A page in the life

A Page in the Life is a collection of short stories written by listeners to The Marian Finucane Show about their everyday experiences. Here we reproduce three of them.

A Page in the Life. Edited by Claire Prior of RTÉ. Published by New Island Books. €7.99. Proceeds to The Irish Hospice Foundation. CD of stories accompanies the book. Available in this weeks RTÉ guide

ONE AUGUST MORNING

Ciara Considine

Free at last and I feel like I'm flying. The morning is crystal clear as I weave through traffic on my slinky racer. It's been over a year and I have missed this bike. Motherhood, though welcome, has brought much change, and I miss the ability to rush out the door at a moment's notice. But right now, whizzing down the North Circular Road, it's as though I'm emerging anew. Baby is safe in her daddy's arms, and I'm on a mission.

 Today we're going to a wedding – our first day away from three-month-old Romy – and I'm in town early to exchange a garment. A quick visit to Arnotts and then it's the organisational mayhem involved in getting baby to her grandparents. But so far I'm making good time. The glittering morning tells me to have faith.

This old racer is my favourite bike, though it's not technically mine, it's my husband's. He's had it forever. It's a bit battered, but there's grace in the old girl. It's the only bike I've ridden regularly that hasn't been stolen, and for that reason alone, it's close to my heart.
I've just reached my destination when it hits me, a hollow thud. I've left behind the lock. There's no time to return. I must find a solution.

An innocent trip has suddenly become a battle between myself and the menacing elements of city life. If I am defeated, I will have lost the morning and all its promise. I remember a friend's advice, and ask the universe to help me out.

On Abbey Street the sunshine bounces off the pavement. A lone coffee drinker sits at Arnotts' street-side café, almost invisible in the bright light. In an instant I see that the universe has delivered. He has been chosen to mind my bike! I approach and ask: “Are you going to be here for a few minutes?”

And then I see it. The bleary eyes, the limp posture. At first I'm not sure if he's drunk or stoned, but it's clear he's in a bad way. I have approached him, and now I want to flee. With unexpected clarity, he seizes on my dilemma: “Dew you want me to mind your bike?” The words come out in a slur.

My urge to run does battle with my urge to have faith and, as our gaze locks, we silently acknowledge the small stake of this exchange. Then, before I can think anymore, he has taken the bike and I am racing through Arnotts. But it's 15 minutes before I'm sorted and by now I'm panicking. How will I explain this to my husband? The bike he has lovingly nurtured since childhood has been stolen, because I left it with a drunk on Abbey Street. It seemed like a good idea at the time, I hear myself offering weakly.

 I race back through the shop. And there, hovering at the door, expectant-looking, is the kind man – the drunk, the junkie, who knows? – the kind man who has saved my morning. I push a fiver into his hand and hastily thank him. His red eyes sparkle.

“You never know the ones you can trust,” he says. “Indeed you don't,” I reply, and cycle off into the morning sun. I begin the ascent home, smiling, renewed.

REAL LIFE

Joseph Sweeney

Garda Ryan here. Ex-Garda Ryan now. My last day on the job was five months ago. Got a call about a woman who had collapsed in Grafton Street. I found her under a bundle of clothes. African. She was having a baby. I recall it clearly still.

 I arrive, survey the situation, pretending to be calm. It is unreal – my last day and I get this. The deepest part of me wants to turn tail. I feel my stomach churn. I amn't trained for this.

I loosen her clothes. I can't believe I'm doing this. They are so tight that no baby, no matter how pushy, could get out into this world. People just walk on. The African woman contracts, breathes, her face contorts, and, totally silent up to now, she suddenly lets out an ear-splitting scream. Jessye Norman volume. That gets attention. That stops people up.

“How can we help?” mute eyes seem to say. They look as if they can hardly help themselves. They can't help staring anyway. It's better than any soap. Better than reality TV. This is reality.

A baby arrives to a large, ashamed audience. A soggy little thing sliding out on a river of blood and waters. Life renewing itself. What is it? Boy or girl? Will it be an Irish citizen? Or illegal African? Who cares about that right now? She's beautifully ugly.

An ambulance arrives and takes the huge woman in the flowing coloured clothes away, holding the dark wrinkly baby. She has not even noticed me. “Your welcome, Ma'am,” I say to the departing ambulance.

But something inside me had been quietly overwhelmed. My last day on the job and I find something just beginning, for the very first time. I feel strangely emotional, light-headed. Something profound has caught me off-balance. I'm no longer a guard, seeing life in terms of rules, as legal or illegal. Life is greater than the sum of its parts. While we worry life moves. While we argue and legislate and enforce, it moves still. Screaming and in pain.

People look after the ambulance and wonder. The strange shock is gone.

The extraordinary event is over. People don't know what has happened, and vaguely wonder before passing on, Did anything really happen?

“Just a vagrant being moved on,” someone mutters. “We heard about them on the news,” says another. “They come here to have their baby. To get Irish citizenship.”

“Maybe,” a child whispers to her mother, “maybe she didn't really have a baby.” Was it a trick? A clever trick to beat the system. Maybe she had it hidden under her clothes all along. The thing is already losing itself in rumour, suspicion, myth.

I'm beyond this now. I've retired. Moved on. I'm looking for a bigger world. Like that African woman and her baby, I need a new beginning.

After 35 years I'm still looking for my life. Real life.

DERBY AND ME

Ger Petrie

You sit down heavily across the kitchen table. “Good morning,” I say.

Your brow knits a ploughed furrow as you stick your head into the cereal box.

“Where did you find this? Triple Berries! You'd need a Garda search and rescue team to locate any berries in here.”

“Grumble, grouse, growl,” I want to say. I refrain.

“It's a new one. I thought you'd like to try it for a change.”

“What was wrong with the other one, Special X or whatever it's called. Why change a good thing? At least, now and then, I could see a bit of fruit in that.”

I switch off. You, Mr Pickahole, are starting off your day as you mean to go on. You, Mr Pickahole, recently retired Managing Director, having browbeaten your staff into running your business for 40 years, are now directing your ire at me, staff of one.

“You said there was no post yesterday.”

“Grouch, gripe, moan.” It's only a fleeting thought in my mind.

“That's right, I checked the box yesterday evening. It was empty.”

“No, it wasn't. There were several letters. You only peered into the top. You need to open the box with the key to check it properly. That's how I discovered it was full.”

“Whinge, whine, bleat.” My lips don't move. I close my ears again. The silence in my head is very pleasant. I notice your mouth is on the move once more. I open a small perceptive channel.

“You left the gas on last night when you went to your writing class. It was hissing away for two hours after you left. It's a miracle I'm still here. How I wasn't blown into the next life I'll never know.”

“PITY YOU WEREN'T!” Did I really say that out loud? I glance across the table at you. Your expression confirms I most certainly did. God, I'm getting very brave. Daring and dauntless now, I continue.

“As and from today there is a new rule in this marriage. You, Mr Pickahole, will be allowed a maximum of four complaints per day. It's 9.30am and as you have lodged three and half faults so far, I'd be very selective if I were you, for the remainder of the day. Perhaps something particularly serious may turn up and need to be remonstrated.'

Your mouth is open very wide. My auditory range is tuned up to full power. The steady tick of the kitchen clock is the only sound between us.