My friend Pam died a week or so ago. You might remember me speaking about her over the years? She was a month short of 91.   No funeral, no fuss.  Her wishes, her way. She received an OAM for  services to the local library midway through 2011 but played that down to the point that she told me she only agreed to accept the award because it gave the library a bit of publicity which might encourage further funding from the local council.

I went along to the gathering at her home on Monday after school. It followed a private cremation held earlier in the day. When I walked down the driveway there was a bit of sun playing about the trees and bushes and the whole garden seemed full of life. Camelias by the lounge windows -lovely big trees dotted in pinks, reds and white. The trickle of paths running off to the side lined with winter-roses. Currawongs and wattlebirds darting about.

The front door was open, a mix of family and friends talking in little clusters inside.  I noticed the dining table had been moved from its usual spot -where we always sat because the light was better for her eyes - and had been placed against the window and loaded with cups and saucers and plates of home-made food.  In the middle of the table was a framed photo of a young girl about 14 or 15, hair in thick plaits and she  reminded me of my sister Liz at that age.   A calm clear look on Pam's face. The poised intelligence of the schoolgirl.  

I knew a few family members and neighbours having met them over the years, but it did feel very strange-awkward really- to be sipping on tea and nibbling cake when the lady of the house was in absentia. I didn't feel hungry at all. I took myself off to the garden and wandered around to the side amongst the giant gums and past the white summer house -where she and her husband used to have tea-breaks when they were gardening- then went down to the end of the block  where the foliage spills together and the smell of flowers and bees is like a syrup.

I tried to take a few cuttings - her niece Dee had put plastic bags by the front door for this - but my heart wasn't in it. The loss of Pam too new and unreal.

I went back inside to say goodbye and to take a last look through the kitchen window at the propped up branch of the catalpa tree. We'd sit underneath it on sunny mornings with a cup of tea and a plate of yo-yos a friend had made for her. The magpie she fed used to come dangerously close but she insisted I had nothing to worry about. We'd watch it dipping into the water bucket she kept full beneath the tap.

As I was leaving on Monday, Pam's cousin told me the magpie hadn't been seen for days but had returned early that morning. She'd heard it tapping on the window. It was a story I wanted to hear.


 

 

out of the blue..

Ballinascreen

Ten minutes out of Draperstown Michael taps me on the shoulder “Thought we’d get you something from the town Ma.  You’ve earned it.”

He puts a tape in my hand “Songs and Music of Ballinascreen”. It’s the property of Draperstown Library, where he and Anthony have been for the last hour or so.

We’ve driven from Malin Head the most northerly point of the country to Draperstown in County Tyrone. I’m travelling with my sons and it’s the second last day of the Irish trip. By the time we arrive in the town where my great grandparents once lived I’ve got a headache.  The final ten miles of the trip have been on the winding roads of the Sperrin Mountains.  As we drive, the stony hills give way to thick plantations of pine with their ugly clearings of scarred logs.  The town that’s signposted as the Home of Sperrin Metal has an archway of  trees.  Oak, elm, sycamore?  I don’t know. The branches criss-cross above the bonnet like panels of a green umbrella. Anthony finds a park in front of a butcher’s shop and I stay in the car resting while the boys go for a Guinness and a wander.  That stolen tape comes from the Ballinascreen library.


All I know about this place is that my great-grandparents were born here, and that they left in 1853, the year following their marriage.  My father urges me to go there when I leave home travelling at 23. Although I plan to go to Ireland not long after I reach London, somehow or other  I miss my chance. Now more than 30 years later here I am in the town with two of my sons. What happens that afternoon? Not a lot really. The headache makes it difficult to do much more than lie back in the front seat of the hire car and tell myself I’m resting on the road those Devlins might have gone along a century or so ago.  When the boys are out walking, I get out of the car and walk into the long grass to be sick.  I meet a woman called Mary selling potatoes from the back of an old farm truck who asks if she can help me. Mary is a woman of the fields, and on this particular afternoon tell her the dilemma I’m in about being here at last and not feeling well and she tells me I shouldn’t have waited so long to come to the town.  When I tell her about the Devlins connection she wonders if I mightn’t be related to Brad Devlin in the Post Office and tells the boys to look after y’r mother.  Make sure she gets better and bring her back again.

Then in the car on the road out of town, heading to Dublin  Michael gives me the tape.   I open the cassette cover and find a cream card with a handwritten list marking its lending history. From the first entry in February 85 to the last in May 95, it’s been borrowed 4 times. Something in that tiny number eases my conscience and I slip the tape into the slot and wait.  At first all that comes out is static then silence before the first song begins.  The Verdant Braes of Screen.   I stare out the window over the stone walls to green paddocks that run the length of the road into the hills beyond.  A piano echoes over wooden floorboards and accompanies the thin, high voices of a school choir.  The next song’s better.  A man’s plain, strong voice tells the story of Draperstown 1913.

This afternoon, March 19th 2012 I'm scrolling through old files and find this piece and read it through.  Later in the day the tape turns up.  On my desk.   Out of the blue.  True...