From All Angus (Angus Writers' Circle Anthology 2015) Read online

own age. She had short, curly hair, the way Martha Price’s used to be when they started school. There was a softness about her that gave him a strange, aching feeling inside. He sat with his chin cupped in his hand, his elbow on the armrest of the seat.

  A small patent leather bag lay on the girl’s lap. Her hand was on top of it, and he found his hand moving to grip hers. She started, but continued to look straight ahead. He relaxed his hold, and they sat like that throughout the film.

  When the screen hero rode away, Paul knew that the cinema would change, the darkness pierced by the white projection beam becoming a uniform sickly brightness where he’d have to stand with the girl as the audience made its way to the exits. He let go of her hand, got up quickly and hurried outside.

  He walked through the brightly-lit streets, a part yet not a part of the life that throbbed around him – the winking neon lights, the chattering people, the thick smells of porter emanating from pub doorways. At the Liffey, he stood contemplating the black water that swirled below him. How easy it would be to climb onto the wall, fling himself down and be swallowed by the blackness.

  He took out the packet of cigarettes. Grateful for the one that was left, he lit up. His last fag. It could have been just that. Was it the effort of getting up onto the wall that put him off, or the fear of drawing attention to himself? He didn’t know.

  Tossing the butt into the Liffey, he watched the tiny point of orange move downwards and then go out, vanishing as if it had never been. His legs felt weak as he walked on. Again, he needed the familiar rush of smoke in his lungs. It made him feel no better to know that he was living from one cigarette to the next.

  In February a new girl started at the shop. She worked on the delicatessen counter, persuading the customers to try something different.

  ‘I had it myself the other day,’ she’d say, ‘and it’s delicious.’

  Her face would look very serious then, and her brow would pucker under her brown fringe. There was something about the way she looked at people with her sharp blue eyes and with a tilt of her nose which was too big for her face that seemed to convince them she was right.

  He only dared glance at her on her first day in the shop but the next day Mr Dawson called him. ‘Paul, have you met Bernie?’

  He shook his head. Mr Dawson introduced them. After that, she always said, ‘Hello, Paul,’ when he came in. It made him embarrassed but pleased, too.

  At the end of a busy day in early summer she spooned some vegetable stuff in what looked like salad cream into two tubs. ‘Paul, did you ever have this?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Russian salad. Try it.’ She took two plastic spoons from under the counter and gave him one.

  ‘You know what this’d be good for?’ she went on.

  He shook his head.

  ‘A picnic. I love picnics. We always went to Portmarnock or Howth in the summer when I was a kid.’

  She watched as he ate, her eyes on the verge of a smile. ‘Do you like picnics, Paul?’

  He shrugged. ‘They’re all right.’

  She was looking at him intently, her nose tilted at an angle that made him confused. He blushed, smiled, and said that he had to be getting home. As he sat on the bus, it came to him. She wanted him to ask her out!

  On Monday he managed to say the words. Would she…? Yes, she would!

  They’d meet at College Green on Sunday morning and take a bus out to Howth. The tram would take them up the Head where they’d have their picnic. He smiled at Bernie whenever their eyes met in the shop. He hoped the fine weather would hold. It seemed like a good sign when it hadn’t broken by Saturday.

  He made his deliveries. Wet through, his shirt sticking to him, and his buttocks sore he cycled back to the shop along the path by the river. Since summer came, he hadn’t bothered to stop for a swim. Would he ever want to show himself to girls and women again? He didn’t think so. It seemed like a stupid thing to do now. He felt stronger, more sure of himself. A girl liked him. Still, it would be good to get into the water just to cool down. He’d been fast with his deliveries. There was time to spare.

  As he plunged in, savouring the pleasant coldness, footsteps sounded on the path. He stood up and went behind the reeds. The approaching figure turned out to be a woman who was tallish and a bit stout, not young. Her eyes were big and frightened-looking. She wore a spotted dress with a white collar and over it a shapeless brown cardigan. She carried a handbag, holding it tightly.

  It could have been the frightened eyes. It could have been the way she held the handbag. He’d never know what caused his body to move from behind the reeds and pull itself out of the water for the woman to see.

  She stopped, and her eyes looked even bigger. Then she screamed. She screamed again, a long, piercing, unearthly wail. He jumped into the water and swam the short distance to the bank. As he climbed out, the woman backed away and stood against a tree, still screaming loudly.

  He pulled on his clothes. He ran with the bike, avoiding the big stones. Behind him he heard fast, heavy footsteps. A man’s voice shouted to him to stop. He didn’t dare look back.

  He reached the main road. As he waited for a gap in the traffic, he glanced behind him. There was no sign of the woman or of anyone else. He regained his breath as the traffic cleared, and he crossed to the other side of the road.

  As he started on its downward slope, he looked back again. Two figures were coming to the end of the path by the river, a woman and a man. They walked slowly, the woman leaning on the man’s arm. They’d never catch him now.

  All the same, there was a tightness in his throat as he freewheeled down the hill. Why had he done it? He couldn’t understand. The tight feeling stayed in his throat. It almost choked him as he cycled back to the shop and Bernie.

  ANN CRAIG: I live in Auchmithie, a village set high on a cliff. Mornings are very beautiful here especially in summer.

  AUCHMITHIE BREAKFAST

  Very early, I stole down the stairs,

  opened the night-locked door,

  let in the stillness of an

  Auchmithie marmalade morning.

  Golden shreds of sunlight trickled

  over the rooftops and barley fields

  towards my waiting bare toes.

  Slow, syrupy waves

  washed the pebbles on the beach,

  left them sparkling like speckled

  eggs on patchwork sands.

  Above, a single, swooping gull

  called a raucous welcome,

  inviting me to share this dawn banquet.

  I accepted and stepped onto

  the warm, honey-drenched earth

  to toast this new Auchmithie dawn.

  THE POPPY

  Blood red it shines, a sentinel to remembrance.

  It nestles among the ragwort and the seeds,

  A rare and fragile thing.

  A petal falls; more will follow

  Till all that’s left is

  The memory of brightness.

  ARCHIE DARROCH: I’ve always found mirrors a little scary. I’m never very sure if the reflection I see is really what I look like; or is my negative image living in a negative world? A daft question, perhaps. But be careful: there may be more than a reversed image waiting for you. Although the idea of a “message from the other side” is easy to understand, The Mirror was a difficult story to get right.

  THE MIRROR

  The deep snow sparkled under the light from the street lamps as David trudged home from school. People jostled past him, but he hardly noticed as he walked along.

  “December, nearly Christmas time, and I don’t want to go home,” he thought miserably. “Why did that horrible car driver have to run into the back of the bus just as my mum was getting on? Now she’s dead, and the house is always so cold and empty when I get home.”

  It had been in the summer, just a few months ago, that David’s mother had been going to visit a friend, and a car had skidded on a patch of oil. It had bee
n a complete accident.

  His father was a manager in an office in the town and didn’t finish until five o’clock each evening, so David was always home first. His other relatives, including his granny, lived too far away to be able to provide any regular support for him and his dad.

  Although David was only 11 years old, he tried to help as much as he could, especially with such things as making his bed in the morning and keeping the house as tidy as possible.

  When David arrived home that evening he put his school bag away and hung up his blazer as usual. Then, as he moved into the kitchen to lay the table for tea, he began to remember all the wonderful Christmases he had enjoyed in past years.

  “Mum loved Christmas. It was her favourite time of the year,” thought David. “The time when the two of us decorated the Christmas tree, then waited excitedly for Dad to come home so that we could be together to switch on the fairy lights for the first time. Then Mum would ask me what I would like from Santa.”

  As David moved around the room a tear trickled down his cheek and, as he wiped it away, he heard the front door opening. Going into the hall, he was just in time to see his father shaking fresh snow off his coat.

  “Hello, David,” said his father, smiling. “I’m glad you’re home. It looks as though there will be more snow tonight. Have you had a good day at school?” He paused as he saw his son’s expression. “Look, here are some early Christmas presents. I received them from friends in the office this morning.”

  “It won’t be much of a Christmas without Mum,” said David sadly, carrying a bag of groceries into the kitchen.

  “Never mind,” his father said gently, “I’ll