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16 October 2014
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Paul McLaughlin
Paul McLaughlin

I am a retired media relations manager with a large corporate company who still writes fiction, but now purely for enjoyment. A founder member of the Tin Bath Writers Co-op based in Belfast's Sailortown. Staunch supporter of campaign to reopen St Joseph's Church in the docklands - hence picture of me as a clergyman.

All That Matters by Paul McLaughlin

I picked potatoes, stooped over in a Hopalong Cassidy sloppy Joe and baggy, khaki shorts with the July sun over my head and my seven-year-old brother at my shoulder. He laughed as he scraped the burnt, brown soil from the spuds to reveal navy-blue fists of balls that shone like crystal.

“They’re beautiful”, he said, angling his head to mine and keeping the laugh in his voice; “Like Grannie’s Christmas decorations”.
His words tailed off happily as he dropped the blue-skins into the Hessian bag at his feet and forged ahead of me in a parallel furrow, humming to himself and the broad green leaves that brushed his cheek as he rose and dipped like a pecking cockerel.

I felt the ache in my spine and the earth under my fingernails, my hands ruddied with the week of sun and the flaking clay. I rubbed it between fingers and thumbs like the Warhorse tobacco that Mr Cunningham, our elderly neighbour, pared from a brownish, black block with his tortoiseshell penknife before filling his ancient pipe and watched as the brown and beige bits and blobs of heavy loam fell back to earth.

“Everything returns to the ground”, said Brother Maher our Physics master, “Everything that ever was, from the day God created it, is still with us, but first of all it goes into the ground”.
He’d said it was the big law of Physics and the law must always be obeyed, especially God’s law.

My understanding of those laws, whether God’s or Isaac Newton’s, was as empty as the drills that stretched long and straight behind the heels of my mutton dummies and my ignorance as clear as the wide sky that sellotaped itself to the sea in a shimmering horizon far beyond the lighthouse at Cranfield point.

“Dinner hour, dinner hour” shouted Missus Digney from the half-door of the whitewashed cottage, as she rang an old, school hand-bell in time with her calling. Her voice was of the country with its lumbering vowels and consonants as round as the underbelly of Buttercup the milk cow, a voice that sounded sleepy and unrushed even in a temper, a voice that was as strange as it was familiar.

We ate boiled potatoes, “Like balls of flour these are”, she said, from biscuit coloured bowls with spoons as big as shovels in little soft and city hands and washed them along with cloying, creamy milk that had never seen a bottle. “Good work this morning boys” she said, the crusty milk glistening on the shy line of silver hair on her upper lip and crinkling as she spoke; “Your Daddy tells me your people were from Donegal. Sure, nobody is from the city at all don’t you know.”

My brother laughed the innocent chortle of the peasant and rubbed the remains of his meal from his mouth with exaggeration. I watched as Missus Digney lit her clay pipe with a spill from the fire and sat back contentedly in the bleached discomfort of the high-backed, wooden kitchen chair.

Gypo, the border collie, the black and white waves of his coat catching the shafts of sunlight that broke through one window, chose a spot half in and half out of the beams and settled on the coolness of the large square-sets that floored the entire room. His sigh, after a meal of mashed oats and potatoes, was the sound of contentment itself. A morning’s work done to perfection, sheep who knew their master grazing peacefully in the meadow, a top-dog having his day. But Gypo was an oul fraud.

The sheep had been sold that Spring at the market in Ballynahinch to pay for the one hundred and one things that would keep Missus Digney’s body and daily communicant’s soul together for another few years.
Daddy had told us that the old woman, with her dead husband and both sons buried under a simple marker in the hill cemetery at Mass Forth chapel, would need two strong men to harvest her potato crop and, despite his advice that “You must never volunteer for anything”, he smiled like a successful, recruiting sergeant when my brother and I had shot up our arms and begged for the jobs.

Two days of back-break and badly-sung Beatle songs later, we had cleared the Digney field. The furrows lay as empty as Our Lord’s tomb on Easter Sunday, bare, like open wounds to the salt winds that blew across the one square acre from the dunes and beach and bitter tides to the east. Fierce battalions of purple-Busbied thistles stood guard at its edges, shifting from foot to foot as the breeze became a wind and then a gale, their heads bending and unbending in a dance of survival, their rhythm unbroken despite the swirls and eddies of an unseen music.
Gorse and best, butter-yellow crocus, prickly and bad tempered shared their ranks like unwelcome regiments, breaking the wind into gusting slivers and standing firm like a vanguard, and even the murderous crows who cawed away the hours like wild cuckoo clocks refused to sit with them.

“We’ll have to get you fellas paid”, said Missus Digney, walking to the oak fireboard, her bedroom slippers tired and dragging in little shuffling steps.
“No Missus,” I heard myself say; “My Daddy says that the big bag of spuds you gave us is more than enough.” She smiled, directly under the glass, framed, sepia photograph of a man in navy uniform that was anchored firmly to the fireplace wall. “Your dad is an old navy man himself and knows well that every sailor loves a wee treat.” She placed the Free State sixpence, with the coursing greyhound facing upward, in my hand and then another in my brother’s and closed each with a warm and gentle finality that ended any argument.
“Get up before Eddie’s shop closes and spend that silver on yourselves – right now”.

We ran to the redbrick bungalow at the crossroads, where two lanes no wider than a Morris Minor encountered their own self-importance, our arms waving like wild men who shout to hear themselves, thinking of brightly-coloured paper wrappers and the shiny, silver paper that insulated the dark smell and sweetness of chocolate.
The blue balls of flour were forgotten, the tired limbs revived, the old dog, the years cast aside, bounding ahead and expectant.

Brother Maher’s words would be remembered, of course, not at the Physics exam where law-breaking took on a new dimension, but rather, under a wide July sky, facing the four fonts of a simple marker in a hill cemetery that had grown twenty more crops of grass.
“Everything returns to the ground”, he’d said and “The law must always be obeyed”.

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More from this writer:

Short Stories
All That Matters
An Answer to a Prayer
In search of magic wands

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