Six short stories from the past I thought I'd bring some of these old stories out into the light.
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To cut a long story short
Greybeard Publishing 16 May Language: Be the first to review this item Would you like to tell us about a lower price? Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a product review. Most helpful customer reviews on Amazon. Jim and Ellen walking down the path with mama at the door, waving like a mother, waiting until they are beyond the gate, forever worrying about crossing roads and unsuspected illnesses. Young people often died young back then. Jim and Ellen, heads tilted, magnetic affection drawing them closer, talking, laughing, a pair apart from others. Ellen's raven hair curling around her tiny, elfin ears.
Ellen, quiet and reliable as the moon.
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On the way back they short cut thorough the August woods. A long short cut. Still talking, their words tumbling like thistledown on the hot butterflied silence. In the deep green they settle in shade and kiss among fernleafs, innocently. They kissed like that for years. Life, a summer holiday until seventeen. Jim goes to Cork with his father. Magnificent Cork and boat bobbing, cathedraled Cobh and then the Metropole Hotel.
Black ties, brown cigars. Gin and tonic with a twist of lemon. Now Cork is always dry gin and a twist in Jim's fading memory. Jim with father's friends. A party and the talcum smell of sex. Dad leaves early with a friend. Dad feels only half married. Winking a man's signal. A bird in the bush.
Jim dancing until dawn with necklace and pearls. Back at her oak roomed upstairs house she says her parents are away and Jim is still not sober. Sixteen Ellen smelled of love and roses. This girl is twenty and slick with gin.
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Pearls in her ears, stones in her heart. Bath naked she drips rich. Jim falls into her and is devoured. Ellen, sweetest sixteen, gave him everything except that. Her tended flesh is reserved for the marriage bed. The blonde one came to Dublin with the snow, passion pursuing Jim all grown up and knowing. Seventeen Ellen, discarded, like a toy wound down, broken and useless. Tears on Ellen's bitten lips. Eyes red with pain. Jim brave and final, cruel as winter. Abandoned Ellen, quietly waiting for him to mature. Next year he took the pearly girl away. Not even saying goodbye to pale Ellen, eighteen and alone with sickness teasing her young pink lungs, her heart dark with love.
Ellen's innocence like petals blowing on grass, dancing redly away. Crowns of thorns for Ellen's virgin bridehood. On Jim's return his mother greets him with rubbing, folded fingers. Ellen's black blood on her spitting lips. The flowers on her grave stiff in frost. Brown leaves tumbling, flying wildly in the frozen air, reburying her. No more warm kisses and a heart soaring with love.
Ellen nineteen, never twenty. Mama behind the coffin, mama in her own maternal grave.
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And rain for fifty long years and more, after that. Jim struggles from a dream speaking her name into the listening shadows. The pitch dark shadows silent as lovewords from dead mouths. Marble graveyard lips, cold as stone. Memories haunting his present. Jim shivers and steps into the window sun. Rubs his thick veined hands. Then he makes lunch. He dreams the evening away - half out of life. On the radio a woman sings Four Last Songs. You don't have to know the language. Later, a seat in the garden looking towards the singing sunset.
There is nothing to see except blackbirds and sparrows; nothing to hear except the noise of butterflies' wings. Even later, the clock in the parlour chimes twelve heartbeats. Night comes hot and bothered. Climbing into an empty bed, Jim turns off the sidelight and watches the shadows huddling against the floral wallpaper. Stars look in at his greying face. A hot August moon in the open window. Soft as silence, quiet as apple blossoms falling, gentle as Ellen's dimpled smile.
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Ellen's same sad glad smile standing there by his bed. He says 'I can play now, Ellen, If you like. I'm finally, properly dead. Jim rising from his bed, leaving his seventy-six years between the laundered sheets. Soaring through the moonlight with Ellen in his arms, the pair of them shooting like comets into Eternity while the clock in the parlour stops.
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Ring- a- ring- a- rosy! I'm glad I'm not young anymore.
Mea culpa, Ellen -mea maxima culpa! I don't want you. Respect for the dead. My darling gone for evermore! Dear sweet God - yes!