I think he died for me...

'I think he died for me.'  You looked at me expectantly, 'Greta said that didn't she?' You were gesturing to my own dogeared copy of Dubliners in your lap.

It was one of those days, those beautiful sunny days that our mid-twenties seemed to be made of. We were lying in the grass, outside the lecture hall, coffee and half eaten sandwiches lay abandoned around us. The smell of illicit smoke drifted out from behind the science lab. The physics students were the worst for it, maintaining that the weed opened their minds so they could understand the complex world of theoretical physics. High, they could debate the merits of String Theory over Loop Quantum Gravity, or whatever it is that theoretical physicists talk about while high. Probably Stargate Universe versus Atlantis if we're being honest.

'Hey!' You tapped me with your highlighter on the knee, 'I asked you a question.'

'Yeah, Greta said it about Michael Furey, to Gabriel.' You were still looking at me. 'What?' I asked, feeling uncomfortable under your gaze.

'Well... Did he die for her?' You were smiling, that smile.

I wanted to tell you yes. I wanted to tell you that poor Michael Furey risked his already failing health to throw stones at Greta's window, that it had meant he loved her, and that he died in order to let her know. It wasn't true though. At least not to me. Greta's statement that Michael Furey died for her was just romanticism. What Michael died of was consumption, not a broken heart. We had discussed the line in lectures and tutorials, you would have known if you bothered to attend your lectures.

It was easy to see the romance in Joyce, the romance in Ireland, it wasn't always so easy to see the truth. That's what Joyce was saying, the Irish, we were too caught up in the romanticism of ourselves. The line was supposed to be a homage to Yeats' Cathleen ni Houlihan, Yeats' feminine representative of Eire, the woman who men would die for, and die willingly. Once again, you would have known this yourself if you had bothered to show up one in awhile, instead of two weeks before finals. I looked at you then, feeling a compulsive urge to land this all on you, to corrupt the image you had of Greta, of Joyce, of Ireland and maybe even of yourself.

As I opened my mouth a breeze drifted over the grass and swept itself up in your hair. You laughed as you tried to catch the wily strands, drifting around your face, obscuring you for a second or two. I watched you, taking each strand and pulling them back into your hands at the nape of your neck. You leaned over, so close to me I thought for a minute that this was the moment, instead you lifted my ballpoint pen out of my open notebook and used it to pin your hair. You sat back, a satisfied smile on your lips, and picked Dubliners, cracking the already battered spine some more.

'Are you planning on answering me?' You were pouting now, half mocking half serious.

I thought again for a moment and said 'Yes, he died for her.'

As you lay back in the grass, sighing with the romanticism of it all, I thought about what I should have said.

Michael Furey didn't die for Greta, but I would die for you.    

The Forecourt

‘I don’t love you anymore.’ It escaped her lips and hovered between them. The weight of the words she had often thought but never said made the small car even smaller and made the distance between them seem even wider.

‘Is that why you brought me out here?’ He stared straight ahead, his mouth set in a hard line. She stared at his lips and remembered a time when they traced their way across her throat, as if discovering secrets, buried in her neck.

She remembered the first time he had put his lips to hers, clumsy, hurried and shy. They had been so young, so unsure, like fawns learning how to walk for the first time. She remembered a time when she would look as his lips moved and while he spoke to her she would think to herself; if he doesn’t kiss me now, I might die. It was almost unimaginable, as she sat in the beat up old fiesta, that they had gone from there to here in only nine short years.

She stared out the window at the old petrol station. The sign was crumbling so that it was almost unreadable, the paint was peeling revealing years of color changes as the station changed hands, the once pristine tarmac of the forecourt was now overgrown with weeds. Care. That’s what it was lacking, someone to care for it, to invest in it, to believe that there was a future in it. The similarities between the destitution of their meeting place and the destitution of their relationship was not lost on her.

‘Do you remember the first day we met?’ She looked at him as he stared angrily straight ahead. She continued earnestly, wanting him to remember, needing him to remember, ‘You were what? Eighteen? You were stood right over there?’ She pointed to the remnants of the second pump on the forecourt. ‘You were wearing a blue shirt and jeans, and I thought; who the hell is that?’ She laughed at the memory of it, of falling in love at first sight at seventeen.

She was lost in the memory and jumped when he spoke, ‘You jumped out of your Da’s car, all legs and elbows, this skinny girl,’ His expression softened and he almost smiled, ‘You picked up the diesel pump, it was only when I should to you that you realised the mistake.’ He looked out the window at the shadow of their relationship as it lingered briefly on the forecourt.

She saw herself as she was then, smiling at the memory of the seventeen year old girl far too concerned with impressing the boy in front of her than potentially recking her father’s car engine. ‘It’s hard to believe we were ever that young,’ she sighed.

‘Yeah,’ He snapped, the bitterness returning to his voice, ‘Time flies when you’re having fun.’

She went to place her hand on his, but thought better of it, she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her coat so they wouldn’t betray her. ‘It was fun.’ She whispered.

‘Just not anymore right?’ He looked at her, the question both accusing and pleading. He sagged slightly in his seat, defeated, ‘At least not for you.’

‘Don’t put this all on me.’ She was losing patience with his poor me act. He had a short memory, and clearly he didn’t remember his own cruelty over the past years.

‘It’s you that wants to end it though.’ His voice rising slightly with the righteous anger he now felt, ‘So I think I’m entitled to attribute blame to someone.’

‘Oh yeah, because nothing is ever your fault.’ She was losing it now. ‘You can be such a fucking child sometimes.’ She didn’t want it to be like this, she didn’t want them shouting at each other in the car, but now she couldn’t stop. ‘It’s like you don’t even remember the last six months!’

‘It’s like you don’t remember the eight years before it.’ He bit back. ‘You can’t just drag me out here, and then say your ending it because ‘you don’t love me anymore’ what the fuck is that?’ He was shouting now, banging his hand against the steering wheel, ‘What about my feelings? What about the fact that I still love you?’ She looked out the window. ‘Don’t ignore me.’ He grabbed her chin and turned her to face him, ‘I said, I still love you.’

She pushed his hand away as her eyes filled with tears. She didn’t know what she had expected, but a declaration of love was not it. ‘No you don’t. You’re just saying that because you don’t want to admit that this is over. That it’s been over now for awhile. It’s just about time one of us admits it.’

He took her hand gently, ‘It’s not over.’ He leaned gently over the gearbox, pushing his face against hers, ‘It’s not over.’ He whispered again, and then he kissed her.

It was like being thrown through a time machine. Before she knew what was happening she was kissing him back, leaning her body into his, pressing herself against him as he returned the pressure. As her sense caught up with her hormones, she pulled away.

He looked quizzically at her and then moved towards her again. She placed a hand on his chest and shook her head wordlessly. He slumped back in his seat. She traced the edges of her mouth, tingling with the pressure of him, they were swollen already and it made her remember the early days, when they would simply spend hours and hours kissing.

‘We need to end this now.’ She settled her shaking breath, ‘It’s over. I’m done. I just can’t... I can’t do this anymore.’ She looked at him, he had returned to staring out at the forecourt. ‘Are you listening to me?’ she reached out a hand to place on his shoulder, he snapped back around and she left her hand, momentarily stretched across the car. Gently, she brought her hand to his face, tracing the structure she had once loved so much, ‘I did love you. Once. For a very long time.’

He grimaced, ‘I loved you too. I still do.’

She brought her head against his. ‘I know. But it’s not enough.’

Their eyes were both filling with tears, and she knew almost immediately that if she didn’t get out soon, they would be sitting here in nine years, trying to leave each other all over again. She knew, that he could tell himself that he was still in love with her, but he wasn’t. He was in love with the ghost that hovered between them that spoke to love and future and happiness, but it was just a ghost, there was nothing true about it, it was just the lingering feelings of a relationship that died long long ago.

‘At least we’ll always have the forecourt.’ She smiled and so did he, through a haze of sadness they said goodbye, to each other and to the young lovers on the forecourt.

Balancing the Books

Daragh looked down over the murky black waters at the waves smashing against the hull. He thought of his childhood, of his Father and the other fishermen who would sit in pubs that stank of pipe smoke, sea air, rotting fish and the toil of a long day, they would warn of good people lost at sea, of fisherman but also landed people, the stories of coffin ships, the Titanic and something called the Bermuda triangle. When his Father was in the company of other fishermen, he would say, and they would nod wisely in agreement, ‘If you ever for a second forget that the sea is the boss, you’ll be fucked.’ Then someone would quip ‘A bit like the wife!’ and the whole place would be in stitches. When his Father would tell his Mother these stories, she would get upset, and Daragh would see the worry in his Mother’s eye and he wanted to tell her that even as big and powerful as the sea was, it would never challenge his Father who Daragh was pretty sure was the reincarnation Cú Chulainn himself.

When anyone died in the sea anywhere on the east coast they would attend the funeral. Even if they did not know the people, his Father would insist. His Mother would be so affected by the funerals. She would wipe away tears and cling onto Daragh, seeking some sort of solace from him. Often in the days after the funeral she would take to her bed. She said it was because she was so sad for the widow. ‘What if it was you?’ She would ask Daragh’s Father when he pleaded with her to get up. Daragh never heard his Father’s answer. At a funeral for Dessie, a fisherman Daragh’s Father had been very friendly with, Daragh had watched his Mother as she went to give her condolences to the widow. Her thin body had been bent with grief that didn’t belong to her. Daragh searched the crowd for his Father and spotted him staring over, watching as his Mother moved gently through the crowd wiping tears from her eyes. Daragh wondered about the look on his Father’s face, he looked sad and afraid, and Daragh didn’t know why. He put the look to the back of his mind and focused his gaze back on his Mother, her head bent as she listened to the tears and muffled sobs of the widow. 

When his Father went fishing the next day, Daragh climbed into bed with his Mother, and thought about the sea. ‘Mam?’ He had said, nudging her with his elbow, she didn’t say anything but he knew she was listening. ‘I was thinking, that maybe sometimes the sea needs to balance it’s books.’ She sat up slowly, looking at him. ‘See, I think that for all the life that we take out of the sea some of it needs to be returned.’ He glanced at his Mother before continuing, ‘So I’ve decided I’m not going to catch the crabs on the beach anymore and that way,’ He smiled at her, ‘The sea won’t need to settle up with Dad.’ His Mother had smiled her crooked smile back at him and placed a soft hand against his cheek, ‘Such a sweet boy.’ She hugged him close and whispered ‘I think the sea might need something more then a few crabs, just to be safe.’  

Daragh took a deep breath, emerging from the memory, but from where he stood, under the large and garishly painted chimney stacks billowing smoke around him he could hardly even smell the sea. The smell was so masked that he could have been standing anywhere, the only clue was the gentle dipping and rising of the boat. Daragh loved the smell of the sea and it was the reason he settled in Looe, Cornwall. In the mornings he would take the dogs for a walk on the beach and as they bounded around, digging holes and running in and out of the water, Daragh would simply close his eyes and inhale deeply and all of a sudden he would be back in his Mother’s kitchen, watching as she gutted the pollack his Father had just brought home. She hated cutting the heads off, and so she would hold her breath, turning the fish away from her so she didn’t have to see it’s eyes, and she would snap the knife down, using the edge of the blade to flick the head into the bin in one smooth motion. She always hummed to herself when preparing the dinner, sometimes if she was in particularly good form she would take Daragh’s hand, pulling him up from the table for a clumsy waltz around the kitchen. 

It was funny really, his Father was a fisherman, yet when he smelled the sea air Daragh always thought of his Mother. He was always reminded of his Father when the ships came in and the smell of the sea was clouded under a stench of petrol and energy, just like standing on the deck now, with the chimneys above him. The smell made him conjure up the day his life changed. Only a few short days after Desie’s funeral, Daragh stood in the kitchen with his Father, the smell of oil and fish radiating off the man, his hands on Daragh’s shoulder, telling him something important, Daragh had just stared at his Father’s moving lips, and had heard nothing. Daragh remembered little of the following days. Just flashes, the sympathetic looks, the murmuring of condolences, the priest standing at the edge of the sea blessing her, blessing them all, no body, no grave, an announcement carried in the Indo, the words accident, loss, Mother. Maybe it was all he cared to remember. 

It felt to him as if she had vanished. One day the house had been filled with music, laughter and warmth, the next it was stuffed with the grunting of his Father, chopping and gutting the fish as if they had done something to offend him. Later that year as Daragh walked through the town on his way home from school, he heard his Mother’s name mentioned in the same sentence as that word. Two older women stood pretending not to look at him, he walked towards them, intent on correcting them, telling them it had been an accident, but as he moved towards them, he panicked. What if they were right? So he ran. ‘What happened to Mam?’ Daragh asked as soon as he was through the kitchen door. His Father said nothing and Daragh had raised his voice to ask again. Still, his Father said nothing, he didn’t even turn around. ‘Answer me you bastard!’ Daragh had screamed. All of a sudden, his Father had turned and in one quick motion Daragh was pinned against the kitchen door. Daragh suddenly thought of the story of Cú Chulainn killing his son and the glimmer in his Father’s wild eyes, made Daragh afraid. 

Just as suddenly as he had grabbed Daragh his Father let him go. Daragh slumped to the floor as his Father spoke calmly, ‘You will not raise your voice to me in my house. Your Mother is gone. That is all that matters.’ Daragh started to cry, bringing his knees up to his chest as the sobs tore through this body. When his Father spoke again his voice was thick with emotion. ‘You remember, all the dancing, and the laughing. That’s what I want you to remember of her. I want you to think of her as happy, loving, wonderful.’ With a soft sigh his Father reached out a hand and lifted Daragh’s chin from his knees and spoke, ‘She was sick Son. We tried to keep it from you, and I thought she was getting better, but in the weeks before...’ His Father paused, clearing his throat, ‘Before it happened, she wasn’t happy. Do you remember Dessie’s funeral? It wasn’t normal, even for her. She was distraught, crying all the time, murmuring about debts to be paid, maybe I should have done more, but I thought that it would pass like the other times.’ He paused. ‘It didn’t pass though, did it?’ Daragh looked into his Father’s eyes and reached out a hand and gently placed it on his Father’s shoulder. His Father looked at him, tears streaming freely down it’s face, bending his forehead to his Daragh’s, he locked their heads together and whispered. ‘I promise, if it takes the rest of my life, I will find her.’ They had sat like that, heads locked for hours. A promise was made and true to his word his Father went out every morning and trawled the sea for her. Daragh knew it wasn’t healthy, but for years he said nothing, selfishly wanting his Father to keep the promise he made.  

Daragh tore his eyes away from the sea and his mind back to the present, looking at the people working along the deck. He couldn’t believe he was on a boat, but yet it seemed fitting considering the late night call. Daragh had stood by the harbour in Looe, where he now called home, and asked if anyone could handle an extra passenger, all he needed was to get across the Irish sea. Eventually, he found himself in an old boat that had seen better days. It was a former auxiliary vessel to the Red Cross, the Captain had boasted proudly, his eyes turned upwards to the sky. The Captain kept the painted helicopter pad, as a memory of days passed, good and bad. Daragh imagined that the Captain was searching the skies hoping that a helicopter might magically appear and wish to land, perhaps with wounded so the Captain could reprise his role as a hero. Daragh thought of the things men will do to remember better times. He thought of his Father. As the years had passed with no sign of his Mother’s body, his Father had not relented, even when Daragh begged. 

Daragh had left when it all became too much. He left his Father, a Captain on a sinking ship, afraid that if he stayed much longer he would go down as well. He had tried to explain it and his Father said he understood, he nodded and told his son to go, to live his life. Daragh had sent cards, letters, photos, anything he could think of to pull the old man back to reality. He never heard anything. He kept in touch with the publican in the town, who informed him every so often with a letter or a phonecall that his Father was still alive, still drinking, still fishing and still searching. Years passed and although he still sent the cards, the letters and the photographs, he had no expectations. He signed everything with his address, his phone number, but he stopped begging for contact. In twenty years he had heard nothing and honestly, had given up. 

Daragh surveyed the boat again. It wasn’t really suitable for fishing, at least not to Daragh’s eyes, but according to the crew the Captain meant well and as long as he kept paying them, they felt the Captain could do whatever thing he wanted, including using the old medical boat. Daragh had felt the same about his Father, he meant well, so he left him to it. The shrill cries of the seagulls and the juddering of the boat told him without looking that they had docked. It had been nearly twenty years since he had stood in this harbour. As he disembarked he moved towards the man he came to see. Daragh stood in front of the old man. His Father reached out to him, embracing him, and whispering in his ear the same thing he had said on the phone last night, the thing that had brought Daragh home. ‘I’m sorry I never found her.’ Daragh clung to his Father and thought once more of the sea and the balancing of the books.