PEACE AT LAST
(Published Aesthetica issue 18 2007.)
MAY 1919: SCOTLAND.
As he breathed his last he didn’t see the whole of his twenty two years flash before his eyes. Only the shimmering figures of the village folk through the clear water as they watched him drown.
AUGUST 1917: FRANCE.
A shell landed somewhere close blasting him with mud and guts and ripped away skin. He stumbled, but kept on going, then he tripped over something embedded in the mud. He fell on top of the spongy mass. A moment later something heavy landed on his back trapping him like the meat in a sandwich.
DECEMBER 1918: SCOTLAND.
The hard widow’s stares followed him as he limped down his own village high street. Girls that he had gone to school with, laughed, kissed, now spat their sadness and bitterness at him.
AUGUST 1917: FRANCE.
He lay there for what seemed forever. He didn’t recognise what was left of the face underneath him. Only the scar on the little finger. An accident with the anvil when Jimmy Rogers was seventeen. Jimmy Rogers. One year below him at school. It wasn’t until the medics came that he realized that the figure pinning him down was Jimmy’s brother Robert.
JANUARY 1919: SCOTLAND.
A new year. A land fit for heroes. No-one except his own mother had spoken to him since he’d come home.
SEPTEMBER 1917: FRANCE.
He lay in the hospital, the shrapnel still in his thigh throbbing, the tears burning his face like liquid gas. Words came to him in bits and pieces.
‘ The last of his village.’
‘All wiped out except him.’
MAY 1919: SCOTLAND.
As he breathed his last he was happy. Happy for the villagers as they turned back to their village. Happy that the pain was finally about to end.
THE BOY
Cars are parked all the way from one end of the street to the other; parked on either side, the one s which haven’t found a space by the kerb have had to park with one side tilted up the grassy slope opposite. Even then driving through the gap that is the road isn’t easy. My dad holds back his curses as he manoeuvres between back ends of cars too far out, almost chops of the legs of one of the holy circle as she stands in the middle of the road adjusting her head scarf.
“ Nearly ten points dad.” I say.
Mum glares at me in the mirror.
“ We’ll leave your jokes at home for today will we Joseph.”
“ You could have left me at home with them.” I say.
“ Joseph. Not today. Please.”
My Sunday name even though it isn’t a Sunday but a Monday. And I should be at school. My high school. St Peter’s. But I’m not. Instead I’m drifting past my old school, St Margaret’s, my primary.
“ A good send off.” Dad says, as streams of black, for that’s what it seems, not people at all, stepping out of cars, moving slow motion down the hill towards the Chapel.
“ Are you okay there Joe?” Dad asks.
And I tell him I’m fine as the black is disturbed by the green; the blazers of the primary school kids marched down the steps of the school, down to line the pavement outside the Chapel, and way beyond, down to the far end of the street.
P1’s lead the way
“ And what’s your name then?”
“ His names Joseph Murphy miss.”
“ And yours young lady?”
“ Marie Miss. Marie Connor Miss.”
“ Well then let me introduce myself. I’m Mrs Mitchell. Your teacher.”
“ We know miss.”
“ Well that’s good that you know Marie. And is Joseph your friend then?”
“ Yes miss. We’re neighbours.”
“ Really.”
“ Yes miss. I think he wants his mummy miss.”
“ Do not.”
“ Well Joseph never mind. Come with me just now. Come on now it’s okay. We’ll find you a seat over here by the window. You as well Marie. Come on. First day at school is always a big event Joseph. But now needn’t worry. I’m here to look after you. And your mummy will be back to get you before you know it.”
“ I don’t care.”
“ Well Joseph. Anyway. You’re obviously a big boy.”
“ Five years and six months.”
“ Is that right Joseph? Well you must be nearly the oldest in the class.”
“ I’m five years and seven months Miss.”
“ Is that right Marie? Good girl.”
“ I’ll look after Joseph miss.”
“ I can look after myself.”
“ Of course you can Joseph. But I’ll think we’ll sit you two friends...neighbours together for the time being. Will we? Joseph? That’s the boy.”
“ I will miss. I’ll look after him. I look after him in our street.”
“ She does not. She doesn’t.”
“ It’s okay Joseph.”
“ But she doesn’t. She’s always...Miss. She does...”
“ Joseph it’s okay...Joseph come back.”
Dad drives further up the hill, and my mother folds her arms on her lap, and stares ahead. I can hear her sucking the air up her nose.
We have to park miles away up the hill away past the school.
“ What a send off.” My mum mutters.
My dad nods. “ Looks like the whole village has turned out.”
And I’m thinking Marie’ll not care, and I didn’t know there were so many people in the whole village. Every single house must be empty, and all the TV’s dead.
We walk, and I’m in the middle between my mum and dad, and my mum pulls me towards her, and kisses the top of my head.
We walk down the gradually sloping hill towards the Chapel. We walk past the line of P1’s, all neat and pressed, but shirt collars starting to turn up; ties starting to squint; shirt tails starting to escape.
Down past the beginnings of the P2’s, and Mrs Mitchell stands at the end of them all, arm out holding them in line. She smiles at me as I pass. Not a happy smile and the sun is shining. But it’s not hot and everybody is wrapped up in coats and the older ones, the ones way past my mum and dad’s age have scarves and pulled down over their ear type hats. Even me, I have a coat on, my black, yucky horrible anorak my Gran got me for Christmas. I have it on, and that was after me saying to mum that I didn’t need any
coat. I didn’t. The cold didn’t bother me. I was a big boy. Way bigger now than when Mrs Mitchell had said it. Now I was nearly thirteen.
Nearly.
But she’d went and found it where I’d hidden it at the back of my wardrobe, and forced it on me, and saying something about me ‘ dying a death if I didn’t put on a coat.’ Yes, giving me the spiel, like I was a five year old or something. Like we were back to that first day she left me at the gates of the school. And I’m trying not to just shrug the coat back off, I’m trying real hard to keep quiet but with a mum and dad that’s always saying to you why don’t you do this, and do that, asking me all the time why I don’t answer them when they’re talking to me. Because what they ask you is dumb. I mean, I don’t want to talk about school or how I got on today, or things. I don’t want to talk about Marie. I just don’t want to talk and that’s it. I just didn’t want that coat on but mum being mum she’d pulled and tugged the thing until you could hear it begin to stretch and rip, then what does she do but stop in the middle of all that pulling and tugging, and she gives me a hug, and nearly squeezes the life out of me, and she’s sniffing and apologising to me for saying something. “ Saying what?” I’d asked. “About dying a death.” That had been the something. How she hadn’t meant to say it. She hadn’t. And still the hugging and my dad sitting there and ready to go after her when she’d finally let me go to disappear into the kitchen to shove on the kettle, for a last cup of coffee before we set out, that’s what she’d shouted through anyway, and I hadn’t wanted any tea, or juice, or anything. I wanted back up to my room.
Why couldn't they just...?
And it was right then that I’d seen my chance to slip of the coat, but my dad had caught me.
“ For your mum eh Joe.” He’d said. “ No hassle today. For Marie as well son.”
For Marie.
And so I have my coat on with my school uniform underneath. For today it’s Monday. And I should be at St Peter’s. I should. And we go through the iron gates into the Chapel courtyard; and I’ve said all that haven’t I? About Monday and St Peter’s. And there’s football training today. Monday afternoon. And I’m going to miss it. For we’re going to a hotel or something after the funer…And I’m going to miss the foot…
Twelve and eleven months. Nearly thirteen. And I’ve nearly caught up with Marie now. And I’m going to run right past her and she’ll have no chance in stopping me, because Marie’s never going to be thirteen. I should be at school. Miles away it is.
You’d be chuffed you would and what was I saying? About the bus drivers. I’m telling you, you were lucky. You are lucky, were. Never having to travel on that bus. Never having
to go to that High school. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. You’re better of out of it. And the school team Marie. Not too keen on girls. You’d be forced into hockey or some sort of girlie game like that. And you wouldn’t like it the way some of those bus drivers shout at you and tell you to sit on your arse, and shush Marie eh, don’t tell my mum I said that, because she doesn’t like swearing, and you know that don’t you for remember that time we had a swearing contest in my bedroom, and you won, but I got the blame because trust my mum to walk in just as I’m letting rip. That wasn’t fair Marie. Was it? Come on.
It wasn’t.
And we’re in the second pew right behind your mum and dad Marie. Your mum so straight, and stiff, and her hand squeezing your dads till it goes white. And I know you’re not really in that box underneath the green covering thing. Celtic colours Marie. Would you believe it? And your dad turning round real slow, and smiling at me like a skeleton smile Marie. Honest to God. I wouldn’t fib. Honest. He’s talking to my dad now, or it’s my dad that’s talking and your dad’s nodding his head real slow, and I can hear the bones in his neck creak, they’re going to crack and his heads going to slide off and roll; and my mum Marie, her hand on your mum’s shoulder, and whispering something, and your mum nodding so slow, but not turning, only reaching back to tap tap my mum’s hand, reaching back.
So hot.
burning
Priest
So burning
sign of the cross and the holy circle, remember Marie how we used to giggle at them all serious and chanting and rocking back and forth now, Marie… Marie…remember how they know all the prayers of by heart…don’t even have to look at a book remember how we used to…
“ You okay Joe?”
“ Yea. Dad.”
“ You’re looking a bit peely wally.”
“ I’m fine dad.”
“You don’t mind doing, you know? If you don’t want to Mrs Connor will understand. It’ll be okay.”
“ I promised dad.”
“ I know you did Joe but…”
“ I promised Dad.”
“ Fair enough Joe. As long as you’re sure.”
Sure dad sure it’s sunny but not warm and everyone has their coats zipped and fastened as they we step out of the cars and follow the path down to the grave, the hearse followed by the Mr and Mrs Connor’s black car comes in the gate at the bottom of the graveyard and the crowd silent like after a game lost head in a black mass down the slope to the graveside and the priest waits Mrs and Mrs Connor wait and Marie is lifted out of the hearse and carried.
“ Ready Joe.”
“ What’s going to happen dad?”
“ After the priest has finished he’ll call out the names Joe. When he calls out your name...”
“ I know dad.”
“You’re doing fine Joe. Marie would have been chuffed.”
“ What if I drop the cord dad and the coffin? Dad. Dad.”
“ Take it easy Joe. You’ll be fine. There’ll be eight of us. You’ll have plenty of help.”
“ But dad what if I...?”
“ You won’t Joe. You won’t.”
And Marie won’t be heavy. I know it. I was…am her friend. I tripped her up tons of times. And she’s good. Can dribble right past people. Sometimes the only way to stop her was to trip her up. And I did when we used to practice, like that time over the back of our houses. And she was never really heavy. Just girl weight. Even though she could dribble and she was never heavy because I remember that day when we played and I scored five goals, and we were leading with seconds to go, and I tripped her, I had to, she was going to score, make a draw, and she clattered right down and I knew she was hurt for Marie never cried but she started right there, holding her ankle, and I knew it was real sore, and I tried to lift her, and I did, even though she didn’t want me to.
And she wasn’t heavy.
And I shouldn’t be doing this.
I’m thirteen, nearly, and I should be at football practice or I won’t be in the team for Saturday. Marie would understand not to bother with some rotten funeral when there’s football on. But they didn’t ask her. They didn’t ask me and the priest calls my name and legs are real stiff as I walk and it’s sunny but not warm and right above the birds are circling, and I’m thinking thoughts about vultures and things right up there in the bluest of skies, and there goes a plane, and why doesn’t it stop, it should, right in the middle of the sky, no respect, don’t they know, and the cord, I’m holding on tight
and it’s white and shiny and hot as it rubs against my hand. And I hold on tight. I hold on tight and the priest makes the sign of the cross and I’m right across from Mrs
Connor and she’s looking at me. And I’m thinking. I couldn’t have said no. And I should be at the football. Marie tell them. You wouldn’t mind. You wouldn’t. I know that. And I couldn’t have said no. But there can’t be a God. And I shouldn’t say that but there isn’t. Or I would have been out when the priest came to our house and said to my mum and dad that Mrs Connor would like me to take one of the cords. And I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I knew and he looked at me and said, and he asked me, but not really cause I couldn’t have said no. And it’s sunny but not warm and I have my coat on because it’s sunny but not warm and the priest gives the signal and the birds silent in the bluest of skies, but I can see rain right in front of my eyes, and it’s blurred now as the rope slips slow and burns my hand and I shiver and Mrs Connor stands looking down as the coffin goes lower and lower and Marie was never this heavy; and my mum sometime telling me that Mrs Connor was really pleased that I’d agreed to take the cord; that I was a good friend; that Marie; and don’t say that Mrs Connor. Don’t say I’m a good boy, a friend; don’t tell my mum that time after the accident and Marie in hospital that they think her ankle gave way on her on the road, and she couldn’t get out of the way of the car; don’t tell me that as the birds fly high as the coffin disappears into the gloom, as I let go of the cord, and hear it thump; don’t tell me Marie would have loved me being here; don’t say we were the best of friends; don’t look at me like that; I don’t want dirt to throw down into the grave and I didn’t mean to kick the ball onto the road I didn’t and I didn’t mean to trip her up that time and her ankle wasn’t that bad and she got better and that was ages ago years and don’t look at me like that and… it’s always windy on our street. And I know they’ll be looking for me. I know they’ll miss me soon. I know dad’ll come looking. And he’ll be annoyed and try not to show it. And he’ll find me hitting a ball of the side of our house and running onto the rebound to crack it against the garage. Another blinder of a goal for Joe Murphy. And he’ll find me sitting against the lamppost at our front gate and watching his car come slowly over the hill. Watch as he drives past Marie’s house with the black clouds covering the street and the first of the rain and no longer sunny but so so cold.
He’ll come looking and look at me, and shake his head, and I know he’ll sit down beside me without a word; and he’ll say he understands; and he’ll tell me again how he felt when he was a boy and his brother, his big brother who always looked after him was drowned in the canal; he’ll put his arm around me and tell me it’s okay, everything’ll be okay, in time. Give it time. Give it time.
And maybe he’ll play football with me, and let me score like he always used to.
And I’ll listen and not say a word. Marie, I’ll not say a word.
