Twenty years this year since I finished secondary (high) school…wow! In honour of that, a short piece written previously and inspired by school days.

Private Universe

A sweltering day in late May when the air is heavy and a school creaks under the pressure of pending exams. They went to the small room under the stairs, adjacent to the principal’s office.  A sparsely furnished room with a desk, two chairs and a window overlooking the playing fields. She went in first and sat at the edge of the desk, watching him as he settled his gangly frame into a chair. Her perfume slowly and gently infiltrated his senses and made him lightheaded. For a moment there was silence as they looked at each other. He could tell that she was worried about something.

“How have the first years been this week, not causing you trouble I hope?” he asked.

“Not as bad as last week. John Dineen called me a bimbo again under his breath though I know he wanted me to hear it.”

“Don’t let it get to you Miss, he’s a first year and it’s just immaturity. One of the perks of teaching in an all boy’s school!”

“I shouldn’t dwell on it I suppose but when he said it for the first time last week it really stung. Is that the impression I’ve been giving to the whole school?”

“No, no way. I blame the principal for the way he runs his school. It’s not your fault that some kids can’t seem to handle it when a teacher actually tries to connect with them as people and make them feel passionate about the language they’re learning.”

“Yes but Mr. Field has his own system and way of doing things, and I need to respect that.”

“Fuck the system,” replied Jim in a low but determined voice.

Catherine broke into a wide grin and her eyes twinkled with mischief, surprised by the ferocity of his response.

“Fuck the system is right! You’re the only person I’ve talked to about this by the way, so please keep it to yourself ok?”

“Of course I will,” he replied. A sense of elation was building in him at yet another shared secret between them. “By the way, you’re the first teacher I’ve ever sworn in front of”.

“And you’re the first student I’ve ever sworn in front of. Whatever that means, I don’t know.”

Jim knew. It mean’t everything. Catherine relaxed and smiled that disarming smile again and his senses went into overdrive. If only she knew the effect she was having on him. Could he tell her now, today? The letter twitched in his pocket. Silence between them now but he didn’t feel any need to speak. Comfortable silences. Time seemed to stand still and everything that mattered in his world was locked into that tiny room, a private universe in an Eden-scented bubble. The things he had imagined saying to this woman alone in his daydreams had never amounted to the moments passing between them right now.  Here she sat opposite him with long legs under a maxi dress almost touching against his knees. Her warm face was only a few feet from his, holding his stare.

“Jim, I’m worried about you after reading your essay over the weekend. It was well written but it’s the tone that worried me.  Are you coping ok with the exam stress?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I was feeling a bit down when I wrote it but that was a temporary thing.”

“I’m relieved to hear that. You had me very worried. Some of the quotes you used are so deep and dark, I couldn’t help but wonder if this essay was a cry for help. I know how much pressure you and the 6^th years are under with the Leaving Cert only a few weeks away and I hate seeing it. Just know that you can talk to people ok? You can talk to me, anytime.”

“Don’t worry Miss, I know I used some dark lyrics for effect but it wasn’t reflecting how I was feeling myself. Sure once I finished the essay I went outside and kicked a ball against the wall for an hour, back to normal!”

Catherine smiled at this. “Well I’m really glad to hear it. Don’t go scaring me like that again ok?”

Jim was taken aback to see how visibly relieved she was.  This was huge! He held her gaze and his slow smile and intense stare caught her off guard slightly. Silence again in this stuffy room. He looked past her and out at the empty playing fields shimmering in the afternoon summer haze.  He sensed his world spinning from its axis and he was trying desperately to stay in control, fighting that part of him that wanted to give up control and just see what might be. Here he sat in a room two weeks before the start of his Leaving Cert exams and the woman in front of him was turning his life upside down. He wondered if she knew the effect she was having on him. He needed to tell her.  The letter burned in his pocket now. He was aware of a small bead of sweat forming on his upper lip. When he glanced back at her she was still looking at him with cheeks slightly flushed.

“What’s happening between us?” he asked, his voice quiet but challenging.

“I don’t know, Jim” she said after a long pause, her eyes fixed on his.

Their bodies seemed to have gradually moved closer and now his right knee was brushing against her thigh.  She didn’t move. He allowed his eyes now to take in her full figure and as they slowly rose up to meet her face he realised that she had been tracking his movements with her eyes. Still she didn’t move, but held his stare. Their faces were a foot apart. He wanted to tell her everything, to give her the letter. It was all in the letter. But it was as if she knew already, the way she was looking at him. It seemed as if she could see right into him. As if she understood what made him tick. And what about his fascination for her, his arousal? Could she see this too?  His cheeks burned but he didn’t care. He was now willing to finally let himself go and take a chance in life without worrying about the consequences.

He stayed still but allowed his mind to play out the slow movement as heads moved forward slowly and lips met. He closed his eyes for a moment, not knowing what to do next. His nerve endings were on fire and he had never felt like this before. He opened his eyes and met hers. Were they questioning him? Beckoning him to make a move? He was on the brink of a life changing moment.

Just then the bell went to mark the end of class, ringing shrill and true all around the school. In the small room under the stairs, student and teacher slowly drew back from each other. He suddenly remembered that he had skipped class to meet her. This realisation added to the buzz he was feeling. They left the room and parted in silence with a smile. Anything was possible now, he thought as he walked up the white-walled 6^th year corridor as if walking on air.

Large snowflakes drift lazily onto an ink blue sea, resting for a moment on the water before disintegrating. Clouds obscure a bright moon which hangs high over a calm sea. Gentle waves lap the shore of a sandy horseshoe bay. The flurries of snow thicken but fall in complete silence onto fine sand, dulled in the darkness save for the odd twinkle of coral.

The hull of a wooden rowboat juddering against sand breaks the silence of this place. With a swift movement the boatman brings in the oars and leaps out from the bow onto wet sand. Powerful shoulders pull the boat a few metres up the beach with the rope attached to the bow. For a moment the clouds part and moonlight partially illuminates the long narrow beach, allowing him to spot the shallow cave a few metres further up. He drags the boat up as far as the cliff face and turns it on its side at the mouth of the cave. Once again clouds obscure the moonlight. He looks up at the white chalk cliff stretching almost one hundred feet above, disappearing into darkness. He peers up for a moment longer, calculating. The powdery snowflakes land on his ruddy cheeks, on his black wool hat. They land in his eyes, blurring his vision. He turns away and gazes out to sea, his eyes struggling to make out the water as sea and sky merge at some unknown point of darkness. He’s thankful for a calm night.

Taking the waterproof haversack from his shoulder, he crouches down and removes Maglite torch and glances quickly at the map in his inner pocket. Then he zips up the dark fleece lined jacket to the top so it covers his mouth and starts to walk to the east end of the beach. He claps his gloved hands together a few times for warmth as he walks. Within a few minutes the torch beams make out the first of the concrete steps, the first of which is partially submerged by seawater. He looks up at the steps and railing that hug the cliff side before disappearing. He pauses a moment, lets out a slow deep breath and starts to ascend.

At the top of the cliff a solitary black saloon sits in the car park with engine off, facing out to sea. Driver and passenger sit in silence, watching snowflakes starting to build up on the windscreen. Sooner or later they will have to turn on the engine to clear snow with the wipers. But not yet.

(intro for a short story, to be explored further!)

Nearly Home

He started the final round fifteen minutes before closing time. In April this was 8.45pm, as dusk was descending and the air starting to cool. His favourite time of the year. He hopped into the motorised buggy, clicked into gear and set off.

Thoughts now turned to supper and what herself would have ready. He loved stepping inside the back door and the waft of hearty cooking filling his nostrils. Now as he started up the gentle hill on the far side of the park, his eyes scanned the wide open spaces for stragglers.

‘Park closing in five minutes folks’ was his standard line, each word bellowed with conviction. Two joggers in garish colours seemed to jump slightly twenty yards ahead on the path as they heard the call, their pace instantly quickening as they strived to complete the final lap before turning towards home. He scooted along down the gentle slope on the far side of the park, always enjoying the winding turns in this section as he steered the buggy this way and that.

Down the long gentle path now and back towards the main entrance. He always passed by the elderly couple and their Scottish terriers around the same spot. He gave them his usual disapproving nod for their tardiness; they returned their usual cheery wave. He smiled too, despite himself.

He whistled to himself  as he approached the last hedgerow closest to the entrance. Two starlings caught his eye as they took flight, disturbed from their perch. He watched their ascent momentarily, and failed to spot two shadows crouched under the hedge. They lay in wait for cover of darkness, planning to see him again soon.

Identity Crisis

Derek sits in the front of the taxi, fingers drumming against his thighs as he stares out the window on a dull February day. Six beers down and it’s not even tea time. Five winners from five in the three o’clock matches, the adrenaline is pumping. The taxi pulls up at the corner of Poolbeg Street. He jogs the twenty metres to Mulligans in the drizzle. Eamon will be inside with a pint of black ready and his favourite bar stool under the TV. Good feeling about today, and especially the evening match about to start. Can’t look too far ahead, to the winnings. He’s been here before more than once, so close only for it all to unravel. The cruel beauty of sport. Today feels different somehow. He sprints the final few metres as a strong gust suddenly picks up on the narrow street. The betslip, flapping half exposed in his back pocket, is set free and floats down to the wet kerb just as he opens the bar door. No one sees this save for the homeless man across the street who calls after him, voice croaky and weak. He goes unheard as the bar door swings closed. The homeless man gets up and crosses the street, progress hindered by a slight limp. He glances up and down the street as he picks up the paper, its corners now wet and the writing smudged but legible. He glances momentarily at the window of Mulligans. Then he folds the bet slip into his pocket, hobbles back across to his spot on the low wall. He takes a sip from the can of cider and takes the bet slip from his pocket, now studying it closely as the wind picks up and the city darkens.

***

He warms himself with porridge and a cup of tea in the drop-in centre, after a rough night. The storm hasn’t let up and still rages outside. He shivers as he sits looking out at driving sleet, and gets up to make another cup of tea. He makes small talk with a few lads that he drinks with now and again up at the Liffey boardwalk. Sitting back down at the bench, he leafs idly through a Sunday paper on the table. He pauses on a headline that catches his eye. ‘Pensioner injured in unprovoked assault in city centre bar’. He looks at the photo of the man arrested and recognises Mulligans in the background. He reads the article again, witnesses in the pub describing how a man drinking in the pub suddenly seemed to have a fit of rage and attack another punter after a short verbal altercation. The same man had been seen to buy drinks for others only minutes before, after bragging about a big win on the football. The homeless man paused in thought before reaching into his pocket. The €50 betting slip lists six results and all were still legible. He flips to the sports results at the back of the paper, hands starting to shake as confirms each result. He glances at the clock, another hour until the betting shop opens.

***

He walks into the betting shop at quarter past, not wanting to look too keen. After another cup of tea in the drop-in centre to settle his nerves, he had spent time in the bathroom carefully washing his face and hands and smoothing his hair. He had used wet tissue to clean his battered boots, trying to put a little shine on them. Now in the shop he looked around at some of the screens, odds for upcoming events flashing up and constantly changing. He blinked and moved to a sidewall with pages from the Racing Post pinned up, faking interest in his attempt to look casual. The bet slip burned a hole in his pocket. A few punters were queuing to place bets, a young woman working one till. He joined the queue and within a minute he faced her, her hand pushed out to take the slip as she barely looked at him. She studied the docket, punched in some instructions. ‘One moment please’, as she stepped away into the back room. The homeless man fidgeted, eyes drawn to a blinking screen listing golf odds. Within a minute she reappeared with her manager, who punched some keys before nodding and walking away without even registering the man. ‘Sir, just to confirm that your €50 accumulator has won €4,450.’ The homeless man stood stock still, staring at the woman while leaning on the counter for support. He held his breath while trying to regain composure. ‘I’ll just need to see some identification and then we can pay out.’ The man let out a long breath, and continued staring at her. His hands fumbled unseen in pockets empty save for a few euro coins. Finally he put out his hand, saying nothing. The woman looked at him bewildered before eventually handing him the docket. He turned and started walking to the door as she gazed after him. Outside, driving rain had since replaced sleet. He started in the direction of Poolbeg Street and as he did so he held out his right arm, releasing the betting slip into the wind. It swirled high up into the air, dancing this way and that. Then the wind abated for a moment. The paper quickly dropped to street level , landed in the middle of the sodden street and quickly started to disintegrate.