~ Over The Wall ~

by

Trisha FitzGerald-Petri

There was a great clatter of clinking cups and cutlery scraping plates. A hundred girls in a sea of uniform blue chattered like machine guns in a cartridge-emptying frenzy. Halloween was approaching and with it escape from boarding school routine. At home, mothers were baking Barmbracks with rings in them and fathers were getting whacked over the knuckles with wooden spoons for wanting to pinch a slice too early. In the kitchen cupboards, bags of peanuts, hazelnuts, walnuts and those funny wrinkly Brazil nuts were waiting to be filled into bowls and placed before a crackling open fire. If you were lucky, you might lay your hands on a coconut, and even though it was probably mass cultivated on a plantation, one liked to think that a little fuzzy-haired, brown-skinned boy in a scrap of a loin cloth had shinnied up a palm tree to pick it.

In sewing class at National Schools around the country, young girls were making ghost costumes, their tongues stuck out in concentration as they toiled, while the lads huddled together hatching plans for trick or treat, genuinely hoping there’d be no treats so they might get up to all kinds of tricks. By teetering precariously on ladders, the last shiny apples were being plucked from trees and safely stored away in pantries, in the hope that a few might remain for Halloween games and pastry tarts. Logs of wood, crates, broken chairs and threadbare tires, in fact anything that would burn, were piled into heaps on fair greens countrywide for those big smelly bonfires everyone loved. Last year’s spooky lanterns were brought down from attics to light up the wet and windy evenings which lay ahead. The summer gone, young and old alike craved the festivities and fun, all desperate for a stepping-stone to Christmas. In the boarders’ homes, children’s bedrooms, empty since the end of the summer holidays, were aired and dusted; beds were covered with crisp clean sheets, pillows puffed up and positioned.

There was excitement in the air, and the house staff felt it, too. Mrs. Oldfield’s glance swept around the room, the exceeding of a certain decibel level warranting admonishment, though today she let it go, caught up in the atmosphere herself. It will be nice to have the place to ourselves for a while, she pondered. Get the floors polished and the tiles properly scrubbed.

Yet again, they’d have to bamboozle the local dry cleaners out of a box of wire hangers in order to repair all the bed springs. That was no problem, however; Carty’s Corner Cleaners had always been very accommodating in the past. She would send Bertie Barrett to deal with it as soon as he’d finished raking the leaves. It was a battle every autumn trying to keep the driveway clear, but was worth it. The Castleglen park boasted the most beautiful and varied abundance of indigenous trees in the area. She smiled smugly to herself and popped another fork of macaroni cheese into her mouth before turning to Miss Gibbons, who was busy expostulating on the hazards of co-education.

A few tables away Fudge and Lilly were deep in conversation.

“Why don’t you come down to Birch Rise for your birthday?” Fudge asked. They were guzzling down the selfsame macaroni cheese, struggling with the long strings of gooey cheddar that stuck to their forks.

“That’d be brillo, but Dad and Julian won’t be pleased.”

“Sure it’s only your fourteenth birthday--nothing special about that!” Fudge rolled her eyes jokingly. “And anyway, you could celebrate twice--double presents!”

“Janey Mac, you have a point there.” Lilly paused, considering the potential.

“There’ll be a dance at the local hall and a monstrous great bonfire. We’ll have great craic!”

The blond girl thought of Mary Ginnane’s warm kitchen, the smell of baking bread and little Rosy’s funny questions. Why is water wet, Lilly? And why do cats miaow and not bark? And if cats did bark would it be like us speaking French? Of course, Lilly had all the answers. After all, she was an “A”-stream third former.

“I’ll have to ask Dad...”

“Ach, I’m sure he won’t mind... Why don’t you ask him to drive you down? He can stay for lunch and we can have a little pre-birthday party all together!” And then as a bitter afterthought. “And if you want, Julian can come, too.”

“D’you think your mum would mind? The house’ll be full of people.”

“Go ‘way, she’ll be delighted. She’s never met your dad before and anyway, Sheila probably won’t be there. She’s usually off with her friends in Galway strutting around the shopping centre handing out leaflets. Since she started studying at UCG she’s all for saving tropical forests and whales, and getting rid of nuclear power and so on...”

“Oh, I see...” She didn’t really, but was used to Fudge’s deviations. “Well, if you think it’ll be all right, I’ll ask.”

She had suddenly warmed to the notion; the idea of spending Halloween in their Victorian Ballsbridge house surrounded by mountains of her father’s books, manuscripts and hybrid rose cuttings wasn’t particularly inviting.

“Great stuff, it’s all settled then!” Fudge clapped her hands together in glee, forgetting she was still clutching her fork. It didn’t bother her much that she catapulted a dollop of cheese sauce onto the back of Brenda Buckley’s head two tables away, or that she nearly took Lilly’s eye out while she was doing it. Halloween was going to be magic!

~ * ~

They were all in jolly festive spirits as they hurtled towards the west in Michael McDermott’s battered Ford Granada station wagon. It was like a ship on choppy seas surging up rises and swaying precariously around curves on dubious suspension. A calm, unassuming intellectual, Lilly’s dad was an animal behind the wheel, yet took pride in the fact that he hadn’t written off a vehicle so far. The girls lurched from side to side on the back seat, pleased to be freed of their uniforms and feeling the bees’ knees in their own garb. Julian sat in the passenger seat, maintaining an air of bored detachment. In his final school year, he had no time or patience for the squeaks and giggles of piddling third-year pupils.

He’d greeted a mortified Fudge in passing after they had arrived at the Ballsbridge house the evening before, not resisting a raised eyebrow of ridicule. Nothing was said, although his expression revealed that the content of their phone call was still safely stowed away in his mind and would, without doubt, be exploited at will. And, indeed, it had started at breakfast when, on declining tea, Julian asked if she’d prefer a cocktail. Fudge, however, determined not to be browbeaten, courteously accepted, saying she’d love one with honey and condensed milk--just like Winnie-the-Pooh. Lilly had pursed her lips, waiting for her brother’s mordant reaction to the mention of everyone’s favourite teddy, and was astonished when none came. On the contrary, he was the quintessence of decorum for the rest of the meal--a rare phenomenon.

The Halloween traffic was heavy, but Lilly’s dad dodged and overtook valiantly. On either side the soft flat patchwork countryside of the midlands fell away quickly. It was a cloudy day with the odd chunk of sunshine poking through. It had rained earlier and tires swished wetly on glistening roads sending great swaths of muddy water spraying into the ditch as they plunged over potholes and puddles. Ray Charles oozed out of the radio and Mr. McDermott started to hum, a wistful expression spreading across his face. The girls snickered, and Julian, deciding the music wasn’t doing much for his countenance, reached out to twiddle the knob, only to be left smarting with indignation as his father batted the offending hand away in one lightning movement. Blushing furiously, he stared out the window for the rest of the journey. Fudge was near to wetting herself with delight.

Before long, they were careening down the hill, past the fair grounds and into the car-clogged main street of Loughrua where shoppers had double- and triple-parked to do some last minute errands. A while back, the typical loose stone walls had replaced neat fencing and hedgerows, conveying their arrival in County Galway.

Fudge pressed her nose against the window, anxious to see all the goings-on. After three years at Castleglen, she’d lost contact with a lot of old friends, but recognised many familiar faces as pedestrians hurried along the busy street. There was Dotty Folen hovering at the bright red doorway of her sweety shop where local children gladly parted with precious pocket money in return for gobstoppers, lollipops, sherbet, bags of Taytos, and toffees covered in powder sugar. Further along, Ned Connelly was swaying dangerously on the curb, his red-rimmed blurry gaze fixed on the gutter where the poor man earnestly believed gallons of black porter to be flowing by. Despite his miserable state, he seemed happy enough, every now and then standing stiffly to attention in order to salute a passing car. As they drove past, Fudge caught his eye and, much to Ned’s joy, saluted back, prompting the bleary-eyed man to do a little jig in the imaginary river of stout. Just before they turned north onto the secondary road leading to Bullcudy and Birch Rise, Garda Sweeney could be seen waving a reprimanding finger at Mrs. Poole, as in Poole’s Poultry Products, whose van full of free range eggs was not only double-parked with the engine running, but obstructing the complete Galway-to-Dublin thoroughfare in both directions.

“What a bunch of bog-trotters,” Julian snorted contemptuously.

Fudge chose to ignore the remark, refusing to let anything spoil the excitement of her homecoming. The withering look Michael McDermott shot his son was gratifying enough.

Mum was already standing at the front door as they finally rattled over the cattle grid and down the long driveway to the farm. She’d been just as eager as her daughter when Fudge had asked if Julian and Mr. McDermott might stay for the day before returning to Dublin. A woman whose quiet intellectual demands far surpassed those of her few acquaintances, Mary Ginnane was by no means daunted by the literary critic’s impending visit; far from it--she was thrilled to bits. Fudge’s dad didn’t particularly mind one way or the other; Mum was the boss in the house. Flanked on either side by Lizzy and Beth, Mary waited on the doorstep. Today, her thick, wavy hair was tied together in a loose ponytail with a dark blue silk neck scarf. As usual, a long wisp had escaped and was fluttering around her face in the midday breeze. Proud not to have a totally fuddy-duddy mother, Fudge was pleased to see that instead of the standard jumper and skirt combination, she was dressed in a long, pale-blue shirt worn over a pair of navy, thin-cord slacks. A soft grey lamb’s wool sweater was thrown casually across her strong shoulders.

Rosy darted out of the house, black corkscrew curls bouncing around her ears, as the Ford skidded to a halt in a shower of conkers and chestnut leaves. The front lawn had been mowed and clipped, probably for the last time before winter set in, and the flowerbeds were brimming with autumn blooms. Pink and lavender Michaelmas daisies crept around the corner of the house, while great clumps of red valerian and chrysanthemum had stubbornly colonised the side wall of the garden shed, splashing the grey natural stone with blotches of vivid colour. Behind the vegetable patch, the hedge stretching down towards the farm buildings was heavy with berries. Purple, blue and red fought for attention as sloes, blackberry, rose hip and elderberry jostled for space in a confusion of brambles and shrubs.

One by one, the travel-weary visitors clambered stiffly out onto the front drive. Very nearly forgetting to greet their sister, the twins twittered and poked each other when they saw Julian folding himself out of the car. In a household of women, it was a great novelty for them to have a young man gracing the dining room table. Fudge flew into her mother’s arms, never ashamed to display her feelings when it came to family, but regretted it almost immediately when an almost imperceptible flicker of sadness crept over Lilly’s features. Michael McDermott, who’d just finished unloading his daughter’s weekend case out of the boot of the station wagon, hadn’t failed to notice it either. But the moment passed and in a whirling bustle of giggles and gossip all the girls disappeared into the house followed by Julian, who slouched unenthusiastically after them. Mary was left standing outside on the gravel with Lilly’s father, embarrassed that Fudge had omitted to make an introduction. They moved awkwardly towards each other.

With only his books and writing for comfort, the widower, having mourned his wife bitterly, had over the years grown numb and insensitive to the advances of other women. In the prime of his life at her death, and attractive in an unkempt type of way, he’d shunned the battery of batting eyelids and the pouting lips of fawning university students and pseudo-intellectual colleagues. Yet here on a farm in the heart of the verdant Irish countryside surrounded by rolling hills and miles of lonely patchwork land, stood a woman who made his heart constrict.