Hollow

Chapter 1

It was a rare sunny day in old Mayo. Jonjo walked with purpose down to the hollow.

His bacon sandwiches, wrapped in greaseproof paper, nestled against a stone flagon containing a quart of porter and an enamel mug. They weighed heavily in the old khaki bag his dad had given him when he was a boy. It had served him well over the years; a school satchel, a lunch box, a pannier on his bike, a picnic basket.

The ground was hard under his feet, one of the hottest summers he could remember. Walking at a good pace, he soon came to the hollow. It was an old green track worn away by centuries of drovers moving their animals and maybe before that by the animals on their own migrations. The ground had sunk, and the trees grew around, making a green tunnel.

Legend had it that it led to the land of the fairies, Jonjo knew this was nonsense, but he could never enter without a chill running up his spine.

It was a cool, shady place for his picnic, and he settled down, his back against the spongy bark of a tall tree, his bottom cushioned by thick moss. Biting into the thick bread and tasting the mixture of butter and crisp bacon always delighted him.

Almost everything he ate and drank, he was told was not good for him, but he was too old to change now, even if he'd wanted to. The salty bacon gave him a thirst, and he quenched it slowly with the thick porter. Looking at the ancient yew tree, green, thin leaves against the celestial blue, his eyelids grew heavy. Jonjo shuffled down the tree, and now the moss became his pillow.

A yew tree marked the boundary between his land and the Walsh's land. The Walsh's farm had been put to pasture decades ago when the whole family had emigrated.

Jonjo's peace had recently been disturbed. One of Paddy Feeney's boys had called a couple of months back to say that a Yank had bought Walsh's place. He and the Foy brothers had the contract to modernise the house, and they were connecting it to the water main.

"I can connect you up too," said young Sean Feeney.

"No, I've got my well, thanks," answered Jonjo. Seeing Sean's crestfallen look, he added, "And I haven't the money."

"No, it'll cost you nothing, Mr Brennan. I've got more than enough pipes, and taps cost nothing when you are in the trade. The Foys could connect you to the gas, and you'd have all the hot water you'd need and a proper shower and toilet if you want.

"I am'nt an old culchie. I know that there are bills to pay for water and gas."

"Well, look at it this way, consider it payment for looking after our materials when we are off-site. Nobody would stand up to you and your hurley."

Jonjo smiled at this and replied, "The new owner will surely know that he is getting bills for things he doesn't use."

"If there are problems with water bills, the water board send me to look. If it's problems with the gas, then it's the Foys' job. The Yank will probably only be here for two or three weeks a year. It doesn't seem right he should have the luxury and you none. Anyway, the real reason is that I know how you and Mrs Brennan, God rest her soul, looked after our family in the bad times and the Foys and many others, no doubt."

At the mention of his late wife, Jonjo acquiesced. For the first time in his long life agreed to be dishonest. Lying under the trees, he thought about that decision. Mary wouldn't have agreed to it. He'd been up to the Walsh place and helped the boys unloading their gear. Jonjo was old but still strong. Every night, he walked up the boreen and checked on the house, sometimes carrying his hurley.

He thought of Mary, as he did every day, and how lucky he had been to spend his days with her. He drifted for a while between sleeping and waking, thinking of his warm showers his central heating. The boys had done him proud. But he knew it was wrong.