Having spent almost three months as a student nurse from leaving school at sixteen, my youngest sister was considered somewhat of an authority within the family on medical matters. Indeed her expertise covered every aspect of medicine, from infancy through to death, and often unfortunately for me encompassed psychiatry as well. She had however never been divorced. I, on the other hand, had been divorced. In the same way that she was an unqualified (somewhat unjustly in her opinion) medical expert, I was sufficiently experienced and knowledgeable to challenge the opinions of solicitors, barristers and judges. It could be argued that at such times the legal profession stick together.
There was a friend of one of my sisters who was going through a rather messy divorce, a type much more common than the non-messy divorce. Obviously she was referred to me for advice. So began a lengthier relationship than I had been accustomed to, perhaps as long as two months. Together with her two young children she had moved back to Southern Ireland to be with her family during this difficult time of her life. She visited me on occasion and I visited her on lots of occasions. I got on famously with her parents and the rest of her family who were all extremely Irish, together with being both warm and caring. Sadly I enjoyed the family's company much more than I ever did this lady that I was dating.
During my visits to this green and beautiful country I was to be privileged to share many experiences with these lovely people. One such occasion began with the father of the family, a short man with a shaven head and two days growth of stubble on his face, never three days or one day but always two days, inviting me to the Sunday morning church service with his two sons and his son-in-law. The ladies of the family were not eligible to attend. It was clearly a standard practise, this being a place where inequalities were not regarded as such.
As we arrived at the small rural church nobody showed any surprise to find that the area around the building was littered with many tractors of all sizes, colours and conditions. Indeed we were forced to park in the village pub car park and walk the distance back to the church. This appeared to be another standard practise and one with which I had no objection.
There was standing room only inside the church. Each and every pew was occupied with an almost military-like proficiency. The front pews catered for the well dressed individuals, then came the families in order of their dress code. It was clearly their social standing within the area that determined their proximity to the altar.
The rear pews were occupied with only men, all wearing brown tweed suites originating from many fashion generations earlier. This in itself I found mildly interesting. The father of the family noticed that I was staring at the feet of these men. Each and every one of them was wearing Wellington boots, all pristinely clean but Wellington boots nonetheless. I wanted to ask the obvious but the sharp nudge and shake of the head from the father ensured that I remained silent. Intense effort on the part of these unusually clad people to stand upright and motionless seemed wasted as they swayed from side to side and then back and forth, each using the other as a means of support.
As the service progressed and the rest of the congregation continued to follow the lead of the priest in prayers, this group of men began to chunter initially each to themself and then to each other. The congregation stood up and moved forward to take Communion. The men too stood up but instead of moving forward they sneaked furtively out of the back door. Sounds of tractor engines being fired into action resonated around the church, finding every hard surface to produced deafening echoes. Still, the reaction of these goings on from the male family members I was with was conspicuous by its absence.
After the service we walked the short distance back towards the pub where we had parked our car. The car was surrounded by familiar looking tractors and inside, stood three-deep at the tiny bar were the equally familiar tweed suits with farmers inside. Their sense of balance had returned, temporarily.
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Changing Speed
Não FicçãoAs a family man Mark Senior has been to the summit. As a corporate man he has climbed to the peak. As an everyday man he has journeyed to that somewhere place only to find that somewhere was no place that he wanted to be. At the age of 37 having be...
