Light of other days, part 2

In part 2 of Light of other days Sean O’ Shea describes a strange event by the river bank, the winter drawing in and an Irish wake.

On the cliff above the river there was a crab apple tree. From the top of the tree you could see the whole world almost. You could pick crabs and drop them on the big people. From the tree one day I spied a strange sight indeed. If it wasn’t Mr Dirty Legs and the daft wan Mary Redset, himself with bottles of porter in every pocket of his great coat, and herself like a carnival queen in a polka dot dress several sizes too big.

Down the bank they danced with a jingle of bottles, wild guffaws and devilish giggles. All over each other they were, himself with his hands up her dress, squeezing her titties and fingering the knotted plaits of her straw red hair.

After a bit of slobbery, toothless smooching, Dirty Leg’s trousers were round his ankles and his willy stood out like a giant stick of rhubarb. Back laid Mary on the river bank, her dress lifted to her belly button, and down he goes on her pushing his rhubarb stick between her thighs. Together they rocked, him gasping and pushing up and down, all naked bums, and tits and polka dots and feet in the air.

“Hooah, me old mare,” he shouted. “Hooah me old mare,” I shouted as I shook the branches of the tree.  Faster I shook and the crabs were tumbling down, and the leaves and the branches and the marbles from my pockets. And soon I came tumbling down as well, and before I could blink I was running for my life as Dirty Legs did not take too kindly to being disturbed. I ran and ran and the earth sped beneath my feet and the clouds raced above, and the whole world was rocking up and down.

Wintertime

In winter the river would swell with flood and everyone would have to wear wellies. It would get dark very early and the dams would be washed away. Sally would scatter sawdust on the floor of her shop and the men would drink pints of porter into the late hours. They’d spit on the floor and argue about the price of cattle and the government and curse each other and the weather and their wives. Outside the donkeys would go hew-haw, hew-haw with long lonely cries as they waited on the men to go home.

When the men had gone the shop would be closed and Sally would soak her feet in a pan of steaming water. She spoke of her youth and the beautiful red dress she wore during her dancing days. She spoke of her lost love that was blasted from the skies in forty five.

“A fine dancer he was son, very light on the feet.”

She shared her memories with me and in this way her memories became my memories. She would beckon me towards her and hold my hands in hers saying,

“Beautiful long fingers you have son, like a priest. Maybe the Lord will call you one day. Now wouldn’t that be a grand thing. That I may be spared to see the day.”

I felt like a priest already as I sat there with her then and her confessing her inner most thoughts.  I carried her sadness with me as I made my way home by the back road, watching the lights go out in the houses one by one. I wondered about all the lives lived behind the windows and all the secrets that might be left unspoken.

Then the whole town would go to rest and there would be no sounds at all except sometimes the hoot of an owl, or the shrill cry of a bat in the back shed. And if the moon appeared it would cast its silvery light on the black slate of the houses and on the swollen river. Finally, as my eyes became drowsy with sleep I imagined Sally kneeling by her bedside under the Sacred Heart whispering her night prayers and still dreaming of her lost love.

A wake

One evening on the way home from school I noticed that Sally’s shop was closed. The big people were gathered round speaking in hushed voices. Sally was asleep in her bed with rosary beads strung through her fingers. She was perfectly still and her skin was the colour of soap. The big people said she was gone to sleep forever in the arms of Holy Jesus.

The funeral was held some days later. All the shops closed one by one as the hearse passed by. The clouds gathered and the rain began to fall in folds over the graveyard. The priest scattered holy water on the coffin and as he did so teardrops fell down his pale thin cheeks. The men lowered Sally into the earth and then, led by the priest, the people began to pray:

Hail Mary full of grace blessed art thou among women
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus
Holy Mary mother of God pray for us sinners
Now and at the hour of our death.

After that everyone went back to Sally’s shop and got very drunk indeed. Sally’s brother Ned got particularly drunk. Downing pint after pint of porter and feasting on plates of crubeens (pig’s trotters) he spoke of how much he would miss her and his memories of bygone scenes. With porter and fat dripping from his jowls he took my hand in his and began to sing:

 

Oft in the stilly night
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me
When I remember all the friends
That were so linked together
I’ve seen them all around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather

The Light of Other Days, Thomas Moore

Holding me in his gaze he said,

“Remember son the labour of birth into death, and remember our Lady of Sorrows. Remember the long lonely road and remember nature’s bounty. Remember the wild winter rose and the hedgerows bleeding with fuchsia. Soon to be sure I’ll be growing daisies myself in the sodden earth.”

Then he straightened his cap and slumped back in his creaky chair, muttering all the while,

“Ah sha, there you are then. On with ya. That’s how it is. Ah wisha, on with ya.”

That night huddling into myself beneath the blankets I wondered where Sally’s soul might have gone. Was it roaming in the shadows or moving about the stairs, or was it gone off somewhere far, far away beyond the stars searching still for its long lost love.

I lifted the sheet above my head and folded my arms across my chest in the sign of the cross. My heart was thumping under my sweaty palms and the faces of all those I knew passed before my mind’s eye and the sight of all I had seen. And I fervently promised that if God granted me another day, and helped me be good at my lessons, I would become a priest with no lips.

 

• All illustrations by Zelly Restorick, Hastings Online Times
• Zelly’s Website: http://infusedwithwarmthandlove.blogspot.co.uk/

SOS Jan 2015

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