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Posts tagged “Ireland

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First Novel…Joanne

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Ireland, a work in progress.

Knock, Market Day, Ireland 1966.



Streaming down the hills from Wicklow with banners and boots and donkeys braying and the smell of burning turf and Guinness for the drinking of,

red faced log like men with waistcoats from their fathers and sharp wet noses like the noses of their black and white and black dogs that drive them like sheep through the emerald fields and over the stone walls and down the twisting snake of a lane that swoops and dives and dips and swerves drunk on its own gay thoughtless joining of the villages of Knock, and Banfe, and Killymiwilly.

The women were singing the day away with songs of the lost kingdoms and Druids with golden staffs, and oh the comely princess with hair the colour of the sun, lips kissed with berries and eyes as dark as the starless night. what is love Mrs. Lynch why it’s ten times hotter than fire Mrs. Finch and I’d have married him then were not a cripple with a withered leg and a sister on the stage

OReilly takes out his watch the half hunter from his pocket and beams the joy of knowing when to start and when to stop. ‘There’ll be horses to catch before night.’ he shouts to the men and the boys, ‘take ropes and sugar and bells, a guinea for the stallion if you please.’

OReilly leaning on Cassidy’s long bar wiping sea fret from his facial hair a better pint there never was me boys an all down and dripping black, the smacking of many lips slapping by god yer roight sur an yes oil have another for t’would be churlish to refuse

and still behind the bar thin Quinn dreams pulling the white tusks the sweepstake and the winning of

speeches to be made and a new brown suit stuffed with crisp notes and a bottle of Jameson in the pocket

while by the fire young Mary McCoy stirs the bleeding sparking embers remembering the fire of dirty Dermot McCray and kisses burning lips

oh I never should for ’tis a sin but not of you don’t put in the tongue, the priest will know and then

seven hail Maries an worth a dozen more if should I let him but I’ll not have me best green cardy ruined even so,

by the bar Ben Brown looks down at her with wolf eyes imagining a dozen Mary’s dancing sturdily the summers green with cymbals and a blind accordion

the dresses bouncing over dimpled knees flashing, flinging, and furious then off running into the long corn field calling the boys you’ll never catch me and if you do I’ll never tell.

Eleven of the clock as me names OReilly and he puts the watch asleep,

the mornings washed away an all washed and waned and spent in idle games then out into the bright tight dazzling sun the road knee deep in promises of other places and spent wishes.

A mile or three to Knock will pass the afternoon away for tis a shame to hurry

OReilly mutters good day to you father to the black crow priest flapping storm warnings from the swinging gate St. Peter and Saint Paul and all along the path between the dead and dusty ancestors

and him Father Murphy staring blind into his dreams hears bells ringing, choirs singing, babies crying, time ticking,

never too late OReilly, forty guilty years since last confession,

please father I did put a mirror under Kelly’s skirt what did you see there boy there were birds and mothballs, bicycles and busses, badgers and the brown bull of Cooley sure god will strike you blind give me here your hand my boy for Jesus will forgive.

And out beyond the town the rolling road OReilly roams whistling the miles away to Knock.

What is your heart today Mr. OReilly sing the women of the market a fine fat pig with a smile on his face or a pair of piebald hens, a sheep’s head freshly skinned eyeballs intact a ox tail shaved, talced and lotioned,

I’ll have a brace of dreams me girls go easy on the spice.

The river running swift and dark and under the town’s grey walls skimmed green moss while silent seated men with rods and nets crouch staring at the upside down world of the other bank and peer into the waters for a glimpse of half forgotten hope, what was it now that slipped away like a thief in the night.

Then over Tanker’s Bridge and into Cork Lane and the knocking of the green door opened

Clara Clara would you ever be looking at yerself for me eyes are starved of yer light and I hear only yer voice in my dreams And into Clara’s parlor eyes dancing hands aflutter small white teeth parted oh Clara sure I’d kill for a smile

And the arms around him and the coolness of her cheek and the smell of summer on her breath spinning spinning until they fall giddy with the wanting and the needing and the remembering

Taking her face in his hands and diving into the dark pools of her eyes cool and warm and cool again her hands busy peeling, shelling, stripping until nothing’s left but the white smooth surface of a place unexplored

Now she says now and all is lost except the being and the doing as the earth rolls away and leaves them lost in a darkness full of flickering lightning, and the moaning like the wind in the chimney on a winter’s night, and the breath like thunder in their ears, Now, and the hands like claws gripping now, now, and then the crying like the hurt, Clara oh Clara, Mr. OReilly now, now, now

And down the days tumbling through the bright white place into warm seas to rest pillowed on the ocean the sounds slip back birds sing, voices, the sound of the river in stillness and the beating of the hearts among the clouds.

O’Reilly stepping high across and back across the Liffey by the Tankers his hand on Clara for the kindness that’s in it and off to Brady’s by the quays

A full meat house stuffed and smelling cigarettes and sweat and smoke and stout and burning turf, and heads a turning as the door swings shut no ladies here shouts Aemon from behind the bar

Sweet times and looking each the eyes knowing unsaid words and remembering will you stop with me tonight Ah Clara I have horses to catch and men to find and tales to tell

when will you come to me again

I’ll come when the gorse blooms on Slieve Leag, and when the salmon leap for joy, I’ll come in silence if you listen hard me boots on cobbles in the night by the haunting of the sickle moon I’ll come

keep warmth for me between the sheets

Standing outside Brady’s last goodbyes and him away across the darkened town with lights in windows and the crying of the bairnes driven to their beds on bread and dripping, hot milk and Horlicks, Dads sitting by the fire reading the Echo while the women elbow deep in soap whisper to the listening night

And out into the country and the road to Balfe O’Reilly strides under a pair of moons lighting the pale road to the distant hills and dreaming as he goes where is Brian O’Sullivan who could play the fiddle and Johnny Byrne who ran away to Blackrock and other foreign parts where are the chieftains of childhood and the terror gangs of the back lanes and the girls who ran screaming home to mothers with red elbows and bleeding hands.

The night surrounds him whispering the voices of old behind the shriveled oak under silent rocks breathless in the grasses

The road a silver belt around the earth that he could walk forever careless of time and the passing of mute friends

Will I see you again sweet Clara, will the spells of your eyes and your lips draw me back,

oh aye, I’ll come in the spring when the weather is kind and the sky is sprinkled with larks when the you hear the music of Dagda’s harp and the wind is stilled and the ashes cold in the hearth, I’ll come my love when the gorse blooms gold on Slieve Leag.

Then Balfes dark roofs in the valley below the smell of the turf burning while the town sleeps drowned in dreams OReilly’s boots on cobbled roads the horses are in the stables and the cats stalk shadows in the streets.

From ‘Reminiscences of Dublin 1966’

The Jesus of South William Street


I’m not such a bad person I think, not now, and maybe not even then. But sometimes how we see ourselves is not how others perceive us and I am willing to accept that in the arrogance of youth I might have stepped over the line once or thrice.

However it was not as a result of any of my moral qualities that found me one Christmas Eve kneeling with blood on my hands over the inert body of a woman. Miss Quinn was on the periphery of my world, annoying, unpleasant, but in essence unimportant. But there was no doubt that she hated me, for myself, and for all I represented.

It was Dublin in the sixties, when with my friend Jeremy and fresh out of college we set up a photographic studio in South William Street. We were young, dynamic, ambitious, from London, and immediately successful.

We made our studio on the first floor of a narrow, run-down, Victorian building just a stone’s throw away from the fashionable Grafton Street. The building consisted of four floors, no lift of course, just a wide stone staircase with a half landing between each floor.

A priest, Father Flail, a gaunt black crow of a man, visited Miss Quin each week. He symbolized for us the Ireland of the shadows, a country steeped in a severe and unforgiving religion, fearful of the wrath of the priest and eternal damnation, suffocating under a grey blanket of sexual repression, and they saw in me an unwelcome and decadent visitation. An impression based mainly on our shoulder length hair, but reinforced by the clothes we wore, the music we played, and the physical appearance of many of the visitors to the studio.

‘You should be ashamed. Why don’t you go back to yer country. We don’t want yer sort here.’ She hissed at me one day as accompanied by the crow we crossed on the stairs. I was too surprised to say anything, and they continued their climb, the priest taking hold of the old lady’s arm as if to affirm his agreement. That marked the start of a period of ‘cold war’, in which we ignored each other and which might have continued indefinitely had it not been for the party.

We decided to organise our first Christmas party a few days before holiday started, and we wanted to make it a party Dublin would remember.  We hired a man with a disco, decorated the studio with long drapes borrowed from a film studio, invited everyone who was either a client, a prospective client, or someone who could make the party swing. A large amount of alcohol was provided and we even set aside a room available for anyone who wanted to indulge in more exotic chemical stimulants.

We had been to enough parties in Dublin to know the usual course of events, and took the precaution of hiring a couple of off-duty Guarda to act as bouncers. However by eleven o clock both had drunk themselves into state of verbal and physical paralysis. There were about two hundred people crammed into the studio and overflowing onto the stairs, the disco man had fled, afraid for his own safety and that of his gear, and two large, red faced and jovial men, one on the other’s shoulders were gleefully pulling down all the decorations accompanied by squeals and roars of approval from the spectators most of whom were total strangers.

The air was thick with smoke and the smell of spilt beer, sweat, and cheap aftershave. Someone had found our record player and Ba Ba Ba Ba Barbera Ann was shaking the air. In one corner a girl was quietly vomiting on a heap of fallen decorations while in another a fat middle-aged priest with a perspiring face was drinking Guinness from a bottle hidden in a brown paper bag and leering openly at a young girl propped drunkenly against the wall next to him. In the centre of the floor two gay men were clinging to each other, oblivious to the mayhem around them.

It was into this scene that a figure from another world appeared. Miss Quinn stood in the doorway like a miniature grim reaper, her stick raised as if ready to ward off an expected attack, a look on her face mixing incredulity and outrage in fluctuating proportions.

I knew I should confront her, maybe try to placate her, I had no desire to have a bunch of Guarda descending on the party and finding any illegal substances, but it was then that fate played a card. I had just taken a swallow of Jameson when the shock of seeing her there sent the fiery liquid into nose and lungs. I advanced towards her making choking noises, eyes watering, one hand clutching my throat, the other outstretched in what I hoped was a calming gesture. She looked at me, her eyes widening in an expression of horror and revulsion. I tried to speak, but could only produce a guttural animal like noise. Desperate to pacify her I advanced, and she retreated, step by step towards the stairs, waving her stick from side to side between us. Deeply disturbed at the impression I was giving I tried a smile, which being accompanied by a sort of involuntary cawing noise proved to be the final straw.

‘Ya divil! Ya divil All of ya, divils!’ she shrieked and fled, moving faster than I had ever seen her move before, up the stairs to her refuge on the top floor, probably bolting and locking her door against the immorality below.

We spent the next few days cleaning and clearing the studio, and saw nothing of Miss Quinn but expecting a letter from the landlord any day. The Friday before Christmas we closed, intending to open again in the New Year. Monday was Christmas Eve and we guessed that most people would take it as a holiday.

Christmas Eve was a foul cold day. A biting north wind brought showers of sleet and snow blowing in from the sea and we stayed at home in our St. Anne Street flat. In the early evening I volunteered to fetch the TV from the studio as we didn’t have one in the flat and were growing bored with reading, arguing, and drinking.

I was grateful for my long white sheepskin coat as I walked through a veil of sleet to where we had left the car. The streets were deserted as I drove across town and fortunately there were plenty of spaces to park near the studio. I stood for a moment in front of our building and looked up at the top floor. There was no light there. She must have gone away for Christmas I thought.

I unlocked the front door and reached around to the light switch on the wall. When I clicked it on there was only a faint light from far above. The ground floor bulb had gone. Now the only light came from the single bulb outside the old ladies flat far above.

It was on the landing outside our door that I came upon the body, and although in semi darkness I knew instantly it was Miss Quinn. Her black stick lay higher up pointed accusingly towards me, and a few stairs higher was her upturned shopping bag, its contents scattered over the surrounding steps.

There was an appalling silence and stillness in that scene. The body on the floor, the objects scattered and lifeless, the darkness that seemed to draw in closer around me.

I moved forwards, approaching the body as if it were a dangerous animal that might awake at any time. She was lying on her back, her face shockingly white against the dark stone. Her eyes were closed and her mouth half open, a loosened set of upper dentures protruding obscenely. Her hat lay next to her head, just as if someone had removed it and placed it carefully there.

I knew what I had to do, but had to force myself to go closer. I scolded myself for the illogicality of fearing the old lady now, of not wanting to find out what I already thought I knew.

Kneeling down beside her I reached for her hand resting on her body, as I did so I put my other hand down on the floor next to her for balance. With an involuntary cry I jerked it away, it was wet, wet and sticky, a dark stain spread over the floor surrounding her head and shoulders.

I took hold of her hand and felt for the pulse I knew would be absent. Her wrist was cold, thin and hard as I pressed and searched. It was bizarrely shocking when I felt it, faint, irregular, like the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings. In a way I wanted this strange dark horror to be an object, to be inorganic, inert. To feel it alive under my fingers was bizarrely repugnant, repulsive.

I phoned the emergency services from the studio, they said they would send someone.

A shaft of light from the open studio door illuminated the body as I returned to stand over it. I noticed a damp area surrounding her where condensation had formed and realised she must have been there for a very long time, and wondered if I should cover her up with a blanket or something, but nothing suitable came to mind. The floor looked very hard underneath her head and I thought I should put a cushion under her. I took one from the studio and knelt down beside her trying to avoid the bloodstain. I reached down and slipped my hands underneath her thin shoulders and lifted gently. Her sparse white hair was partly stuck to the floor and I had to slip one hand under her head to detach it from the congealed blood on the floor.

As I pushed the cushion under, her eyes flickered open. My arms were around her, our faces inches apart in a grotesque parody of an embrace. For a moment she stared blankly, unseeing, then they focused, and looked straight at me. Her mouth opened but she made no sound, but as I laid her back down one hand rose from her side, and she slowly, so slowly made the sign of the cross over her breast.

‘Hallo there! Anyone there?’ I heard a voice with a deep cork accent from down the stairs. The Guarda i guessed.

‘Up here, first floor, there’s been an accident.’

I heard the tramp of heavy boots on the stairs and a few moments later a huge uniformed figure appeared.  He stood irresolute at the top of the stairs taking in the scene.

‘Now now, what’s goin on here?’ he said in a slightly accusing tone, and when I didn’t answer he advanced just a foot or two and peered down at the body.

‘Is it dead she is?’

‘Not yet.’

He peered around the stairway suspiciously as if expecting a sudden and violent attack from the shadows.

‘Its my belief she’s fallen down the stairs.’ He said eventually with the air of having solved a difficult crime. ‘Aye, she’s surely had a fall.’

I refrained with difficulty from any reply and he retreated again to his station at the top of the stairs and began to hum quietly to himself, every now and again raising himself on toes as if about to start a sprint.

Eventually an ambulance arrived and carried her away into the night. They asked me if I knew any next of kin, but I could only mention the local priest as being the best bet for locating any family.

A few days after the New Year I met some distant relative of her on the stairs, a small, mousey man with a black bowler hat.

‘To be sure ‘twas an accident waiting to happen. No surprise, no surprise at all. My sister would have had her in Donegal, but she wouldn’t leave Dublin, and this place. But the stairs…’ He gestured towards them ‘Well, for a woman of her age it were folly.’

‘Did she recover consciousness?’ I asked.

‘Oh aye! She did that.’ And he put his hand on my arm and lent towards me, ‘and I’ve told the priest, and he’s making a report like, to the Bishop.’

‘A report?’

‘Aye! What she saw. What she said. She whispered it to me, just before she died, God rest her.’


He lent closer, as if to impart a secret and murmured, ‘She had a visitation. He came to her, the Lord Jesus himself. When she was lying there, waiting to die like, and so long at it too.  She felt him taking her hand and when she opened her eyes he lifted her in his arms to take her to the Holy Father. She saw his face she said, shinning with light and holiness. It were a great blessing, a truly great blessing for she died a happy woman.’

‘Good God!’

‘Aye, he is that.’

Later that evening I told Jeremy and he laughed, rolling on the floor and holding his stomach. The best joke in years he said.

I couldn’t laugh somehow and wondered if the priests were right, that there was a boss man up there directing things. And if there was he must have seriously weird sense of humour. There on the cold concrete floor that unwelcome intimacy of touching her, holding her, had made fools of us both.

I’ve washed the floor on the landing several times but the stain still shows. It’s all that’s left of her now and I guess that the only people that remember her are me and the crow, but sometimes working late and alone in the studio I fancy I hear the tap tap tap of her stick, and a sudden cough.