Importance of meeting Ernie

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The boy walked down Bagnall Street carrying a brown-paper carrier bag that clinked each time it brushed against the side of his leg. The front doors of the small terraced houses were open in the heat. All the doors were painted dark green except for the Haverns which was bright blue. Across the street the yellowing grass banks of the unkempt park rose to the graveyard wall of the church the English had built in the fifteen hundreds.


His grandmother had died on Christmas Eve and was buried behind that wall. He could see Brooke Street curving down along the other side of the park. His destination was the little public house on the corner where the two roads joined at the bottom of the hill. In the bag were six empty Guinness bottles. In the right-hand pocket of his short green corduroy trousers there were two shilling pieces and a scrap of paper on which was pencilled ‘2 stout’. 

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Emigrant’s Farewell

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Farewell to every hawthorn hedge, from Killeen to Belleeks
And every pool of sticklebacks and every shady creek
To sloping fields, the lofty rocks where ash and willow grew
Killeavey Old Church yew tree, to friends of youth I knew. 


Though forty years since last I saw, I see them shining still
The Lough that cuts us North from South, the view from Fathom Hill
Adieu to Camlough’s crooked lake, to ‘Cross and ‘Blaney fair
To Gullion’s Ring, to everything of childhood days we shared.

From Carlingford beneath Slieve Foye and dark Mournes’ brooding slopes
I sailed away to foreign shore with pockets full of hope
In Durham Town where I’m bed-bound, each day is long and drear
The doctors offer little time, some weeks, a month, a year…

But I can fly on fairies’ wings to fields of dry-stone walls
To flax-holes in the meadow where the lonely corncrake calls
I stroll past Jack the Farrier’s place, to ringing metal blows
Of hammers struck on anvil’s plate to forge the Shire horse shoes.

When neighbours call to ask a hand to save the summer’s hay
I volunteer like e’er before and labour all the day
We ceili of an evening, or at the crossroads dance
To the fiddle and the squeeze-box, on rough boards wheel and prance.

In mind’s eye still I wander, in lanes of twisted thorn
And stray with my first sweetheart through fields of golden corn
The Mummers call at Christmastide, with many a loaded rhyme
In thatch, and mask, and costume dressed, in couplets fair they chime.

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A Life Saved

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‘You’re for it, ye oul b****x!! I’m getting my da for you’. 

A hasty retreat – a slammed door and he was gone. Nervous tittering from the class. The schoolmaster was aware of thirty pairs of eyes drilling into his skull. Internally he felt torn and twisted – anger, shame, embarrassment and indecision vied for dominance. It probably showed on his face too, and in his demeanor. He knew it was imperative to avoid any show of weakness. His continued authority depended on how he might react right now. Any hint of remorse or frailty would be seized upon and exploited. But he felt remorse.

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The Windmill

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All types and formations of rock hold a fascination for me. I don’t know why but it’s always been like that. Unusual, at least. Maybe a little crazy. I can’t help it. If I’m passing through a road or railway cutting, my eyes are drawn, trance-like, towards the recently exposed rock strata on each side. I skip quickly from one side to the other, for fear of missing the more exciting pattern. Friends call me ‘sad’, but honestly I’m happiest then.

I’ve got my own collection at home. Some samples have five hundred million year old fossils embedded in them. ‘Burgess Shale’, they’re called, after the area in the Rocky Mountains of British Columbia where they were first found. The earliest fossil animal records in existence. Five hundred million years! Can you take that in? I mean, that’s before people, before dinosaurs, before the first reptiles crawled out of the oceans on to land. It’s before there were any land plants, for goodness sake! I love to show them off, on those rare occasions when I get a chance.

Few people want to see them. There’s nothing more boring than a fanatic, I’ll grant you that. Still I think that people should give it a try. It’s history writ large. Not that rubbish about kings and queens, wars and conquests, political intrigue and cute-hoor chicanery. Real history. Four and a half billion years of rock history, on land, and under sea, and under both, in the mantle and in the Earth’s core. If rocks could talk, what a story they’d tell!

And so I found myself that fine summer afternoon in the abandoned quarry near Newry – alone. I prefer it that way. In social situations I am a magnet for all kinds of nutters…

Right in front of me there was a large pile of chiselled granite stones, almost hidden by the long grass sprouting up among and between them. All had letters and numbers finely and carefully scripted in red paint upon them. I’d seen this type of thing before. Archaeologists use such a code to identify what stones go where, when a monument is removed from one location to another.

‘Yeah, boy, those stones have a story to tell!’

Startled, I jumped. Was the voice inside my head? I wondered.

Glancing behind, I saw this wizened old guy with a weather-beaten face half hidden beneath a grimy cloth cap, perched somewhat askew on his seemingly bald head.

How had he crept up, soundless, on me like that? Was he real? Was he reading my thoughts? Just what is it about me to attract people like this?

I decided that if I didn’t speak he might simply go away again. Long and bitter experience had taught me that the worst thing to do was to give any kind of encouragement, however slight.

For his part, he appeared nonplussed, disdaining even to look in my direction. A battered pipe had materialized between his yellow teeth. There was a rude sucking sound. He made no attempt to fill it with tobacco. I was biting my tongue to prevent it from forming speech.

A minute passed – the length of an hour, I thought. The old guy hadn’t looked in my direction. Seemingly. I hadn’t dared to glance back again for fear he might take that as encouragement.

‘Och aye, and I’m the man to tell it!’

My eyes darted furtively round, seeking some means of early escape: any that would preserve my sense of self-dignity, that is, without appearing rude. He might be all right, I tried to reason, though the odds were heavily against it. I glanced skyward in the vain hope of salvation from a heavy shower of rain. It never rains when you want it to.

‘Windmill, be damned!’ he spat out.

Just walk away quickly without comment, I thought. That should do it. He ‘d be unlikely to pursue me.

– Windmill? I thought.

‘Yeah, windmill.’ I must have spoken aloud. I was furious with myself.

That’s done it, I thought. There’ll be no stopping him now. One word of encouragement would suffice. But still I held my peace.

‘Was me dumped them there!’ he offered – proudly, in my opinion.

He wanted prompting, anyone could see that, but there was no doubt that the story would come out, no matter what I said or did. I was vaguely interested now, recollecting some press story of a few years back. But I tried not to show it.

I allowed a full minute to pass before I spoke.

‘You wanna tell me?’

‘You police?’

‘Hardly!’ I laughed lightly.

‘Taxman? Council? Some kinda official?’

A five-second pause after each, awaiting confirmation or denial. I offered surly denial, non-verbal style. How dare he disturb my peace and solitude, without even a by-your-leave? When I spoke I injected irritation into my tone of voice.

‘No. I’m just me. Nobody.’ I took a deep breath.

‘I don’t really wanna know.’

This latter was delivered with studied finality. I hate other people’s secrets! Still I had a feeling it wouldn’t work.

‘You know how to keep your mouth shut?’

I almost laughed with irrepressible mockery. I would have, but I wasn’t confident that he would be quick enough to detect the irony in my voice. Rich, though. Would I have to insult him further?

‘I avoid people,’ I offered, as a compromise. A glint in his eye. Was he intrigued or offended? I didn’t care. He turned away. I didn’t want to give the impression that I was weird. I decided to qualify my remark.

‘I mean, I don’t talk a lot.’ This was my parting shot as I moved away.

‘It was illegal. ‘Conspiring to destroy an historical monument’.’

‘Conspiring’, no less! Not so dumb then! I decided to test him.

‘Why’d you do it?’

I was sorry as soon as I’d spoken. I reflected. That was seven times I’d spoken. Maybe thirty words – and thirty too many. I knew if I didn’t stop at once I’d be even more sorry shortly.

‘Money! What else is there?’

End of story. I had already guessed the rest. Nine-day wonder in the local press, five years ago. No more questions, I resolved.

‘Go on, take one! Nobody knows they’re here only me!’

The crafty old codger, I thought. Wants to make me guilty by association. Perhaps he’d been observing me for some time. Had he guessed my obsession? I’d put the old rogue in his place!

‘They’re just granite stones. The Mournes’re all granite. For a short while they formed the walls of a windmill. Two hundred years. Hardly historic! But any conspiracy was yours!’

I invested as much contempt as possible into my voice. I was weary of him. So many men in this godforsaken country enjoyed the notoriety of criminality. Some would accept this, even celebrate it if the offence was political. He was merely a petty thief. I might have to turn nasty to get rid of him, I thought.

‘Forty bloody quid. Four hours hard labour, loading and then dumping them. I could have got four hundred. Bet they got thousands!’

‘They?’

I don’t know how on earth the word came out, because I was biting my tongue even as I opened my mouth.

‘ I don’t know who they were. Wise guys. City slickers. Expensive suits. You read the papers? They made some innocent guy – the builder, I think it was – take the rap. And they did it themselves. Called me out in the middle of the night!’

He was out of breath. A long pause followed.

He’s waiting for me to say something. I mustered all the contempt I could manage into my final insult.

‘You weren’t innocent. You knew what you were doing.’

A suspicious glance. He was weighing me up. ‘Get outta here!’ I screamed, deep inside me.

‘Developer couldn’t build if the site was covered with a big ugly windmill, could he?’

He had ignored my accusation. All the better, I thought. Now not one more single word, I cautioned myself. You are not involved and not interested. I turned away, feigning interest in a nearby rockface.

‘What’s it to you, anyway?’ he asked angrily.

‘Fool!’ I chastised myself. ‘Ten times you answered him. No excuses. You knew it was coming. When will you ever learn?’

‘I think you are police! Reporter? Taxman? Council?’

Each was a defiant challenge, punctuated with pregnant pauses.

‘I must go.’ I sidled away.

‘Wait! You can’t just leave it like that. You started all this, you know that? Why all the questions? I’ll deny everything. You don’t know who I am! I don’t know your name! What is your name? What’s your business? Are you one of those guys back to gloat?’

I didn’t turn. He continued to shout at my retreating back.

‘Why are you sticking your nose into other people’s business? Just an old windmill! What’s that to anybody? You gonna talk to the police?’

I didn’t once glance back.

‘I know your sort! Endless questions. I didn’t wanna talk to you anyway. Can’t you leave well enough alone?’

When I had turned the corner, I lingered a while at the quarry entrance, but I could not recapture my former peace of mind.

How do they always seek me out? Is there a message in some ink that only they can read, written bold across my forehead?

SUCKER!!

What did I care about a few granite stones, shaped by the mason’s tools just a blink in time ago?

But four and a half billion years! Now that’s history.

Homecoming

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I have just spent two wonderful weeks in Newry with my Mum Bridie, as I have done many times during the past thirty-two years.  This time was much like any other; the same laid-back time, same views from my bed-room window.  The only difference is the size of this wonderful town, I mean city!  It is forever growing and the thing we call progress is very evident.  All great things and more to come.

 

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Wrapped in her arms!

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There was a man a long time ago and there was a statue of the Blessed Virgin and a Church convenient to where he lived. 
 
He went to that place every day or night and said a prayer to the Blessed Virgin.
 
It happened one time that he got into trouble and was sentenced to be hanged.  On his way to the scaffold he had to pass this statue. 
 
Well, as he was passing the statue he asked leave to kiss it.  The statue caught him in her arms – and all the power of the guards would not liberate him from it.
 
What could they do?
 
They had to release him and he was pardoned!

Iraq of Old

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Fallujah in Iraq has just suffered the fate of Grozny in Chechnia – bombed and razed and uncounted thousands of its inhabitants slaughtered in a vain effort to ‘restore order’.  Now it’s the turn of Mosul and still no end in sight! 
 
We sometimes forget that this was the cradle of civilization.  I read the following moral tale today and thought I would share it.
 
‘In ancient Baghdad there was a rich and powerful merchant with many servants but one he trusted with special tasks.  One day he sent this servant to the market place on an errand.  When he came to the market place this servant saw Death standing there and Death gave him a strange look.  The servant was greatly afraid and ran back to the master’s house where he told the other servants what he had seen.  
 
‘He has come for me,’ he said.  ‘But I will take my master’s fastest steed and ride like the wind to Samarra. I will be there by nightfall and Death will never find me there.’
 
The other servants went and told the master.  He was very angry.  He strode off to the market place and Death was still there.
 
‘What do you mean by giving my servant such a strange look and frightening him?’ he demanded.
 
‘I was merely surprised to see him, that’s all,’ Death replied.
 
‘You see, I am to meet him this night in Samarra’.
 
 
Many continue to meet Death this and every night in Samarra, Fallujah and Baghdad.  Margaret Hassan, we learn now, has already been brutally executed.  
 
We celebrate the release of Annetta Flanigan and her two companions in Afghanistan, whatever the circumstances of their release.
 
 

Do You Remember?

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A bucket on the stove boiling all the whites
The big tin bath on Saturday nights
An old glass washboard, an outside loo
Distemper on the walls, cardboard in your shoe?
Lino on the floor, a scullery out the back
A coin in the meter, coalbrick, coke and slack?
Keys in the lock, door on the latch
Long, hot summers, ponies and traps?
Blackleaded range, mansion red tiles
Rag men, bone men and men who sharpened knives?
Ardglass herrings, buttermilk and snuff
Sore heads, stomach aches, tripe and onion stuff.
 
Sennapods, virol, castor oil and malt
A poultice for sore throats made of hot salt
A half-moon waterwark like a front-door mat
Soda farls, wheaten farls, cooling on the rack.
Sheets made from flour bags, winding-up clocks,
Suspenders for men, holding up their socks.
Crombie hats, paddyhats, corner shop small
Horse-drawn hearses with black plumes tall.
Gas mantles, lamplighters, billycans of tae
Walking home from dances, courting on the way.
Fish an’ chips in newspapers, a pennyworth of jam
A pound of broken biscuits, a trolleybus and tram.
Donkey’s hoof, pinade, crocks and beetles too
Rinso, Vim and soapflakes, newspaper in the loo.
Carbolic soap, Brylcreem, seven o’clock blades
Sugar and water potion making permanent waves.
Ale plants growing in a big sweet jar
Food safe with wire mesh in every back yard.
Hotspur and Rover, Dandy, Beano too
A 3d matinee or a jampot in lieu.
A refund on bottle, brown paper bags
Five Willie Woodbine or sharing a fag.
Hoops and cleeks and guiders, parries, whips and all
Skipping songs, marble, pitch and toss, handball.
Top 20 from Luxembourg, Desert Island Discs
Henry Hall’s guest night, rock ‘n’roll and twist.
Billy Cotton’s Band Show, a book at bedtime too
The list is never-ending – but who was ‘skiboo’?