The Question and The Answer
12
THAT’S MY STORY AND I’M STICKING TO IT.
The first and the last chapters are the hardest to write. The first because
you think you’ll never be able to start. The last because you think
the preceding one should have been the last. You’ve said all there
is to say. So what’s left?
Why bother writing it? As a youngster I had manners put into me. If you
are asked a question, answer it to the best of your ability. The in-between
chapters are the easiest. The difficulty is to know what to put in and what
to leave out. One memory borrows another.
This is supposed to be a tapestry of what it was like growing up there
and then. Like all tapestries-even those at Arras-some colours are bright,
some faded. There are loose threads. The warp and weft of the loom of life
sees to that.
It’s only by going back and staying there for a while that you might
be able to unravel some of those loose threads. I never did. My young brother
has and is. In recent years I sporadically drove through. Once I parked
the car and walked around the town for an hour. It was depressing. Talk
about Rip Van Winkle. A stranger in your own hometown. I never did it again.
About thirty years ago we were in Limerick for a weekend. On Sunday I
suggested to my wife that we visit my last uncle in Quin. Afterwards I said
“let’s go to Ennis”. As we drove from the village I showed
her familiar landmarks of my youth. Nearing the town I felt faintly uneasy.
Unfamiliar landmarks. As we drove up the hill towards the railway bridge
I told her that’s where we used to sit watching the steam engines shunting.
Ennis to Limerick. Ennis to Athenry. Ennis to Lahinch. Ennis to Kilkee.
The West Clare Railway. Up over the bridge. No station. No tracks. No trains.
Gone. Instead;-six factories. She looked at me.
We drove past the first housing estate of my youth, Ard na Greinne. Past
the Old Ground with the Procathredal opposite, to the T-junction. I went
to turn right into O’Connell Street. She yelped “You cant do that,
it’s a one way street.” Good God, she was right. One-way streets
in Ennis? I turned left and then right into the Markets. More roundabout
signs, left-turns, right-turns. I drove around and arrived back at square
one. Lost in my hometown. Sarcastically; “Are you sure you were born
here at all?” I drove down a one-way lane and arrived out in Mill Street.
Luckily one-way-the right way-to O’Connell square.
I parked the car. After all that trauma I needed a stimulant. We went
into the ex pub now a licensed Guest House for returned Americans. It was
full of them. I ordered drinks. The owner brought them over. The Yanks went
inside for their tea. We were the only ones left. Curiosity. The usual small
chat about the weather. Then to me; “You’re not from around these
parts?” Ye Gods. “Born, bred and reared here”. “Do you
tell me now?”. “Yeah: this used to be Mc. Mahons pub, the son
was a friend of mine”. “Well, well, now”. Me to him; “Are
you a native?” “I am and I am’nt. I came here with me father
twenty-five years ago. I was born in Gort. Yerrah I’m still only an
auld bloody blow-in”. Some things never change.
One last memory. He shouldn’t have said Yerrah. Delia of “the
war music” told us that we should never say “Yerragh”. “Yerragh
was the Devils mother”.
A final fantasy. The old Gaiety Cinema. The Palace of celluloid dreams.
Alone in the empty cinema. Sitting in the balcony. The ghosts of the past
all there. The house lights up. From behind the closed curtains ;-not Musettes
song, but Kreigs New World Symphony. The passage;- Going Home. The house
lights dim. Kreig dies to a whisper. The green silk curtains part. From
the darkened screen the soundtrack of an orchestra and Tina Turner singing
faintly. The volume of both rise. The song? “Memories”. The square
silver screen lights up. Credits roll.
A Tir na nOg Production.
List of Players
(Too numerous to mention)
Scenario
Love -Hate: Bitter-Sweet.
Title
Ochteag Bhliain at Fas
(Eighteen Years Agrowing)
Men Women and Children Play their part
THE END
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