NEW BEGINNINGS

NEW BEGINNINGS

My view was fixated on the front windscreen, which was being bombarded by countless Cherry Blossom petals hurtling towards it at ferocious speed. It resembled a pink candyfloss-like blizzard. The wipers on full throttle were fighting a losing battle. While one swipe left swished the petals off, the next pink avalanche was following closely behind and ready to descend. The taxi driver prattled on incessantly while I reluctantly inhaled the nauseating aroma of stale perfume from a previous passenger. The occasional grunt from me was all he needed to acknowledge my existence in the back seat of the cab.

Armed with standardised conversational ammunition to keep him going to our destination, he pontificated about the weather, the poor condition of the roads and the crumbling economic state of the country. Mesmerised by the vista outside I was blissfully unaware that he had finished his rant and had now turned his attention to me.

‘Are you visiting or returning home I said?’ he repeated gruffly.

‘A bit of both I guess.’ I replied. ‘I’m not quite sure yet’.

I understood that he wasn’t really interested in the duration of my stay but that he merely felt obliged to show some interest in me as his passenger. Or perhaps his question was economically driven by the prospect of a return fare?

Suddenly an inconspicuous pothole assaulted the car. Both of us jolted involuntarily while he let out a tirade of expletives as he banged on the dashboard with flailing hands. There followed a brief albeit welcome composed silence.

I averted my eyes to the side window as we approached my journeys end. I vigorously scanned the images of flitting houses for recognition of the homes of my childhood friends; houses I had frequented on an almost daily basis from the age of six to sixteen. Memories flashed through my mind flooding my brain with visions of happier times.

‘It’s the next turn on the right’ I indicated to the driver pointing as I spoke.

‘Oh, you can’t turn right there anymore.’ he replied. ‘Bloody stupid road planners and engineers decided to make it a one way system. Did you ever hear the likes of it? Supposed to make traffic run more efficiently they said. T’would be more in their line to sack half of their top heavy administration staff and pump money into improving the state of the roads!’

‘I’ll jump out here so if it’s all the same to you? It’s only a short walk and I could do with stretching my legs.’ I laughed to myself at my turn of phrase, while the driver glanced in his rear view mirror wondering if he had missed the joke.

The clicking of his indicator tick-tocked as he slowed to a halt at the kerb. He jumped out quickly to retrieve my suitcase from the boot. One more calculated gesture surely guaranteed to secure a more generous tip.

Slowly I stepped out of the back seat balancing myself with one hand on the open door, and the other on the roof of the car. I fumbled in my jacket for my wallet having peered at the meter reading to ensure that I covered my fare and the much anticipated tip. Leaning on my umbrella I handed over €40 to the driver.

‘I hope you won’t be needing that umbrella today’ he remarked as he started rummaging through his pockets by the way looking for change.

‘I don’t intend opening it.’ I smiled nonchalantly. ‘It’s fine – keep the change. Thank you’.

 ‘Are you sure you’ll manage that suitcase? It’s a ton weight. What have you got inside there – a dead body?’ He laughed heartily to himself.

‘No’ I answered flippantly, ‘just some body parts’.

He paused for a minute waiting for the rest of what he presumed was a witty one-liner, then shook his head at my silence and mumbled some more expletives under his breath as he returned to his car. 

I stood alone on the footpath reluctant to turn and face my short journey on foot to my parent’s house. My stomach churned with an overwhelming queasiness caused by my fear of returning to face my parents – half the man I used to be.

A cigarette would temporarily abate my fears or at the very least distract me for the eight minutes or so it would take me to smoke it. I leaned on my umbrella as I picked up my suitcase and balanced it against the wall. A gust of wind caught me by surprise and I almost tumbled, barely managing to steady myself against this now my saviour of a wall.

I sat on my saviour to take the weight off my feet and I sniggered to myself at my innocent use of idioms so common place in the everyday vernacular. Somehow now these took on a whole new meaning for me. As I rolled my cigarette with my umbrella carefully tucked under my oxter for stability, I was mesmerised by the pink petalled carpet beneath my feet. Once again I laughed to myself at my curious choice of words.

As a kid I loved the month of April. Mainly because of the two weeks school holidays at Easter time; the chocolate feast which was the surfeit of Easter eggs; and the changing of the clocks when you gained an extra wonderful hour of freedom. But also because it was marked so significantly by the glorious Cherry blossoms, symbolic of springtime – a time of renewal and new beginnings. How apt I thought that it happened to be this wonderful time of year that I was now returning, hopeful of renewing and re-inventing myself.

Suddenly I was transported back in time to my childhood. We would play for hours out on the street usually oblivious to nature and our ecological surroundings with the exception of these short weeks where the Cherry Blossom would shed its glorious cloak and lay itself bare. We were intoxicated by its pink splendour.

There were ‘made marriages’ every other evening, as the girls would gather the petals for confetti and some poor begrudging boy was forced to walk up the aisle with his ‘fiancée’! With all the emotion of a pre-teen fuelled with a torrent of testosterone, I’d close my eyes and cross my fingers behind my back wishing that I would be matched with Louise McKenna. To me she was beauty personified – the most perfect creature I had ever laid eyes on. I had secretly hoped that one day I would in fact walk with her up to the altar for real. Little did I know that ten odd years later I would give anything just to walk...

‘Johnny Burke, is that you?’ this voice from nowhere suddenly startled me from my thoughts.

‘Well my God, look how you’ve grown! You were always a little whippet of a thing and look at you now. You must be close on six foot?’ Mrs. O’Brien from number 4 bellowed at me from across the street.

‘Truth be told Mrs. O’Brien, I’ve shrunk somewhat in stature’ I retorted with my new found sarcasm which seemed to run glibly off my forked tongue of late.

‘Yerah, go away out of that! You’ve turned into a fine strapping young man–I might even go so far as to say handsome!’ she snorted as she chuckled.

There it was the ‘Irish compliment’, said with an infinitesimal amount of truth just in case for some unknown reason you might get notions about yourself!

‘If only I was 40 years younger...’ and her voice trailed off as if her imagination had transported her to some wonderland of times gone by.

‘Mr. O’Brien is keeping well I take it?’ I asked politely and dutifully without much care for the answer.

‘That fella, sure he’s running around the place like a headless chicken’ she replied with a strangely quietened tone which I did not heed or take time to heed before I made my next comment.

‘He might be more useful to you than me so if that’s the case’ I quickly quipped self-pityingly before shifting my gaze to her saddened features.

‘He’s riddled with that auld dementia. He doesn’t know where he is most of the time.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that Mrs. O’Brien, I didn’t realise.’ Guilt rushed through me like a bold child who had unintentionally yet consciously said something hurtful.

‘Sure what have you to be sorry for? If I can give you one piece of advice it’s to live life, have no regrets but above all, don’t be bitter. Bitterness eats your soul’ she said as her eyes locked with mine.

For those few brief seconds it was as if she was looking into my soul and emblazoning her message into my very being. I averted my stare to ease my discomfort.

‘I’ll have to rush home – I’m only allocated a carer for an hour each day to sit with Pat. It was lovely to see you Johnny. Drop in some day if you’re passing. Pat would love to see you – he won’t have a clue who you are, but he’d still love to see you! God bless now.’

Off she scuttled around the corner like a woman on a mission. Another ironic choice of words I noted to myself, seeing as my ‘mission’ was well and truly over.

I flicked the butt of my cigarette into the nearby gutter and gathered my suitcase in one hand while grasping the handle of my umbrella in the other. I strutted along tapping my umbrella on the path, clickity clack, like the gentry of old with their walking canes.

Standing nervously on the doorstep, I had run this moment in my mind a hundred times over, yet I still felt grossly unprepared. My heart raced, my brow beaded in sweat and my hands were clammy in anticipation. I pictured my parent’s faces as they set eyes on their only son for the first time in two years. They had attempted to visit me many times but I had forbidden them to travel. I couldn’t face them. I needed time to wallow in my self-pity and the state of limbo which my post-traumatic stress disorder had imprisoned me in.

The door swung open with great gusto and my mother and father stood there silently. This overwhelming wave of love and emotion engulfed me with the force of a tsunami. The relief of finally reconciling with my parents after all that had happened, both consumed me and released me in its wake.

My mother rushed at me and hugged me with every ounce of strength that she could muster. My father prised me from her grip so that he too could get in on this seldom display of emotion. Not a word was spoken until they ushered me into the sitting room.

‘Sit down son, your feet must be killing you’ my mother blurted out while my father looked on aghast. Then they burst out laughing nervously and uncontrollably, infectiously contaminating me. It felt good to laugh out loud.

Eventually composing ourselves, I asked my father to pass me my suitcase while I removed my new prosthetic legs and replaced them with my old soft comfy plastic limbs. I could tell they had a hundred questions to ask me about my peace keeping stint and that fateful day when I stepped on that concealed landmine. But for now my mother made the proverbial cup of tea while my father put my suitcase in ‘my’ bedroom. It felt good to be home.

I sat there quietly and comfortably staring out the window when suddenly I spied a woman gliding past. My view was thwarted as she quickly and gracefully dived behind the front wall. Within seconds she arose like a phoenix from the flames covered in a cascade of pink petals which she had scooped from the ground and childishly strewn all over herself. I was struck by an old familiar pang in my heart and fuzziness in the pit of my stomach.

My father returned with a bottle of whisky followed closely by my mother with the tea tray in hand. Noticing my distraction, she peered through the net curtain to see the object of my captivation.

‘You remember Louise McKenna? She’s caring for Pat O’Brien’ she informed me. ‘An angel from heaven Joan calls her.’

I wondered if perhaps this angel could save my soul from the bitterness residing there of late.

‘I think I’ll call to see Pat this time tomorrow’ I said offhandedly.

My mother smiled as my father poured a small measure and handed it to me.

‘Welcome home son. Here’s to new beginnings.’