Category: Sustaining Stories

Jacinta Hayes

Pained smile pinned to my face, I gingerly eased my aching body into the back seat of the car and greeted my friends. They had convinced me to join them for a day at The Festival of Writing and Ideas and while it is precisely the kind of day I would choose to spend in good times, these times were bad. I feared my body would not cope with a day of walking and standing. That my mind would melt when tasked with listening and talking. I wanted only to hide but here I was and now I needed to do my best to act like a normal person for a few hours.

The chapel was already full when we entered, so we joined those starting to gather behind the pews. My legs tugged their weight from my thighs, my neck struggled to hold my head upright. My arms were tingling and my right eye twitching. I placed my bag at my tender feet and looked around. The four stained glass panels were vaguely illuminated, a predominant blue casting a sickly pall on the faces of those seated near the front. It was a charming building but I wished I was seated, or at the very least, standing next to the stone walls for support.

Three men walked out and stood side by side in front of the altar. I recognised the writer Emmett Kirwan in the centre but not the tall black man with the enviable afro who loomed to his left, nor the older, bearded man on his right. The tallest man began – no introduction, no hello and no title of the poem. His English accent reverberated round the small building; his voice confident.

‘They always said I was over the edge. And now I am. I really am over the edge…’

I was hooked. One of his hands held the black and gold hardback with his name on the front, the other rose to the vaulted ceiling as did his volume.

‘I am hanging on. I am hanging on. I am hanging on.’

I held onto the smooth back of a pew to ease some pressure from my lower back but my eyes did not move from his face. His eyes brightened and dimmed with his words until the grand finale when his face broke into the biggest, whitest smile.

‘I was growing wings all the time And I can fly.’

The applause was spontaneous. Had I been seated, I would now have stood for this man, for his words, his presence, his gift. For the first time I was introduced to the genius of Lemn Sissay and I felt some semblance of light stir within the darkness I carried.

*

A year later, I was sitting on a worn tan leather seat. I had asked for a cert to cover my absence from work the previous week, and that current one. My doctor was accustomed to this, to the days or weeks when fibromyalgia meant I simply could not move. This time, however, I braced myself to tell her a little more.

‘I’m not enjoying my kids as much as I should.’

That was the feeble sentence I mustered, to express my sincerest belief that the lives of my children would be greatly improved were I not in their world. But it was

enough. As tears ran down my face with relief and guilt and the fear of admission, Noleen leaned towards me, her sympathetic eyes narrowing slightly, behind her dark framed glasses.

‘Do you think you might need some medication to help?’

‘Oh yes, please.’

I didn’t need to tell her that this was my first time out of the house, since simply refusing to leave my bed the previous Monday morning. She, my peer in age and motherhood, heard the desperate plea in my inadequate words. She spoke in a voice that was gentle but firm.

‘You have done your job for this week, Jacinta. Just collect your prescription and next week your job is to ring one of these numbers.’

She handed me two business cards, one a beautiful sunset, the other plain white. I simply glanced down at them but held them tight. I grasped the lifeline Noleen had proffered – one job only, one job next week. Surely I could do just one thing?

Finally, someone had given me permission to just be. *

The problem with depression is that I lacked the ability to ring any number for any purpose, so I texted instead. A couple of hours passed before the phone rang and I glared at it in a panicked frustration, afraid to touch the device should it accidentally connect us. It was a long time before I dialled 171, to hear this woman’s voice for the first time. It was business-like. I neither liked nor disliked it. She requested that I call her back. I doubted her qualifications. Could she possibly offer me help if she actually expected me to pick up the phone and ring her in person? I decided then and there

that, should she ever give me the advice to go for a walk, I would follow it. By standing up and walking out.

But I was in a state of utter despair. Life was meaningless and hopeless and relentless. So, eventually, I did pick up the phone and arrange a meeting. I found myself at the navy door examining the various labelled doorbells, in the search for Mary’s name. I hoped she wouldn’t answer. I tensed at the noise of feet descending wooden stairs. I fixed the pained smile to my face and said hello to the blonde bob- haired woman on the other side of the door.

I followed her up the stairs rehearsing in my mind the first sentence to say to this stranger who was tasked with making my skin an easier place to live in. As I sat in the plush armchair, I felt fragile in my old, oversized jeans and jumper. I had had no interest in clothes for a couple of years and my always slight frame, had diminished more so. I knew I looked a shambles. I just didn’t care.

‘The past ten years or so have been tough.’

I briefly detailed my mother’s death, the resultant lawsuit, the fractured family, my premature baby, finding my biological parents, the guilt, guilt and more guilt that was ever-present in my thoughts. As I grasped tissues from a discreetly-placed box, I, for the first time, spelled out a litany of disappointments, traumas, pressures and more. And Mary listened. She interrupted with the odd question but largely she remained stoic. Before the session finished, she asked if I thought she might be the right therapist for me. I knew finding the right person was important but for her to ask? For the decision to be mine? I saw a glimmer of hope. I agreed to meet her again a few days later.

There were times I saw a break in her stoic composure. A flash of anger on my behalf. Complete disbelief at the actions of others in my life. A smile at a retort given, of which I was proud. Repeatedly, Mary congratulated me on my hard work but I never agreed. To me this talking part was easy. Tiring but liberating. To be listened to, a luxury. Asking for help in the first place was the hardest. Living my world internally was the hardest. Having kept going for so long was the hardest.

Our twice-weekly appointments became weekly. The weekly, fortnightly. Then monthly. One day, confidently-dressed in new clothes, my hair freshly-washed, Mary told me she wasn’t making another appointment for me. That she was always there for me if I needed her. All I ever needed to do was pick up the phone. But I was good. I was healing. And I would continue to heal. I doubted that in my heart – how could I possibly feel better than I did at that moment, now that I could be part of the world again? But after almost a year of talking with Mary, my head trusted her. If she said life would continue to improve, it would.

*

I have thanked both of these women for their role in my survival. They know that, without them, the likelihood of me sitting, on this humid and overcast day, on a blanket I crocheted, in a room my husband built for me, with a dog on either side as my children play, is improbable. And, while both women refuse such responsibility and turn it back on me, the reality is I know I could not have borne my pain of existence for much longer. They helped lift the burden of that pain. Helped ease the harshness of the world. Helped me understand why I felt so very deeply.

But Lemn Sissay’s words accompanied me on my journey to recovery. Speaking his truth, in his words, on his journey. His survival made mine possible. In

his pain, mine diminished. In his strength, my muscles flexed. As he proclaimed his determination to hang on, my own determination grew. His black and gold hardback falls open onto Mourning Breaks, where the pages reflect the frequency and urgency with which they were turned some years ago. It travelled in my handbag, car, camper van. I read his words aloud at weddings and parties, silently while waiting to collect the kids, or for an N.C.T. appointment. It balanced our Christmas tree and served as a coaster for hot cups of tea. A few months ago, I had to search my house for it, for a now rare and leisurely read of my favourite poem.

*

This year, walking through the grounds of Borris House for The Festival of Writing and Ideas, I spot a friendly face and he flashes his huge smile. His arms open wide in greeting and I gladly embrace him. I take my compulsory selfie and we chat for a little while – I, a novice writer with a story to tell; he, an award-winning, recognised poet whose story has been dissected and written and acclaimed. We have become friends of a sort – well, infrequent messengers. He has read my stories and encouraged me. I have praised his honesty.

And I credit his words with saving my life, just as much as the professionals from whom I sought help.

JACINTA HAYES is from Arklow. A primary school teacher and also a writer with an internal monologue she feels compelled to transfer to paper. She feels privileged to be given the opportunity to share her thoughts with others.

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)

Bernadette Colfer

Munch and I had never seen eye to eye. He would glare at me suspiciously whenever I approached him. He has been part of our family since we moved to Monalea way back in 2008. He was a great addition to the family, the best landscaper you could find. He cleared all the weeds, and there were many, ate everything in sight and made light work of nettles, thistles and just about anything that grew wild.

When we built our house, almost all the finance was ploughed into the build without much left for outdoors. It was a large site that had previously been a farm with a lot of animals coming and going and as a result, it needed a big clean up. So Munch worked for his living. All he needed was food, shelter and space to roam. Even as a kid, Munch looked like an old goat! He had a meg to start with, that soon grew into a full-length beard. He had a long face and curly horns, which he used often when something got in his way. His expression never changed much… always gruff! He looked much like the senior Billy Goat Gruff. Although he wasn’t pretty or even handsome, he had something majestic about him, confident and unapologetic.

Since he arrived as a young kid, he appeared to be distrustful of me and yet allowed any males in the family to approach him. As a result, I just did the necessary dosing a couple of times a year and performed a pedicure every few months. He required very little maintenance but as he got older, I could see that he had slowed down a lot. He was still doing his work but appeared to have difficulty walking.

Our vet agreed with me that it could be arthritis and so I started him on anti- inflammatories and painkillers, which seemed to do the trick and allowed him to move with ease. Soon after, Munch developed a cough and appeared to be having difficulty breathing. This turned out to be pneumonia and it was time for antibiotics. Again, he recovered well and was soon back to normal.

Every morning I would look out and see Munch in the field or, if it was raining, I would hear him, as he hated the rain and would go in under his shelter. He and Ben (our pony) were good friends and seemed to look out for each other! I was conscious that goats usually only reach their late teens and so, over the past couple of months, I always felt a slight panic when I looked out and didn’t see or hear him.

Then the morning finally came when he wasn’t visible in the field and no sound came from his shelter. Anxiously, I hurried down to see where he was, and with every step I took, my stomach sank. When I saw him lying peacefully in his bed, I felt utterly bereft! The next day, with a heavy heart, I buried Munch. Ben looked sad all alone and I know he missed his pal.

A few days after, two baby goats arrived, unexpectedly. They had been roaming around the country for days and no one knew where they had come from. None of the local farmers owned them and so Nicholas bundled them into his car and brought them home from his workplace. Pure white and full of fun, they appeared to be twins, but one of them had a badly broken leg that looked serious. I took them to the vet the next day and when he looked at the leg, he asked if I would like to have him put to sleep there and then, or the next day!

I was horrified at the suggestion. The vet noticed my reaction and pointed out that it was so badly broken, it was unlikely that he could recover. I was willing to give

it a try. And so, the nursing began. Daily bandaging, manuka honey, antibiotics and strict orders to stay still. The latter was the difficult part. After about three weeks, I could see we were making progress and within the month, he was running around next to his brother with not a care in the world.

I cannot imagine life without them now, but boy do they keep me busy! Scapegoat is a term I’ve used many times and now I realise where it came from. They are like Houdini and will escape from just about anywhere. They are always looking for a way out, even if they have what they want. When they get out of their patch, I try to secure them and they will then instantly try to get back in! Wherever they are, they want to be somewhere else. They have no boundaries or fear and they certainly believe that the grass is greener on the other side! They climb up on the hay bales and jump off, they run under Ben’s belly and around him. They make me laugh with their antics, I’m never sure if the headbutting and locking horns is playing or fighting!

They also make me very cross when I look out and they are nowhere to be seen. I’ve spent many mornings searching for both of them, since they always stay together. To make it easier to find them, I attached little brass bells to their collars. Now I just listen when they are out of sight and within seconds, I hear the ding-a-ling and I know which direction to go. As soon as they see me, they come running. Some things come along at just the right time and it makes you wonder……..

BERNADETTE COLFER lives in Monalea along with her son and daughter and is surrounded by nature. Reading has always been her passion and now she might add writing to that!

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)

Jacinta McGovern

‘What do you want now?’ my younger sister sighed as she answered her mobile phone.

‘Where are you?’ I grumbled. ‘I have been all alone with these two for hours and I’m losing my mind. I can’t cope!’

‘Calm yourself, it’s only been ten minutes since Bernie left you. I met her on the road outside of Kenmare,’ she reassured me.

Really? Had it only been ten minutes? It felt like ten hours!

‘I’ll be there soon. You can do this!’ my heavily-pregnant sister comforted as she hung up.

I felt I had just been abandoned, left alone to deal with this unpredictable duo.

I started spiralling down into a vortex. Breathe, Jacinta breathe… I would have to

deal with this stressful situation – on my own! Oh god I thought, I’ll have to find

somewhere suitable for them to eat, they must be hungry by now. So I explored the

town and found a pub that served food. It had a downstairs toilet and enough room for the chair. Cheerfully, I headed back to the hairdressers.

They were there, waiting for me, like two bold children. The Princess sat in

her chair, dressed in a pink tracksuit, with her white sparkly sandals, God forbid she would wear any other colour. Her mischievous cousin sat beside her watching me from beneath her newly-coiffed curls.

‘We’re hungry,’ they both chorused.
‘Where have you been?’ groaned the Princess.
‘I need my game,’ shouted the cousin. ‘My game, my game!’
‘Yes, I know,’ I replied through gritted teeth. I’d been plagued with “I need my

game” since breakfast. I paid and thanked the hairdresser.
‘Have a nice day,’ she uttered with a fake smile.
Have a nice day? Oh yeah really, chance would be a fine thing. I think the

salon lady was just happy to see the back of us. We headed out of the shop. But the chair wouldn’t fit through the door.

‘What’s the problem?’ the Princess moaned, sitting there with that cheeky face. ‘How the blazes did Bernie get you through the door? The chair is far too wide for the gap. Did you walk in?’ I demanded.
‘How do you think I got in here?’ she replied sarcastically ‘By plane? Bernie

pushed me in. Bernie always looks after me so well,’ she beamed, continuing to sing the praises of “Saint” Bernie, as I headed towards the road to phone my long- suffering older sister.

‘Yes!’ Bernie snapped. ‘What is it now?
‘Emmm, I wondered how you got Mammy into the hairdressers? The

wheelchair won’t fit. How did you push her in? Is there a back door or something?’ I whispered.

‘I didn’t push her in,’ she declared ‘I folded the wheelchair and Mammy walked in.’
Mother trucking son of a biscuit. She gets to me every time. Count to ten, go to your happy place. Breathe… I told myself firmly.

‘And Jacinta?’
‘WHAT?!’
Silence on the phone.
‘Don’t forget the game before you head back to the house,’ she advised. ‘Yes, yes,’ I growled inwardly. ‘Thanks, and have a safe trip home.’

I could hear her singing “Welcome to my world” as she hung up the phone.

I braced myself and headed back to face my mother.

‘Mammy, Bernie just told me you need to get out of the chair and walk through the door, as that’s how you got in,’ I confirmed, menacingly.

‘Oh yeah, yeah, yeah I remember now,’ she giggled as she lifted herself lazily from the wheelchair. I folded it up and my mother slowly ambled out the salon door, helped by her elderly cousin, or as I called her, her partner in crime. Mammy got back into her chariot and we headed off down the busy town. I kept looking behind me in case I lost sight of her elderly cousin. I had already lost her twice that day. She trailed behind us and I could hear her talking to herself, repeating and repeating:

‘I have to get my game, my Telly Bingo. I have to get my Telly Bingo game.’

God give me strength!

After lots of chair pushing and navigating the town, which I might add was not wheelchair friendly, we got to the pub which was aptly named “The Queen’s Fool”. I herded the duo inside. After we were seated, I grabbed the food menus from the bar.

Ah, I could relax now. I handed them the specials. For the next fifteen minutes, they had a heated discussion about what they wanted to eat. One wanted lamb, but a small portion. Or maybe beef but oh the chicken looked tasty? A lively squabble ensued regarding sharing dishes. It went something like this.

‘I only want a small portion – maybe I can share with you?
‘No – I can’t have gravy, it gives me heartburn!’
‘Do you think there’s butter in the mashed potato? They always put in far too much.’
‘Do they have to put bloody black pudding in everything?’
The cousin then decided she wanted a scone and tea.
Or a scone and milk.
Or a scone and a Club Orange…

Oh my good God it was just a fiasco. You couldn’t write it. The cousin continued mentioning her Telly Bingo numerous times, as if I would EVER forget. I promised to find a shop the minute we left the pub. Eventually they decided on what food they wanted and I headed to the bar to order.

The barman was slowly cleaning glasses as he watched me approach the counter. A skinny man in his sixties, he had a tattoo of an anchor on his forearm. I had been aware of him watching us ever since we had arrived. He would have heard the entire food debate.

‘Did you want to order some food love?’ he enquired.

‘Yes, yes,’ I said excitedly. ‘I know what they want.’

He eyed me sympathetically over his horned-rimmed glasses and lamented, as if he was at a funeral.

‘Oh I’m so sorry love, but the kitchen closed five minutes ago.’

I stared at him in horror. What the hell would I do now? He spoke some words but I couldn’t hear him. I opened my mouth but no sound came out.

‘Hello? Hello are you alright pet?’ he snapped his fingers. ‘You look like you’re going to pass out! Would you like a glass of water love?’

‘Huh, what, no…Emmm I mean, yes I’m ok,’ I answered meekly.

`We only serve food on weekdays till two pm. And the other cafés and shops close half day on a Wednesday,’ he informed me. ‘I can give you a pot of tea, some pink Snacks and Tayto?’

‘Ok,’ I heard myself mutter.

I stood for a moment in contemplation but couldn’t put it off any longer, so I headed back to the table to outline the situation. They were not impressed. According to my mother, when Bernie, her first born, takes them to lunch this never happens.

‘For heaven’s sake Mammy, I can’t do anything about it,’ I cried.

She threw me the “look”. You know, the “look” that Irish Mammies have? That look of sheer disapproval. Irish Mothers have been practising the “look” since the day their children were born. I felt her disappointment in me, flowing across the table.

For the next fifteen minutes we sat there. Nobody spoke. The pub was empty so it was dead quiet, apart from the crunching of our Tayto crisps and the slurping of our tea.

You could cut the air with a knife.
Then suddenly the voice of her cousin broke through the silence. ‘Don’t forget I have to get my Telly Bingo!’

JACINTA MCGOVERN is new to writing. A member of the Hollyfort Writers’ Group since 2020, she gains her inspiration from family and nature. Jacinta enjoys doing photography with the Gap Camera Club and she loves cats and travel.

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)

Rona Fleming

At the entrance of a small key-shaped cul-de-sac, stood a gooseberry bush. It wasn’t located in front of a beautiful view, and it wasn’t even that pretty, but every year without fail, it would ripen full of gooseberries.

The bush was situated in a dense thicket in front of a medium rectangular-sized, and overgrown grassy patch. Sometimes, early in the mornings you could see the droplets of dew glistening on top of the grassland, basking in the glow of the watery sun. The grassy and musky aroma would fill your nostrils and permeate the air, as you approached the spot.

To the side of this thicket, was a small forge run by old Furlong himself. You would know the man was there working, when you happened to catch a sight of his thick-bodied, tan and white Jack Russell – Jack. On a working day, you would be sure to see the oul’ dog, rambling around and sniffing outside the building, or else cocking his head to one side as he tried to recognise who was approaching the forge. Jack was elderly and half-blind you see, so it took a while before he would figure out who you were. However, most of the time, you would hear Furlong beating the wrought iron into shape, before you would even see him or the dog.

Making horseshoes was Furlong’s main trade. He was a master craftsman and so were his brothers. However, I never saw any horses outside waiting. (In later years, I was told that people did bring their horses to his forge). I only ever saw stocky and ruddy-faced men. You know, the type who always wore a grey suit jacket, with an open necked shirt and sometimes a flat cap. Often, I would see them loitering around the forge, and overhear them mostly chatting about the weather.

Across the road from the forge was a small farm, owned by a man called Cassell and his sister. They were quiet enough people and I don’t recall ever seeing them that much. The farm was only accessible by a lane that ran behind a large galvanised gate. If I remember correctly, at the end of the lane was a bunch of hay sheds, small stables and a field or two. It was perfectly hidden away from the road, a little spot of Eden nestled within an urban setting. To the side, like a sore thumb, stuck out Cassell’s large three-bedroomed, granite stone house. Morning and night, without fail, the front bedroom windows gazed over the farm and the road, constantly noting that everything was in its place.

There were about twenty-five two-bedroomed townhouses gathered around the cul de sac. My great aunt’s house was nestled right in the middle. Until I was thirteen, I stayed over in her home on occasion, and I have many fond memories of the place. Great Aunt Peg was a type of lady whom you would never meet nowadays, since these types are an ‘old fashioned’ and dying breed. She was a lady who would never dare to venture outside the door, unless she was well-presented and her hair was perfect. Peg had her own set of rituals and routines that she never strayed from and although my aunt could get cross and speak sharply, I don’t recall a time when she ever shouted or raised her voice. Guests who came over to the house would always be served tea in a small flowery cup and saucer, along with slices of Victoria sponge

cake and a never-ending supply of triangular-shaped sandwiches. I still remember so well the patterned carpet of rust, beige and green and the smell of the lavender wax polish that engulfed the air.

I recall one particular summer’s morning, when I came downstairs half-asleep and noticed my aunt standing at the front door. When I joined her and looked out, all I could see were some cows! Black and white cows, mucky cows, stunned cows, smelly cows! Cows that seemed to be enjoying their new-found freedom, away from Cassells farm. One or two of them were running around the road, their eyes large and mouths open, trying to get away from the lanky, hired hand who was chasing after them. There was another cow, just standing idle in a neighbour’s garden, not bothered in the slightest. Instead, she was more interested in eating whatever delicacies that lay in front of her. The chasing and handling of these lofty bovines went on for the whole morning, for as soon as the men managed to bring them to their gate, they would break away and the whole comical situation would begin all over again. I was the grand old age of nine years when this occurred during the final summer of the 1980s. It was a retro summer of hot sunshine and warm pavements, ice creams, the blaring radios, pebbles, the beach, beautiful gardens, Victoria sponges and the gooseberry bush.

I would sometimes sneak out during the late afternoon to meet up with some of the cul-de-sac kids, and play outside on the road. I wasn’t allowed to play with one or two of them you see, as they were rather naughty. Yet these naughty kids always managed to tag along with the rest of our small group, trying to figure out new ways to be mischievous. Mostly, we avoided taking part in their shenanigans, as we knew we would be the ones to get caught and not them!

We always ended up stopping at that all too familiar gooseberry bush, playing around it. Going in and out of that bit of grassy land, through a small opening within the briars. There was a feeling of magic that hung in the air whenever we would enter, and it was like a thick red curtain opened and allowed us to cross over into another world. We used to scare each other, telling tales such as the one about a haggard spectre, who sat behind the briars waiting to grab you when you least expected it, or point at you as you walked past, with an outstretched and bony, curved finger.

Sometimes the group of us would pick a few of the ripened berries, and pop them into our mouths. They were of a yellow-green, chartreuse-like shade, with vertical lines going down the sides of each round berry. In the bright light of the day, they were almost transparent, reminiscent of green hot air balloons ascending into the blue afternoon sky.

Although these places and the people are long gone, the above are a sampling of the recollections that have filled my heart with joy and nostalgia over the years. I will forever be grateful for those happy childhood experiences and the memories that were created as a result. I will treasure them always.

RONA FLEMING is originally from Bray, County Wicklow, but now lives in Gorey. A crazy cat lady with two cats, Lucky and Megan, she loves to partake in anything creative and finds writing and painting very therapeutic.

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)

Patrick O’Neill

The longest journey, they say, is from the head to the heart, but I’d like to recount an experience I had a few years ago which came close.

On paper, it should have been one of the shortest house moves in Irish social history, about a mile from one townland to the next, Toberpatrick to Rosnastraw. The summer chalet I was renting was not winter compliant. I’d had to move out twice during storms Ophelia and Ivan, the Beast from the East, when the water and electricity shut down.

In the morning, the farmer revved his tractor provoking the yearlings into a barrage of fretful mooing in the barn next door. The dogs laid siege to the front door in a feeding frenzy although I enjoyed the dogs and became friendly with a few of them. They were sustaining – a reason to live, but I felt frustrated I couldn’t get any writing done, so when the opportunity came to live in a two-bedroom stone dwelling down the road, I took it. If I’d packed everything carefully, I could have made one journey less.

As it was, I drove my loaded car down the pot-holed road to the bridge at the bottom of the hill past Toberpatrick or Saint Patrick’s Well, an ancient spring dating from fifteen hundred years ago, that fed into a stream running nearby.

About the size of a large bath or jacuzzi, huge flagstones flanked the well on two sides, a hawthorn tree over-hanging the pool. Usually, clear water bubbled up from an unknown underground source in a foot or two of water, the bottom obscured

by stones and pebbles. Historically, adjacent families used it as a source of drinking water.

As I passed the well, I ran into a herd of cattle approaching downhill from the farm, returning from milking. I panicked and reversed the car into a culvert next to the wall. I tried to manoeuvre out but couldn’t get traction.

I switched off the engine as I didn’t want to sink further into the ditch, scraping the drystone wall and damaging the car even more. I waited for the farmer following the herd in his white van.

‘Could you give me a lift out?’ I sheepishly asked.

‘I will when I get back from putting the cattle in the field,’ he replied.

As I wasn’t going anywhere and the well was nearby, I decided to visit. The caretaker, a man in late middle-age, in bucket hat and overalls, was strimming the grass in the narrow grounds of the well while his daughter sat on the bench by the spring. I got chatting with her, thinking, maybe she’s available. I’m single and looking to get married, and I started thinking romantic thoughts about her until she revealed she was married which put an end to that! So, I just had a chat with her and her father, enjoying a pleasant social moment while I waited for the farmer.

As I talked with her, I noticed that the well was bubbling up very lively. I’d never seen it that active before and thought, it’s probably Saint Patrick having a good laugh at me because of my accident.

I continued to chat with the caretaker and his daughter until somebody else stopped by who wanted to get some water. And we had a discussion with him, and

what I’d thought would be a simple matter of moving from one house to the other, a straightforward anonymous event, had turned into a social occasion.

The purpose of the well is that you’re supposed to hand over your burdens. Surrender to your Higher Power in the material form of pinning something on the hawthorn bush, like a pen if you want to succeed in your exams or a ring if you want your marriage to work. The tree was festooned with pens, rags, ribbons, rosary beads, miraculous medals, photographs, keys; each object carrying a symbolic significance.

Frankly, I hadn’t handed over that morning. Owing to my worsening arthritis, I’d gotten out of the habit of getting on my knees and didn’t hand the move over. I didn’t bring God into it. I hadn’t checked it in with the Higher Power. Getting trapped in the culvert wasn’t a punishment. Just a nudge, you know, a reminder of who’s in charge. That’s what I believe. That’s what sustains me. And it’s a form of Christian belief that has sustained people in Ireland for thousands of years and still sustains many.

A lot of people have turned off, they say, ‘I’m spiritual, not religious.’ Well, that’s OK. I wanted to write something for the website because it’s about the Gap, and Toberpatrick is only a few miles away. If you’re at the Arts Festival and you’re having an enjoyable time, that’s great. But always remember you’ve got a Higher Power in times of trouble.

Maybe if you get a chance, visit the well, (I went the other day), and sit there. God already knows what you want. Just sit in silence for five or ten minutes. You never know what might happen. As they say in AA, if you get out of your seat for long enough, you might get goosed by the Holy Spirit.

I see this diversion as part of God’s plan to get me out of my head and back in touch with God Himself and other people, to free me from my fixed ideas and learn again a little more of the language of the heart.

PATRICK O’NEILL is originally from Dublin and now lives in south County Wicklow. He is passionate about writing and looks forward to sharing his work with many readers.

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)

Kieran Tyrrell

Big David pulled up in his jeep and let the window down. ‘Corney, the very man.’

Oh no, I thought to myself. Big David was a farmer and his parents owned a few businesses in town. He was that cute he wouldn’t even tell himself the truth. You see, in those days he often looked for a couple of chaps to herd sheep. You could be gone working all day with him and he didn’t pay well. He told me he had a right handy job; short hours and the money was good – perfect for me. We arranged to meet at the marquee at two o’clock that day. The marquee was put up every summer on the Fairgreen in Tinahely and there would be a dance on every Friday, Saturday and Sunday night for two or three weeks.

When I arrived, the men were nearly finished putting up the marquee. The wooden dance floor was laid first and then the tent was erected and when you stepped inside it was almost otherworldly. There was an immediate increase in temperature and every sound echoed around you. It was bigger than the ball alley, maybe three or four times. The poles, with all the coloured lights strung along from pole to pole the full length of the drive, were in position.

‘There must be two hundred lights,’ I said, amazed. ‘Five hundred,’ he replied.

At night, when they were lighting, it was a beautiful sight; red, blue, green, yellow. He offered me eight pounds, I looked for twelve. We settled on ten.

You see, there would always be a crowd of chaps playing football in the tent during the day with the result that a lot of lights would be broken. And then of course, there would be a crowd sliding down the roof of the tent – not to mention a certain crowd would be taking pot shots with catapults at the bulbs hanging from pole to pole on the driveway. On one such occasion, Fr. Molloy was driving out the new road when he could see across the fields the crowd sliding on the tent. He was in a fit of rage and whilst turning, crashed the car into the ditch! Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the marquee with Sergeant Connelly. There were a lot of chaps grounded for the rest of that week, including three of the Sergeants’ own chaps!

At tea time, I came home to the sweet smell of fried potatoes with a fried egg and toast with the butter melted perfectly into it . The Angelus bells rang on the telly and then came the news.

‘I hear you got a job for the next few weeks,’ said me father.

‘Three weeks,’ I quickly corrected him.

‘You are going to sweep up the marquee after every dance and keep an eye on it during the week too, I heard.’

‘That’s it,’ said I. ‘And I’m getting ten pounds a week for it.’

‘Aye,’ said he and then he passed some remark to me mother and she laughed. I didn’t understand.

I would cycle me bike around the inside of the marquee, pulling the wide- headed brush behind me until I had all the rubbish together. Putting it all in a black plastic bag, I’d leave it at the ticket box outside, then carefully inspect all areas around the edges, foraging, as there was usually money behind the seating. On the ground near the cloak room, at the mineral counter, and outside at the ticket box were more lucrative spots. I did well in this job as I found on average four or five pounds in change the morning after every dance. Great to have money to buy Mars Bars and Patsy Pops. The Committee had a good season too, with very few bulbs broken that year. Big David told me the job was mine next year if I was interested. I had to think about it as next year I would be nearly fourteen.

Sometimes I think back on all the adventures and experiences we had during our summer holidays. Making hay, dipping sheep, working at the Tinahely Show, minding the marquee. Fishing, building huts, making catapults. The anticipation, the fun, the danger, the excitement, the devilment, and of course, the innocence.

It was only years later I understood what my father was saying to my mother all those years ago when he made that remark. ‘Poacher come gamekeeper!’ And I always laugh.

KIERAN TYRRELL lives in Carnew County Wicklow and works for A.M.V. Systems Enniscorthy, as an air conditioning service technician. His hobbies include directing plays, acting and all things to do with drama. Kieran directs Bunclody/Kilmyshall Drama Group on the Amateur Drama All-Ireland circuit.

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)

Bruce Copeland

On a sweltering Saturday early in May 1957, calves fed, firewood chopped, eggs collected, vegetables and flowers watered and other morning chores completed, Mother got into preparing lunch. As I left to go out to the hens with vegetable peelings, my brother Johnny charged in pushing me to one side, yelling:

‘Ma where is JH? There is a buzzing dark cloud!’

‘Johnny lad, you mean your daddy!’ replied Ma. ‘It is ok for granddad to abbreviate, but it is always Daddy and nothing else to you, and don’t you ever forget it!’
Daddy then appeared and called out ‘D, please go fetch a sheet and quickly! A swarm is landing in the old pear tree.’ Our neighbour Jimmy and I followed the black buzzing cloud from his big field to our orchard. There must be at least thirty thousand bees. Jimmy said it was the finest swarm he had ever seen. Handing the sheet to daddy my mother joked ‘You know John the saying – a swarm of bees in May is worth a cock of hay. This swarm could be worth two cocks of hay, one for us and one for Jimmy.’
The arrival of the bees and subsequent activity almost sixty-five years ago was an unforgettable event. For several seconds in the near darkness that morning, it seemed night time had arrived.

In the 1950’s my mother’s father was one of few who referred to the little black native Irish bee (Apis Mellifera Mellifera) as A.M.M. Grandfather was a studious reader. He frequently quoted mind tingling facts and abbreviated names for almost everything. He referred to Father as JH, mother as D and my older brother Johnny was JR. Granddad and father often debated politics, farming and nature topics.
My father had been left little choice but to take over the running of the family farm at the age of fourteen. In his struggle to survive those years, he was mentored by our neighbouring farmer Jimmy. Several years older than Father, Jimmy had imparted his experience of beekeeping and carpentry skills to my father. Most of the older beekeepers I know are handy carpenters, but unfortunately these essential skills I have not perfected.
‘Swarming bees don’t usually sting,’ Mother whispered, but she still held Johnny and me back. We watched Daddy and Jimmy shaking the great beard of bees down into the sheet. The calm way they gently managed the swarm from the high up, almost breaking and bending branch, and then into the hive without suit or glove protection seemed nature loving magical. At the age of five I was instantly hooked to someday becoming a beekeeper. While I walked the Camino a few years ago, I observed the harvesting of olives. One olive-picker shook the tree and a second person secured the ground sheet so that nothing escaped. It reminded me of Daddy and Jimmy and the bees, all those years ago.
I went into self-employed business in my mid-twenties. It meant moving around and great demands on my time. I was rarely far from nature but I did not get the chance to become a beekeeper. It was not until my fifties that the beekeeping ambition could actively germinate. Liam, a neighbour in the village of Ballycanew, acquired a few bee hives. We kept in contact and talked about progress with his bees. Within a short few years Liam had successfully built up hive numbers.
I moved to live in Tinahely. For the first time, I had acquired sufficient garden space as well as the time to explore beekeeping. Liam inspired me and my neighbours did not object to the idea of bees next door. I followed Liam into Gorey Beekeepers and the Federation of Irish Beekeepers Association. Experienced people in Gorey including Gerard and Ben, encouraged me greatly. I learned of Michael who kept bees and lived in Tinahely. I looked Michael up and soon acquired an expert mentor, a true friend and a lover of little black bees. We attended the Gormanston Bee School in summer 2015, making contacts and learning much. Motivated by publicity about the dangers facing the little black bee, I joined the Native Irish Honey Bee Society. During the Covid lockdown I signed into online bee webinars, which I continue to do. I am lucky to have in my family an expert carpenter, Paul, to make my beehives and stands. The measurements and making of beehives require careful bee space precision.
It is reputed the native Irish bee was first introduced by Saint Molaga in the sixth century to beehive ways of living. Lann Beachaire (the church of the beekeeper) had been erected by Saint Molaga close to Balbriggan. Clearly the little black bee has survived much. It can surprise but by nature, when handled gently, it is placid to work with. It has an almost hypnotic dance communication system. Each bee within the organised group has a defined function with few things getting left to chance. The queen does the egg laying. Nurse, worker and guard bees all play specific roles. The only males in the hive, the drones, mate the queen and when this function is completed, they immediately die.

Ireland is the only country where this little black bee still thrives nationwide. It has evolved and adapted and is the best-suited honey bee to Irish weather conditions and food sources. The importation of non-native bees is a serious threat to the survival of Apis Mellifera Mellifera. Because of this, on June 2nd 2022, the ‘Protection of the Native Irish Honey Bee Bill 2021’, introduced by Vincent P. Martin, reached second stage at Seanad Éireann. As a toddler in Granny’s fruit and vegetable garden, I never contemplated that the hard-working little black Irish bee would, in my lifetime, require laws to protect its very existence.

BRUCE COPELAND lives in Tinahely where he is a member of the Courthouse Writers’ Group, the Tinahely Bowls Club, the Men’s Shed and the Walking Club. As well as participating in many sports clubs, he is a member of Gorey Beekeepers. A keen gardener, he has a special interest in Nature and Travel.

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)

Lucinda Nolan

Standing in the wooden porch I bask in the trapped heat of the midday sun. The rays are shining through the lead panes of glass causing the mica flecks in the granite steps to sparkle like silver. I wonder how many people have walked over these steps to cause the sloped indent? The old gate lodge was once a Post Office and for sure lots of people have walked across this threshold. The slow pace of life allowed for greeting and catch up, as locals meandered in and out, some of them with penny stamp savings books and the familiar blue and red edged air mail envelopes. We are now living in a hyper-connected yet disconnected society. Words are typed and deleted at breakneck speed.

In rural Ireland, when very few people had telephones, those who frequented the Post Office would have taken down an inkwell from a high shelf, out of the reach of children and made sure the nib of the pen was not crooked or the split would cause double writing. Every word that made its way onto the page, unblotted and neatly scribed, was a gift to be given to the reader. It was an art form and it was very rare for words to be written down without being given some thought, even if it was only a grocer’s list. The letters from sons and daughters abroad were reread over and over and the love letters made their way to treasure boxes lined with satin and smelling of lavender water. In villages the only telephone was in the Post Office, doctors’ surgery or at the vets. The overheard phone calls provided the gossip for the squinting- window brigade. The rural Post Office was as essential to community life as it is to this present day. They provided a keystone to connection for many a lonely person. If the post mistress noticed that Harry McGarry’s old sheepdog was just about to make his way to God’s waiting kennel, she would put a word in the ear of Matty Bourke whose Sheepdog bitch was just about to deliver a litter of pups.

Maybe this Post Office provided the first soundbite, with the telegram being a means of sending urgent messages. There would have been a necessity for sparsity when each word written on the telegram was charged for. Some of these telegrams would have given Ernest Hemingway’s ‘One Line Story’ a run for his money. One local young widow and mother to several children, was summoned by an austere uncle to attend a distant relative’s funeral in Monaghan and she a grieving widow, struggling to cope with her young family. She replied with a telegram ‘Too busy minding the living’.

The Post Office also had many parcels arrive from America containing funny clothing with the exotic smells of American soap Powder. Another woman, who was as uptight as her perm and only wore skirts with block colours of brown or black, provided dynamite to the tongue-waggers. She was seen sauntering around Hollyfort village wearing trousers sent to her from an aunt in Ohio. One old bachelor swapped his ancient cap with its nondescript, oily lining, for a baseball cap with stars and stripes.

At Christmas time turkeys were sent to people in the post and God only knows what they thought in the sorting office up in Dublin; turkeys arriving feathers and all wrapped in newspapers and twine. All this to-ing and fro-ing into Mount Nebo Post Office would explain how the granite steps are so worn. A few years back, I wrote a letter to the Museum and Heritage Section of the GPO., Dublin seeking to find out some more detail. I am fascinated by the past. Anyway, this house has history enough to keep me busy. Although the gate lodge was built in 1880, the first record of it being a Post Office is 8th July 1914. Bridget Behan was appointed Postmistress in 1914 and Mrs Phyllis Bolger on 1st November 1936. When we first bought the gate lodge in November 1997, there were wooden shutters on the windows. The front set of shutters had a rectangular cut-out for Post Office use.

On numerous occasions visitors have spoken of seeing a ghost in one of the upstairs rooms. My son- in- law refused to sleep in that particular room and likewise my sister and her husband. I have no reservations about a ghost, as I fear the living not the dead. Sometimes the lights dim and a knocking sound can be heard at the door with nobody about.

Roughly ten years back I spoke to Mary Teresa Bolger. Her sister Annie was born in 1936 three days after her parents moved into the house. Her Mother Phyllis was the post mistress. They had very fond memories of living in the old house; lighting tilly lamps and fetching water from an adjacent spring. The homely smell of bacon and cabbage, mutton stews and fresh soda bread, would waft into the Post Office and mingle with the individual and seasonal smells of country life.
Mrs Bolger was a dab hand at counting the ten-shilling and one-pound notes and watching Lady Lavery flickering past as she dipped her finger into the small circular wet sponge. The shiny farthings, pennies, threepenny bits, sixpenny bits, Shillings, two-shilling piece and half-crowns all had to be counted too. Mount St Benedict was the main house, which was a Benedictine school run by Father John Sweetman. He appears to be quite a controversial figure of a man. He grew tobacco and had his own brand of cigarettes called Kerry Blue named after his beloved canine companion. He held regular dances for the locals in the large ballroom. The children of the post mistress would listen to the music as it drifted down through the fields and straight in the open windows, on a warm summer’s evening.

When it came to dancing, there were lots of rules and regulations that had to be adhered to in the 1940’s. One urban council had amongst their list of rules, that ‘indelicacy of dress on the part of women dancers to be instantly reproved by the person in charge’ and that jazz and what is known as ‘slow motion’ dances should be taboo in the hall. Fr Sweetman was the overseer of any misconduct in the ballroom of romance at Mount St. Benedict.

John Francis Sweetman (1872 -1953) born in Clohamon, Ferns, Co. Wexford founded the Benedictine school in Mount Nebo. He was educated in Bath and at the age of twenty-eight, went to South Africa as a catholic chaplain to the British forces. In later years he had a complete turnabout, becoming very much aligned with the Irish Cause. One pupil who attended Mount St Benedict was Seán, the son of Major John McBride. Major McBride led the Irish Brigade who were fighting against the British forces during the Boer War. In later years, this could have influenced the Benedictine Monk Fr. Sweetman with his strong anti-treaty stance. Indeed, when Major John McBride was executed in 1916, Maud Gonne – John’s divorced wife – took her twelve-year-old son, Seán McBride, home from France to be educated in Mount St Benedict.

Seán McBride was a member of Sinn Féin (1918-1931) and chief of staff of the IRA from 1936 to 1937. In the years that followed, he participated in many international organisations including the United Nations and Amnesty International. He received the Nobel Peace Prize for the year 1975-1976. During the time Séan attended Mount St Benedict, he would have known Stanislaus Markievicz, the stepson of Countess Markievicz. She was one of the leaders in the 1916 Irish Easter Rebellion. Stanislaus entered the school in 1907. Seán would have walked down to the Post Office with Fr. Sweetman’s little Kerry blue, barking and running alongside him. He would collect his mail from France and translate it to Irish for the others to read.

I can only speculate that both Máire Comerford and Aileen Keogh, who were two very radical republicans and members of Cumann na mBan would have frequented the Post Office. Aileen Keogh was a matron in Mount St Benedict School and Máire Comerford her friend and assistant.

During the war of independence (1919-1921) Aileen Keogh was charged in court with having seditious documents and ammunition and was sentenced to two years imprisonment. She escaped from Mountjoy Gaol in1921, along with Linda Kearns, May Burke and Eithne Coyle. They used a stolen key and climbed the prison wall with the aid of a rope ladder. Aileen made her way to Duckett’s Grove (Carlow) IRA training camp and stayed there until December 1921, subsequently made her way back to her comrades Fr. Sweetman and Máire Comerford. Aileen Keogh died in 1952 and Fr Sweetman in 1953. Twenty-nine years later in 1982, as the rifles fired their honorary shots over the graves, Máire Comerford finally joined her two friends. The three of them are now laid to rest in a low, wall enclosed graveyard in the grounds of Mount St Benedict. These three lone graves in the middle of a field appear incongruous with the cattle grazing, oblivious to their guests who lie in the shadow of the large oaks.

As the sun sets and the coolness of night descends, I stand up from the granite steps and think of Saint Brigid’s ‘Threshold Rite’. After hanging a cross made of rush, we knock on the door three times to acknowledge her. This threshold, a liminal space, has stories etched into every bit of granite and just like mica some of them shine brighter and need to be told.

LUCINDA NOLAN lives in Hollyfort where she is a member of the book club and the Writers’ Group. She enjoys walking in Mount Nebo and on the wonderful beaches of Wexford. Lucinda has two grown-up children and a grandchild who helps her to be creative.

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)

Bernie Walsh

It is funny how a smell, a taste, a song, or even a saying, can trigger a childhood memory. Recently I was visiting my family in Dublin and my cousin’s husband greeted me with ‘Hey Culchie’. Well it made me laugh out loud. He asked me what I was laughing about. So I told him I’m called a Culchie now that I live in Wexford, in a town called Gorey and explained to him that as a child visiting Gorey, I was known as the Dub, or the run in, or the wan from the big smoke. All the locals thought we were rich and trendy, coming down from Dún Laoghaire.

We spent all our summers at the Cottage on the Cross, at Annagh Long near Gorey. It was my nana’s sanctuary, her home place, which she had left at the age of fifteen heading to Dublin to work in Dalkey as a children’s nanny for a family called Halfpenny. Those children visited her regularly when they grew up and had families of their own. My nana was called Fanny D’eathe and when she married Thomas Quinn, in 1934 in Dalkey church, the priest asked him was he not afraid to face d’eath and he said ‘No Father I am not’. Frances and Thomas rented a room in 59 Mulgrave Street, Dún Laoghaire.

I can just imagine her devastation when Thomas contracted Meningitis, at the age of twenty-eight, and ended up in St. Michael’s hospital, dying after three days. As Frances was pregnant with her third child, she was not allowed to visit him so she never heard his last words. I can imagine her standing beside that single grave, in St. Mary’s section of Deansgrange cemetery holding her two children, Tony, age two, by the hand and Sadie, ten months, in her arms. Frances had given Tom a good send off, his coffin housed in the glass hearse pulled by two black horses with plumes on their heads. She always talked about how people in Dún Laoghaire stopped and stared, as the bereaved walked from the town to Deansgrange, probably saying ‘Sure they were only three years into their marriage.’

A couple of weeks later, Frances lost her baby due to stress and grief over the love of her life passing. He meant everything to her. After Thomas died, Nana spent all her time working in the Dominican Convent school, bringing up her two children alone. However, her family in Wexford and Carlow were very good and she visited them regularly when the children were small. And then when us grandchildren came along, we spent all our summers with her at Lennon’s Cross in Annagh.

Nana loved coming to Gorey, spending time in her garden at Lennon’s Cross, weeding, weeding, and weeding. Painting gates, whitewashing the cottage inside and out. If you stood still for long, you would be whitewashed! She had a stone embedded into the hedge on the crossroads, which she also whitewashed. People used to say, ‘Oh, we knew Mrs Quinn was down, the stone is whitewashed on Lennon’s Cross.’ It glowed at night, showing drivers where to turn.

The crossroads got its name from the first people to live in the labourer’s cottage in 1880, John and Dorah Lennon and their only son Edward. We always believed that John Lennon was one of the Beatles. It was not until we were older that we realised this was not true, which led us to great disappointment. Nana also came to the cottage just after Christmas and Easter too. Little did the locals know, we did not have a pot to piss in and all our trendy clothes were either made by my mother, the great seamstress, or came from Penney’s shop.

The other day I was driving my car and a song came on the radio, ‘School’s out for summer’ and suddenly, I was back in Dún Laoghaire. All of us were loading up into the open-back Hyno truck. There would be Nana and us five. There were only two passenger seats in the front, which were for Mammy and Majella the baby, so we all had to climb into the back and hang on.

My dad would haul the couch and two armchairs from the sitting room and tie them to each side of the truck with a big thick rope. That would never happen today. The stepladder would be brought out and Nana would be shoved up and into the back of the truck and she would install herself on the couch and she in her late seventies. The stepladder would be thrown into the truck, so we could get her out again. Then we would fling all the black plastic bags in. Some containing pillows, blankets, sheets; another with Nana’s clothes, as she did not possess a suitcase.

Then the boxes of food would be put safely at the back of the couch. Two guitars, the battery radio, a cat called Oscar and then lastly, we would be shoved in. Most times, our friends would come with us, sometimes neighbours, sometimes cousins. Everybody got a holiday in the cottage, at some stage in the year. At that time in the seventies there were no decent roads, so we would have to trundle through Shankill, then stay stuck in the bottleneck at Bray for maybe half an hour or more, until we finally got onto the Wexford Road, where my dad could open up the truck and fly along.

Rathnew was the village where we always stopped for the 99’s which were so tasty. And we all loved the flake, as it was not a sweet we would normally get. Flakes and chocolate were too expensive, we only ever had penny blacks, gobstoppers, aniseed balls or hard-boiled sweets.

That reminds me of every Saturday, when Mammy would take us to the library and we would stop at Miss Parnell’s shop, a menagerie of interesting goods, from the latest magazines, comics, newspapers, to big glass jars, all lined up on the wooden shelves, holding different-coloured sweets. And there would be games and toys, all stuffed in on bulging shelves. Dad would give us a penny each to spend on sweets which came in a newspaper cone; Mam might buy us a comic an odd time, the Jackie, Twinkle, Bunty, or the Beano. It did not matter; we would be delighted with them.

As I pass the bakery in Gorey, heading to do my shopping, I get the smell of cinnamon. It brings me back to Christmas at our house, and I can see my nana in her apron, fighting with the turkey, plucking, chopping off the neck and the legs, then filling it with home-made stuffing, with her secret ingredient. Sometimes she would chase us with the turkey neck, or a leg, that would frighten the life out of you!

Her sister Jane in Carlow would send her up the turkey each year, on the train. First to Heuston Station, then it would be transferred to the Dún Laoghaire train and we would have to go to the station and pick it up. It took two of us to carry it, the weight of it. All this was strange to our neighbours, but normal for us. Jane had been sending turkeys to my nana since her husband died, and kept up the tradition.

As I drive my car out of Gorey, I hear the song, Silver Dream Machine, by David Essex. I loved that song and it reminds me of all those times we walked from Lennon’s Cross up to the pub, Nolans of Annagh; playing that song repeatedly on the juke box, we shot pool badly, played space invaders badly, flirted with the locals, listened to the lads in the snug fighting over cards, using very bad language, but when it was all over, they would walk home arm in arm.

Every Friday night, the Nolan girls would get the big pot out, fill it with lard and put it onto the gas ring out in the shed. We would spend hours peeling and cutting hundreds of potatoes taken fresh from the field. We would make chips to feed the nation. What happy memories that evokes which will live on in me forever.

BERNIE WALSH has been writing since childhood and works as a genealogist. Two of her books have been published by Boland Press: Driftwood, a collection of poetry and short stories, and her new novella Barney takes a Walk. They are available for purchase from Red Books in Wexford town.

Read more sustaining stories

The Dubs ( by: Bernie Walsh )
Munch ( by: Bernadette Colfer )
The Precious Little Black Honey Bee (by: Bruce Copeland)
The Gooseberry Bush (by: Rona Fleming)
Zaventem (by: Joy Redmond)
The Longest Journey (by Patrick O’Neill)
I Can Fly (by Jacinta Hayes)
The Marquee (by Kieran Tyrrell)
Ten Minutes (by Jacinta McGovern)
The Turkey is in the Post (by Lucy Nolan)

Joy Redmond

From January to March 1993, I didn’t see daylight during the week. I was ‘en stage’ doing a work placement with Gráinne, my fellow Irish student, as part of an Erasmus year studying in Belgium. We were known as ‘Joy and the other girl’ for the year, as nobody could pronounce her name. Our ‘stage’ was in an industrial catering company in the airport that made those little plastic breakfast, dinner and lunch trays branded for each airline. The hours were nine to five but if you wanted lunch you had to come in an hour earlier so between the commute out to the airport town of Zaventem and being situated in the basement, we missed daylight from Monday to Friday.

Because we were business students, they couldn’t have us working as cheap labour in the kitchen, so we were assigned a hybrid role within the Cost Control department that allowed them to assign us skivvy work under the auspices of business experience.

The basement was home to three enormous industrial kitchens (the size of football fields). All the doors on one side led into walk-in fridges, walk-in pantries and walk-in deep freezers that each were the size of a good office. On the opposite wall, there were several warehouse-sized rooms whose shutters on the far side opened up to the runway, where forklift drivers would taxi over and move pallets of full dinner and drinks trolleys to be placed on airplanes before take-off.

There was a horrendous ‘us and them’ mentality between management and the kitchen. We were placed awkwardly in the middle. One of our tasks was to randomly take a prepared tray and weigh out all the contents as per the listing in the catalogue i.e., Sabena economy dinner, 3g peas, 1g hollandaise sauce, 10g salmon and so on. Though we were doing the manual work and trying to fit in, we had the unhappy task of reporting our colleagues’ errors back to management.

A few days into the placement, the temperature control system was malfunctioning so we had to manually check the temperatures of the twenty deep freeze chambers. This involved standing in a closed freezer for about five minutes holding up a thermometer waiting for the mercury to creep down to ‘min twintig’, minus twenty degrees, only to return to a boiling hot industrial kitchen to psyche yourself up to do it all again, nineteen more times. We were not in snowsuits but regular clothes and lab coats and our hands would be red raw from the extremes of temperature.

The job of every stagiaire in the world is to look busy for the remaining seven hours of the eight-hour working day, when your boss is so clearly sick of the sight of you. A lot of the time, we walked around the enormous campus with our clipboards trying to look like we were on our way to some important activity. Towards the end of the day, we’d bump into the Bangladeshi staff starting the night shift on the cleaning line. They’d proudly share the spoils of their work – an unwanted pack of crayons, an unopened First-Class giftset that could be regifted to family, a leftover lobster meal. They were all medical students by day and working night shifts, so I’m not sure when they factored in sleep.

We were desperately unhappy. Even though I had grown up in a butcher shop and was inured to cold rooms and cold hands, I had never experienced the assembly line hostility we had read about in our management books.

Being a Dubliner and having only ever done white collar part-time jobs, Gráinne announced one evening that she would not be joining me for work the following day because she simply was not spending her twenty-first birthday in the dungeon.

Off I went on foot, then metro, followed by train in the dark and so began one of the longest days of my life. In between the random weighings, the manual deep freeze temperature checks and data entry, I took at least five toilet breaks to simply cry in the cubicle. When I got home, I told Gráinne, who had enjoyed her birthday immensely, that I’d had one of the worst days of my life and we both decided enough was enough or ‘genoeg is genoeg’ and we weren’t going back.

The following day, we went into college with my prepared monologue. I cornered our Erasmus coordinator Walter Roessens, in his steel-rimmed glasses and shin-length journalist’s mack, in the corridor at break and explained that we would not be returning to Belgavia; we were business students, we were learning nothing, it was more suited to catering students and on and on I went before Walter almost burst into tears grabbing people in the corridor raving ‘Zij spreekt Vlaams! Zij spreekt Vlaams!’ ‘She’s speaking Flemish!’. He didn’t care what we had to say or that we were leaving his placement, because he was ecstatic that a foreign student could tell him all of this in his obscure language. We were off the hook.

Postscript:
Some days, our boss in Cost Control felt sorry for us and would take us on little outings around the airport to cheer us up. One of these outings was to check out the First-Class lounge of a Singapore Airlines plane and it was like something from a James Bond movie, with a bar and swivelling reclining seats.

Another time, from a passenger boarding bridge waiting to attach to a plane, I was looking out across the runway and I spotted Air Zaïre passengers making their way to the terminal building. They looked so exotic in their colourful attire, carrying cages and whatnot and I can only imagine the assault of the European winter’s chill on their backs. One of the passengers, a man in his best Sunday suit, was carrying a tattered papier-mâché suitcase which was held together with a belt or bike strap. It burst open on the runway. He hunched down and his broad frame scrambled to gather the contents which was made up entirely of green bananas, his earthly possessions for a 6,000 km flight. The bananas were either food for his family for their first few days in the new world or the means to making his first €50 in the West. That image has stayed with me. We mustn’t forget that we’ve already won the lotto being born white in the West.

JOY REDMOND is from Gorey. She moved back home in 2005 to raise her sons who are now men. Joy has always written, mainly drama and has recently taken up printmaking to tell visual stories. This story is part of a series of letters she is compiling for her sons.

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