All sorts of reasons prevented me from attending the launch of Circle and Square in the Shopping Centre, Tallaght recently so I want to take this opportunity to welcome another fine book into the literary world. Edited by, and the brainchild of, the indefatigable, Eileen Casey, it is an anthology of poetry and fiction to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Square Shopping Centre. Having lived in South County Dublin when there was only the village shop, the arrival of the Pyramid changed all lives. It is fitting therefore, to have such a collection of vibrant voices to paint its many faces through the looking glass of new and established writers, with contributions from Platform One Writing Group and guests. The Tallaght Photographic Society brings the whole book together with its interpretations of the work. I am delighted to be part of such great company. Thank you Eileen.
Here is the opening to my story:
Here is the opening to my story:
Coming Down the Line
I’ve always loved the driving. Diesel in my
blood from the time I could toddle out to the gate as my father drove the truck
home from the quarry. He’d stop, hoist me up onto his lap, big calloused hands
guiding mine on the steering wheel as we moseyed into the yard. No surprise,
then, says you, that I’d end up with a job like this, seeing the tops of nine
houses in my little bus driving around the back roads.
Checking my rear-view I head towards
Kate Gunnings’ spot. Before her diagnosis, Kate was the sort of woman who’d use
a dead man’s hand to skim cream off the milk, but that’s not her now. She’s
there at her allotted place, between the crossroads and the back-side of the
cemetery doing her best to be invisible while her husband makes a big farrago
of fussing around her. He leans into the road, sticks his hand out like a
scarecrow for fear I mightn’t stop, for fear I’d drive on by and she wouldn’t
get to where she’s supposed to get to, before the morning has gone up its own arse.
I pull in close beside them on the
grass virgin. The door ‘gillie-gillies’
open and the scent of rain creeps in on top of me.
With her scarf tied under her chin,
the scarf with horses and hounds jumping all over her head, there’s a gimp on
her because Jim’s helping her up the steps. She pushes his worried hand away, hauls
herself along the aisle to her seat with nothing more than a nod to me, the
world in her little bag of toiletries. She always sits at the other side of the bus, away from her husband, so
he can’t decipher the lines on her grey face or, more importantly, she doesn’t
have to read the pain on his.
I
indicate out onto the main road. The trees sway back
and forth in the breeze and up through them the blue shirt of sky has sleeves
of clouds ballooning out, little dark buttons of birds fastening it down the
front.
The bus trundles along at its ease until it gets to
Breege’s house. She’s not waiting outside like she usually is, so it’s handbrake
on, I jump down and ‘cnagg, cnagg’ at her door. The statue of our lady is
sitting on the windowsill with her
back to us, her mantle of blue hiding her from the grey
faces in the bus. Even she doesn’t have the stomach to look at the world
anymore and watch the crosses that people have to bear. She’s seen it once; she
doesn’t want to see it again.
