Dreamers of
Literature
Polly,
Pal, Slugger, and an assortment of eves-droppers sat in the
dripping-dew of the dazzling moonlight.
They were
silhouetted eerily on the side of the potting shed. A late night
revelling Leaving Cert. Student on the way home from a “Having
Failed - I Will Party” party saw the tableaux and started making
notes. He went away wondering should he write a book about the
apparition of call on the bishop.
Pal was smoking pipe
tobacco he had rolled from some leaves that has mysteriously grown in
the Pollytunnell. Probably a seed that was blown in on the wind or
carried in by a bird and left as a deposit.
Slugger
was casually munching on the pieces Pal had spilled when he rolled
the flakes: now his
eyes were closed as thoughts filled his head: a rare feat, about as
rare as feet on a slug, or a one-leged man in a backside kicking
contest.
Smiling
he formed the words to describe Pal as he filled the pipe bowl -
as solemn as any old-time priest of pipe and plug: he pared and
rubbed between his palms the peat and heather, and dropped the chaff
along the floor and blew the fragrance to the air and scattered the
gardens on her bed. And told her he was sorry and called her his
first love. Slugger was away writing his great masterpiece of a
buke: the whacki backi was working.
Polly,
who was now in a Southern Belle phase, was trying to whisper to Pal
that their great romantic, Scarlet O'Hara relationship was gone with
the wind. But to no avail: Pal was away with the fairies too.
Strangely
it was even the same buke - same
chapter and paragraph: I gave her soft air born of pine
fronds that wafted chestnut smells and whirling seeds of sycamore. I
made for her the rustling sounds of leaves, wind-tossed against the
swaying bark of ash and beech.
Even the
eves-droppers dropped their heads and slept into the night.
Hey!
Hold on a second! It's me Fly On The Wall and this Buke is getting'
outa hand. Leave that kinds stuff for the Chicks to Lit. Let their
Mother Hen tell them dem kinda stories. Hubba! Hubba! Back on plot
here.
“Hey! Pal!
Snapouta it. She says she's coming back. Yer woman - your woman.
Bismark, says she is coming home.”
Ah! Ha! Thought Pal;
this backi is powerful – a talking fly tellin' me the good news.
And it was that: good news – well it's only after when you really
think about it that good news sometimes is not as good as it first
seems. You know: you just inherited a million squids from an uncle
Jeremiah. Who? But you hafta email a fello' first and give him access
to your Bank Account.
“Me Missus, who
rarely misses,” he said, carried away and rubbing his head. “Wonder
am I still Made in China?”
“Wha' abit me?”
Polly cries: in all her Southern Charm.
“Wha' abit me
….your own litter' honey child. My! My!. What will Pappa say?”
She knew Pappa Don't Preach. But it was a good sound bite.
“Ashley. Ashley.
My Ashley” she called as she tripped lightly away through the Rod
and Dendrons. “Ashley..Ashley....” The rest was lost in a scream
as she fell into the nettle encroached compost heap.
There she goes,
thought Pal, another Polly: you wally; your canoodling's gone away.
Ashley? Who's Ashley? Another footballer I'd say. But even as he
shouted “Good Riddance.” He stared to miss her.
He glugged out of a
bottle lying on the ground outside the potting shed and instantly
grew another finger. “Bloody Miracle Grow...” He roared as he
threw it after her.
Always one to look
on the bright side, Pal thought: now I can count to eighteen on my
fingers.
“Eight, nine, ten,
eleven …..” And the rest was lost as the invisible dog, now
promoted to invisible watchdog, growled to warn of approaching
danger.
But it wasn't
danger approaching: it was only Hedda, as out of breath she said.
“ I c-have
sss-news. Harry's ttt-rying to.... to KILL US ALL."
See…. She wasn't
too bad when she spoke without her mouth being full of creatures who
were trying to do an Alcatraz Escape.
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