HONEY CAKE AND A TOUCH OF WHISKY

It is a sunny, bitterly cold fifteenth of March, the day after his birthday, when Pat wakes up in his cottage and takes some time to realise that it is not his usual quarter past six in the morning, but half past three in the afternoon. He gets out of bed and staggers up to the small square window, noticing that the sun is already feeble and poor old Brandy is sitting in front of the door, his eyes alert and concerned notwithstanding its age.

Pat opens the door with great difficulty and as he calls Brandy in, he finds his speech is laboured. He’s had a stroke. This is it, he thinks, already aware he won’t get any help. His fingers are numb and he won’t be able to use his mobile phone.

His only niece, Lily, who visits once or twice a year, gave him a tracking device and tried to persuade him to wear it round his neck, especially when you’re out in the fields, she advised, but Pat laughed it off, ‘How old d’you think I am?’.

So, he thanked Lily for her thoughtfulness and fitted the device on his beloved collie’s collar as a Christmas gift. The dog felt important and he felt rewarded.

Pat manages to step out onto the patio, but as he makes to pat Brandy on its head, he loses balance and collapses, falling heavily onto the stone slabs. His left arm gets trapped under his torso and his right one, unable to support his weight, makes it impossible for him to turn over and get himself up.

He hears Brandy making unusual noises, something between a grunt and a call. Are you trying to tell me everything will be ok? he mumbles, and every now and then, the dog lets out a shrill bark, looking around in distress. Pat knows the dog knows that there’s no point in trying to find any assistance. His closest neighbours live a couple of miles away. Brandy wouldn’t make it that far. Besides, Pat’s heard that they are visiting their daughter in Dubai or some such place. His nephew drops by only when he can find some minutes to spare… Unless someone tries to reach him on his mobile and realises that it’s odd for him not to reply, he will be lying there until the end, Pat realises.

The breeze is picking up and the clouds get thicker by the minute. Pat feels thirsty. Oh, yes. So bloody thirsty. With every attempt at getting up from the hard floor, his body becomes less and less responsive. He can feel his right leg alright and tries to fold it, reasoning that if he could kneel on it, he would be half way up to… only his heavy torso keeps flopping down, his leg arm remains stiff, his right one, in sharp pain.

He hears a car approaching, but soon the noise dies down as the car drives on by. Brandy runs to the gate and barks, but soon gives up and comes back, one minute circling restlessly around him; the next one, lying down by his side, one paw on his arm as if checking that he still has a pulse.

‘Poor you, mate, you must be starving’. Pat mumbles. Brandy mumbles back something hardly audible. The breeze is turning into a strong wind. The sun is going down fast behind the barn. The temperature is plummeting.

It’s going to be a long night unless someone calls, mate. After all, it’s not as if I get calls every hour, not even every day. And even if someone like Lily or Matthew call, they might just assume I’m working outside or in town with some woman. Ha! you should’ve seen Brigid’s expression the day I mentioned that I enjoy casual sex with women I meet at the pub or online. Ha. She crossed herself and prayed for this brother of hers, who “goes with sluts”, as she put it. Twenty-first century, Heavens above! Where’s she living? If she could see the websites I visit, she would have me ex-communicated. Poor Brigid! Sixty-two and still a virgin.

Pat makes one more attempt at turning over, but fails. He tries crawling back into the cottage, but his arms feel lifeless now and his legs, too heavy.

What a bloody stupid wretched way to die, mate. Big, ruddy man catches the death of cold, the local paper will say. It’s quite dark already. How long are we going to survive in this icy gale without food or water? I’m feeling stiffer and number by the minute. You’re already shaking, my poor devil. I wonder who will go first…

The icy gusts soon bring the rain, which slashes down onto both the man and the collie. The former, shakes and curses; the latter, whines and whimpers. They both know what lies ahead.

Bloody hell, Brandy. This reminds me of our holidays in Clifden. When I was a lad, my parents used to send me to their old people during the summer hols… All the way to the fecking west coast. Used to look forward to going there, climb up the hills with granddad, meet up a few lads down the lane, but after three or four days I missed my home, my toys… Gales like no others, rain like a constant whiplash... It came horizontally at you. Sorry, I’m slurring my words, boy.

Then my nan died. She was in her seventies, they said, but she was like a hundred and twenty to me. I was about ten. Grandfather lost his marbles before the wake was over. Don’t whine, please. You break my heart. The rain will stop soon. Bless you, old devil. Bless you. May all the fecking saints Brigid invokes bless you. We’ll make it, old boy. We will.

One summer day Mammy stayed there too. Brigid liked to stay with nan, helping her cook or sew some rag doll, but my mother and I did all the errands together… to the butcher’s, the greengrocer’s, the baker’s… The baker was a burly woman with red stubble and huge hands. She always wore green. Green top, green skirt, green shoes… old fashioned, ‘course. The seventies hadn’t reached Connemara. Brigid and I referred to her as Mrs Leprechaun and Mammy tried to reprimand us, but she burst out laughing. She was so happy those days. Everyone in the town turned to look at her, I remember that. She wore jeans and pixie boots, she called them. One sunny morning, when nan and granddad went to church, she pretended to be feeling unwell, so I stayed behind to look after her. Brigid said she would go with Nan and say an extra prayer for her...

When we heard the front door shut, Mammy leapt out of bed, got washed and dressed, grabbed the sack she had packed the previous night and dragged me out by the hand. We’re going for a picnic, she said. I was almost running to keep up with her. If someone saw us not going towards St Joseph’s we would be in trouble.

The weather held. Clear sky, warm breeze even! You would’ve loved it, Brandy!

I suggested the Castle, but Mammy said it was too exposed. We found a nice little coppice instead. Somewhere uphill, watching the bay from a distance. We laid the old blanket. Blue and red it was, I remember. Mum had packed my book and my catapult. Don’t go aiming at birds or cats or anything alive, she always told me. “All animals have either kids or parents waiting for them”. I don’t think I played with it though. Just wanted to be around her, so I lay down by her side and we read our books to each other. Hers was a poetry one. Yeats, of course.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light…

And then, when we got hungry, you know what she’d packed? Honey cake and fruit cake. With a touch of whisky, she told me with a wink. Flask of sweet tea and cakes. Fancy that!

Pat’s teeth are chattering and he cannot even mutter his words. His body won’t stop shaking, but there are no more attempts to turn one way or the other. Poor old Barndy lies still. No more sounds come out of him.

From the corner of his eye, Pat sees his father at the gate, whistling a Connemara tune. He’d been so fond of a man who was rather distant man, but always generous. When Pat left for England, he waved back from his window until the station became a speck in the distance. He’d seen his father holding back tears and he burst out crying as the train picked up speed.

Now it’s sunny at the gate and his father dissolves leaving no trace.

I went back to Clifden in my teens once. Walked along the coast with a local girl. Fifteen she was. Legs like a colt, big melons and eyes so blue… pushed her against a stone wall all calm and bright but then, when I managed to unbutton her blouse, the skies opened. Should’ve seen us, mate. The rain fell from every angle, no bloody way of sheltering from it. Never been so fucking cold in my life…