Dedication
This book is dedicated to my 27 nieces and nephews.
Maria, Karen, Mark, Peter, Lyn, Emma, Brian, Brenda, Susan K.A., Sarah, Jennifer F., Philip, Jean, Dillon, Christopher S., Susan S., Claire, Laura, Jennifer K, Christopher K., Katie, Kevin, Michael, Liza, Beth, Jack and Bobby.
Kids, if I have any legacy to leave it will be going to you.
Chances are these stories will be it! Hope you like them.
I love you all very much, Aunty Amo x
The Long & The Short of it
By
Annmarie Miles
November 2013
The Long & The Short of it
2013
Published by Emu Ink Ltd
www.emuink.ie
© Annmarie Miles
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems – without prior written permission of the author.
Cover design by Gwen Taylour
Acknowledgements…
This is longer than some of the stories but all are part of my story…
To you, the reader, the characters don’t live because I’ve written them, they live because you read them. So thank you!
To Derrick Edge, the first person ever to say to me ‘You’re a good writer, you should do something about that.’
To my Twitter buddies who have encouraged me along the way and made ‘virtual friendship’ a tangible thing.
To the many writers I’ve encountered online, who instead of protecting the ‘market’ for themselves (as I thought they would), they’ve openly shared what they know and inspired me to press on, get better, be realistic and, no matter what, keep writing. Especially Ken Armstrong whose blog posts make me laugh, cry and wish I could write like him.
To the two writing groups I’m part of – Kilcullen Writer’s Group and Shared Planet Writer’s Group, for the coffee, chat and honesty.
To all the followers and readers of my two blogs ‘Just another Christian woman... talking through her hat!’ and ‘Fictitious Amo’, and my #amowriting Facebook page.
To Ruth Garvey-Williams, editor of VOX Magazine, for letting me find my voice.
To Jeff Goins for his generosity, and to the Tribewriters gang for bringing an online course to life.
To Carolann Copland at Carousel Creates, who started off as a teacher and mentor, then very quickly became a dear friend. Also the Carousel Creates gang, including Bernadette, Madeline, Annette and Fatima.
To Louise Phillips and Catherine Dunne – two authors who have read my stories and taken the time to give advice and encouragement.
To Catherine Brophy, another inspiring author who taught me how to write a story.
To Emer Cleary at Emu Ink, for chucking out the stories that would take from the book and for recognising the ones that could sparkle…if I kept polishing. For the personal service and dedication to getting this book just right and for making the self-publishing experience way too easy!
To my family:
My Dad – who gives us all a story to tell.
My Mam – who gave us all a song to sing.
My brothers and sisters – for singing the stories with me over the years.
My 27 nieces and nephews, to whom this book is dedicated; and to their families.
To my husband Richard:
My beta reader and the maker of many meals when I’ve disappeared to write.
This is only the beginning love, don’t hang up your oven gloves just yet…
I love you x
To God
Though you are not explicitly mentioned in this book, every redemptive moment, every opportunity for forgiveness and every glimpse of hope are inspired by your Good News!
LORD, unless you build this house, I am building it in vain. (based on Psalm 127:1)
Contents
The American Wake
Neighbourhood Watch
The Matchmaker
A Life Saved
A Technical Hitch
Change of Scenery
Singing The Blues
Oxygen Deprived
Love Bubbles
Corned Beef Sandwiches On Brown Bread
The Disappearance Of Bernie Francis
Never Judge A Monk By His Plumber
Lovers
Moving The Threshold
Girl Power
A Date With The Domino Effect
Suddenly Granny
Remembering
The Revolving Door
A Mallet In The Sales
Lost And Found
Artistic Temperament
Friends Reunited
The American Wake
Tears were rolling down Evelyn’s face as she filled the kettle. She knew she only had a few minutes to gather herself before Peter would be down the stairs. After clicking the button she went back to the frying pan. It was bulging with sausages, rashers, white and black pudding. She’d ignored his protests that he could grab something at the airport. There was no way he was leaving this house without a good breakfast inside him and God only knew how long it would be before she’d get to cook for him again. With that thought, the lump in her throat swelled and she tried to roadblock the tears with her eyelids – but to no avail. His enthusiastic footsteps made her jump and dry her eyes quickly.
“Ah, Ma. You didn’t have to do this… Can I have a fried egg?”
Peter kissed her on the cheek then sat at the table to check his paperwork for the tenth time. As Evelyn looked at him, memories of him sitting at that table over the years came flooding back.
The first day he’d sat there instead of in his high chair, barely able to see over the table. He managed to cover it, and himself, with bits of carrot and mince from his bowl of stew, but Evelyn didn’t care.
The Christmas Day he got the mini snooker table – they’d had to eat with their plates on their knees for about six weeks afterwards; he refused to move it. But it was the best present he’d ever had and he still talked about it. He never knew that Evelyn had borrowed from a money lender – it was the first Christmas after Peter’s Dad had left them and she was determined he’d have what he asked for.
He had sat at the table struggling with his maths homework in primary school and again when he was in secondary school. He was always terrible with numbers and there were tears of frustration when he tried to study for the exams.
Sitting in exactly the same place, he had opened the letter confirming the job offer in Boston six weeks previously and Evelyn had cried that day too.
“Ma, MA, my egg will go hard!”
Evelyn turned back to the cooker and took up the breakfast. Peter made tea and they sat at the table.
One last time,’ she thought to herself.
“What time is your taxi booked for?”
“Plenty of time. Another couple of hours yet. Are you sure you don’t want to come? You can just get another one back.”
“Ah no love, you go on. Sure I’d be like an eejit trying to find a taxi after you’re gone.”
“You’ll have to come and see me. When I get my own place. I’ll probably have to stay with Jack for a while, but when I have me own apartment you can come.”
They chatted away for another half hour, making plans that would never come to pass and promises that would be impossible to keep.
A ring on the doorbell made them both jump.
“Your taxi is very early. He better not charge you.”
“He won’t charge me!” Peter was determined as he walked to the door.
Evelyn knew immediately that it was not the taxi driver and started to clear the table, presuming it was one of his mates coming for a last goodbye. After a minute or two, however, the voices at the door grew louder and she could sense that it was not a positive conversation.
Evelyn peeked out the kitchen door and saw a man who was vaguely familiar. A wave of recognition swept over her and she dropped what she had in her hand. The noise made Peter run to her and the visitor followed him.
The next thing she knew she was on the sofa and Peter and his Dad were standing in front of her, arguing.
“Stop, stop it. Just stop it.” Evelyn stood up and the men fell silent.
“Martin, what do you want? What are you doing here? You’re not welcome.”
“I just came to say goodbye to my son. I won’t stay and I wouldn’t still be here if you hadn’t made such a fuss.” Peter was about to jump to Evelyn’s defence, but she stopped him.
She looked at her husband for the first time in more than 10 years. He was thin and gaunt, like someone who had been living on the street and had borrowed a bigger man’s clothes for the visit.
“I just wanted to wish my boy well. I’ve been keeping an eye on you over the years Peter and I heard you were heading off today. I just didn’t want to miss my chance to… to say goodbye.”
“Your son? Your boy? I haven’t been your boy since I was nine. If you’ve been keeping an eye on me you’ve been doing a crap job. The only one who’s been keeping an eye on me is Ma.”
“I don’t want to cause trouble. I’m not staying, I just wanted to say goodbye.” As he said the words he looked as if he was going to faint. Instinctively Peter and Evelyn grabbed him and led him to a seat.
“I’ll get you some water.” Evelyn walked to the sink and Peter followed her.
“I’m not going.” Peter was speaking in urgent whispers. “I’m not leaving you with that mad man. I don’t even know if it is me Da. He could be some nutter.”
“He is your Da; and you are getting on that plane if I have put you in a taxi and take you to the airport myself. You are not wasting five minutes of your life on him.”
Evelyn gave Martin a drink of water.
“Do you want some tea? There’s a bit of fry there if you’re hungry.” Evelyn’s default position – when in doubt feed somebody.
“No I’m grand, I’ll have my water and go. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“My taxi will be here soon and I’m not getting into it ’til you’re gone out of this house.”
“Once I’ve had my drink I’ll be gone son.”
“DON’T call me that.”
After a few minutes the doorbell rang again. They all stood in the garden until the tut-tutting of the taxi driver eventually encouraged Peter to put his bags in the boot. He hugged Evelyn for what seemed like an eternity, but it was not long enough for her and she lost the battle with her tears again.
“I don’t want to go ’til he’s gone Ma.”
“Get into that taxi or I’ll box your ears.”
They laughed and cried and then they laughed again.
Peter turned to get into the taxi and stopped. Evelyn had brought him up too well to turn his back on Martin, no matter how much he hated him, so he put his hand out and Martin grabbed it.
“Thank you. Thank you, Peter. Goodbye and good luck.”
“I don’t want to hear you were at this door again.”
“I won’t be, I promise.”
Another long hug for his Ma then Peter was in the taxi and gone.
Evelyn and Martin watched their son drive away until the taxi completely disappeared, then they stood for another few minutes; motionless and silent.
Without looking at him, Evelyn spoke to Martin. “How long have you got?”
“Six months maybe. The doctors reckon it could be more if I sort myself out a bit.”
“Can I do anything?”
“No. You’ve already done everything Evelyn. He’s a grand young fella.”
Martin started to walk away.
“I can help, let me help.” Evelyn couldn’t stop herself.
“I made a promise to that lad and for once I’m going to keep it. Goodbye Evelyn. I’m so sorry.”
Evelyn watched Martin walk away and as her heart broke for her son, she was shocked to find that there was room in it to break for Martin too.
She mourned them both for a very long time – her saving grace knowing that at least one of them would be back.
Neighbourhood Watch
Roddy McCarthy’s front garden could hardly be seen through the sliver that once was the gated gap in the hedge. The gate disappeared behind the greenery, which was overgrown in every direction. The grass looked like it had never been cut and the pathway to the door was more like a trail through the undergrowth.
The kids on the street would often throw a ball in his garden and dare each other to retrieve it. Once, when a bike was thrown over Roddy’s hedge, the poor kid who owned it was too afraid to get it back and too afraid to tell his mother. After two weeks, and a clip around the ear from his father, he eventually braved Roddy’s garden. Most of the time Roddy didn’t even realise the kids were in and out of his garden, but every so often they’d strike gold and make his dog Smithwicks bark. Roddy would then come to the door swearing like a trooper, promising all sorts of dismemberment and disfigurement to the kids that he considered, “no better than bloody pond life,” for ruining his day.
Nobody knew where Roddy had come from or if he had any family. He’d been there longer than anyone on the road and all that was left was rumour and counter-rumour. There may or may not have been a wife. Some say she died and others that she left him because he was a drinker. Old Mrs Muckerty was convinced he had killed her and buried her in the garden, but her sister, even older Mrs McDonagh, insisted that it was only because she didn’t like him. He had promised to take her to a dance half a century previous, but took someone else instead. They, along with all of Roddy’s neighbours of that generation, were now gone and the mystery was left in the hands of a new set of families. Some were children and grandchildren of the old guard and though Roddy’s garden was still good for the odd game of ‘chicken’, none were really interested in the answers to those questions.