Getting into the Holiday Spirit

Inspired by true events 

2003

Mum's high-pitched scream rips through the floorboards into my dusty, teenage boy-smelling bedroom. “Boys! Come down a minute.”

I pause my Xbox and follow my brother Damien down the staircase lined with family photos. Relatives call him the baby of the family, but to me he’s the Little Shit. Yet, if I'm being honest, this is largely down to the fact he’s six years younger yet still kicks my arse on whatever video game we choose to battle on. 

As we step into the living room, Mum and Dad stand waiting. It feels like a setup. With her face framed by a nest of golden frizz, Mum flashes the widest of grins. Dad is leaning against the arch, the top of his paint-speckled overalls tied around his waist, and he nurses a bottle of beer in his calloused hand. Her voice sounds peaked with excitement. “So, boys, are you ready for the big announcement?” 

Damien scratches his arse cheek through his tracksuit bottoms. "Hurry up, I was smashin' Dom on FIFA."

"Well…" Mum's gaze flits from us to Dad and back again. "It's been a secret for a little while, and-."

I cut her off. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

Dad snorts a laugh, erupting beer from his nose which he wipes dry with the back of his blackened hand. Mum stares at me. “God, no. We’re… We're going to Ireland.”

I don't know what to say. I guess Damien feels the same as there is a moment of silence until Dad asks. "Wha' yeh think, lads?"

Feeling a sudden pressure, I scratch the back of my ear and look towards the door, planning an escape. "I dunno, really." I shrug my shoulders. "Okay, I guess.” 

Damien sits on the arm of the TV chair. "What about France or Greece like last year? They were ace."

"Damo's right. Beach babes in bikinis. They love a thong in the south of France."

"Dom bought his binoculars coz he thought we going back."

"Shut it, Damo." 

"Honestly. I don't know what happened to you two." Mum crosses her arms over her chest. "Come on,, it will be something different."

"Yeah. Instead of the sun, sea and sand of the Med. We're gonna have rain, sheep shit and Guinness.." 

"Enough!" Dad raises his voice. "Come on, lads. It will be great."

Mum rubs Dad's upper arm while her gaze flits from me to Damien. "Your dad was excited about it."

"Lads, it will be like going back home."

"Why do we need to go back home? The whole point of a holiday is about getting away to someone that doesn't feel like Wigan."

Dad empties his bottle with a large swig before looking at Mum. "See, spends all those hours prepping for exams so that he can talk back to us like that. Ungrateful little bugger."

"Now, now, James."

 Dad tips the bottle towards me. "We are Murphy’s, and we're going back to our ancestral home. You should be proud of your Irish roots."

"Just, last year you told us we were definitely going back to France, I wouldn't have wasted my birthday money on military-grade binoculars otherwise."

Mum shakes her head. "Take them to Ireland. Loads of birds and sea life.."

"It's not the same."

"I still don't know why you spent all your birthday money on such a silly present." 

"Didn't he tell you?" Damien sniggers, "Olivier told him about the nudist colony on the other side of the bay."

"Shut up, Damo. Idiot."

"Dom, you need to change your ways before you end up with a reputation." The sound of claws on the wooden floor makes my Mum look down at Bruce, our smelly black Labrador, who plonks himself in between us. "Oh, and the other advantage of Ireland is we can also bring Bruce." 

 ~

Dad drives the Mondeo off the ferry's ramp at Rosslare, Ireland. He cracks the window open and inhales the smell of the sea, and we can hear the screeching seagulls. Outside, it's cold, wet, and remarkably like home—"Just like England."

Dad looks over his shoulder at me. "Stop bleedin' moaning."

Mum taps Dad's knee. "Leave it, James, he's just a moody teenager." 

Being seventeen is like living in a no-man's land between childhood and adulthood. The world feels unfair. I'm obsessed with women but don't possess the courage to talk to one. I'm not cool; my GCSEs were abysmal, and according to my nan, I still have loads of puppy fat to lose. Life sucks.

 I close my eyes and listen to Oasis on my Walkman. As the music plays, I drift off into dreams of being a rockstar even though I can't sing, play an instrument or even dance.  

I wake to a thump. Mum and Dad scream, and the seat belt crushes my chest as lunge forward. Damien, beside me on the backseat, looks just as confused as me. Bruce whimpers in the boot as the luggage shifts around him. 

Putting his hazards on Dad pulls up onto the hard shoulder. After he gets out to inspect the damage, all I can hear is fucks and other words I'm yet to learn the meaning of. He gets back into the cabin, "The front right wheel is fucked."

"What happened, James?."

"We were in slow-moving traffic And-" Dad rubs his hands across his face. "I dunno, I guess I fell asleep at the wheel and collided with the central barrier."

"Nothing like this happened in France." Damien sniggers. 

"If you weren't my son, I'd take you outside and-."

"James, enough."

I don't say anything but give Damien a nod of approval. 

A recovery truck rumbles to a stop in front of our car, and a man jumps out of the cab. His red hair is more fluorescent than his orange jumpsuit. My parents step out of the car and greet him while Damon and I play Pokemon on our Gameboy Colour. We both giggle as we listen to the roadside mechanic swearing as he tries to remove the wheel. Dad crouches beside him, and they pull on the roadwheel together. Finally, the wheel slides off the axle. After fitting the spare, the mechanic eyeballs me through the window and says something to my dad. They both seem to agree. I guess it was something along the lines of why I didn't offer to help. Perhaps they have a point. But they don't know how addictive Pokemon is. 

We're back on the road. Dad is full of smiles as he squeezes my mum's denim-clad thigh. "I'm telling yeh, we're being looked after on this holiday."

"What do you mean?"

"I could have fallen asleep anywhere, anywhere. We could all be dead or in hospital."

"Don't say that, James."

"Tellin; yeh, Caz. Just so happened we were in a jam." He taps his hand on top of the steering wheel. "Gonna' be a good holiday, this.." He smiles at us through the rear-view. "And look boys, even the sun is out now?"

"I'd still rather be in Greece.." I pop my earphones into my lugs and listen to Coldplay.

The sun is out in force, and I wind down the window so I can feel the cool wind on my face. Connemara is the most empty place I've ever seen. There are no signs of human life—nothing but an untouched bogland. Wet heather glistens in the sun's rays, and I put on my sunglasses—maybe Dad's right—this is going to be a proper summer holiday. 

With the map book open on her lap, Mum taps Dad's hand. "Turn left at the pub." We come off the main road, and the car rocks and rolls as Dad slowly navigates a dirt road. We pull into an old stone farm with outbuildings and barns that look as though they have been converted into lettings. 

I get out of the car and can smell the salt of the ocean. The sun warms my skin and I feel as though I'm in the Med rather than Ireland's Atlantic coast. Gulls ride the thermals but never venture far from the farm, as if they're expecting to be fed. I open the boot, and Bruce scrambles over the luggage so he can explore his new world. As I fasten Bruce to his lead, a rotunded man waddles down the road wearing a red t-shirt and green wellies. "The Murphy's is it?"

Dad walks towards him with his arm outstretched to greet him. "Yes."

"A good Irish name that, from Loch Garman on the East Coast."

" We're stopping there on the way back.."

"I see you've done your research, clever fecker." He laughs from his gut as he shakes Dad's hand. "Me name is Sean, I farm the peat around here. Paddy told me to look after yehs till he's back tomorrow.." Sean looks at me as I laugh. "Wha yeh laughing at?"

"Nothing."

"Coz he's an Irishman called Paddy? Suppose you think he drinks Guinness and believes in leprechauns too? Well, you'd be feckin right, the man is an Irish cliche "  

Dad pushes me to one side. "Paddy mentioned he and his family would be away. Can't believe he is so trusting of us in his house."

"We are trusting folk. But that doesn't mean you wanna cross us." Sean kicks the spare wheel of the car."Wha yeh using that that for?"

"Had a bump on the way."

"Don't wanna be doin; that now, do yeh?" 

 "He fell asleep at the wheel." Damien has never been good at keeping secrets.

"Well, you'll do a lot of sleeping here, all right." He pointed to the farmhouse at the foot of the hill ."Bring the wheel to me tomorra, Me and the boys will get it sorted for yeh."

"That would be excellent, thank you. Really kind." Mum shook Sean's hand.

"Now, let me show you Paddy's cottage." 

Dad and I walk in step up the lane, the evening sun is still hot and casts long shadows of wind-curved trees across the broken tarmac. I glance at Dad, everyone tells me I look like him, with blue eyes that sit close together on my long face with it's prominent nose. But he's a very practical man who knows a bit about everything—or so he tells us. Yet I'm built differently. He'd say I was disinterested or lazy, but I'm not, I'm just the world's most impractical man. 

The pub is small and built of the same grey stone as the cottage; the thick walls bulge with age, and the windows and doors are small. Old men drink in their favourite corners, and I can feel them look at us as we step up to the bar, Dad scans the pumps. "I'll just be gettin' one round."

"In case I get drunk?"

"No. Just seen the fuckin' price."

We sit beside the open window and feel a welcome breeze. Dad raises his pint glass of Guinness. "Cheers, Son."

"Thanks, Dad."

"Proud of you. Dom."

I'm only half listening to Dad as I watch two women walk into the pub. One is bonnie with a booming laugh, while her mate is more graceful with the longest legs i[ve ever seen. I snap myself from my thoughts to answer Dad.

"Bloody hell, looks like you're in love already?"

I feel myself burn up. I take a deep breath and drink my Guinness. "Whaever."

"Anyway, when you were busy perving, I told you I was proud of you."

"There's nothing to be proud of me for. 

"Nonsense."

"Am just a bit shit, aren't I? Never had a girlfriend, rubbish at sport. I mean, what kinda scouser is shit a football?"

"Half the Everton team for a start."

I snigger. "Good one." I've always admired Dad's quick wit. The two women sit opposite us, and I try not to stare. 

Dad leans close to me and talks in a low tone. "Listen. Dom. About women, right? Don't worry about it. Women like personality more than looks. That's my experience anyway. I mean, look at me and look at yeh mum? How the fuck did I pull her?" He laughs as he squeezes my shoulder. You know wha' I mean?."

"Not really. Dad. I've never looked at Mum like that."

"Should fuckin' hope not. But all the boys liked her. yet she chose me. Not because of me job or me brains. I don't play football or any of that shite. No, she fell for me because I can make her laugh."

"Just, I would like to be good at something, though."

"Murphy's, Dom. We're artists, right? So you should try and write or draw or something."

"You're a welder, Dad."

"But I'm a poet first." Dad folds his arms, smiles and leans back. "I just weld to pay the bills."

"Suppose, I always liked creative writing at school. Was the only lesson I enjoyed. That and Drama."

"Then start writing." Dad put his arm around me. "There's loads of poets and writers. That's why we're all skint, like." He takes a swig from his glass and thinks for a moment. "On the plus side, I think creatives make great lovers, you know why?" Dad taps his temple. "Because we can think outside the box, you know? Bit like women. You'll be fine."

"I hope so."

"You know. I remember my first pint with me Dad, It must have been around 67 or something. We were in the Ship n' Mitre in town." Dad picked up his pint glass. "Just me n' him, like we are now, 'avin a similar chat." He laughed. "Anyway, he spotted me stealing glances at these two birds in mini skirts." Dad shuffles over on the bench so our flanks touch, and he lumps his arm over my shoulder. " Yeh grandad squeezed me like this, and said "Make 'em laugh., Make 'em smile. But most of all, make them feel secure.." The Guinness leaves a white moustache as he takes a big swig from his pint glass. "Married 54 years, Mam and Dad. Not a day go passed without me missing them."

"That's sad."

"Make the most of me before I gone, tellin' yeh." 

"In that case, let me buy the next round."

Dad claps his hands together and rubs them together. "Thought you'd never ask."

"I haven't brought my wallet, though."

"Fuck sake." Dad laughs as he fishes his wallet out of the pocket of his jeans. "Maybe you take after your mother's side."

We walk down the shadowy lane, and the ocean breeze feels a little cooler than it had during the sweltering day. With no streetlamps, only the moon guides us towards the cottage. I'm tipsy without being drunk, and our laughter drifts across the fields. 

Damien and Mum had gone to bed, and the house is silent. Even Bruce is sleeping in his basket. After using the bathroom, I slip straight under the duvet without disturbing Damien in the next bed. Unable to sleep without music, I reach out and pat the carpet until I find my Walkman.

Two songs in the temperature suddenly plummets, putting me on nerves. I know something is off, so I press pause on my Walkman and listen to the distant roar of the waves. 

Bruce whimpers outside the bedroom door, a noise he only makes when he's disturbed. "Bruce?" He continues to whimper for a moment more- then stops. 

Blood rushes in my ears, and I suddenly struggle to breathe. 

A weight presses down on the duvet, and I feel it shift upwards from the foot of the bed. All I can describe it as is an invisible entity lying down beside me. I curl into a protective ball and look away.

Cold fingers cruelly wrap around my hand in a phantom grip, and I can feel an icy breath brushing my cheek. I'm too scared to scream, too scared even to cry.

All I do is exist in this nightmare. 

A faint, breathless whisper in a language I don't understand causes me to jump out of bed and fall onto the floor. 

Damo bolts upright. "What the fuck?"

But I don't stop and run for the door, almost trampling over Bruce. I throw the door open to my parent's bedroom and scream. "Get me off this fucking Island."

My mum sits up in bed. "What is it?"

"I said…"

"I heard what you said. But what happened"?

Damo follows behind with Bruce. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I… I got spooned by a fucking ghost." All I hear around me is vicious laughter. "Stop laughing. It's not funny." I slap Damo across the head. 

"I don't know why you're so pissed, at least you've finally lost your virginity." 

"Shut up, I'm serious."

Dad puts on the bedside lamp. "It's just a nightmare, go back to bed."

"I was wide awake," 

Mum climbs out of bed. "Look, we'll swap rooms. You can also put Bruce in your room."

I don't sleep a wink until the sun chases away the shadows, and I finally feel safe.

The smell of fried bacon wakes me I go downstairs to see Dad at the table with a deck of cards. "Morning."

"Afternoon more like." Dad runs the tip of his fingers across the pack. "It's alright for you."

"What do you mean?"

"To make sure you got your beauty sleep, I had to sit down 'ere playing cards with your girlfriend all night."

"Not funny. Not funny at all." 

A week later, we're driving out of the farmyard for the last time, Paddy and his family stand at the gate to wave us off. He leans on the door, and asks Dad, "Did you see my mother?"

"Aw, no., Paddy. Didn’t know she was ‘ere. Would have loved to have talked to her." 

"Wouldn't much use, she only spoke Gaelic." Paddy cracks a wry smile. "And she passed away in the cottage three years back, but guests sometimes say they see her."