Waiting for a Train

An invalid's bedroom overlooked by the railway, so near, so far, so hopeless.

by Victor Sullivan

© Victor Sullivan 1970

The rattle of the approaching bicycle at last; the squeal of that gate-hinge followed by the gate-latch snapping shut again.  Agnes lay helpless in her still-clean bed and mentally followed her aging sister Kitty's progress to the bicycle shed, then the characteristic sounds of the back door opening — closing and finally other faint, familiar sounds from downstairs.  How long to wait before Kitty took it into her head to climb those stairs and deliver her thirty seconds of local news summary or whatever condensed gossip she had picked up in the course of her morning visit to the shops... or was it the Post Office...  Whatever it might be, it was from Outside and that was all that mattered. Were it not for Kitty who else would be there to care for her in her utter helplessness. Kitty had no life of her own other than caring relentlessly for her bed-bound sister and Agnes sensed her sister's resentment of the situation with each grunt as Kitty climbed the stairs. Kitty was her only link with Outside. Ever since poor old Breda Kelly died nobody else from Outside ever came to the house apart from the doctor. Breda, Babbling Breda... how she could spread gossip!  Oh God how she missed Breda... Breda from Outside...  seven years without Babbling Breda from Outside. Seven years without keeping up with everything going on Outside. Oh Kitty brought her the newspapers, but they never reported what went on just down the road. Ever since Breda died any news about Outside was always filtered dry and abbreviated into dust by Kitty. Kitty had a way of never speaking a sentence if a syllable would suffice. 

The house was right beside the metal railway bridge that spanned the main road leading to the town. As each train growled its way to or from the town's train station, its wheels, running past just a little higher than her bedroom window, created a hollow rumble as they crossed over the roadway. Every week-day the driver of the 11:35 goods train, dressed in his coal-smudged pale blue overalls, leaned from the side of his black steam locomotive number 241 and seemed to stare straight towards her window and wave a greasy hand. Could he see her in her bed? Could he really? She hoped he could. Agnes always waved back, even on her bad days. He was Outside. He was her independent connection with Outside. Kitty had said he was only waving at children on the road below the bridge... perhaps he was... But every day? During school-time? The alarm clock on her bedside table was set to go off at 11:30 in case she might fall asleep and miss the morning wave from Outside. 

The stairs creaked once, twice, then the landing floor-board creaked to the accompaniment of one final grunt and the bedroom door opened. Kitty stood just inside the large bedroom, breathing heavily.

     "Any news in town?"

     "None as makes any difference, not to us anyway."

     "Anyone dead?"

     "None that I heard of."

     "The town is quiet so?"

     "Very quiet.  I brought you these. They were new in the shop."

Kitty held up a brown paper bag and took a step towards her invalid sister, Agnes, who managed to find the strength to raise one hand towards the offered surprise.

     "That was nice of you, Kitty. What___KITTY!! What's the matter Kitty?" Agnes's weak voice croaked a scream as her elderly sister suddenly yelped with pain, dropped the bag and seemed to hug herself violently.  Helpless, Agnes watched her sister sway about crazily, her gasping mouth open and eyes staring like those of some demented beast. Then and with a horrible choking gurgle, Kitty crashed onto the floor beside the bed  writhing in her agony, her hideous noises being finally drowned by the rumble of the long, slow, 11:35 freight train passing over the bridge outside the bedroom window.

     "KITTY___KITTY!! Oh my God Kitty! What's happened to you, Kitty.  Oh Kitteeeee!"

     

Then there was silence in the room. Silence, broken only by a few plaintive calls of, "Kitty?" until the next train passed, after which the silence came back and with it came the fear and the increasing awareness of everything horrible until the next train passed and the silence and the fear and the awareness and the tears and the terror began again and continued until the next train, and the next... and the next ... it grew dark, a few trains passed in the night, a night of hunger and no bed-pan no matter how loudly she called Kitty. When it grew light again she thought of tea... and food... and the bed-pan but that didn't matter anymore... then the early morning trains passed... soon it would be time to wave at the 11:35  goods train, her only Outside hope but it would require more than a wave this morning. When the alarm clock on the bedside table indicated 11:30 Agnes reached out a feeble hand and grasped it. She knew she had only five minutes more to wait before HIS train would pass. The knuckles of her scrawny hand whitened as she gripped the ticking alarm clock. It would have to work. Her life, such as it was, depended on it. The rumble of the train...  Agnes drew her arm back... God! She was hungry!

James Manley drove locomotive 241 and its train of goods wagons over the bridge and for once he neglected to wave at the shadowy person in the bed who could always be seen dimly through the window.  He had been waving at whoever it was for many years, never quite certain if the bedridden figure was male or female, not that it mattered. Whenever he waved, the wave was weakly reciprocated. The waving had become a habit, like his shouting at the dog that chased his locomotive at the other side of town. Today, waving had been overlooked as he had much on his mind. Happy thoughts, worrying thoughts, planning, trying to remember things he felt sure might have been overlooked. James was getting married on Saturday and as soon as he reached the terminus old 241 would have to find another driver for two weeks.

Thanks to a round of holiday relief duties on other routes, James Manley was not reunited with 241 for another three weeks in addition to his honeymoon break. When eventually reunited, the locomotive was just the same, same troubles, same noises, same smell, same fireman, same route, same dog chasing 241, same bridge over the main road, same waving hand... or was it? Perhaps not today, he hadn't been really concentrating.

On the following day as 241 approached the bridge he picked up a cleaning rag to wave with but received no response. He could barely make out something white lying at an angle inside the room. Later that day he began to question what he had seen. He would look more carefully.

The next time he approached the bridge his hand reached for the regulator and slowed 241 to a crawl. There was nothing to see. Just the house. No wave, just the faintest shadowy image of something grey inside the window, something lying at an angle. Some instinct told him all was not well. While stopped at the nearby train station he telephoned the local police and persuaded them to investigate.

The policeman cycled to the house by the railway bridge and knocked on the front door. Receiving no reply he peered through the downstairs windows. No sign of life apart from bluebottles swarming against the glass. Wisely, he decided he needed assistance and went to fetch it. 

Two decomposing bodies were found in an upstairs bedroom. One in a foetal position on the floor the other half in and half out of the bed. They had been visited by rats. Also on the floor was a paper bag containing some shriveled plums. Near the window lay hundreds of dead flies and an alarm clock that had stopped at 11:35. Agnes did not have enough strength to smash the window with the clock as 241 passed by.

Over sixty years later that house became the headquarters of an industrial computer enterprise. From the window of my comfortable office I could watch trains rumble over the bridge and sometimes I exchanged a wave with the train-driver. Yes, it really was the same room.

© Victor Sullivan, 2012

FEMALES ONLY by Marie Guillot

© September 2011

Graphic by Marie Guillot

The risks of being a female

You will never see Margot close to any male, young or old. In fact, it looks like a conspiracy. Every time she tries to meet the new kid on the block, there is some hurdle: there are visitors to greet, or it's lunch time, or it's downpouring, or they have to go somewhere. But the family is good to her and Margot is not a rebel; she is easy going and adjusts to the situation. She seems quite happy as it is.

Maybe her happiness has to do with the fact that she gets pregnant every year. The joys of raising her baby are heaven for her. It's also a great satisfaction for Anne's family. They usually invite friends to celebrate. That's when she is in her glory, when everyone admires her offspring, all white, the best one ever, praising every feature. Her own work.

There is only one thing she does not like: in the yard, her comrades despise her. They say she is only a surrogate womb. She does not understand what it means. All she knows is that she looks different from them. All of them are white, while she has black patches all over.

Once a year, she gets special attention: a friend of Anne comes with a bag of strange objects and there is a bit of fuss around her. Not much, not unpleasant, and it's soon over. 

Then they chat. It's almost the same tribute every time. The friend says: "You should get a strong one again, this year. Margot is a great girl."

And Anne replies: 

"We love her. She is a major asset in the development of our pure-bred Charolais cattle."

The Life of a Writer, by E. Alana James

The Footings on Which You Can Build That Life

© 2010

(Illustration by Marie Guillot)

When carpenters build a home they start the foundation with the footings. These concrete pathways help to spread the weight of the home from the foundation walls to the surrounding soil. So too when you build the life of a writer, you need to put three particular types of footings in place in your life to spread the weight of this new endeavor so that you will be successful.

Perhaps when you think of what it might be like to live the life of a writer, someone like Dennison Berwick who travels the world in his 32 foot yacht home that he calls the Kuan Yin. He sails around the world, writes about his journeys and uses his blog and website to promote his books. Perhaps the glamour of that life appeals to you too with its: notoriety, freedom to travel at will, maintaining a sharp brain through old-age, and the joy inherent in living a creative life.

This article deals gives an overview of what we find when we ask, "What builds a good foundation for writing?" Three main ideas surface:

1) the disciplines that give you strength,

2) the need for flexibility in a number of areas,

3) the daily grind.

First, there are several disciplines you need to adopt: reading, practice and organization. In order to write well you have to read a lot, almost everyone who has ever written on writing agrees to that. But in today's web-based world it also makes sense that what you read covers a wide variety of content areas as your readers are likely to be well read with a variety of interests. All the researchers who have studied mastery of an art, whether it be at playing chess, painting, etc., agree that it takes 10,000 hours of practice to become really good at something. Therefore constant practice is a must. 10,000 hours is equal to three hours a day, 365 days a year, for 10 years. Writing is a very competitive field, although with web-based publishing it is now much easier to break into than it used to be. Nevertheless, only those who have been willing to put in those 10,000 hours will likely rise to the top. Lastly, you need to be able to organize your thoughts in order to be a good writer. A lot of this goes on at subconscious level. As you interview, research your topic, take pictures, etc. in preparation for your writing your subconscious mind will help you sort and to classify so that when you put it all together in an article it makes sense.

Second, the message is clear: if you don't have a lot of flexibility in your life or your personality don't try to be a full-time writer. The first thing you need to be flexible about is your source of income - it is necessary that you should not try to support yourself on your writing as you begin. You also need to be flexible about what you write, remember you are writing for a public and also for your editor. A lot of other people will have their fingers in your finished products. The final flexibility that you need is with your self. If you only hold yourself to the highest standards, you'll always be somewhat frustrated, or not high enough, and your work may be sloppy or not progress in skill. There will be some days you write well, and some days when everything disappoints. Be kind to yourself and know these are just part of the process.

Finally, you have to be willing to take writing on as "the daily grind." With self-publishing writing has become a multifaceted business. As with any business there are options, and each will have a financial outcome attached. Recently it has become evident that many authors are making more money on Amazon with Kindle, than they used to make with royalties and publishers. The world of writing and the world of publishing are so closely connected that in today's environment you need to be willing to do both.

So how does all of this add up to the life of writer? If you work it properly, as you keep your mind-set on the lifestyle you want to live, you may just end up like Dennison Berwick. On the other hand, and equally delightful in many ways, you may end up with a hobby that will delight you throughout the rest of your life. Wherever you go, or what path you follow, you'll use that flexibility, background and strong habits that you develop now to carry you through.

Arriving by Aidan O'Shea

Arriving

© AIDAN O’SHEA

24/06/2010

It was a late summer’s day in 1970. Deirdre and I, our toddler strapped in the back seat of the Renault 4, were house hunting around Cork City’s north side. With a second baby on the way, the pressure was on to move from our small but picturesque flat on the river’s edge at Sunday’s Well. We had already been savagely outbid on a few crumbling and damp bungalows off the Sunday’s Well Road. We drove more in hope than expectation along the narrow artery from St Luke’s towards Montenotte in the parish of Mayfield. Montenotte (Mountain of the Night) was named after a small hill town in Italy and scene of a fierce battle in the Napoleonic Wars.

The road was bounded by the sandstone walls of grand merchants’ estates. Many of these estates had been converted to nursing homes, convents or outposts of COPE. COPE is a foundation dedicated to the care of physically and mentally handicapped patients. Then the road broadened, and so did our destiny.

To our left was a fine green lawn, dressed with old trees, behind which we saw the skeletal beginnings of a housing estate. This was no show-house, just a few bare walls and gables. The houses (Tracton Avenue and Place) were being built in the grounds of Tracton House, leaving wide lawns in between. The young foreman on site was Pat Hegarty, instantly recognised as a Cork hurling star of the time. He showed us around and gave us a small black and white brochure. We stood together in the frame of an unfinished doorway, baby clutched on one arm, looking lordly over the Lee valley and eastwards as far as Aghada. Without saying a word, we knew that we had arrived at our destination!

Hold on! What about the mortgage? In the weeks that followed, I trekked around the banks and building societies of Cork, seeking the daunting amount of £5000. This represented 250 times my weekly gross salary of £20. We had not impressed the lenders, although we had cobbled together the balance of £1500. Most of this came from the gratuity Deirdre received when she was obliged to leave her civil service job on marriage in 1968.

Despite our deposit, I was rejected even by my late father’s bank manager! As a final throw of the dice, I made an appointment with the manager of Irish Permanent Building Society on Winthrop Street. Never mind that we did not have a single penny on deposit there. Dressed in my best (actually my only) suit and tie, I clenched my clammy palms as I was ushered into his office. He seemed incredibly old to my eyes, seated at a large mahogany desk. He must have been fifty at least! Behind him stood a massive brass safe, the door of which was open. I could see nothing inside; it looked like an empty tabernacle. This was a bad omen indeed. However, previous rejections had strengthened my resolve and sharpened my technique. I managed to steer the discussion away from my current salary, to describing my ambitions, my prospects and my future solvency. Was it a trick of the light, or did I see a slight gleam of hope behind the manager’s half-frame gold-rimmed spectacles?

Weeks of waiting followed, and our hopes receded towards resignation. Finally, the postman brought not another overdue gas bill, but The Letter. Yes! The mortgage had been approved, and we counted every block, batten and slate of that house still in construction. We haunted the site. The baby crawled up the open staircase. We marvelled at two toilets, two showers AND a bath! No more body scrubs at the sink for us. In March 1971, the house, still reeking of fresh paint and uncarpeted, was ready for occupation. I was dissuaded from moving our things in the Renault 4, and sent to work while the removal men got on with the job. To their credit, they did not break a cup (we had only four), or scratch an armchair (we had two of those).

It was a rough and ready start, despite all the extra space. The roadway in front was still an earthen track, the floorboards remained bare for many months to come, but we were happy here. The communal green lawn beckoned invitingly to the first steps of toddlers. The trees burst into glorious pink and white blossom in May. To the rear, COPE provided a well-groomed vista of gardens and flowers. If you looked over the builder’s rubble, you could claim it as your own domain.

So we joined the informal Tracton commune of shared tea bags, nappies, baby medications and self-help. Maybe it is just another housing estate, satirised in Malvina Reynolds’ song with these lines:

Little boxes on the hillside

Little boxes made out of ticky-tacky

Little boxes, little boxes,

Little boxes all the same.

But as proof of our content, I am still here, thirty eight years later, proud to claim it as Gort Álainn (The Beautiful Field), our May Field.

"Don't Pick Those Blackberries!" by Victor Sullivan

"Don't Pick Those Blackberries!"

© Victor Sullivan 4 May, 2010

The long Summer holidays were drawing to a close. In a few

days I would be leaving my Grandmother's farm near Castletown Bere in West Cork, to return to school. It must have been 1946 or 1947— which ever was the great year for blackberries.

Blackberries were rampant on every wall, fence and hedge, great big, juicy, fat ones and my face was permanently purple from ear to ear from eating them.

"Here boy!" called my Grandmother from the kitchen door.

"Yes Granny?"

"How about filling this with blackberries instead of yourself? That way we'll all have another blackberry and apple pie on the table."

"Yes Granny!" (My Granny's blackberry and apple pie was an experience not to be missed, even if we had only just finished the previous one).

Boots by Marie Guillot

The essay below is an adapted excerpt from the book “Friends and Friendibility” (2009, Bad Kitty). Text and illustration by Marie Guillot. © Marie Guillot

BOOTS

Working on farms to assist local vets, I decide to treat myself with a professional pair of rubber boots, otherwise called wellies. These wellies are to be used under adverse conditions: water, mud, muck, rocks, nails, animal kicks, or any combination of those.

At the local Coop Super Stores, I choose a box saying: PRESTIGE / Quality Wellingtons / Resistant to animal and mineral oils and fats, to acid and petrol. I try a pair, they fit perfectly. Back home, at the bottom of the box, I discover a little booklet called User’s Manual, in thirteen European languages.

Vocation by Greg Butler

VOCATION

© Greg Butler

BROTHER Vincent was feeling weary and discouraged. The monastery parlour was quiet, but inside his head the noisy voices were there again… voices of doubt and regret.

He thought about the last class that day. Maybe he’d over reacted. But Horgan was a stubborn boy, like his brother. His mother said there were problems with him at home. “Don’t spare the rod,” she sanctioned.

Brother Vincent was a big man with a formidable reputation. He got results. No one questioned his methods, least of all the parents.

He was a handsome fair-haired man, broad shouldered, and stood over six-foot tall. He moved quickly and elegantly round the classroom… with the leather strap tucked into the waistband of his black soutan- like a gunslinger- with the ever present threat that it might used to deadly effect.

His quiet voice and shy smile contrasted with his reputation. The boys knew him as Vincy. He called everybody John, sometimes with menace. When he said, in a low voice, “Out to the line- John,” the boys knew trouble was brewing.

I am Ruth by Máirtin Ó Connallan

On a clear September day, a young Cork woman and her child left Logan airport in Massachusetts, and what happened 25 minutes later, embedded itself in the minds of the civilised world, and East and West minds tried to entangle the reason for such callous slaughter, some understanding exactly, others utterly incredulous.

It was 9/11 as we now know it, and for the family of that Cork woman an incredible series of events were to follow, only typifying what each family involved of the 2,973 people who died that day, must have gone through.

I knew that girl young and vibrant, I knew her brothers, I do not know their pain, all I can ask are questions about all of us, and the following are some of these.

© Máirtin Ó Connallan

I am Ruth

I am Ruth

Of Ireland

From a suburb

In Cork

I am Ruth

Of Palestine

From an enclave

Among refugees

I am Ruth of Afghanistan

Near Kabul

I am Ruth of France

Saint Etienne

Mon Village