Ireland 1963
Tommy had no fear of the dark; a good thing given us city dwellers would say he lived in the middle of no-where. In fact he lived somewhere in the middle of Ireland and tonight was Saturday night: town night for Tommy. As always he began by putting on his best suit, which hadn't been washed since Mammy bought it in Dublin some 30 years before. She's gone now, as is Daddy, the consumption devoured them both. Betty, his sister is long gone too, somewhere in the middle of America. It's just been Tommy for a long time now. His tie is black, mottled with beer and spittle stains. His Wellington boots are lined with old newspaper – he's ready for his weekly 3-mile walk into town.
On this particular Saturday night in January, Tommy stepped out into the cold and immediately noticed the stillness. Unusual. He normally walked with the company of a screaming wind at this time of year. He pulled the door shut, hearing its old hinges screech and the thud of worm-riddled wood as the door met its frame. The sounds were amplified by the extreme quiet of the night; they took him by surprise, as did the loud crunch of his first steps onto the frozen mud pathway that led onto the pot-holed lane. He looked up into a sooty sky: no stars, no moon – dense blinding blackness. For the first time in his life Tommy noticed the dark.
He wasn't frightened. Puzzled. Usually when he walked with the weather, he'd bask in the warm glow of nostalgia. The good times when Mammy, Daddy and Betty were still with him. The house was different then, filled with the smell of Mammy's baking: soda bread, buns, and pies stuffed with sugar sweetened apples from the wild orchard that flourished in his youth. Glowing feelings that carried him on his way. But on this silent, still night, something odd happened – the small smiling face of seven year old Mary Clancy returned to accompany him into town.
She just popped into his head while he walked. So sweet in her dazzling First Holy Communion dress, like a miniature bride. The acute clarity of the recollection surprised him. On that day the sun had been as blinding as this night was, and he recalled how uncomfortable the heat had made him feel under the new jacket and trousers he wore for the occasion. Now, like then, he realised his body was damp beneath his suit; he caught sweaty droplets falling from his forehead. His heart thumped. Tommy experienced an alien feeling: fear.
Mrs McKenna smelt Tommy before she saw him. In the store-room of her shop, checking supplies, she became aware of old smoke and cow shit. She patted her neatly curled hair and straightened her pinny, opening and re-tying the cords at the back, the things she did out of habit when about to present herself to a customer. She walked into her well-stocked shop with her head held high and a proud purpose, "Ahhhhhh, it's you Tommy. Did you run in tonight for the sweats hopping off yer, and it a freezing night?" He said no with a swift twist of the head; a man of few words. "Wait there Tommy." She disappeared into the backroom, returning with a towel, "Here, mop up that brow and sit down there while I get you your drink." He loved Mrs McKenna, she treated him in a nice way; he enjoyed how she chatted away as she poured him his bottle of Guinness and glass of whiskey with a drop of red lemonade, "There you go Tommy, get that down yer." He gulped the whiskey in one thirsty mouth full and became engulfed in the warm fuzzy feeling that came with it. He gave a loud sigh, which expelled the odd feeling he experienced on the lane. He felt like Tommy again.
It was a small town: 6 public houses (or 7 if you included the small bar in Mrs McKenna's grocery store,) Boylan's drapery store, post office – outside of which stood a petrol pump most often used to replenish the Gardai's police vehicle – the Bank, Connelly's Pharmacy, Gant's butchers, and a smattering of other buildings which housed establishments such as the veterinary Surgeon and local solicitors. But for Tommy this small microcosm was a sprawling metropolis that filled him with excitement and a hint of intimidation. Tommy's shy around people and on Saturday evening the small street was inundated with folk from the surrounding countryside, availing of the late openings to purchase their goods, attend to business and unwind in their favoured pubs after a long weeks farming. He scurried along with his head bowed to avoid eye contact, carrying his weekly provisions, neatly packed by Mrs McKenna. Tommy was familiar to all of the townsfolk; considered a gentle, quiet man, rendered odd by a devout, fiercely religious Mother.
