recycling and landfill. The Generator would run the power-tools I needed to destroy this place. The electricity had been killed to the building, which was just as well, because I didn't fancy being fried while I stripped the copper wiring from the walls. I got the distinct impression that the only reason the power was off, lay in the greedy nature of the boss...not concern for my safety. 

“Right, I'll see what you've done by Friday,” the portly prick said as he walked back to his car, leaving me with the bunch of keys.  I was about to unlock the tool shed when the horn blared from boss's car, idling at the gate. It looked like I was going to get even wetter before I got to start this shitty job.

***

The first week passed without incident. I found out more about the boss. He was a hell of a shady guy. Rumour was, he'd picked up the factory pennies. He was selling all the metal for scrap, which would recoup any money he'd spent. My wages were being footed by the taxpayer, and once this was all over, the slovenly toad would end up with a prime piece of industrial real-estate, free and clear. Trucks for the metal always came on time, but the other skips were often overflowing, before the boss would shell out for an empty.  The worst thing about working in this industrial mortuary, was the endless loneliness. 

Finishing time on Friday came, and went, without sign of the boss...or my wages. Five turned into six, it was nearly six thirty when the boss's car drew into the yard. He looked over the progress before begrudgingly slipping his hand into his pocket.

“Three hundred,” he said

“Three fifty, boss.”

“Right,” he said. Turning his back on me and fished out a wad of notes six inches thick. He peeled off seven and reluctantly handed them over. The feeling of cash in my pocket was a strange sensation. The backbreaking work was soon forgotten. I went out that night and blew a hundred quid without thinking. What else would a young man do? I woke the next day with a blinding headache and regret digging its way into my wallet.

Weeks passed and I was nearly finished with the main building. I turned my attention to some offices at the back of the complex. One building in particular caught my eye. It had a rust-covered pipe sticking out of an air vent...and that just wasn’t right. The door had a new padlock, one of much better quality than any other around the factory. I tried every key on my bunch, but none would open it. In the end, I forced a window at the back of the building and slipped inside. The first thing I noticed was how tidy this place was. Each room had been cleared of rubbish and left neat as a pin.

Inside one door sat a battered reclining chair, with blankets folded neatly on the seat. Close by sat a metal barrel, mounted on concrete blocks. The barrel had been modified to make it a stove. It had a metal cooking plate on top and a flu-pipe that vanished out the wall vent. It was a very neat job, the person who made it had skills. The back of the room was covered, floor to roof, with shelves made from planks and breeze blocks. Every available space was filled with books, all well-thumbed and loved. I found a larder with tins of food and a blackened saucepan. In the bathroom there were buckets of water by the sink and toilet. The water supply had been turned off long ago. Any fool could see, this was someone’s home, but the question was, whose?

Over the coming days, I kept an eye on the office building, but I never saw anyone coming or going. When Friday came around, I thought about telling the boss what I’d found. That was until he tried, yet again, to stiff me out of money by arguing over the hours I’d worked. If somebody was getting a free house of this penny-pincher. Good luck to them.

The following week I arrived to work and saw smoke wafting from the pipe sticking out of the office wall. It was the first sign of someone actually being in the building. At lunchtime, I walked around the office and saw that the padlock missing. I pushed open the door and quietly entered. The air was warm and I could hear the fire crackle in the barrel-stove. A man was asleep in the recliner, a thread-bare blanket pulled over his legs. It was hard to judge how old he was, he could have been fifty or a hundred. I walked a bit closer and noticed his face was very pale and covered in sweat. The man was not just asleep he was passed out. I tried to wake him but he only let out a low moan and buried himself deeper into his blanket. I could feel the heat pulsing off him, he was very sick. I thought about calling an ambulance but in the end, I decided to wait. 

I loaded up the barrel with timber and put a saucepan of water on to boil. I fetched my lunch from the main factory and made a mug of milky tea. I touched the cup to the man's parched lips and helped him take a sip. His eyes fluttered open as he swallowed the warm liquid. He looked confused to begin with but thirst overcame his befuddlement. He sipped at the tea and when it was finished, he hungrily ate my sandwich. I gathered timber for the home made stove and made sure it was fully loaded, before returning to work. Twice that afternoon I stopped by the office building to refill the stove. The man seemed to be improving. He still slept but sweat no longer beaded his brow.

That night, I lay awake thinking about an old sick man sleeping in a derelict factory. The next morning, as soon as I got to the factory, I went to check on him. The padlock was still missing from the door so I knocked gently and pushed it open. The old man was leaning over the sink washing his face. He jumped when he saw me and regarded me with frightened eyes.

“You’re feeling better I see,” I said with a smile. The man said nothing, he was frozen to the spot.

“I was here yesterday,” I said, nodding towards the large pile of sticks stacked near his fire.

“I thought I imagined that,” said the man in a cultured voice. “Thank you,” he added. He dried his face and pulled his jumper over his head. After a long worried silence, he asked, “Are you going to make me leave?”

“Not me mate,” I replied. “You were here first.”

He smiled and said, “Tea?” It was an invitation I was glad to accept.

It turned out that, Pat, had been the caretaker for the factory up to the time it closed. He was nearly sixty and no one would give him another job, they all said he was too old. Soon, his money ran out and his rent went into arrears. He’d been thrown out on the street, and had even spent a few nights in a homeless shelter, but Pat said it was safer sleeping rough. With nowhere else to go, he returned to the place knew best, the factory. 

Four years he’d been here, then the place had been sold. In that time he'd kept the fences mended, and the kids out. During the day, he went to the library, he loved books. He survived by going to a soup kitchen and doing odd jobs at a local church. When I told Pat what the boss had planned for the factory he was devastated. I tried to reassure him that it was months away yet, but it was a lie.

In the days that followed, Pat was always gone from the factory long before I arrived, but he started appearing shortly before lunch. He lit his stove and boiled water for tea. I think he liked my company, I sure as hell liked his. We would eat lunch together, he gratefully accepting the extra sandwiches I had brought. Pat insisted on buying coffee, sugar, and milk, for the two of us. 

“I like to pull my weight,” he said. Pat told me about his passion for reading, and all his favourite books. He even helped me out during the day by holding ladders and sweeping up after me. I once offered him some money but he looked offended and refused it. “This is my home,” he said, and walked away with his head bowed.

It took longer and longer to fill the skips, until at last, there was nothing left to tear down. It was a terrible day when I had to tell pat the wreckers were coming. He looked shattered. 

“Are you alright Pat?” I asked, as he sat quietly to one side of the fire-barrel.

“Aye lad, the smoke got in my eye. I knew it had to come,” he said, his voice heavy with despair.

That Friday, Pat selected his favourite books and packed them in a battered suitcase. He waved at me from the gate and trudged away into the misty evening. I felt like a traitor. That night at dinner, I couldn't eat a bite.

“What’s the matter son?” asked my dad.

I told him about Pat and what had been happening. 

“Well...do something about it,” Dad said with a smile, before taking his mug of tea into the sitting room. It was grand to say such a thing, but what the hell could I do? Come Monday morning, the wrecking-ball was going to swing against the factory and Pats home would be gone. If I told the boss about Pat, I was sure he would want to charge him back rent. Having said all that, Dads are generally right...I had to do something. 

***

Monday did come, and I opened up the gate as normal. A huge crane was waiting with its two-tonne wrecking ball, secured and still. The boss's car glided into the yard, the first time I’d seen him before a Friday. 

“I'll take the keys,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Won't I need them to lock up?”

“No need lad, this job is done,” he said, pocketing the bunch.

“What about my apprenticeship?”

“Come over to my office next week, or the week after.  I'll see what's going,” he said. He never took his eyes off the wrecking ball as it began to swing slowly away from the factory wall. I knew there would be no job, next week or any week for that matter. I walked out the gate as the ball struck the factory for the first time. I felt the impact tremble the ground under my feet.

I checked two public libraries before I found Pat engrossed in a book. The battered suitcase was resting under his chair.

“Hi, Pat.” 

“What are you doing here lad, you should be at work.”

“The pig of a boss let me go.”

“Don’t worry, you’re young. There’ll be other jobs.”

“True enough. That's why I'm here. I’ve small nixer on. Just cleaning out a shed, but it is a two-man thing, do you feel up to it?” I asked.

“Of course! Lead on McDuff,” he said with a happy smile, yanking the battered suitcase from under the chair.

It was only a ten-minute walk from the library to where we were going. "This is the place," I said, and went up a drive way of a house and down along the side of the building. At the bottom of the garden was a good size shed, built against the end wall.

“Why don’t you make a start, Pat. I'll tell the woman of the house we're here,” I said, turning around a walking toward the back door. I went in and stood beside my mother, who was watching Pat open the door to our garden shed. 

The battered suitcase slipped from his fingers as he stared into the little building. My mother patted my arm and said, “Give him a chance to get used to it, then bring him up a cup of tea.”

When I pushed open the shed door, I held two steaming mugs of tea. Pat's barrel-stove glowed happily in the corner, its maker standing motionless before it. Close by sat his battered recliner, and a new single bed...freshly dressed. The back-wall was shelved, and held as many of Pat’s books as I had managed to salvage from the factory. My dad had helped, and we worked night and day to make the shed ready, before moving everything from the factory. We only just finished as the wreckers trundled into view. 

“Do you like it?” I asked. Pat said nothing, but caressed the spines of his books, resting on their new shelves. Pat was a man with pride, he might think I was doing this out of pity. I caught myself holding my breath. 

“Thing is, Pat. We’re going to add an extension to the house. I thought you might be able to stay here in exchange for working on the job with me. If you don’t want too, I won’t be offended.”

Pat turned and rubbed a tear from his cheek. “Oh, I'm up to it lad. Don’t you worry.” His smile split his stubble covered face in half. I passed him a mug of tea and backed out the door.

“You might need to look at the stove, it seems the smoke is getting in your eyes again,” I teased. I left Pat make himself at home, in his home, at last.

Inferno

Ireland is often called the land of Saints and Scholars, which is true, but only represents a recent view of this island. Long before Christianity, with its thirst for scribes, lived a conglomerate of Vikings and Celtic's. Even the Vikings were comparative newbies. The Celtic people occupied most of Europe long before the tramp of Roman garrisons trembled the battle fields of the ancient world.

Who preceded the Celts? Surely there must have been someone?

Far back in the mists of time, when Ireland was a blanket of forest, lived a great race of demigods. They ruled over humanity as, 'Tuatha De Danann', which translates into the 'Tribe of the Goddess Danu.' They were half men, half Gods, each with powers that set them apart from the throng of humanity. These were wild, ruthless times where hardly a day went by without some form of bloodshed. They often fought among themselves because, like all powerful beings, they were not all nice guys.

Take Balor for example. He was reputed to have a magic eye in the middle of his forehead, with another at the back of his head. This was so no enemy could catch him unaware. From his magic eye, he could shoot a beam of fire which disintegrated all it touched.  I know a few of you are thinking, Lord of the Rings, but Balor existed long before these books. Why not check him out?

Anyway, Balor was fairly unbeatable, but a witch foresaw Balor being slain by his own grandson. To prevent this from ever happening, Balor locked his only daughter away in a crystal tower, to stop her getting pregnant. Any of you with older kids will know, trying to keep teenage boys away from teenage girls, is near impossible. Take into account the countryside was running wild with Irish Demigod's, and you can guess what happened. Cian, a young member of Tuatha De Danann, magiced himself into the tower. Imagine Balor's surprise when, nine months later, he was grandfather to three bouncing baby boys.

Balor did what comes naturally to a near immortal megalomaniac, he took the boys to the highest cliff in the land and flung the new born children into the crashing waves below.

'That's that,' thought Balor, but the story is far from over. One grandson, Lugh, was saved from his watery grave by Birog, who raised the child as his own son. Decades later, in what’s now County Sligo, Balor faced Birog in battle. At Birog's left hand stood, Lugh, who launched a spear with a mighty heave, skewering Balor's heart.  Balor fell, with his magic eye wide open, burning a bottomless hole into the earth, into which his body tumbled. Eventually, the hole was filled with water and, 'Lough Na Sul' or 'Lake of the Eye', was created, forever entombing Balor.

Or so they thought.

The truth of the matter is that, while Balor's body was indeed locked forever at the bottom of Lough Na Sul, his spirit is free to walk the land on one special day of the year. All hallows eve. For thousands of years, his spirit would rise with the sun, on the thirty first of October, and roam the land.  Only to be chased back to the watery depths as the last ray vanished. Balor enjoyed his days of freedom, even sometimes taking over the body of a human, so he could touch, feel, taste, and savour, the world around him.

In the year 2013, Balor's spirit was soaring above the city of Dublin. He spied a young man at a bus stop and decided his body was just the vessel he needed. Sean McCarthy was a very tired, bored, call centre worker. He was mid-yawn when Balor's spirit invaded his soul. Balor inhaled deeply, flexing the strong young body he was now wearing, as if he were trying on a new suit of armour. Balor glanced at the laptop bag the boy carried before casting it into the gutter.

The others at the bus stop were shocked into silence by the wild look in the boy’s eye. Despite the cold, the young man removed his coat and shoes, throwing them to the ground alongside his bag. Balor came from a time where men were made of hardier stuff than these soft city boys. In the morning drizzle, Balor roared like a lion, and turned his face to the heavens, giving thanks for his hours of freedom. Among the people huddled in the bus shelter was a beautiful, flame haired, woman. Balor felt the blood in his newly acquired body surge with the lust of youth. Slowly he strode toward her. She seemed shocked into a stupor as this strange boy gazed into her eyes. She didn’t move when he took a handful of her hair and sniffed it. Then, a deep growl came from his chest. It was too much for the red-haired woman. She slipped into a faint and slithered to the ground. Balor laughed, as he looked down on the girl. What feeble things these humans have become, he thought.  He strode away into the morning mist; there was time enough for women, he had much to do before sunset.

So began an orgy of the senses. With Balor spirit inside of him, Sean was beyond human. What he wanted he took. He ate and drank like twenty men. He wandered the city, trying to understand all that was new. Balor was sure a plague of madness had gripped the land. Countless people wandered about, talking loudly to no one at all. Some nodded, and shook, with strings hanging from their ears. It was all truly strange. That was when he saw the sign depicting a man smiling happily, but it was the words that drove Balor into a rage. The banner read, Google Eye, will Rule the World.

Shoeless and coatless, Balor burst into Car-phone Warehouse on O'Connell St.

"Bring Google before me, so we can do battle," Balor declared to the man behind the counter, in a commanding tone, over the heads of people in the queue. The sales assistant glanced quickly at him before continuing to explain, to a blue-haired granny, how to make calls on her new phone.

"I command you to bring me, Google of the Magic Eye!" Balor bellowed.

The sales assistant was taken aback with the fury of the strange guy and called into the back room.

"Simon can you deal with a customer?"

From the back came a balding, bored looking, manager. The sales assistant nodded at Balor and said, "Nut job," just loud enough for the people at the front of the queue to hear. Simon looked to heaven and gave a bored sigh.

"Are you Google?" demanded Balor.

"No, I’m Simon. Can I help you, sir?" the manager replied, snootily shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Bring me, Google of the eye," Balor commanded, not wishing to entertain any lackeys, when battle was all that he dreamed of. It was then that Simon understood what this guy was talking about.

"You're on about, Google Glasses, mate. These are them," he said, pointing to the things sitting astride his nose.

Balor was confused, and pointed at the glasses, "This is the magic eye?"

"You could call them that. They possess the power of the internet," Simon said.

"Internet?" repeated Balor.

"Yea, buddy. Internet, you know, the thing that controls the whole frecking world," snapped Simon, having enough of this weird young fella. Simon was getting a feeling this must be a prank by the guys across the road in Harvey Norman, so he grabbed the weirdo by the elbow to chuck him out on the street.

"LIAR! I’m the one true keeper of the eye," Balor roared, shrugging free from the managers grip. He felt the magic eye begin to open, inside his mind. On the body he hijacked, steam began to rise, and heat rolled across the boy’s skin as Balor's rage increased.

"Listen buddy, just get out of the shop, right now, before I call the cops," the manager said, backing towards the counter. Every vein was standing out on the boy’s neck, like taunt rope pulled tight beneath the skin. He had gone an alarming shade of red, and the manager would later tell authorities, “the kid was glowing.”

"CALL YOUR ARMY, GOOGLE, AND ALL SHALL DIE THIS DAY!" Balor roared.

Flames erupted through the boy’s skin, where Balor's warrior marks had once been. Inside the hijacked body, Balor's magic eye opened, and a fountain of flame shot forth. Customers and staff ran for their lives, as Balor went nuclear. It took only seconds, but what happened next would be burned into every witnesses’ mind, forever. A colossal fireball formed around the half-naked man, and then it shot skyward, demolishing Carphone Warehouse in the process.

Left lying in the middle of the ruined shop, was the young man. His jeans were smouldering, his shirt burned clean off him, and he was sound asleep. His entire torso was a web of complicated tattoos, all of them were hot to the touch. It took the ambulance team several hours to wake the lad, and when they did, he insisted the last thing he remembered was waiting for the 46A.   

Minnie

Minnie

Minnie was a Yorkshire terrier. She was the smallest of four puppies, despite this she had been the first to open her eyes, the first to fall out of the basket while exploring and the first to be taken from her mommy. Minnie cried when she was taken away by the blond girl and her parents but soon she loved her new family. It was the blond girl who gave her the name Minnie.

 

The puppy grew to like her name. Minnie, Minnie, Minnie, rang from morning to night. Minnie’s special friend was Ann-Marie, the blond girl. All that summer they played in the garden, walking along the beach and playing fetch. People don’t seem to be able to hear or smell the world like dogs can. Minnie loved the tang of the ocean wafting in the wind, she could smell the diesel fumes from the train station all the way across the town, the delicious oder coming from the bacon factory made her lick her lips when it drifted over the hedge. Sounds were just as wonderful, she could hear the tv in the house next door and the bell that chimed from the church was so loud it made her cry the first time she heard it.

 

 When the air grew cooler Minnie first saw Ann-Marie in her school uniform. Minnie, Ann-Marie and her mother walked to school on that first day, Minnie was so excited. Soon boys and girls gathered all dressed the same way. Ann-Marie vanished from sight but Minnie could smell her little friend and pick out her lovely laugh among the noises of the school yard. Minnie did not want to leave but she was dragged away from the gate by her collar. Minnie grew to hate seeing Ann-Marie appearing in that school uniform.

 

 One day the woman of the house left the gate open. Minnie dashed into the world outside the garden deciding to try to find Ann-Marie in the place with all the other boys and girls. She wandered along paths that she was familiar with, sniffing at interesting things along the way without anyone dragging her by the collar.

 

 Just as she neared the school she was yanked up by the skin of her neck. The man’s hands were very rough, and the little puppy yelped as she was tossed into a wire cage. The light went out with a huge bang. All around were the whimpers of other dogs, Minnie tried to break free but the wire cut into her nose and paws painfully. When the door opened again Minnie could see the other puppies in cages just like her. The man who was taking them out smelled like cigarettes and beer, Minnie knew he was a bad man, dogs can tell you know. All the cages were thrown into a shed that was cold and damp. Yet again the light went out and her weeks of torture began.

 

 Minnnie was never let out of the cage, at first she needed to pee real bad but she held it. She was a good dog and did not want to make a mess inside but the man never came to let her out. In the end she had to go, that was weeks ago. She had been sleeping covered in wee and poo ever since. The nasty man came and shouted if the dogs made too much noise. Once and a while he would throw handfuls of food into the cage but never much. She was hungry, cold and very frightened. The day the man came to the shed and picked up Minnie’s cage she wagged her tail thinking she was going back to Ann-Marie. The smelly man dropped the cage on the ground making her yelp. He turned a hose on her until she was soaking but at least she did not smell like poo anymore. The man left Minnie in the yard while he brought out more dogs and turned the hose on them. Later he loaded all the shivering puppies into the van and slammed the door.

 

 At last the door opened on a wonderful sight; everywhere were people selling things and there were smells of cooking that made Minnie’s tummy rumble. Through the day people came and looked at the dogs in the cages. Some took dog’s away but Minnie only wanted to get back to Ann-Marie, no one else would do. When the nasty man opened her cage lifting her out she sank her sharp puppy teeth into his finger causing him to scream in pain dropping Minnie to the ground. Minnie ran as fast as she could with the nasty man chasing after her.

 

 She ran around people and under horses, between cars and making them go ‘BEEP’. She kept on running until the nasty man was far away. When the sun went down Minnie sniffed the air, everything here smelled strange except the very faint smell of the sea. Minnie followed the scent as it grew stronger by the hour.

 

 The sun was high in the sky the next day when Minnie heard the church bell. Sometimes she walked through fields sometimes on roads with stinky cars zooming by but always following the oder of home. The bell sounded again, this time closer, Minnie ran towards it. Soon all the smells and sounds of home began to emerge. The yummy bacon factory and then the stinging smell of the train station. Minnie ran along streets she knew searching for Ann Marie just wanting to be home and safe.

 

 

 The School bell made her jump with fright but when all the gray uniformed children rushed out into the playground Minnie knew she had found Ann Marie. With her little puppy ears cocked she searched for her little girl. Her tiny tail whirled with happiness when she heard Ann-Marie’s laugh in the distance. With a bark of delight Minnie dashed across the road towards the children.

 

 Tyres squealed but the car was far too close to stop. Minnie’s side tingle as she was thrown high in the air landing with a jarring thud in the middle of the road. She tried to get to her feet but her legs would not work. Her heart thundered with happiness as the Ann-Marie appeared above her. Worry invaded her delight as she recognised tears running down the girl’s cheeks. Ann-Marie was saying ‘Minnie’ over and over, rubbing her head. Minnie stretched out a paw to the little girl and licked the fingers that cradled her head.

 

 Soon teachers and other grownups gathered but Ann-Marie would not let anyone touch the little dog. As they rushed to the vet in a teacher’s car, Minnie gazed lovingly at the girl. She was so tired but so very happy. She needed to have a little sleep. They raced into the vet’s office; Minnie thought she would close her eyes just for one minute, just a little nap and then she would be fine. Minnie drifted into a happy dream filled with blond haired girls and lamb chops. Through the fog of dreams she heard the vet say, “She is a tough little puppy, with a little luck she will make it.” In her dream Minnie knew she had made it already.

Fr Tom & the Space War.

The weeks after Father Tom returned from the concert in Dublin passed with relative normality. Parish life has a rhythm of its own. First communion days filled the church with girls resplendent in white dresses, and boys being strangled by new shoes and over-tightened ties, while rows of proud parents looked on. Father Tom was kept busy, calling to elderly parishioners, doing his rounds of the hospital, as well as marking the bookends of life with christenings and funerals.

The one constant in the life of a priest, is Sunday Mass. The church bell chimed on the button of eight and ten, every Sunday morning. Mass gave the whole community a chance to get together. Best clothes were given an airing, teenagers eyed each other over folded hands, contemplating sins they wished to commit. Father Tom loved Mass, it was the heartbeat of the church. He gazed down from the altar on his collected friends, each with their own particular ways. Some of them you could set your watch by, always the same time, always the same seat, and nearly always the same clothes.

Tony Ryan was one such parishioner, one of the most habitual of all Tom’s congregation. He arrived at nine-thirty, every week, perched stiffly on his high-nelly bike. He locked his bike to the rail, just outside by the main gate. Hands would be shaken, as he made his way up the centre aisle of the church, and greetings exchanged. Tony always sat on the outside of the front right hand pew. He was nothing, if not a creature of habit. Tony was a bachelor farmer, he took over his parents’ place many years ago. He had been raised on a diet of tradition and regulation, leaving him with a cast iron view on what was right, or wrong.

One particular Sunday, Father Tom had begun blessing his gathered flock, when the main door squeaked open. A hefty man strolled down the centre aisle, with the cocky assurance of a turkey that survived Christmas. Behind him, waddled an equally hefty wife, and two rotund children. Normally, people who arrived late for Mass have the good grace to slip quietly into a back bench, but not this family. Father Tom began saying, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son,” but had to pause there. The family, who had so brazenly marched to the front of the church, stopped beside the second row from the front, which had space for three. The whole family pushed in until they all were seated, and the rest of the row were wedged in like sardines in a can. Once the hubbub died down, Father Tom continued with his blessing, but he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. He had to remind himself that he was in the house of God, and should not judge. The priest in him was co-operating, but the man felt like giving this rude family a good telling off.

Soon, the comforting ritual of Mass soothed his ire, and Father Tom got into his stride. The sermon went down very well, even getting a muffled laugh or two. Father Tom believed the best way to reach a man’s heart, was through a smile on his lips. At the end of the service, Father Tom stood at the back of the church to chat and shake hands with the congregation as they left. A tradition found mostly in Protestant churches, but he felt it was a worthwhile crossover. When the late arriving family appeared at the door, Father Tom extended his hand to the man with a warm smile.

"Thank you for coming, I don’t believe we’ve met."

The man extended his hand and gripped Tom's firmly, "Michael O'Brien, Father...?"

"Father Tom. Did you enjoy the service?" Tom asked, his hand still being pumped vigorously.

"Twas fine Father. This is Mary, the missus, and the kids, Pat and Betty." Father Tom shook each of the ladies’ hands, giving the whole O'Brien family one of his famous, full-bearded smiles.

"You're all very welcome. I hope you will be coming to visit us often," said Father Tom.

"You’ll be seeing us every week, Father. We’ve just moved to the area. I work with the Revenue Department, transferred down from head office, in Dublin, don’t you know. They needed help down here, in the sticks," said Mr O'Brien, sticking his hands in his pockets, making his portly figure even more pronounced.

The hackles on Father Tom’s neck bristled once more. A tax man, and a pompous one, at that.

"Well, aren't we the lucky bunch," said Father Tom, with just a trace of sarcasm. Just then, another mass-goer interceded, needing a word with Father Tom about a remembrance mass. A couple of minutes later, Father Tom heard raised voices near the gate, and excused himself to find out what the commotion was about. A loose knot of people were gathering; sometimes a discussion over football could get a little heated, but never anything major. You needed a few pints in these lads to lubricate up the punching arms. Father Tom made his way over to the gate, and watched the unfurling argument over the heads of the crowd. It seemed Mr O'Brien was making impressions wherever he went. The fat family were standing around a brand new Land Rover, parked right outside the main gate. The problem appeared to be the fact they were blocking Tony Ryan from getting his bike.

"What did you think you were doing parking that yoke there? How am I supposed to get at my bike?" demanded Tony.

Mr O'Brien went quite red in the face, clearly not accustomed to being spoken to in such a forthright way.

"I think you’ll find I have every right to park my car in a designated car parking space." The air of superiority in the man’s tone, made even Father Tom wince. Perhaps, this was one mass where the lack of alcohol was not going to deter a bit of argie-bargie.

"Move that thing, this instant," fumed Tony, kicking at the car’s wheel for emphasis.

"You have plenty of room to get to your bike. In future, use a proper bike rack, not the church railing," snorted Mr O'Brien, ushering his family down the street towards the nearest restaurant. The locals watched the departing newcomers with open mouthed wonder. A few of the youngsters helped lift Tony's bike over the luxury four wheel drive. Before riding away, Tony gave an annoyed kick to the new alloy wheel of Mr O'Brien's jeep.

***

The following week, Tony Ryan arrived even earlier for Mass than normal, with two road cones secured to the carrier of his bike. Tony locked his bike to the rail as he always had, then marked off the parking bay with the road cones. The crowd attending this particular ten o’clock mass seemed much larger than normal, to Father Tom. He even noted that many of the people who attended the early mass, were also at this one. Tony sat ramrod straight at the front right of the church, his ears glowing red with temper. Just before the bell chimed, the O'Briens waddled up the middle of the church, sitting in the same pew they had occupied the week before. Throughout the mass, the warring men exchanged sideways scowls, and tension rippled through the crowd. Father Tom had no sooner said, "Go in peace" than the stampede began. The only ones not seeming to rush, were the O'Briens, and Tony Ryan. 

Dozens of people clustered around the gate. As Tony approached, the crowd parted like the Red Sea, and Father Tom followed directly behind the farmer, eager to see what was making them all so giddy. Once again, Tony’s high-nelly was pinned to the rail by the huge car. The traffic cones he had placed around the bike before mass, were flung across the road, into the ditch. Tony Ryan turned and searched the crowd for Mr O'Brien, who was still standing inside the church door, a good safe distance away.

"You ignorant fat shite!" roared Tony Ryan.

"Don't you dare talk to me like that," countered Mr O'Brien.

"I'll talk to you any way I want," yelled Ryan. "Move that car, or you'll be sorry."

"I will not," said O'Brien, defiantly.

"YOU WILL," said Ryan.

"I WILL NOT," said O'Brien, again.

Tony's fists clenched and he moved forwards. Father Tom had seen enough, and stepped into Tony’s path. Father Tom wasn’t worried about the older man getting hurt, he was as hard as nails, but Father Tom couldn’t condone violence.

"Now Tony, remember, this is God's house."

"I'm sorry, Father, but he has it coming."

"He might, Tony," said Father Tom, eyeing the scurrying form of Mr O'Brien, as he escaped through the far gate, "but this is not the way."

Father Tom felt Tony’s rock hard shoulders slump in his grip, and the fight drain slowly from his body. Tony eventually turned back towards the gate, and tried to get his bike free. This time, the space was far too tight, and Tony was forced to leave the bike where it was, and walk home. Father Tom caught up with Tony a short distance down the road, and gave him a lift in his little car. 

"Sorry about that, Father, I let you down, back there. I’ll tell you what, I’ll drop you down some fertilizer for the flower beds next week to make amends."

"That would be great, Tony. The roses are looking a bit sorry for themselves. Don't mind that big galoot, O'Brien. The likes of him come and go," Father Tom said to the little farmer, as he got out of the car.

"I expect you’re right, Father, thanks for the lift," said the aging farmer, as he sadly walked into his farmyard.

***

If mass the following week were a concert, it would have been a sell-out. The only seats left without a bum in them, were the front right hand corner, and four spaces in the second pew on the left. Late as always, the O'Briens took the left hand seats, just as mass began. A murmur ran through the crowd, expecting the fireworks to begin soon. Father Tom walked up to the podium and gave his opening blessing. He couldn’t help looking to the empty seat on the front right, again and again, during mass. It was the first time he could remember Tony being absent, in all the years he had served this parish. Father Tom was worried about Tony. It wasn’t right that he was being pushed out by this interloper. Father Tom decided to have a word with Mr O'Brien, at the end of the service.

Father Tom was distracted throughout the Mass, at one stage, he nearly knocked over the chalice. Mass was nearly over, when he heard the distant rumble of a heavy engine. The sound grew louder, until whatever was causing it, was loitering directly outside the church. The engine noise was soon joined by the insistent honking of a horn, and cheers from men who had snuck out for a sneaky cigarette, during the Eucharist. Without even waiting for "Go in peace", the crowd rushed for the doors. Mr O'Brien seemed to be struck by the predetermination that this would concern him, judging by the way he was shoving his way through the crowd. The first thing that hit Father Tom when he walked outside the church, was the smell. The air was thick with the stink of slurry. All around, people were doubled over laughing, clapping, and cheering. Mr O'Brien stood like a pillar of salt, in the middle of the gate, gazing at the spot where his new four wheel drive should be. What stood in its place, was a six foot high pile of cow-shit, with the car at its heart. 

On the road, Tony Ryan leaned against the wheel of his tractor, behind which was an empty slurry spreader. Tony mounted his tractor, waving to the crowd, like a victorious gladiator. "There you go, Father. If that’s not enough muck for the flowers, I can always deliver more, any Sunday."

As he drove away, he was cheered by all the crowd, well, nearly all.