Ahoy for Joy (6 page)

“The prison service,” he had said at last. “I'm going to join the prison service.” It made sense of course. The prison service offered many of the benefits of the police, but the dangers inside a prison could hardly be the same as for a policeman operating in the shadows of the streets of West Belfast in the dead of night. Of course, instinctively Susan was as hostile to this as she had been to the Police idea, but she too had seen the red utility bills sitting on the hall table and knew she would have to compromise at some point. The following day, Branny applied to join. The job would involve the supervision of those convicted of crimes both relating to the conflict as well as the regular criminal element; a feature of any society.

And so, Branny started his new job. He had been dreading it, but the training was thorough and after a short time, he settled down to his new role, supervising prisoners during various activities; eating, leisure, exercise etc., as well as escorting them from one place in the prison to another. Most activities passed without incident and most of the prisoners were relatively friendly and courteous having settled down to do their time and wanting as little hassle as possible.

In time, Branny became a well-liked guard, if such a thing could exist. Awkward or aggressive prisoners could smell fear at a hundred yards and Branny showed none. He was respected for his position, but known to be fair and even-handed. There was verbal abuse of course, especially from those who felt he had betrayed his Catholic roots, but Branny hardly noticed. There was also a fairly continuous stream, of shouts and taunts from some of the more colourful inmates who would question everything from your sexuality to the legitimacy of your children. In truth it was entertainment as much as anything and didn't trouble Branny at all.

So Branny settled down to his new working life, not one he had imagined, but it was OK. He paid regularly into the account for his creditors and looked forward to receiving the monthly statements showing progress. But for Michael, who was now nine years old, this change in circumstances and the events that followed would have a profound effect on his psyche that would last until and beyond his meeting with Anna, seven years later.

Grietje didn't turn out to be the most reliable of messengers as she had quite forgotten the important little envelope she held in her purse. It was not until they were back in Holland and Anna happened to mention the brief encounter with the shy, slightly troubled young man that her rather embarrassed friend unexpectedly pulled the letter from her purse.

She was most apologetic for her oversight as she handed it to her friend and at the same time quickly noted how its recipient lit up as she inspected the little envelope. Anna opened it carefully and slowly unfolded the crumpled paper that had been so tersely thrown around the marquee a week or so earlier, remarking that it looked like it had already seen some adventure! Grietje watched intently as Anna started to read the little poem, frowning and squinting where she couldn't understand and smiling at the funny words and phrases he used. At last she raised her eyebrows, before silently folding the pages once more, replacing them inside the envelope and then carefully into her bag.

“Well?” asked Grietje inquiringly, her eyes wide in expectation. Anna paused, then smiled. It was a wide, open smile. It was the smile people sometimes smile when things have gone rather the way that was wanted, without having made any particular effort to make it so.

“He wants me to write to him.”

Now, it was Grietje's turn to smile.

“And?”

“Well, yes, I think I shall!”

The two girls giggled together and hugged.

Later that evening, Anna read the little poem once more. It was simple and charming, but what was so very special was that this wasn't a classic text by a well-known poet, like those she studied at school. This was a real message, an invitation written for and addressed personally to her. She found it thrilling and her heart skipped a little as she mused the lines of text once more.

There were of course a few words she didn't understand, so she reached for her little pocket Dutch/English, English/Dutch dictionary that she always kept in the canvas bag she used to carry her other school books. She confirmed the translation of some of the words, while others were entirely new to her and she sought the definitions, noting to herself to use the new vocabulary at the next opportunity. However, there were two words she couldn't find as neither
lough
nor
craic
were listed. This rankled her rather proper nature, but she still chuckled at the challenge.

The next day she took the note with her to school. Her English teacher was able to help with the word
lough
and invited her to accompany him to the school library where he opened the big atlas and laid it out on a study table. The map of Ireland was littered with the word
lough
. There was Belfast Lough of course, but also Strangford Lough, Lough Neagh, Lough Erne, Lough Ree and Lough Derg.

“It means lake or estuary,” the teacher remarked, watching intently as Anna broke into a broad smile. “But can you pronounce it?”

Anna tittered engagingly, “Oh no, not another
o-u-g-h
!” she exclaimed.

“It certainly is,” said the teacher. Anna took a breath.

“Well, it could be like rough, so
luff
. Or it could be like though, so
low
. It could even be like bough, so
bow
, but rhyming with cow! Oh dear, how can you tell?”

“Well,” said the teacher, “I can tell you this. It's none of these!” He stopped to let the girl think, enjoying the interest she was showing in his subject. It was students like Anna who made teaching worthwhile for him and he always experienced a little vocational thrill when someone became involved over and above the standard curriculum.

“I'll give you a hint. The same word is used in Scotland, but they spell it differently there. Have you heard of
Loch
Ness?”

“Like the Loch Ness Monster?” Anna had read a short story about the legendary creature just last year.

“Yes, yes indeed, so Lough is pronounced like Loch? Yes, yes, yes, now I've got it!” He couldn't help with
craic
though, but suggested that it too may be of Irish origin or else some form of colloquial slang.

And so, Anna did write. A few days later a letter with a stamp marked
Nederland
arrived at the Coglan home. Michael thought his heart would stop as he opened it and Anna's enthusiastic text, full of joy and light lit his heart once more. She
loved
his poem and maybe one day she would love
him
too. He read the chatty text with its natural rhythm and casual tone and saw her face once more in his mind's eye. For Michael who instinctively mistrusted his own emotions, there was now at least an objective validity in letting himself feel for her. Fear took another knock as love pushed its way a little further into his mind.

A regular correspondence quickly developed between the two young people. Each, communicated in their own way with Michael, buoyed by the success of his first poem, writing further texts, sometimes interlinked with clandestine messages, puns or plays on the language. Anna loved reading his work, deciphering the words and phrases, which was in no sense easy, English not being her first language. This was a fact for which Michael made little allowance. But she applied herself and would write back with questions or suggestions about what he might mean. Sometimes Michael would confirm her thoughts, other times he would gently tell her to think again.

After a while there was a steady flow of poetry coming from the pen of Michael Coglan. Letters usually arrived on Tuesdays or Wednesdays, having been posted at the weekend. Anna would arrive home from school and take the envelope to her room before opening it excitedly and reading the new contents. He made her feel wonderful, she being the exclusive recipient of his work. There were poems covering diverse aspects of life, everything from the glories of the Irish countryside that he brought to life in her bedroom to the perils of riding a bicycle in the city. Some were serious and thoughtful pieces, while others were full of subtle humour, sarcasm and irony. He wrote other short texts, intense descriptions of mundane activities like men working on the road, using words to create the slouches and mannerisms of the workers he had observed over many hours.

One was a fascinating, if haunting piece, about a little bird, a starling, that had built her nest in the hawthorn bush in the small garden at the front of his home. He had watched her incubate her eggs, then care for the chicks, feeding and tending to them diligently from hatching through to preparation for their first flight. He would check progress every day after school and had even set a small stool at the base of the shrub, so that he could raise himself up the extra height required for a direct view right through the branches and into the nest. The hawthorn bush provided the perfect cover and protection for the chicks with its strong, slim branches, too flexible to support the weight of a cat. With its razor sharp spikes, the defence it offered was as good, or better than the great rings of darnet wire the army favoured for their own security.

He spoke of the privilege he felt at the ringside seat he had on the natural world and concerned himself that he may scare the bird, with his large head periodically gazing inside, only inches from the mother hen and her chicks. Still, he set aside the bird's fears deeming them unwarranted and watched closely until one day the three chicks were finally ready for their first flight.

Breathless, he watched as the first launched itself from the nest, but it failed to gain enough lift and despite some flapping landed in the little garden below, horribly exposed to the local cat, which lost no time in slaying the defenceless creature. Then, in horror he watched as the predator, clearly considering the possibility of siblings, lay in wait beneath the nest in patient expectation of another little feathered creature falling from the sky with which to entertain itself.

It didn't have to wait long and presently, the second little bird launched from the nest with all the hope of any creature starting out in life. With enthusiastic flapping it was just gaining enough height to keep clear of the grass below, when the cat raised its paw and hit the hapless chick while it was still in the air, stunning it and leaving it flailing on the ground.

The third fared no better and in just a few moments, the product of a mother's love, care and diligent effort lay in three tiny, feathered clumps on the grass beneath. The work culminated in a poignant description of the frenzied flight of the distraught mother, squawking desperately as she searched for her lost chicks, something he described as a desperate grief as real as any human emotion. Anna had cried over this one.

He had written another wonderful poem called
In search of Cadmium Yellow
. It seemed he had spent the day trying to find all the colours in an artist's pallet. They had wonderful names such as yellow ochre and burnt umber, cerulean blue, sienna sap and alizarin crimson. Most he seemed to have been able to find without too much trouble, but one in particular,
cadmium yellow
had left him most exasperated. He described it as being a yellow of
primary shade of form and tone.

Anna couldn't understand the problem, the countryside was surely littered with yellow flowers at the time of year. Everything was available from Dandelion to Foxglove, but it seemed that none would do, for he declared it was
plant
he sought not flower. Anna was confused and couldn't think of a yellow plant and it all seemed a little gloomy until the final verse. Then at last, he mounted a ridge and triumphantly Samson and Goliath came into view, quickly ending both his search and the poem.

Anna couldn't understand the biblical reference but had taken up the challenge, reading her old testament fervently, searching for any reference to these two giants that might associate either with yellow of the cadmium hue or indeed any shade. She could find none. Giving up, she had asked him for hints and help, but he had provided none, other than his assurance that she
would
find out one day.

Everything seemed to come to life in his texts and she would laugh and cry as she read, reaching occasionally for her dictionary for definition or clarification of his meaning. Increasingly she used an English dictionary providing descriptive meanings rather than just translation examples of similar meaning words in Dutch. Her command of the English language improved dramatically over these months and at home she modelled her speech on the spoken words of the sub-titled English serials and costume dramas that were popular on Dutch television at the time.

However, Michael never wrote of his personal life. This troubled her at first. She had asked about brothers and sisters, friends, the school he attended, his parents and so on, but he had just said there was not much to tell. When pushed, he had written a little; that he was an only child and described his home in some detail, with the steps at the front and the little garden, a description which had sounded rather quaint and attractive to Anna.

He did write about his school a little, something of the subjects he was taking, but never really elaborated much and the text was staid, awkward and impersonal. In the following letter, there was nothing more which had disappointed her. She knew she was falling for the young man, and wanted to know more about him, but in the end, she settled for his poems and stories and eventually, let the issue drop. After all, she didn't write poems for him.

Anna wrote mostly of her own life, her family, her friends and school. She was the youngest of four children, the three older all being boys, so she was a little spoiled and occupied a unique position in everyone's affections in the family. Her letters were mostly accounts of her experiences more or less as they happened, but as time went on she became more adventurous and began to write extensive accounts of her family history and the community where she lived.