by Des Greene
day was going to be full of terror. An ink blob deserved a proper thrashing and there was no way he could avoid it. Slowly he threw the bag over his shoulders and continued on, his pace even heavier.
As he rounded the bend in the road he cheered up a little at the sight of Sweeney’s shop on the corner before the bridge. The shop was a symbol of good times for him. Before his father had lost the sight of his eyes, he used take him for walks to the shop, particularly after mass on a Sunday. There he’d buy penny sweets or lollipops. He sucked them happily all the way home holding tightly with his free hand onto his father’s coat. Then there were the special occasions when the treat was a bar of plain Cadbury’s chocolate. It was the best way to spend sixpence in the whole world. He loved the heaviness of the bar with its deep blue colour and silver inner paper. Each square was allowed to dissolve slowly in his mouth and last as long as possible. As the shopkeeper handed over the bar he smiled, knowing just how treasured was the treat. Sometimes he’d add a further treat of a free lollipop if it were a birthday or other special occasion. These memories brought a little relief from the trauma of fear that was ever-present. He could reserve a few moments to linger, looking at the wonderful sights in the display window but he feared to delay too long. To be late for school was asking for another punishment, one too easy to avoid. He now moved more quickly onward.
Past the bridge, old Mrs Nickey was out throwing hot water over the pavement in front of her public house. The steam rose like a cloud from the path and she was panting from the exertion. She was a heavy woman and, like most such, was a genial type. She spotted the slow walk of the child. Her greeting was met indifferently, barely a nod. She knew the child was unhappy and her heart grew heavy. She had no children of her own. This made it all the worse. She put down her bucket and picked up a broom. She swept the hot water along the pavement, her figure disappearing in the rising steam.
He did not like Mrs Nickey. She was always asking how his mother was, yet he felt she didn’t really care for his mother. He hated when she would pat his head condescendingly as if he were a poor urchin. For all her friendliness she had never once given him a sweet or other treat. So he tended to avoid her, lowering his eyes or staring ahead. When sometimes she cornered him, placing her vast bulk in his path, he had to accept the hand running over his head and the questions. Always questions. She was voracious for news or gossip. He kept his mouth shut not out of shyness but from obstinacy. He was not going to be forced to speak by this woman. She could not take out a cane and beat him. This rendered her powerless. Her words had no threat. They were not backed up by violence. He never thought for an instant that they might be well meaning. That was not his experience of people. Older people wanted to force you to do things and if you didn’t you were beaten. The more you resisted the more you were beaten. The lesson had been learned over the few years of his life and it was embedded deeply in his make-up.
He did not look back at the fading sight of a friendly woman waving in the rising steam. His mind had returned to the gloom of the impending day in class. How he wished that time would stand still on this journey to that austere grey stone building. This would turn into an ideal journey if the end were forever pulling away. How he would love to jump about in the ice like all the others. He would be the liveliest boy about without this constant burden. He had glimmers of this heaven when the school term had ended for the Christmas holidays. As he rushed out the gate, it was as if there was an eternity between him and the dread. He had jumped happily into his mother’s arms on arriving home. The whole world took on a glow that was unreal. His heart did not have that feeling that drained his life-force on school mornings. He was full of energy and played happily from early morning until long after the winter sun had disappeared. He loved those cold frosty evenings under the dim glow of the street lighting. Crowds of boys and girls played skipping games on the pavement in the borrowed light. He was able to completely forget all. It was as if the terror never existed. Christmas had come and gone in a daze of happiness- never mind that his presents from Santa were small and unpretentious. He loved the jigsaw of the Piccadilly Circus and spent hours on the carpet in the living room trying to assemble the parts. The scene of the monument and the grand neon signs were a world apart. In between placing pieces his mind wandered to this magical world that he felt was the most wondrous place on earth. Half finished he would toss the pieces into a jumble and put them back in the coloured box. He didn’t want to finish the puzzle. He wanted to prolong the journey.
Always prolonging the pleasure to avoid the inevitable downfall into the abyss. As the days passed after Christmas he began to realise that the holidays do not last forever. They had seemed interminable coming up to the great day itself but now slowly but surely the days ticked by and the old bad feelings were resurgent. And finally the first day back arrived. All the old feelings returned with a vengeance. Even though he had survived the first few days without any major beating, the fear continued to mount. That was what happened to him. The mounting fear was dammed up in his small mind and eventually a dam burst and he would run. Search out the safety of the hidey- hole in the country or sometimes spend the whole day in the church.
Those days in the church were spent in fervent prayer. He prayed that he would not be caught. He stared up at the giant stained glass windows. The saints portrayed there were wonderful in their size and the brilliant colour of their vestments. They surely could intercede on his behalf. He recited all the prayers he knew over and over again.
“Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy.
Hail, our life, our sweetness and our hope.....
Mourning and weeping in this valley of tears......”
He repeated these words over and over in a gentle whisper. He felt they described his plight. He was happy that he was not alone in his unhappiness but was part of a greater woe that was our painful lot on earth. The darkness of the quiet corner of the cathedral accentuated the mood. The remnant smell of incense and candle wax added to the gloom. He huddled unseen in this quiet corner in absolute charismatic prayer to a merciful omnipotent power. The long day spread out before him. He knew that his absence from school was by now reported. The die was now cast with the certainty of terrible retribution. Each minute in the church was a reprise. The sanctuary would last until the great bells chimed out the call to prayer of the Angelus. The marking of noon would begin the descent into a greater terror. Now he had to plan on returning home for lunch and hope that the news of his absence from class had not preceded him. He counted the seconds after the last chime from the tall bell tower and with trained cunning made his way out just before the lunchtime rush of children started. He made his secretive way home, arriving before his siblings. A quick lunch and he rushed out again. He was delighted that his mother had noticed nothing. The afternoon at least stood between him and the ordeal that had to come.
By now the street was busy with children on their way to school. There was excitement in the air as they slid their way along. At the top of Dunkellin Street where there was a slight incline a big slide had been made and there the bigger boys were showing off their skills and bravery doing ever more dangerous runs. A crowd had gathered to watch and he stopped for a moment. He envied the boys their sense of daring and devil may care. Some of them were from the rougher parts of town and were subject to regular battering at school but they seemed not to care. They were proud of their indifference and wore their assaults as a badge of honour. He wished he could be like them. He would curse and steal like the best of them. He would be afraid of no-one. They could beat him all they liked but he would not cry. He would not cower before them. He would be defiant and laugh in their faces. They could call the Guards on him for all he cared. He would brazenly rise from his desk and stride out the classroom door. He would never return. On mornings like this he could spend his time sliding along the pavement in ever more spectacular runs. These thoughts flashed through his mind in an instant but in the next instant the anxiety returned. He did
n’t want to be late and turned away from the scene.
As he continued on into Main Street, he passed Dolly Casey’s shop. Its bright red doors were ajar and some older convent girls were inside buying sweets. The shop window was small with a very simple display of empty sweet-boxes and wrappers. On one side was a poster for ice cream. He looked longingly at the image of the chocolate topped orange ice-pop; not because he wanted one now in the cold morning air but because it reminded him of the long warm days of summer. He thought of the long trek home from the lake. The swimming place was called the Long Point and there was sand on the lake’s bottom, just like at the sea. It was a wonderful place with hills like mountains in the background. The lake looked endless in its expanse of water - the town being barely visible to the north shore. Long happy days were spent there. As the sun began to fall in the sky and alerted by the sound of the six o’clock church bells he’d contentedly make his way home. Sometimes he had a few pennies and always knew what to spend them on. As soon as Dolly’s shop came into
