FRIENDS AND LOVERS

FRIENDS AND LOVERS

He was sure that this was the right way. It seemed familiar. The soft, damp moss beneath his feet, the weeds growing through the cobbles of this, once much used, boreen. Either side of him, the blackberry bushes, bearing their lush, ripe fruit, formed natural fences to the fields that lay on either side. Some memories never faded. He struggled slightly as the narrow lane began to rise gently the closer he drew to the end. Stopping momentarily, he crouched over and breathed heavily until he was ready to continue on his pilgrimage; this journey that he felt compelled to make.

As he reached the summit of the hill, the end of the boreen, it felt as if the whole, wide world suddenly opened up below him as he stared out at the emerald vision of beauty that was the patchwork quilt of farmland all around. Yes! This was the right way. Even after all these years, his memory, not what it had been, had guided him correctly. And there, below in the valley, was her house, as it had always been despite his absence of decades. His own true love, his Saoirse, had dwelled in that quaint, old Irish cottage. Her name, Gaelic for freedom, the one thing denied them both by their families.

The going was easier for him now; downhill. The luxuriant, sweet smelling hay spreading as he treaded a path through the meadow, sure of himself, finally, his rheumy eyes never wavering from the house, the sole aim that had impelled him here today; a sight of her.

How they had loved each other, had been so sure of their future together, convinced that they could bear all the objections, all the unhappiness, the beatings, the curses because their love could outlast all objections; their friendship so deep. How wrong they had, ultimately, been.

As the ground levelled out, he noticed the smoke rising from the chimney and he breathed in the sweet smell of the turf. Could she be here? His old heart began palpitating beneath his scrawny skin at the thought. Could it be his Saoirse who piled the turf blocks on the fire through the day? He envisioned her bending over the fire and reaching into the old tea chest for another piece of peat, just as his family had done for as long as he could remember.

Instinctively, he knew that he had to be cautious now, having managed to find his way here successfully after so long. Not to know if she still lived; not to see his love...

He made his way along the edge of the open field until he came to the ditch, still here after all these years; his old hiding place. How many times had he lain here, sometimes for hours, until, finally, he would see her, her chores completed, emerge from the farmhouse and make her way innocently along the top of the ditch until she reached the covering of trees, he following, crawling along the ditch beneath her. Once out of sight of the house, she would throw herself in his arms and he would bury his face in her neck smelling the sweet, natural odour of fresh milk and hay, her smell and more cherished than any perfume; one that had stayed with him and nurtured him through all of these lost years. As well as lovers, they had been each other’s greatest friend. They shared confidences, talked for hours about anything and everything. She had always been in awe of his intelligence, his worldly knowledge. One was lost without the other.

With a great deal of awkwardness, his aged bones resisting, he managed to burrow into the ditch, and set his eyes on the cottage directly across the wee boreen. Occasionally, he would catch a glimpse of movement as a shadow flitted past a window but his eyesight was no longer good enough to distinguish whether the figure was a man or a woman. No matter. He would stay here until he saw her.

It didn’t take too long before the cramps started and, shift his weight though he might, he could not maintain any degree of comfort for longer than a few minutes. Damn! The damp, too, he felt slowly encroaching on his clothing. How, he wondered, had he ever lain here, unmoving, sometimes for hours, all those years ago? Youth, of course, with the wonderful anticipation of that honeyed aphrodisiac to come; the feel and scent that was Saoirse, his lover and greatest friend.

Suddenly, across the way, the cottage door opened and a woman stepped out. All of his aches and discomfort melted away as he fastened on this vision and watched as she threw food scraps to the hens clucking about her feet. It was she! He was certain of it. Her hair, still reaching to her waist, though grey. Her body, still slender and upright, sheathed in a long flowing robe. He watched, mesmerised, as she walked towards the gate, closer to him. She looked one way, right, and stared into the distance. He could see the fine lines on her face and neck that did nothing to disrupt the beauty of her face. Then, to the left. His heart swelled as he looked with longing upon her beautiful neck. He could almost smell her from here. Then, finally, she turned her head and looked straight ahead. He bent his head to avoid being seen, a movement that caused a shooting pain to attack his neck. Slowly, gently, raising his head once more, he saw that she was staring straight at him. Saoirse. His one sweet love. As he was about to call out, he saw her put her hand to her mouth and step back a few paces. She uttered a cry and an elderly man rushed from the cottage to comfort her. Now they were both staring across at him. Who was he?

“Da”.

He felt the hand on his shoulder but his stiffened body would not allow him to turn and face the person who had spoken. Then he felt the hands grip him beneath his armpits and begin to assist him from his constricted position.

“Da, will you look at yourself, for God’s sake. Jesus, you’re soaked through”.

As he was helped upright, he looked down at himself, his pyjamas soaked through, torn and shredded by brambles, his bare feet scratched and bloodied.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what are we to do with you?’

The woman leading him away towards the parked car seemed vaguely familiar though he could not, for the life of him, recall her name. He heard her shout out in the direction of the farmhouse.

“Sorry, Saoirse love. I’ll see it doesn’t happen again. It’s the dementia. It’s just getting worse”.

As he sat in the small car, perplexed, confused, he looked up, once more, as the car slowly passed the cottage gate. Saoirse, his Saoirse, staring at him with loving sympathy, the tears streaming from her eyes.