there is something strange about all this, some twitchy energy in the ether which has affected me from the moment those bells began to toll, something flitting through me, a giddiness drawing me
through the house
door by door
room by room
up and down the hall
like a mad thing
bedrooms, bathroom, sitting room and
back again to the kitchen where
Christ
such a frantic burst
Christ
not so much a frantic burst as a rolling crease in the light, flow- ing from room to room only to find
this house is empty
not a soul anywhere
because this is a weekday and my family are gone
all gone
the kids all away now and of course Mairead is at work and won’t be back till after four so the house is mine till then, something that should gladden me as normally I would only be too happy to potter around on my own here, doing nothing, listening to the radio or reading the paper, but now the idea makes me uneasy, with four hours stretching ahead of me till she returns,
alone here for four hours
four hours till she returns so
there must be some way of filling the span of time that now spreads out ahead of me, something to cut through this gnawing unease because
the paper
yes
that’s what I’ll do
the daily paper
get the keys of the car and drive into the village to get the paper, park on the square in front of the chemist and then stand on the street and
this is what I will do
stand there for as long as it takes for someone to come along and speak to me, someone to say
hello
hello
or until someone salutes me in one way or another, waves to me or calls my name, because even though this street is a street like any other it is different in one crucial aspect – this particular street is mine, mine in the sense of having walked it thousands of times
man and boy
winter and summer
hail, rain and shine so that
all its doors and shop-fronts are familiar to me, every pole and kerbstone along its length recognisable to me
this street a given
this street is something to rely on
fount and ground
one of those places where someone will pass who can say of me
yes, I know this man
or more specifically
yes, I know this man and I know his sister Eithne and I knew his mother and father before him and all belonging to him
or more intimately
of course I know him – Marcus Conway – he lives across the fields from me, I can see his house from the back door
or more adamantly
why wouldn’t I know him, Marcus Conway the engineer, I went to school with him and played football with him – we wore the black and gold together
or more impatiently
I should know him, his son and daughter went to school with my own – we were on the school council together
or more irritably
of course I know him – I lent him a chainsaw to cut back that hawthorn hedge at the end of his road and
so on and so on
to infinity
amen
the basic creed in all its moods and declensions, the articles of faith which verify me and upon which I have built a life in this parish with all its work and rituals for the best part of five decades and
this short history of the world to brace myself with
standing here in this kitchen, in this grey light and wondering
why this sudden need to rehearse these self-evident truths should press so heavily upon me today, why this feeling that there are
thresholds to cross
things to be settled
checks to be run
as if I had stepped into a narrow circumstance bordered around by oblivion while
looking for my keys now
frisking my pockets and glancing around, only to see that
Mairead has beaten me to the job, she has been out early and bought the papers – not one but two of them, local and national, both lying in the middle of the table neatly folded into each other, the light glossing unbroken across their surface, making it clear she has not read them herself that I might have the small pleasure of opening up a fresh newspaper, hearing it rattle and creak as it discloses itself, one of those experiences which properly begin the day or the afternoon as is the case now, turning it over and leafing through it
starting at the back, the sports pages, to read the headline
Hard Lessons in Latest Defeat
as if this were the time and the place for a sermon
which prompts me to close it again quickly, not wanting any homily at this hour of the day with the paper showing the date as
November 2nd, the month of the Holy Souls already upon us, the year nearly gone so
what happened to October
come and gone in a flash, the clocks gone back for winter time only last week and
the front-page stories telling that the world is going about its relentless business of rising up in splendour and falling down in ruins with wars still ongoing in foreign parts – Afghanistan and Iraq among others – as peace settlements are being attempted elsewhere – Israel and Palestine – while closer to home, the drama is in a lower key but real nonetheless
