Page 4

                 Let Me Tell You a Story

If you missed the Bards latest story published in the Lancashire Post recently then here is your chance to realize just what you might have missed!                                                                Return to Athenry
 Foreward

Most of you will have heard the song 'The Fields of Athenry'. I've often wondered as to what became of the  characters in the song. Nobody really knows. However, I would like to think that what you are about to read could have been the outcome of the hero's and villains. I'll let you be the judge of my fantasy.

Chapter 3 – A change in fortunes

After watching the prison ship out of sight as it left the bay, Mary, her heart full of grief, knowing that she would probably never see her husband again in this life, and cradling young Rory close to her breast, trudged wearily back to the field, to the shattered remains of their humble shelter, hoping that it may still offer some respite from the elements for her and her son. 
It was fortunate for the pair that there were some among the townsfolk who had taken pity on the Cleary’s downfall. As Mary approached the field, she saw that those neighbours with good hearts had been hard at work. The little hut had been rebuilt, a small fire burned merrily in a makeshift grate and close by stood a wicker basket filled with bread, milk and potatoes.  It was not an idyllic setting for a young mother and her child, but hopefully it would serve its purpose until her fortunes turned – and these were closer than she could ever had prayed for or expected…
Some weeks had passed and Mary, with her child, had settled into something resembling a hard but passable existence. They dined each day on whatever the kind-hearted people could afford to give to them from their own meagre supplies.
Each evening, at sundown, Mary, with Rory in her arms, would sing him lullabies and other old Gaelic songs. So sweet was her voice that many a passerby paused in their journey to hear her singing softly to her son. At times, there would be quite an audience, enthralled by her angelic tones and her sweet rendering of the old songs.
One of her many admirers was one, Kathleen Kelly. Kathleen was the landlady of Kelly’s pub on the high street in Athenry. She had recently been widowed and was finding it difficult to run the public house on her own. Listening to Mary Cleary’s endearing voice had given her an idea that would, she hoped, benefit her, the songstress and her son as well.
On a fine evening in May, after finishing her evening recital, Mary Cleary was approached by Kathleen, who made her a proposition. She told her of the struggle she was enduring while attempting to run the little pub on her own and how sorry she was to see Mary and her son living in such squalid conditions. She said that if Mary was willing to assist her serving in the pub and perhaps singing for the patrons in the evening, she would give her and her son accommodation for as long as it would be needed. Mary could hardly believe what Kathleen was proposing and readily accepted the offer. It could not have come at a better time as Patrick Riley, who owned the field on which Mary’s crude shelter had been erected, had suggested that as the little hut was on his land, she should be paying him rent for her living quarters, crude as they were. Mary reminded him that as she had no work then she had no income. Patrick’s suggestion that there were other ways she could recompense him other than with money, were met with a frosty response as she recalled Michael’s last words to her was to raise their child in dignity - and there was little dignity in what Patrick Riley was now proposing.
Mary was delighted at the little room in the pub that Kathleen was offering her. It was no fine bedchamber but a hundred times more comfortable than the place she had just left. There was even a small annexe that was just perfect for Rory’s cot. That first night, she knelt by the bed and thanked the Lord for her change in fortunes. She instinctively knew that she and her son would be happy here – and her instincts turned out to be true…
For the next seven years, Mary worked diligently in the pub, serving drinks during the day and singing for the patrons in the evening. Her fame became such that the good people of Athenry and from further afield, flocked to Kelly’s pub just to hear her sweet voice singing all the old and well-loved songs – and then came tragedy. On one freezing night in January, Kathleen caught a chill, which quickly developed into pneumonia, from which the poor woman never recovered. What was to happen now to Mary and her fine young son? Yet mistress fate was still in her corner. Kathleen had made a will and when it was read out, Mary discovered that Kathleen had left the pub and all her worldly belongings to her. Their future was secure. All that was missing from her life now was her beloved husband Michael, languishing in some penal hellhole, far away in Australia.
His seven-year sentence in Botany Bay would soon be served and yet that would count for naught. Although within weeks he would technically be a free man, there was no way that a lowly time served convict could ever afford to return to his homeland. The cost of passage for such a long journey was out of reach for most men.
Mary of course realized the situation, knowing that Michael could never afford to return to Athenry. The solution lay in her own hands – Because of her recent good fortune, she and Rory could afford to buy passage to Australia where they would make a new life in that far away country with Michael…
Mary was about to make arrangements for the sale of Kelly’s pub. A deal that would not only allow for purchase of a comfortable passage to the new continent, but with enough left over to perhaps buy or rent a suitable home for the three of them outside the confines of the penal colony.
The sale of the now popular public house was almost complete. That following day, Mary would sign the deed of sale for a goodly sum. As she and young Rory settled down for the final evening in Kelly’s pub, there appeared at the door a messenger on horseback. From his saddlebag he produced a large package, which he duly presented to Mary before departing into the moonlit night. With trembling hands, Mary broke the seal on the mysterious package and found that it contained two first class tickets on a passenger ship, destined to sale in two days’ time from the port of Liverpool to Sydney in Australia. There were also tickets for coach and sea travel from Athenry to Liverpool and a promissory note from the Bank of Australia for the sum of one hundred pounds; a veritable fortune. There was also a handwritten note from her beloved Michael, stating that he would be waiting at the harbourside in Sydney to welcome her and their son to their new life in Australia.
Tears welled in Mary’s eyes as she read and reread the message a number of times, hardly able to comprehend the joyous contents. How in God’s name could a newly released Prisoner of her Majesty afford such generous gifts? However, the past years had turned Mary from a gentle loving and innocent girl into a hard-headed business woman. She accepted her newly acquired fate, knowing that all would be revealed when she finally met up once again with her estranged husband on the harbourside in Sydney.

The next chapter will be pubished at our next update

   ***************************************************************************
                      The Dying of the Light

Day 1   
The idea came to me during the night. I had been experiencing the terrible torment that visits even the greatest storytellers from time to time. It is commonly known as ‘writers’ block’, but in my case it was more of a personal literary cul-de-sac. My last story had been completed almost a year earlier and I had never gone so long before another masterpiece would pop into my head. Indeed there had been periods in the past when ideas and story plots were tumbling from my brain faster than I could commit them to paper (or the PC).
However, last night had been different from my usual dreamless slumbers. It was as if all the Muses from ancient Greece had visited my bedside and imparted their combined wisdom, giving me the idea for a unique story that would have universal appeal, gaining me legendary fame and perhaps fortune as well and might even be published in the Lancashire Post.
I could not wait to rise from my bed as the first feeble fingers of dawn crept through the window. I dressed quickly, washed and shaved with alacrity, devoured my breakfast with unnatural haste and in record time I found myself seated in front of my trusty computer.
I realized that speed was of the essence. The once vivid words and images were already beginning to blur and fade despite the continuing presence of the Muses who anxiously urged me to type in my password and commence committing to the machine that fantastic plethora of words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters that would surely herald my overnight literary success; an accomplishment that had taken me many decades of blood, sweat and tears to attain. Flirting with fame had been a dream that appeared to be just out of reach; achieving it now in my twilight years was a distinct possibility.
I logged into my computer and opened my STORY FILE. All my previous stories were set out before me in alphabetical order. I created a new document and was about to commit all those wonderful block-busting words to the opening page when I realized that before commencing, my magnum opus would require an eye-catching title - Mmm.
It was proving difficult to place the story in a suitable category. It contained aspects of virtually all human emotions including romance, humour, pathos, drama, but most of all it was undoubtedly the nerve-wracking suspense that each carefully crafted word would promote, holding my readers in that literary spell beloved by all writers of not being able to set aside the tale until the last word had been read.
The task of creating a suitable title for my story was proving daunting and though I grappled with a number of possibilities, none of the ideas that raced through my brain gave me any great satisfaction. The tension was eased somewhat when my wife Daphne brought me a cup of tea and a fig roll.
Feeling refreshed, I resumed my task. Somewhere in the far reaches of my mind was a belief that a line from a poem by Dylan Thomas would make a suitable title. I vowed to do a little research on his works in the sure and certain believe that this would reveal the line that I was searching for; in the meantime I knew I must commit at least the opening words of my story to the machine before they deserted me. I had already been aware that the once clear vision of the nine Muses was beginning to blur around the edges and without their assistance then I knew my literary task was doomed to fail.
It had been a struggle, but at least I had committed the opening paragraphs of my story to the safety of the computer. As I signed off for the day, I comforted myself in the firm believe that during my coming slumbers, those nice Grecian ladies, the daughters of Zeus, would work their magic for me once again.

Later
I awoke a little later than usual and spent the first five minutes trying to work out what day it actually was. After a hurried breakfast I switched on the PC and wasted another five minutes trying to remember my password, fortunately Daphne had remembered it. I read and reread those opening lines a thousand times; knowing even then that their composition was as good if not better than anything that the Bard of Avon himself had ever written. It was unfortunate that the words that followed, although satisfactory, were nowhere near as ground-breaking. There had been little help from the Muses over the past few nights. Oh they had appeared as expected but seemed more intent in spouting poetry or playing their music rather than helping me.
Despite the setbacks, I somehow managed to compose a couple of sentences but if anything they were of a lower standard than my earlier efforts. Even the appearance of my wife with a cuppa and a biscuit failed to revive my listless spirits. I decided to call it a day and retired to my bed early.

Much later
I was roused from a deep and dreamless sleep by whatsername shaking me vigorously. I missed breakfast, mainly because I forgot where the cornflakes were kept. Again I struggled to open the thingy and for the life of me couldn’t locate the STORY WOTSIT until that kind lady did it for me. As I once again read what I had written, I realized that the opening lines made little sense to me although the rest of my tale was promising. I had just finished deleting them when the lady came again with a drink and a snack. She was not best pleased when the cup fell from my shaking fingers onto what she told me was a new carpet. The incident made me angry so there was no more writing that day and again I retired early.

Later still
The woman was shaking me again and asking if I intended to stay in bed all day. I gave it some thought but after seeing the look on her face decided I had better get up. I didn’t shave that day as someone had hidden my new safety razor. When I told the woman (who is she anyway) she just laughed and said I was going doolally and that my electric shaver was where it had always been.
I knew there was something urgent that I should have been doing but couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was. I decided I’d ask mum what it was I should be doing – she always knows.
It was then I noticed the new ‘telly’. I didn’t like it. There were no buttons to press or knobs to twiddle with, just a board in front of it full of numbers and letters. The woman (I don’t like her) came over and did something with the numbers and suddenly there was a picture, but it was just a lot of writing. Then I remembered; I was writing a story – but why was it on the telly? I got mad ‘cos I couldn’t understand.
I asked the woman for some paper and a pencil so that I could write my story, but she just laughed and said something about it being on the ‘comb peter’ (I really don’t like her; she’s to bossy. I’m gonna tell dad when he gets home from work at Dick Kerrs).
I threw the tea on the floor when that bossy woman brough it in. She knows I always have orange squash in the afternoon. Then she started to cry but it was all her fault anyway. And where’s mum? She’s always home from Vernon’s Mill before now. I’m frightened as everything is so strange and unfamiliar and I can’t find my school satchel anywhere. Mr Hunt will be cross if I don’t do my homework and I’ll probably get the cane. It’s not fair; it’s not my fault either.

Much, much later
Why am I in this strange house in this big bed. This is not South Meadow Lane; we’re out in the country somewhere; are we on holiday? I like holidays but not in the country. I like Blackpool best, down at Uncle Tom’s Cabin, fishing for crabs in the big pool. Mum doesn’t like it much as she says that the pub gets more attention from dad than she does. I always laugh when she says this, only I haven’t seen her or dad for ages. That silly woman is always fussing about though. Saw her yesterday talking to a man about a home; perhaps were going back to South Meadow Lane again and mum and dad are sure to be there. Yes, that will be it.
The stupid woman has given me some sheets of paper and says that it’s my story. I don’t remember writing it. She says it hasn’t got a title yet, but I can’t see it very well – It must be the dying of the light!

If you like stories with a twist then our resident bard has written a number of books with tales more twisted than a corkscrew. To find out more then go to Page 4d for a list of all his very readable books.