A Crossing

The wind blows and the stars twinkle. The wind is fresh and strong and blows great gusts off the sea. The big boat stands waiting.
We walk up the gangplank where a short sailor, gnarly and grey, holds out a hand. The boat throbs. I throb too: it is exciting to be going on the big boat.
I look back to the hills. The town’s fairylights glitter in the darkness. It seems as if the night is absorbing them all. The sailor takes my hand and helps me up. He smiles and my mother smiles too.
“Has he got sealegs?”
“Sure hasn’t one marked port and the other starboard!”
My mother laughs.
Starboard. What is that? Is that were you see the stars?
“Come on John,” says my mother. “We must find a seat.”
We walk to the very top of the gangplank and through to a big lounge. The lights are bright and I blink. There are lots of people. Cases and bags lie everywhere. The seats are in rows, like armchairs, but all stuck together. They are yellow and the lights are yellow too. The boat throbs. I can feel it in my tummy.
My mother finds two seats for us at the far end of the lounge under a small round window. She puts her big black bag in front of her seat and we sit down.
“Now,” she says. “We’ll soon be there.”
“What is starboard?” I ask. “Is it where you can see the stars? Can I go there?”
“Starboard? That’s what sailors mean when they say right. Port is on the left and starboard in on the right.”
“Why do they have different words?”
“Because they have a special sailors’ language. They call the boat ‘she’. To them the boat is a lady.”
How could the boat be a lady?
A young woman comes and stands in front of the seat next to my mother’s.
“Is anyone sitting here?”
“No,” says my mother.
“Do you mind of I take it?”
“Not at all,” says my mother.
The young woman sits down.
“Is this your son?” she asks. “How old are you, little fella?”
“Five and a half,” I say.
“Aren”t you a big boy for five and a half?”
I blush and say nothing.
“He’s shy,” says my mother.
The young woman is very pretty. She is blonde with nice eyes and wears a suede jacket and jeans. My mother never wears jeans.
“Where are you going?” she asks my mother.
“We’re going to Ballydown,” says my mother. “In Monaghan. Do you know it around there?”
“I think I’ve heard of it,” says the young woman. “I’m from Dublin myself. Are you going over for a holiday?”
“We are,” says my mother.
“That’s nice,” says the pretty young woman.
“My name’s Mary,” says my mother, “and this is John Kevin.”
“How do you do?” says the pretty young woman. “I’m Anna. I work in Guy’s Hospital. All bedpans and backache. And the odd hooley! You wouldn’t watch my bag till I get a breath of fresh air out the deck? I won’t be too long.”
“Of course,” says my mother.
When Anna is gone my mother says, “Don’t say a word about why we’re going over, do you hear?”
I look at my mother.
“Do you hear?” she says. I nod.
“That’s a good boy,” she says.
“Are we ever going back?” I ask.
“We’ll see,” she says, “we’ll see.”
The boat gives a big loud throb and I can feel it move. Now we are sailing out to sea. The waves are flowing beneath us. The stars are out on the starboard side and the port is behind on the port side. It is exciting, but I’m not excited any more. I curl up on the seat and try to sleep.
But it is too bright and yellow to sleep and there is too much noise. I can hear men singing and wonder if it is the sailors singing their sea shanties. The boat rolls and throbs and it makes my tummy dizzy. Anna comes back.
“And where’s your husband?” she asks my mother.
“He gets sick on the boat,” my mother says. “So he stays home and paints the house.”
I think of home. Why does my mother call it a house? We live in a small flat, in an attic.
“I’m sure he’ll be missing you. Are you going for long?”
“Just a while,” says my mother. “Come on John,” she says, “I’d better take you for a wee wee. Would you watch that bag of mine, Anna?”
“Of course, Mary,” says Anna. My mother takes me out on deck.
“She’s the nosey one, isn’t she? ‘And where’s your husband?’ Say nothing to that one, do you hear me?” I nod and yawn.
The wind is cold now, and fresh, and darkness has deepened all around. The waves lap at the boat as it ploughs through the deep black sea. I can’t see any stars from this side of the boat, nor the moon either. I look at my mother and think of my father’s eyes, of him asking me to stay, of the look in them as I went to her.
“We’ll soon be there,” says my mother, and I hold her hand as we go back inside. The singing is louder now and I wish I knew the words.


A Bike Ride

Mattie and I swung out on the bikes. We took off onto the road and away.
‘We’ll go as far as Hollywood. Come on.’
Mattie rose in the saddle, cowboy style, and shot ahead of me. I almost thought he was going to give it a crack on the flanks and yell, ‘Hi ho, Sliver! Away!’ I stood up on the pedals myself and pulled in behind him, the day warm on my back and the neighbours’ hedges full of sweet country smells, woodsmoke and leaves and grass still moist with dew.
The village rolled away behind me, the white bungalows and green hedges disappearing with every revolution of the sit-up-and-beg’s wheels. The bike was too big for me, but Mattie’s was even bigger – and his had a crossbar too. But that didn’t bother Mattie – he was able for any yoke. And he could dismount by scooting along with both feet on the one pedal. I had to pull her in and get off carefully. They could be dangerous things, bikes.
We passed the creamery, clanking and hammering away, and crossed the bridge to Ballydown, the cottages and cluster of shops, O’Reilly’s garage, the green and cream telephone box on the road out to Scottsville.
‘Do you know Hollywood?’
‘Is that where they make the films?’
Mattie laughed.
‘That’s in America, you eejit. There’s a lake there and we’re going to swim it.’
‘But we have no togs!’
‘Who needs them on a day like this?’
We came to the old church at the top of the hill, and Mattie put his feet up on the handlebars. He was freewheeling now, down to Jameson’s farm and the pond at the bottom of the hill, daredevilling along on the bike’s big wheels. I was freewheeling myself, but I hung on to the handlebars, grim and determined. It was just like riding the wind. The air rushed past my ears and I felt at the mercy of the big awkward machine as I flew down the hill. At last I came to the bottom and the rise eventually levelled out, the bikes’ slower, calmer now, as we passed the flat, quiet fields that lay either side of the road to Scottsville.
There wasn’t a car to be seen and the sky was as blue as the ocean, cloudless and still. Above the wide open heavens in outer space rockets were travelling to the moon and sputniks orbited mysteriously. It made me dizzy looking up at the endless miles and thinking about how far it was to the moon, to the stars.
‘Keep in!’ yelled Mattie. A motorbike roared up behind, and startled the bejaysus out of me. I swerved into the ditch, fell off the big machine and lay with it on top, a wheel still spinning and my legs and elbows badly skinned.
Mattie looked down at me.
‘What kind of eejit are you?’
I blushed scarlet, flustered and ashamed of myself.
‘Get up out of that,’ he said. ‘Are you all right?’
I wasn’t, but I nodded.
‘Let’s go.’
Mattie was away before I could even get the bike out of the ditch. I mounted it as quickly as I could and set off after him.
We rode on in silence for another half hour. The road was straight and level and the going easy, the bikes flying along and the day bright and sunny. I forgot about my shins and my elbow, and started to relax in the warmth and sunshine.
‘Not long now, ‘ called Mattie as we passed a sign that read “Hollywood ¼”.
We cycled along and Mattie let me catch him up and ride side by side with him. The road narrowed to a lane and we rolled into Hollywood. Up ahead I could see an open expanse of land and the lake appeared, a large flat mirror, silver and blue, with not a soul in sight.
‘Come on,’ said Mattie, and he dismounted in that cool cowboy way of his, scooting along until he pulled the critter up short.
I stopped my bike a little behind him and got off as carefully as I could. Even without a crossbar, I was high up on the saddle and didn’t want to scuff and scar myself any more than I’d done already.
We laid our bikes by the edge of the lake and Mattie started to take off his clothes. He wasn’t a bit embarrassed, standing naked and proud in the sunshine. I was a lot slower about undressing.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he demanded. ‘Sure we haven’t all day. This place will fill up with all sorts of jossers any minute. If you don’t hurry up they’ll see us.’
I pulled off my y-fronts. Mattie grinned, turned and ran into the lake. I followed and we swam towards the opposite shore, about a hundred yards or so, Mattie going like a torpedo, like an Olympic champion. I breast-stroked in his wake, knowing I couldn’t match him for technique, for power.
He came to the shallows at the far side of the water and turned onto his back, floating in the still calm lough. I pulled up alongside him.
‘Not a bit cold, is it?’ said Mattie. I thought it was cold enough, but I just grinned.
‘Not a bit,’ I said.
‘I’ll race you back,’ he said. ‘You take a five yard start. The loser gets the ice creams.’
I swam the five yards ahead. Mattie stood smiling in the water as I looked round at him. That five yards seemed quite a distance and I started to fancy my chances.
‘You start us off,’ I called back to him.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘On your marks, get set…’
But before I heard the word ‘Go!’ a great splash told me that Mattie had hit the water and was away. I kicked off and started piling the lakewater behind me, the world a blur of surf and spray as I thrashed and hauled myself through the green lough.
I was still ahead after fifty yards, but only just. Mattie was like a rocket, like a missile, and I could feel him gaining on me. I urged myself on, determined not to give up without a fight, but it was no good. Slowly, ruthlessly, he was starting to catch me up. I thought of the legend of The Red Hand Of Ulster, the bloody claw hacked off and thrown at the shore to claim the land. In that moment, Mattie overtook me, and I knew I’d be getting the ice creams.
He ploughed on ahead, stroke after stroke taking him further and further away from me, till he was just a few feet from where we’d started. Winded now, and well beaten, I gave up the race to him. He deserved his winnings.
‘The champion!’ he cried, arms aloft, standing in the shallow water at the lake’s edge. ‘That’s a big slider you owe me!’
I came panting through the shallows and stopped a few yards from him. I wasn’t about to roll over completely.
‘But you started before you were supposed to!’ I cried. ‘You cheated!’
‘Just because you didn’t hear me shout “Go!” doesn’t mean to say I didn’t! You’re just being a bad loser!’
‘On no I’m not!’
‘Oh yes you are!’
Mattie started chucking water, splashing me in torrents. I gave as good as I got, splashing him back, but he was getting the better of me.
‘All right, all right!’ I cried. ‘You win!’
‘So you’re going to get me that slider?’
Hostilities ceased.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘A big one?’
‘A great big one,’ I said.
Mattie grinned at me in triumph. He skipped out of the lake and ran towards the place where we had thrown down our clothes and left the bikes. I followed him and we started drying ourselves on our shirts and getting dressed. My clothes stuck and clung to my wet flesh and I had to pull hard at my pants, shorts, and socks to get them on. Mattie didn’t seem to be having any trouble. In next to no time he was dressed and dry.
We lay side by side, the warm day and the race leaving me relaxed and peaceful. The view of the cloudless sky was worth any slider. I was lost in thoughts of ice cream when Mattie said quietly,
‘Do you remember Auntie Annie?’
A dragonfly hovered over the lake before shooting off across it like a small gaudy jet.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Do you remember playing up on her farm?’
‘I do.’
‘And do you remember that big white horse she had?’
I smiled and nodded.
‘That horse lived to be older than she did,’ said Mattie. ‘Poor Auntie Annie.’
Mattie spoke quietly, his cowboy bravura gone now.
‘Daddy took it bad. I remember going to visit her in Dublin, in the hospital. The smell of the place. A smell of medicine, only worse, and the size of it. Mammy and Daddy and the rest of us went down one day to see her. She was terribly failed, her red hair white then. That was a big shock. It made her look old. And she’d grown a hump on her back. She smiled at us, but we all knew she wouldn’t last long. Leukemia. A terrible way to go. Your blood is poisoned and you can’t fight off illness. Sure a cold would kill you.’
Mattie fell silent and I saw his eyes turn inward. It was as if he was talking to himself, as if I wasn’t there.
‘The telegram came on a Monday morning to the Post Office. Daddy was given leave and had to make the arrangements. Your mother came over. How did she get the news?’
I thought of that night, of my mother crying, of the week I spent with my father.
‘The Higginses came to the door,’ I said. ‘We’d all gone to bed, and I remember the knock made me jump. We didn’t have a telephone, but they did. They drove over to tell us. My mother knew as soon as she heard them at the door. She let them in and just broke down.’
As I spoke, two swifts appeared, circling and swooping overhead.
‘She was at the wake,’ he said. ‘Your mother and my father gave out The Rosary. And the house was full all the time. There were people at the door every five minutes. “Sorry for your trouble,” they all said. I passed no remark, though I thought it a strange thing to say – ‘trouble’ was just too small a word for what happened Auntie Annie.’
So this was what my mother had gone through. I thought when she came back home to us that she’d changed, that my aunt’s death had taken something from her. She had lost some of her spirit, I thought. It was gone in longing and grief and I wondered if it would ever come back to her.
‘Come on,’ said Mattie, suddenly jumping up. ‘I’ll take you to the grave and we can say a prayer.’
He took up his bike and was away. I followed behind, and we cycled the half mile over to the chapel where Auntie Annie was buried. We left our bikes at the side of the church and Mattie led me through the rows of graves to a plain white wooden cross.
‘There she is,’ said Mattie.
On the cross was written, ‘Anne Murphy 1939 – 1968’. I looked at the cross and tried to take thirty-nine away from sixty-eight, but got confused putting back the one. Mattie blessed himself and said a silent prayer.
‘Come on,’ he said.
We walked back to the bikes and I thought, as Mattie, mounted his yoke, that I could see a small tear at the corner of his eye, but I said nothing, and followed him out of the churchyard and down all the country roads back home, wondering now if he’d forgotten about that slider, his back to me all the way.




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