Sadly, I’m not convinced that anything any child could have said would have made a difference. Instead, I would probably have been better off to tell myself, and every other kid, to just enjoy that 99 with extra sprinkles and syrup before we all developed dairy allergies or swore off cones because we know now just how many calories they contain. I would tell myself never to leave a snowball fight just because there’s homework to be done, because the evening is long and the homework will always be there but the snow won’t. Neither will the years, the time or the inclination. As I grew older and more aware, I would remind myself to try to be appreciative of having someone paying for the house I lived in, because the day might come when I’m paying mad money for a house that’s worth half the price it was when I bought it. It would be no harm to appreciate the fact too that someone else was running the house I lived in, because one day I would fully comprehend just how much work goes into that. I would try to understand that it was never going to be that simple again and that I should just live in the moment. That I might think it’s complicated, but really, it’s not. I would add that, further down the line, that guy from the neighbouring area was so not worth it.
Parky’s looking at me. He’s expecting an answer.
“Do you know, Parky, I think I’d get a nice big bag of sweets and an armful of old magazines and sit down and relax for the day.”
I prepare myself for the confused look.
He sits forward in his seat. Then he smiles.
“As things to do go, that’s as good as any.”
Shirley Benton is originally from the metropolis of Toomevara in Tipperary but now lives in Dublin with her husband and children. She studied English and French as part of her BA degree in Mary Immaculate College of Education, Limerick, and completed a postgraduate Diploma in Systems Analysis in NUI Galway. After working full-time in IT for ten years, she left the industry in 2009 to pursue her dream of becoming a writer whilst working part-time as a freelance editor and proofreader. She has had two books published by Poolbeg: Looking for Leon and Can We Start Again?. She is also a book reviewer for the chicklit website www.chicklitclub.com, and contributes author interviews and writing-related articles to its associated blog, Connect. She is a lover of the Irish language and when she is not writing or reviewing, she can be found on her couch watching TG4, if you’re looking for her.
Story 4: Kick the Can
Siobháin Bunni
It’s the summer of 1979. I could probably pick any day that summer; they were, in my memory, mostly good days. Great days. It seemed hotter back then, like rain didn’t exist and every summer day was a blistering one. The sun, fighting its way through the thick leafy canopy of chestnut trees that line the gently sloping driveway. A sea breeze, weakened but still fresh from its journey to cool our flushed little faces. The smell of the fresh-cut grass and the sound of sneezing noses it tickled. The tiered lawn, dry and hard enough to hurt, surrounded by all of those first-rate hiding places gifted by a garden so overgrown and wild with bushes, trees and shrubs.
Presiding over this great playground, the house stands majestic if a little sombre with its burnt red brick set into white render contrasting with the black slate roof that slopes over the beautiful residence: a strong, solid house with white-painted timber sash windows that rattle and moan in the wind. It smells like home. It is home.
In the heart of the garden reigns the laburnum tree, as bright as the sun in early summer, a dripping crown of sunny yellow blossoms draped protectively over the turn in the driveway, and the heart of our imagination. Depending on the day, the game and the players this sprawling tree is a house, a shop, a swing or a school, but today it is The Can, and today we’re all in.
Excited shrieks pierce this warm summer day, accompanied by the fast flurry of feet on the driveway, first one pair then two as they belt furiously towards the tree.
Only five of us then – it would be a few years yet before our “little princess” would join us but, none the wiser, we accepted an honorary sixth in the shape of our neighbour – as good as one of us. We were then two boys and four girls, but you couldn’t really rely on the youngest, because she could just about run, never mind hide. Even my older sister played that day, not too distracted by her Jackie magazines or Cliff Richard miming some happy-chappy melody on Top of the Pops, to join in. She’ll kill me for saying this, but when she wasn’t looking after us, she loved to sit and swoon over his quiffy hair and handsome 1970s’ smooth pretty-boy face.
“Kick the Can! I spy Layla behind Mum’s car!”
She, the youngest, was always seen but never caught first: the game would die otherwise as she would then be the next “It”. What good is the game without a race, the odds stacked against her and her unsteady, slow but adorable little-girl run with her golden locks jiggling behind her? But good to get her out fairly soon, we agreed – too young to count, too cute to exclude. We took this game very seriously, the challenging highlight of every summer.
Oh, the excitement at having found a new never-been-used-before hiding place, the disappointment at needing to give it up to go pee.
It is a game of hard-knuckle wits, to sit it out and watch, like a sniper. To bide your time and wait. To hold off until the seeker passes you by or strays sufficiently from The Can, lured by spying a protruding arm or an exposed leg or a peeping shoe. Then, when far enough away, the risk of leaving your hiding place to sneak slowly at first, creeping silently forward then dash with an adrenaline-pumping roar at the top of your voice.
“Kick the Can, I free all!”
Oh, the joy: to reach that tree first. To dive at the thick trunk and feel the first touch of rough bark at your fingers. The howl of encouragement and the air-punching leap of victory.
Likely we played until we couldn’t run any more, till our voices gave up or until a fight broke out amidst accusations of cheating as someone was glimpsed lurking darkly in the glazed porch. Hiding inside the house was always out of bounds, but too much of a draw to resist regardless of the punishing game-evicting consequences. Either way the day was thirst-quenchingly good and probably ended with gulps of lukewarm water and dinner al fresco, my mum in her brown-and-orange kaftan with the flowing sleeves and hair pulled back in a wide matching hair-band and Dad sporting a dapper cravat and slacks. If we were lucky he might be pulling on a sherry-soaked cigar and we could all get drunk on the sweet-smelling fumes.
We are together. United. Innocent. Happy on those days in our own company.
If I could go back to that time, for just one day, I would exploit my memory of the best spot we ever found and hide out to ultimately win the last game of the day – well, the trip back in time has to reap some selfish benefit! Then I would do nothing more than sit on that makeshift swing suspended from our yellow play tree, breathe deep and savour the moment, the laughs and the excitement. I would soak up the feeling and relive the moment where we were comrades together.
The simplicity. The innocence. Where our only worry was who stole our socks, who was rooting in our various rooms, what was for dinner or what trouble we were in when Dad got home from work after our day of high jinks, with his enormous weighted hands and fiery temper. For each of us, although me more often than not, the fearful words “You just wait till your father gets home!”, often shrieked in frustration, made our hearts quiver and knees tremble. My mother at the end of her tether. The consequential wait for the clockwork arrival of our dad at seven on the dot and without fail was torture. Would she tell or would she soften? A game of chance, often lost, rarely won. As Dad approached from his long drive home we could hear the purr of the engine as it descended the hill and pace its progress from the noise it made gearing down to turn its nose into the drive. And as it glided over the final few metres up the drive to turn and stop just outside the sitting-room window, I would retreat to the top of the stairs and listen out for the telltale mumbling and the eventual roar.
“Siobháinnnnnnn!”
And I knew I was done fo
r. No softening today then.
It was never anything really bad. Just something really, really bold. A scrap with one of the sisters. An instruction disobeyed. A display of bad temper or cheek. As I got older, though, the boldness got a little bit wilder: missed curfews, stealing sweets from the local shop, sneaking out after bed to go to the Summit disco. And so a stint at a secluded finishing school for young ladies put an abrupt halt to my gallop. My mother says now that my eldest daughter, so headstrong and spirited, is her revenge on me. And I am both delighted and scared. I don’t know where she gets it from . . .
So my journey back for just one day would be to one of those days that summertime because after that things started to get complicated and the livin’ wasn’t so easy.
But there would be no quiet “in hindsight” inciteful whispers of inspiration to my young self. No secret words of warning or caution – knowing me then as I do now, I probably wouldn’t listen anyway, not even to myself – no clues or watch-outs-for-things-to-come.
I might give a gentle nod to my brother to avoid diving on his homemade rope swing above the rockery and save him a serious bloody gash to the back of his head. And I would definitely give particular counsel to my younger sister to be cautious in her future romantic dalliances, without freaking her out, if she’d understand. And out of divilment I might warn my neighbour of the harmless crush I would develop on him a couple of years later, but that would be it. Because what comes next is what makes us who we are, and who am I to influence that? They might not all be the great experiences or events that we’d hope for, and some are ones we’d rather not have; the ones that hurt us most are often the ones that shape us most. But collectively, combined with the persuasive events and positive encounters, they become the ingredients that flavour us and determine our futures. Who am I to decide what my siblings could or should be? And despite my flaws, and I have quite a few, I’m content, if a little challenged, by who I am.
So for me the moment would be about enjoying the carefree togetherness of my siblings. A wish to have our innocence back for just one more day. The innocence of ignorance and the bliss of a warm summer’s day, screaming for all the right reasons.
Born in 1968 in Baghdad, Iraq, Siobháin Bunni is one of six children born to her Irish mother and Iraqi father. A rebellious young lady, she was educated in Kylemore Abbey in Connemara before graduating from the College of Marketing & Design, with an Advanced Diploma in Environmental Design. Married to Ross since 1997 following a romantic elopement to the Amalfi Coast in Italy, they have three beautiful children, a boy and two girls. Together they live in Malahide, Co Dublin. Until recently she worked as a design manager with Eason & Son Ltd where she managed the development of the design of the new flagship stores and has now started a new contract as Interim Brand and Communications manager with Vodafone.
Story 5: Daydream Believer
Jennifer Burke
I’d like to say I was a dreamer as a child. But really I was just a daydreamer, which is something else altogether. A dreamer sits and imagines the future stretching ahead, full of possibilities. On the other hand, a daydreamer like me stares into space, seeing not what is in front of them, but an imagined world where adventures come alive. One benefit of daydreaming is that whereas a dreamer’s fantasies are limited to earthly realities, anything, from time travel to fairy tales, can manifest themselves in a daydreamer’s mind.
“It’s so great that you’ve qualified as a solicitor,” a relative said to me, after the event. She elaborated that apparently I was such a daydreamer as a child there had been a worry I wouldn’t be able to stick to anything concrete! But I kept the stories going inside my head and, this year, the daydream came true and my first novel was published.
A question I’ve been asked a number of times since news leaked out about my book deal is: “How long have you been writing?”
The answer is simply, “For as long as I can remember.” So I have already spent some time this year reminiscing about my childhood, and how I always loved to write. Recently, I stumbled across an old copybook of stories from my early years in primary school. I read one of them, eager to see if my literary leanings had shown promise at a young age. Ahem. It was no Man Booker prequel, I can tell you that! It started as follows: “My name is Jennifer. I love my Mammy. I love my Daddy. My best friend is Maeve. I love Maeve. My teacher is Miss Joyce. I love Miss Joyce.”I could go on, but I think you get the gist.
But I did progress from factual statements to plot-driven excerpts after a while. During my obsession with Enid Blyton’s “The Secret Seven” and “The Famous Five”, I developed a series entitled “The Nice Nine”. In hindsight, I could have picked “The Nasty Nine” or “The Exciting Eleven” but I was a Care Bears kid and, until the age of seven, was content with calm and quiet. Little did I know that life as I knew it was about to change.
At this stage, I should probably reveal that my newly published novel, The Secret Son, is not my first success. I had already tasted the heady word of literary fame at the tender age of ten.
It all started three years earlier when my parents took me to dinner in the “64” restaurant at the top of Gorey town (I remember every detail) to make an announcement.
“I’m pregnant!” Mum said, beaming.
“What does pregnant mean?”
“We’re going to have a baby!”
I can still remember the feeling that bubbled through me on hearing those words – I thought I was going to burst with excitement. I was an only child until I was seven. All my friends had brothers and sisters. I had wanted one for so long and finally, finally, he was on his way!
I was a relatively patient child, but even by my standards the next few months were torture. I wanted him born now! In the absence of satisfaction, I contented myself with preparing as best I could. I picked up the post for Mum when she became too big to bend down. I made lists upon lists of boys’ and girls’ names – stealing some from my favourite books at the time. But my parents probably made the right decision in vetoing Br’er Bear and Br’er Rabbit. I don’t think my now twenty-three-year-old brother would have appreciated it.
Finally, the due date arrived. I left school for my Easter holidays, promising to return with news of a little brother or sister. “Well,” my teacher and classmates raced up to me on our first day back, “is it a boy or a girl?” I wanted to cry. The stupid kid still hadn’t been born and in the end was thirteen days late. I felt very hard done by, although in hindsight it was my Mum who deserved the sympathy.
But he couldn’t stay put forever. I remember being dropped off with our neighbours, Séamus and Angela, while my parents raced off to hospital. I sat in the bed they made up for me, staring out the window at the street lamps lighting the dark estate, wondering if he had been born yet. The next morning, I was preoccupied with my breakfast (Séamus and Angela didn’t have my usual cereal and I was wondering how I could get out of eating what they gave me) when there was a loud knock on the door. Séamus opened it, and I’ll never forget the smile on my dad’s face. Centred in the door frame, he clapped his hands together.
“Guess what? A baby boy!”
Angela screamed with delight and all thoughts of yucky cereal were forgotten. I skipped down the road holding Dad’s hand, demanding to be brought to the hospital immediately to see the new addition to our family. But, horror of horrors, it was a Sunday and I was told we had to go to Mass first to thank God for my new baby brother. My mind reeled.
“But I haven’t seen my baby brother,” I argued. “How can I thank God for my baby brother when I don’t even know if I have a baby brother because I haven’t seen my baby brother?” Dad managed to ignore the increasingly high-pitched desperation in my voice and somehow my logic escaped him. I don’t think I had ever caveated a prayer before but I made sure to point out to God that my thanks was all based on hearsay – that I had yet to have sight of the new brother I was thanking him for. (Oh yes, I was a lawyer in the making at that stage.)
Of course, now I realise that Dad was giving my poor mum a few hours’ rest after being up all night giving birth to an eight-pound six-ounce lump. As soon as Mass was over, Dad’s own desire to get back to his son got the better of him and we arrived at the maternity ward, grinning like a pair of idiots. To this day, I love the smell of hospitals. Most people hate it because they associate those places with sickness, and sometimes even death. For me, my first experience of a hospital was one of unrivalled happiness.
When I saw Mum, I forgot about the baby and ran to her, having not seen her since the day before. Then she pointed to him. I looked down and it was like life before him had never existed.
I think my parents were concerned I’d lose all my friends because whenever my little girl pals came over to the house I refused to play our usual games. There was only one thing I wanted to play: “Watch the Baby.” As he was usually asleep, my friends didn’t find it nearly as interesting as I did.
As he got older, my brother and I made up our own games, such as “The Teacher and the Boy”. I recall it involved me playing a teacher, while he starred as a boy. Not particularly imaginative but that didn’t stop us. He was my “I Spy” partner on long trips (pre-motorway) from Dublin to Galway. We were climbing-frame monkeys, snowmen makers, snakes-and-ladders competitors and sandcastle builders.
If I Was a Child Again Page 3
