DANCING AT THE CROSSROADS

                                       

                                                                     Part One                              

                                                                      Chapter One

                                                                        Scene One

 

Michael well remembered the blow that killed his friend.  Not until the day he died would he ever forget it. Never had two friends fought with such fury. Never had two men who had grown up together like brothers fought with such anger, each determined to win, and quite prepared to kill the other if that was what it took.

        He was very quiet as the coach sped along the country lane. The nearer the coach came to Ballymay, the more the memories of that day came flooding back, for that was the price his friend had paid. He could see it as clearly now as on the day it happened; his friend's lifeless body sprawled in the ditch, where the last ferocious blow had sent him crashing.

        Restlessly Michael stirred. Instinctively he knew - though it was more than forty years since he had last travelled this road - that he was nearly home.

        Home? A wry smile crossed his face as he contemplated his welcome and the reaction of those waiting for him.  What would they make of the story he had to tell them? And why, after all this time, was he going home?

        Of course he had no idea of how his family had developed over all those years, or who would be there to meet him. He knew also there may be some for whom that possibility no longer existed; those who had already passed through the portal to which Michael himself was heading. For Michael was going home to atone for his sins, to embrace - if they would let him - his family; and then to die.

        Ahead of him the road, virtually deserted by other traffic, wove its way through the valley, rising and falling as it moved from crest to dip, then swinging first to the left and then to the right as it negotiated the topography of the countryside. On either side Michael could see, when a break in the trees allowed, the gently rising slopes of the valley sides, while now and then a straight stretch provided him with a view ahead, and an occasional glimpse of 'The Cradle'. He remembered the cradle well; a small but well defined hill that had greeted him every morning from his birth to the day he left Ballymay all those years ago.

        He was nearly there. Just the cross roads ahead, where the bus would stop, and then a short walk to the left into the village itself.

        As the bus rounded the last corner Michael could see some people all around the junction. Lots of them; forty or more. Some of them - mostly girls he thought - were sitting on the grass verges, and others - mostly boys - were leaning against fences or trees. It was as though they were waiting for something, and when they saw the bus they all seemed to move. Then he became aware of another group standing to one side. When the bus stopped, and the door swung noisily open he could hear them.

        Now he knew he was home.

        Two steps brought him down to the road, and two more took him to the front of the bus from where he could now see the players. It was the movement as much as the noise that made him thrill; the familiar sound of fiddle and melodium; bhodran drum and penny whistle that for generation upon generation has had every Irishman - and many that were not - tapping their feet. Now, for the first time he got a good look at the dancers; the boys and girls no longer leaning and waiting, but energetically keeping time with the musician's nimble fingers and flying elbows. For five minutes he watched and listened. They had come together at the centre of the cross, where the road was at its most spacious, and were dancing with gusto.  A smile and a tear adorned Michael's weary face as he watched. How much he had missed this he would not have admitted, but the sight and the sound invaded his very being and re-awakened feelings that had been submerged; almost forgotten; for far too long. What a welcome !  Such a welcome he never expected, and never dreamed of.

        But it had been too long, and despite his joy he could not help his thoughts returning to that day when he had fled like a frightened rabbit. Terrified at what he had done, sick to the stomach at the vision of his lifelong friend sprawled lifeless in the ditch. He had run away like a coward.

        The music and the dancing continued as he reminisced. A combination of bad memories and the sounds he had grown up with brought tears to his eyes. There had been no-one at home when he returned breathless and afraid, and he wasted no time  stuffing some clothes into a rucksack. He searched all the rooms for money; not caring whose it was and any he found was stuffed into his bag. In less than half an hour he was off again, away from his home, his village, his family. Away from everything he had ever known, and until this day had never returned.

        Then a voice, unknown and unwelcome brought him out of his reverie. "Hello Uncle Michael," the young  man said, "I'm Seamus, sent to welcome you. Is it just the one bag you have?"

        Michael turned to face his unknown relative. In a moment like the snap of fingers the music was gone, as were the dancers. All that was left was the empty crossroads, bereft of life save Michael and this unknown person whose link to the family was yet to be discovered.

         "Just the one." he answered, as the young man stooped to pick it up.

        The bus had pulled away long before leaving just Michael at the junction. Now an unknown relative had joined him, each uncertain of the other, neither knowing what to say. It was eerily quiet now after such gaiety and excitement. All was gone, and yet it had seemed so real. Gone were the music makers, and gone were the onlookers. Gone too were the young people who had been so swift of foot and body. Gone was the merriment and Michael's contented feeling of being home. Gone!  All that was left was the swirling dust and the ghostly openness of the crossroad, just as it had been when the coach had stopped.

        Silently he followed the lad as they walked a couple of hundred yards from the main road, down the gentle slope until they reached the first cottage in the village on the left. It was exactly as Michael remembered, except for the casually abandoned children's toys in the small front garden, and rather more weeds than when old Tom used to live there.

        A few strides more and they came to the grassy area at the centre of the village with its lone tree at the far end. It was generous perhaps to call it a green but it was by that name it had always been known, and despite its slopes and unevenness it had served many generations of local youngsters well.  As a football pitch it was perhaps the most advantageous 'home' pitch for miles. As a general play area it had seen each new crop of village youth gravitate from running jumping and skipping, to more athletic ball games. For some it had served as a springboard to more skilful pursuits, but for most it had always been the acceptable meeting place for boys and girls. Michael remembered many a scrappy encounter there, and some muddy ones. More importantly he remembered some of the girls he had met there; and one in particular.

        There were no boys playing now, nor evidence of any recent games and he wondered if those activities had been abandoned. There was no sign of the old goal posts, or indeed more recent replacements,  but he was somehow comforted that the old beech at the far end had survived, and despite the extra years it looked no different now to when he was a lad.

        He stopped and looked diagonally across the green. To the to the right of the Beech nearing the centre was a row of little cottages, not unlike the ones now behind him. .A rough track circled the green serving both sets  and Michael stopped before he took a step onto the grass itself. Number Eleven was the house where he had been born more than sixty years before. The row of cottages bore no road name, not even 'The green', or anything quite so grand; just numbers. Number eleven The Cottages, Ballymay. 'That would always find it' he mused, but quickly dismissed the thought, ashamed that in his absence he had never put the theory to the test. The cottage next to the end of the row, farthest from the tree, was number eleven. Each house was fronted by small garden, contained within a low stone wall..

        "Just as I remembered." he breathed the words, ignoring for the moment further round The Green, beyond the Beech tree were a number of larger modern houses which he did not remember.

        Then his gaze moved on a mile or so behind the cottage where he could see, just as he knew he would, 'The Cradle'. He could plainly see its twin peaks - little more than rocky prominences, augmented through the years by walkers piling stone upon stone to create cairns at either end of an otherwise flattish bowl shaped plateau. Those Cairns had over time assumed quite modest proportions - adding to the illusion of a cradle. On one side of the Cradle it was quite steep, while the other merged more gently with it's surroundings. Though it was not high enough to be classed as a mountain it was high enough to be prominent, and at this distance, impressive. With it's peaks separated by its shallow plateau, it took a little imagination to see it as a cradle. However 'The Cradle' it had always been, a fact no one ever questioned, or bothered to enquire who had first named it so.

        Michael had stopped just on the edge of the green, filling his lungs and his eyes and his heart with all that surrounded him. The boy by this time was halfway across the stubbly grass before he realised he was on his own. He stopped and turned, waiting for Michael to catch up.

        "Aunt Molly will be waiting," he said, by way of explanation. "I; an she'll likely have a bite ready for you."

 

                                                                          Scene Two

       

Molly was behind the kitchen table when Michael walked in. She stood, rooted. Her tongue which would normally be off ten to the dozen at a moments notice, was silent. She had not seen her brother for forty years, and for most of that time did not know where he was, or even if he was still alive.  Now he stood there before her.

        "Hello sis."

        "Hello Michael."

        The simple greetings did nothing to bridge the gap that all those years had created. They were cordial but without warmth.

        "It's good to be home."

        "Good you say. Ha. And why did it take you so long?" Some of the emotion which she had kept contained ever since she learned that her brother was returning, spilled over. "And why did you never let us know if you were dead or alive. Did you not think we cared?"

        Michael moved a little closer. "I didn't think anyone would care. Thought you'd all be glad to see the back of me."

        Molly edged her way round the table, which, in the small kitchen brought her close to her brother. For the first time she smiled. Then she put her arms around him and squeezed. Not too hard, but with some feeling.

        "I thought I was never going to see you again," she said quietly "and you thought I would not care?"

        They clung to each other for a long time. Michael, thin and wiry; and Molly, shorter in height, but twice his girth. Two people who had used up the greater part of their biblical life span,  were holding on to each other like young lovers. For a long time neither of them spoke, and yet in those minutes they exchanged something more than words.

        It was Molly who broke off the clinch. Gently but firmly. "You've got some explaining to do," she said as she dabbed her eyes with her ‘pinny’ hanky, "but there'll be plenty of time for that." She turned "And there's some folk to meet." waiving the boy forward as she spoke. "You've met Saemus, but knowing him he'll not have said two words to you." She smiled. The ice had been broken and her confidence somewhat restored. She was in her own kitchen, and her sense of being the senior member of the family was returning.

        "This is Saemus, your youngest brother's son."

        Michael turned to greet his nephew, who in truth had not uttered a word he had not deemed essential, and had not even offered his hand to greet his uncle. However he now took the one that was offered to him.

        "Hello Saemus," Michael said, his arm outstretched, a smile brightening his face. "It's good to know about you, and better still to meet you."

        "Aye, you too." Saemus responded, as ever short of words, and giving no clue as to their sincerity.

        "Will I be seeing ya 'da', and . . . " an awkward pause  ". . . the rest of the family? Michael asked; for the truth of it was that he did not know who he would be meeting. None of his siblings had been married when he ran away, and they would, he guessed, have established their own lives and family's without the benefit - or knowledge - of their oldest brother.

        He looked at Molly as he let the young hand go, no other words having been uttered.

        "They gradually, lost any sense of you," his sister answered quietly, "until eventually you ceased to be a reality."

        "Why then would they bother?"  it was really more a statement than a question.

        "Well you'll just have to wait and see," Molly answered, more firmly now, "but be warned; it might test your patience."       

        Only she, the first born of the family, had known Michael as a baby and as a child growing up to be a young man.  She alone had harboured any real memories of him, and for many years had managed to maintain a little hope for her missing brother. But it was a hope that even she had found hard to hold on to. Now he was back; almost a stranger; and she knew her brothers would not open their arms, or their hearts, as willingly as she.

        Molly has suffered the fate of many first born daughters. Her parents had married late and by the time all the children had been born they seemed, in the eyes of a young girl, and long before she was out of school, to be weary and old. It was assumed, indeed expected, that as the eldest daughter she would put her own life on hold to look after her parents and her younger brothers. There was a kind of certainty that she would make that sacrifice; a sacrifice which none of the family seemed to appreciate, so even at an age before marrying time she knew the responsibilities of home and children. Worse still, and with an almost perverse inevitability, her 'ailing' parents lived lived into ripe old age, leaning ever more heavily on their dutiful daughter. Long before they went to their maker, Molly had given up any hopes of romance and a family of her own, and when her freedom eventually came it was too late.        

        Despite the burden and the drudgery Molly loved her parents, and accepted her role, admittedly with a certain scepticism, as God's will.  Nevertheless, when relief finally came Molly was curiously burdened with bitterness.  It was however a bitterness which was softened in a way that she did not fully understand at the time; perhaps never in a real sense, for over the years she had acquired a certain authority. In her kitchen; in her house; in the village; indeed wherever she was, she had become head of the family; the queen bee, accepting from her younger brothers and their wives and children a certain deference; an acknowledgement of her status. It had been a natural development which none had questioned; and none had challenged.

        In return, they became her family.

        Now once more she looked into the eyes of her brother. Eyes she had not seen for the best part of half a century, and wondered if he would be that challenge. Would he be the one to threaten the stability that for all these years she, and they, had taken for granted?

        But, despite her misgivings and his uncertainties they came together with a degree of warmth, reservations put to one side; at least for the time being. Throughout the emotion of their greetings, Molly had managed to keep a smile on her face, and some semblance of priorities. "You'll be hungry no doubt?" she asked as she turned away. "It's a long journey from . . . wherever?"

        "London." Michael answered, somewhat relieved that the first family link had been made, and more easily than he had imagined.  "I've been in London for a few months."

        "With your family?"  Was it going to be like pulling teeth, Molly wondered?  Getting her long lost brother to talk freely might not be too easy. "Will you sit to the table?" she said, as though somehow she did not want to hear the answer to her question.

        "No; I have no family with me just now. Maybe later." He had omitted, deliberately, to mention that most of that time in  London he had been receiving medical treatment.

        Molly knew that she would have to be patient. 'Perhaps when he's had a glass or two his tongue will feel a little freer'. She smiled at her thoughts as she slid the pot from the oven. 'And then, if he's at all like the rest of them, he'll not want to stop'. She placed the large dish of steaming Irish stew in front of her brother, then turned to reach a smaller one for herself. "When you've eaten you'll want to rest, and then you'll be wanting to meet the family no doubt." 

        Michael did not respond. He was prepared for the ordeal to come, resigned to the questions and the curious looks he would get. He was also prepared for some hostility. There would be many rivers to cross; many bridges to build; sins to confess and tears to shed. But it had to be done and there was little time.

        "Thank you Molly," he said quietly as he took up the spoon.

        Molly turned away quickly, pretending she needed a tea towel, and was glad that at that moment Michael was not looking  at her, and did not see her furtively dab the tears from her eyes.

        Well into her sixties now, she had been a young woman when last she had heard this man speak her name, and she had long ago resigned herself to believe that she may never hear him speak it again.