Monday 26 January 2015

THE PHOENIX

'Yes, Ma. I'm well aware she's a great ratter, but so's a ferret and they don't leave giblets on the doorstep.' 
            Ma wrung her hands. 'I know you've never been fond of cats, son-'
            'Fond?' I pointed to the sacks secured with a double knot at the neck. 'Ma? The number of times that cat's shat in my shoes!'
            'Think of the babbies, Ethan. Sure they never did a bit o' harm.'
            'Didn't I find one of them in the in the larder chewin' on the sausages?' I didn't want to take the hard line with my ma, but needs must. Important day today. THE day today. 'If-if I'm payin' the bills roun' here, they go ... or ... or I do.'
            Ma cocked her head, expression blank. Jesus, I think it's workin'.
            ' I'll not be held to ransom by a young pup.' Her gaze drilled into the shiftin' sacks. 'And if you weren't in your twenties, son, I'd scalp your arse.' Ma let out one of those pained, dramatic sighs. But as you say, you're keepin' me. Can't you just give her to someone? I'll find homes for the babbies.'
            Three times I'd tried to get rid of the fecker and three times it came back to our lake-house with a feck-you-Ethan-McFarlane  litter in the barn. It wasn't our cat. It just turned up one day. I'd even gone and borrowed Aidy Harte's ferret Clamp to get rid of it. Found its white tail and a pair of kidneys in the yard.
            Sly, though, keepin' the wee critters hidden. I'd only stumbled across them by havin' the occasion to go into da's pottin' shed. Kittens is not all I found in there, either. The couple of bottles of poteen had helped take the edge off  McFarlane and Son, Solicitors shrinkin' to just Ethan McFarlane.
            'Ma.' I rubbed her arm, more bone than flesh. She flinched, pinchin' her lips as she did when crossed. 'People 'round here have enough to worry about with kids to feed.'
            Ma nodded and moved to the door, stoppin' before she turned the handle. ' You'll be fixin' your own tay the night and the marra.'
            'But, Ma?' I knew she'd go, but no tea? Below the belt for a growin' lad who didn't know his arse from his elbow in the scullery.
            'Aye. Big man like yourself, payin' the bills, is big enough to fix his own tay. I'm goin' to your Auntie Jean's for a coupla days.'
            'But, Ma?' She was gone. Poundin' up the stairs like a woman twice her weight carryin' a sack of spuds.
*
Walkin' up the street, sacks over my shoulder, the bell from the Shankhill  church reminded the good protestants of Lurgan that they'd be wanted this time tomorrow. My plan? A round the houses trip back to the lake off Edward Street. Ma had to see me leave with the cats in the sacks.
            Before I got to McQuillan's Gentlemen's Outfitters, I juked in Marley's grocer's window. Doin' the work of two men had sallowed my skin where it wasn't scarred and had scooped hollows out of my cheeks. But over the past six months, my colour had returned. I almost looked twenty-three.
             I chose not to look in on Miss McQuillan; Ailish, a fine young woman who saw beyond my smeared-on flesh. Others stared. I handled it better now, knowin' that I wasn't alone. My face wasn't the worst. What lay beneath my shirt, I'd once believed, was for my eyes only until the day I died. A glimpse of Miss Ailish used to be the highlight of a trip up the street, but her light had since been eclipsed by my new legal assistant. I'd needed help, but female company more-so, and I didn't mind payin' for it.
            But it felt grand to be out. The air out here smelled good. Fresh. I didn't think of the wrigglin' goin' on behind my back. I passed The Wellington. Stale ale and tobacco hit my senses, triggerin' a memory. Me and da knockin' back a pint o' the black stuff on a Friday afternoon. Why'd he have to go an' die? But I knew why he let himself waste away to nothin'. I saw it in his eyes when he looked at me. He only saw scars. Felt only guilt. Drank himself to death.
            'Ah, young McFarlane!' A hand, clamped on my shoulder, slammed on the brakes.  I couldn't mistake the weight of that hand.
            'Mr Meaney. H-how are you?'
            'Not good. Not good, thun.' Gums Meaney overtook me with a shake of his head, casting his huge shadow over me. 'Our Geraldth gone aff an' married a protethent gurl. NO THUN O' MINE-'
            'Hadn't heard, Mr Meaney.' BIG feckin' fat lie, the news had reached as far as Wicklow in an hour. 'Real sorry 'bout that.' Sure half the town knew that Gerald and Dinah were an item. Gums must've had his head up his arse for the past two years.
            'And you know what tha' meanth?'
            'Um.' I tried not to look at the strainin' rope around his vast girth, holdin' his trousers up. 'Not sure, sir.'
            Mr Meaney eyed me up and down. 'Wath-at, thun. Over yer back?'
            'Kittens. I'm headed to the lake.'
            'Ach, thun, yer not? Here let uth have a gander.' Him bein' built like an outhouse and a lifelong client of the business, you don't argue with Gums. I whipped the sack over my shoulder and undid the knots. He peered in. 'Ach, juth look at them wee fuckerth.' The big man gave the kittens a toothless grin and sniffed. 'Go an. Let uth have one of 'em. Our Mary'th alwayth goin' on about gettin' a cat. An' wi' our Gerald runnin' off, a wee kitten'd cheer her up no end.'
            'Only if you're sure.' I couldn't help but match his toothless smile, huggin' my lips to my teeth. 'Which one do you think your Mary'd like, sir?'
            'Ach, yer a good 'un. Tha' white one with the grey on ith head 'ill do rightly. '
               I fished the wee fecker out of the sack, struggled like I'd lit a match under it, teeth like needles. 'There you go, Mr Meaney.'
            Gums took the air-scramblin' kitten in his huge hands and kissed its wee head. Before tuckin' it inside his shirt, he gave me an odd look.
            'Thun. I wanna cut our Gerald outta the will.' He shook his head. 'No thun o' mine ... anyway, I'll be in ta thee ya in the week.'
            'No problem, Mr Meaney.' I retied the sack. One down, two to go. All goin' accordin' to plan. 'Send my best to Mary, now, won't you?'
            'That I will, thun, good luck.'
            Lucky Liam. Gums' second son and soon to be heir of half of Donachloney. We'd gone to school together. My fingers found the pocked skin on my neck and traced down to my shirt collar. The grafts from my back to my front took so long to fuse, I'd missed most of my last year in school. I didn't talk much about back then, before the burns and the screams in the dark.
            As I crossed the road towards Windsor Avenue, a hand rose above the surge of bodies headed in my direction. A Bowler hat appeared. Beneath it, Jimmy Harte's gappy smile.
            'Hullo, there, Jimmy. How're you keepin?'
            Jimmy touched his bowler hat and hung a walkin' stick in the crook of his arm. He motioned to the entrance of Sprott's butcher's and I followed him inside where Mr Sprott was attackin' a side of pork with a cleaver. Jimmy walked perfectly well without the stick, but he liked to dress dapper. 'All good, Ethan. You've got a bit o' colour back.'
            I shook his hand, feelin' the cool gold band of his weddin' ring as we both gently squeezed. 'Must be all this good weather, sir.'
              The gleam in the 'oul fella's eye told me that his Dimpna's lips had been flappin' faster than a sewin' machine in a hanky factory. 'And where are you headed on this fine mornin'?'
            'Down to the lake, sir.' Almost on cue, a mewl escaped from behind me and Mr Sprott looked up from his butcherin' with a scowl.
            'Ah. I see. You're takin' the long way round for the exercise?'
            'Somethin' like that, sir.'
            Jimmy unhooked his stick and re-arranged his perfectly knotted dickie-bow. 'And, um, how's our  Rosanna gettin' on over at your place? All I've had from her in six months is 'fine'.'
            My guts tumbled and I swallowed hard. Rosanna, my assistant in more way than one. I still found it hard to say her name aloud, frightened that when I did, it would lose its enchantment, break her spell. 'Our adopted gypsy girl', the Harte's called her. They didn't know her like I did. 'Dunno how I managed without her, Jimmy. Not a loose sheet of paper in sight.' Plenty of ink and needles, though.
            'Thought as much. Be sure that's reflected in her pay packet, now.' The 'oul fella chuckled.' Will you be needin' the Austin Seven in the mornin'?'
            I kicked at the sawdust on the floor. Jimmy had bought my da's car. He didn't drive, so I collected my ma and his women from mass, and took them out for a bite.
            'W-was thinkin' of a wee jaunt out to Hillsborough, if it suits your good lady and Rosanna, sir. Ma won't be joinin' us.'
            'Not ill, I hope?'
            'No, sir. Just visitin' her sister.'
            'Motor'll need a wash and polish before you take her out. I'll see you the marra.'
            'Aye, Jimmy. Bright and early.'
            Jimmy tipped his hat and winked. 'Thanks, son. Oh, and tell our Rosanna not to forget the sugar.' He didn't see the colour burn on my cheeks.
            The cat's not out of the bag, is it? Rosanna had signed an oath of silence in her own blood. Her idea, not mine.
            Mr Sprott asked, 'Did my ears mistake me, young McFarlane?'
            'Sorry, sir?'   
             'I spotted a rat in the yard this mornin'. Cats in thon sack?'
*
Two down, one to go.
            Ghost Town Windsor Avenue. The final leg of my journey. One half of the street immersed in shade, the other in sunshine, brought Rosanna to mind. Now, she really did stop traffic. The right side of her face was the colour of a cup of strong tea, and the left? Detailed with intricate swirls of black ink, twisting from forehead to chin. 'My history and my future', she told me, inked onto her skin by her mother. Every curve told a story. Rosanna had a traced a finger-tip over a dot of ink on her forehead. 'This is my great-grandmother, Anselina. The first in my line with the gift in inks.'
            People stared at Rosanna, too. They didn't see the workmanship in every scroll and swirl on her skin. Where I saw a thing of rare beauty, they saw only disfigurement. Her reply? 'We fall in love with the soul, not the face.' And where they were repelled, I was drawn like an opposin' pole.
            It hadn't taken me long to realise that she could help me in another way. Tellin' her my story would serve a dual purpose. I fed her gift; my scars would become a thing of beauty. 

            From Fairly's sweetshop down the avenue, wafted the scent of smoked cherry tobacco. What a smell. Sweet, fruity. For a split second, I saw my da, stumblin' in drunk, kickin' over the oil lamp and flames lickin' at his feet. But I was able to cut the vision short and keep the past at bay.  
            'Cinder-ella, dressed in ye-lla, went up-stairs to see her fe-lla.' A group of  girls skipped in a gateway. 'How many kisses did she get? One...two...three..'
            A block of sunlight sliced through the gloom inside the sweetshop. Mr Fairly perched on a high stool behind the counter, pipe wedged between his teeth.
            'Fine day out there, son?' He ogled like the best of 'em. The pipe didn't budge.
            I filled my lungs with the sweet smoke and exhaled, unfazed by his searchin' eyes. 'It sure is, Mr Fairly.'
            'Now, what can I get you?'
            'Quarter of Clove Rock, please.' Rosanna's favourite. She'd suck on it as she worked her magic - needle-tip clinkin' on the glass ink-pot every so often. I'd lose myself tryin' to follow the labyrinths on her face whilst she embedded ink into my grafted flesh. The nearness of her, a trace of Evenin' in Paris, her cotton blouse on my chest, the warm skin beneath; took me to heaven's door. 'Stop your fidgeting,' she'd say, 'and carry on with the story.' I'd promised not to look at her work until my story was done. I kept my word.
            Mr Fairly clattered sweets onto the scale. 'Anything else I can get you, now?'
            'A bottle of brown lemonade.'
            'Help yourself, son.' Fairly took a long draw on his pipe, belchin' smoke out of the side of his mouth. 'Corona's on the top shelf.'
            I dropped the sacks to reach up and one of the bleeters let rip.
            Mr Fairly was on his feet, pipe in hand. 'Hells Bells! What crater's in that bag?'
            'Unwanted kitten, just.'
            He tucked the pipe back in position. 'Sounds like a blimmin' banshee!'  
            'A banshee headed for the lake. What do I owe you, sir?'
            'Comes to the princely sum of sixpence. Thruppence if you throw in the kitten. Grand-daughter turns seven the marra, that'll save me a packet.'
            'Deal, Mr Fairly.' I handed him the sack and a thruppenny bit. 'Non-returnable.' Mission accomplished. Almost.
*
            The lake came into view. Beyond it, our lake-house. To the left, my fishin' pontoon stretched across the water. Rosanna waited there. I swung the remainin' sack to the ground and opened it. 'Go on, cat. Only five lives left, mind.' It skulked off, no doubt to find more shoes, or a willin' tomcat.
            'Mr McFarlane.' Rosanna called as I trotted up.
            'Miss Kinkaide.'
            She picked up her battered little work-box; within it, needles finer than an eyelash and inks across the colour spectrum. 'You're late.'
            'Wee job to do first?'
            'Successful?'  
            'She always leaves whenever I threaten to drown the cat.' I snatched her hand. 'Now let's finish this.'
            Today my story and my transformation would be complete. In ma's full-length mirror, the new me would be unveiled.
            'But you wouldn't, Ethan? Drown the kittens?'
            'Wanna bet?'
*
'... and I woke up in the burns unit. My da never forgave himself.' The sting of Rosanna's needle under my skin had long since stopped. Her warm tears splashed onto my chest.
*
I heard my ma's mirror scrape across her bedroom floor.
            'OK.'
            I opened my eyes.
            Spannin' from my shoulder-tips to my chest, I saw the spread wings of a phoenix as it rose from the ashes beneath, its plumage alive with colour and its proud head restin' in the well of my neck. On the left wing, just over my heart, hung a small yellow orb, ornately etched on one side. It felt warm to the touch and pulsed with every beat.
            'You s-said the ink might not take?'
            'I know. I wasn't sure, Ethan. Scar tissue's an unpredictable medium. Like painting on cling-film.'  
            'And every line here, tells my story?'
            Rosanna nodded. 'It does.'
            I stroked the little orb. 'So what does this signify?'

            She smiled. 'Where else would I be in your story?' 



My current novel The Tattooist, set in 1950s / 1960s Lurgan is loosely based on this short story. It is still a work in progress, but if this is your thing, watch this space!

Clodagh The Barren

Clodagh The Barren

Once upon a time, in an extinct land, the giant Clodagh clung to a wind-whipped tor and surveyed the undulating tapestry of blue-greens and greys of the sea beneath her; a daily ritual since her banishment to the arid and far off Isle of Rathlin. Just a glimmer of the towers of Kenbane, her home, would be rich reward indeed. But she was granted no clemency; such was her husband's wrath. An heir to the Giant King's throne was anticipated — no — expected not too long after their nuptials were celebrated across the kingdom. But no heir came.
            Clodagh The Barren was cast out as a deceiver and a cheat, but not before her entire line was put to death at the feet of her husband.
           
Centuries passed. She laid eyes on no-one, least of all her own kind; her only companions in her exile, discordant puffins, and glassy-eyed lapwings with their incessant peewit, peewit.
            Over the years, her tears had turned the western gorse and powdery sands to a lush mosaic of wetlands — legend had it that within a giant's tears were the elements of rebirth. She'd once hoped that if she shed enough, that one day, she too would be reborn, but hope was a torment she could no longer bear, such was the agony of her disappointment.
            She'd wander the fens gathering dog violets, supping their nectar before weaving them into her hair with sweet vernals and purple moor grasses, and as the sun sank over the tip of the peninsula, Clodagh would sing herself to sleep on a fragrant pillow of flowers, her tears carving channels to the west and the east, forming lagoon-like lakes either side of the island.
She awoke one dew-tipped morn to a faint hum all around her — a familiar sound to her ear, but she could not place it; so deeply was it buried in her memory. Then she saw them. Black and yellow, heavy wee things, bumbling drowsily from heather to heather across the heath. Clodagh could not help but smile at how the buzzing of the bees accompanied the gentle percussion of the ebb and flow of the spring tide over the shingle on the coast. The caws of a blackbird and the screech of seagulls harmonised and the island was no longer the shrill cacophony of noise it had once been, but a melodic delight that often brought joy to her heart, not that she would ever admit to such an indulgence.
           
A rumbling roar from the south coast had her up and running, the entire island shuddering underfoot. She stood at the cliff edge. Beneath her feet, her beautiful island crumbled and tumbled and crashed into the sea.
            Rock by rock she rebuilt that cliff; love, tears and sweat, her cement.
            When her work was done, she clung to the tor once again and surveyed her living, orchestral gift to the earth, and then, at one with her creation, Clodagh The Barren breathed no more.