and the livin’ is easy, grass is jumpin’ and the fish are high. Or something Janis Jopinly like that. Yes, summertime – those lazy, hazy mythical days for swimming with friends in cool water, licking ice cream from between your fingers, falling in love and licking ice cream from between someone else’s fingers.
So far, so good. But it’s not good. For this is summer in Omagh, summer in a small town in Northern Ireland in the early 1970’s. There’s nothing to do, nowhere to swim and even if there were, it’s too cold and raining most of the time. I’ve spent all my pocket money in the first two days of the holidays on sweets and crisps. And I’ve eaten them all as I lie alone in the front room, reading and reading. Outside pouring rain. Inside, I read and read. But even with that I’m now bored.
And as for falling in love. Who would want me? For I’m nine or maybe ten, plump in all the wrong places and have wild red hair.
“You need to lose some weight.” said my mother’s sharp-tongued sister not that long ago, pinching at the fat around my waist as I stood in the kitchen reaching for a bun.
No, there’ll be none of this hot and wild smooch and sex business I secretly read through in the adult section of the mobile library when no-one’s watching. Harold Robbins “The Carpetbaggers”. What’s a fucking carpetbagger anyhow?
So yeah summer time. And a whole two desperate months of it.
“I wannae go tae the park!” whines my younger brother. Now that I’m old enough to be responsible my mother’s gone back to work part-time. And left me alone to look after my five-year old brother. What fun!
“Jesus!” I scream. He’s just hit me with his metal Tonka truck. I kick him. He kicks me back. I thump him. He screams hysterically.
“Am gonnae tell mammy on you, so I am!”
“You started it you wee bastard!”
“You said a bad word, so you did!” and he screams again. Louder.
Shit, what’ll I do? I decide:
“Ok, ok. Look if ye wannae go tae the playground, we’ll go tae the playground.”
So we go to the playground. At least the way there is free from danger. Up where we live, where the people own their own bungalows there is no room for a playground. The kids
down the road have their own slide and paddling pool, but they don’t want to play with us for we’ve moved from the park - about five years ago, but well, people don’t let go of the past so easily in Northern Ireland. So we aren’t good enough.
But down in the council housing estate, known as The Park, they don’t want to play with us either for we’ve moved and become snobs, and for that we have to pay. They love to bully us. We are scared and alone. They sense blood and love to hunt us wherever we’re going. Which is a problem. Especially today, as the playground is in The Park and my bloody brother wants to go there, doesn’t he!
At the top of the steps leading down to the twisted shapes and rides in primary colours, I say a silent prayer, then out loud.
“C’mon, sure there’s no-one there anyhow.”
And for a while we are alone. Just the wind and some rain and the whoosh whoosh of cars racing by beyond the bushes. And just as I’m about to bribe my brother with some baked
beans for lunch if we go back now, I hear the sound of distant laughter. And, looking up, I see it’s time to run.
“Oh God! How I wish I was a bush. A big killer-thorned blackthorn bush.” I mutter and close my eyes in desperation.
And well you know that saying that sometimes you shouldn’t wish too hard……..
Newsflash
Police are still searching for the brother and sister who went missing early this morning. They were last seen at the local playground. Police reported finding a cardigan snagged on some blackthorn bushes in the nearby playing field.
This is the third such disappearance in this playground in the last thirteen months.
Epilogue
“I’m hungry.” says the little blackthorn bush.
“Snap up a few midges.” replies a bigger bush close by.
“But ah don’ wanntae eat midges. I wan’ baked beans.”
“Don’t be stupid. You can’t eat beans, you’re a blackthorn bush now.”
“But ah don’ wanntae be a blackthorn bush!” the little bush wails.
“Be quiet or they’ll hear you.” The big bush shakes her thorns, shiny finey killer thorns. But the little bush continues to wail. They, the Park kids, pissed off at not finding any prey to bully, are sparring with each other. They don’t seem to hear the wails of the hungry little blackthorn bush.
“I don’t wanntae be a blackthorn bush.” he persists.
“Oh God!” says the bigger one, exasperated “I don’t either, if you wanntae know the truth.”
Just then, a passing fairy lands on one of the bigger bush’s magnificent thorns.
“I am sorry.” says the fairy, “but you did wish.”
“Well can’t you just turn us back again?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I can grant you another wish though.”
“You mean I have one wish, but I can’t be the way I was before.”
“No neither you nor your brother. Take some time and think about it.” The little fairy begins to groom its wings.
“Shame the Crawfords aren’t here.” says one of the Park bullies.
“Aye,” laughs one of the others. “They’re always a good bit of entertainment.”
“Did you see that face on her the other day.” chimes in one of the other park bullies, “when Sandra Watson pulled aul’ Crawford’s knickers down in front of everybody at the bus stop. Did youse?”
A chorus of ayes. They fall about laughing.
The bigger bush is horrified and turns to the fairy. “Ok I know what I want. I want you to turn those bullies into plants just like us.”
“You mean like blackthorn bushes?” says the little bush.
“Oh no, no, that would be too good for them. No let me think.” Just then a lawnmower starts up. Someone from the district council sent to trim the playing field.
“I know,” says the big blackthorn bush excitedly. “Turn them into meadow flowers and put them on the pitch right in the path of that lawnmower.”
“Wonderful!” tinkles the fairy and then off she goes and does just that…
The Big Brown Car
The big brown car. It’ll be there again soon. My mother likes its visits. Shoos me out to play:
“Have tae hoover. Tidy the place up. The Insurance Man’s comin’. Ye’ll only git in the way.”
It’s cold outside. My plastic wellies keep suckin’ at my socks, rubbin’ my heels raw. The leaves are turnin’ on their branches. I stick my fingers in my ears cos’ I don’t want to hear then screamin’ as they’re torn off and tumbled through the wind until the last bit of life is ripped out of them.
Big piles of mushy leaves everywhere. Yesterday Billy McCausland slipped on one, twisted his ankle and lay there, coped up, bellowing. I was glad. That’s what he gets for callin’ me names.
But now there’s no-one to play with. The Park kids are either off on mid-term holidays or inside where it’s warm. Inside. Where I want to be, with my