NaPoWriMo 2018 – #21 – “Have you seen Mickey Finn?”

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The disused Jam Factory / railway station at Newbliss

I did a fair bit of writing today, but nothing interesting would come. So I borrowed the house bicycle and cycled into the nearest town, Newbliss, for a pint of Guinness. I came back with a story.

 

Have you seen Mickey Finn?

Somebody has dropped a cigarette into the tub, next to the bench where I’m sipping a Guinness outside the pub in Newbliss. The shrub is emitting smoke, threatening to turn into a burning bush. A man in the doorway says “For fuck’s sake” and tells one of the smokers to go in and get a pint of water. After several pints of water, the fire is extinguished. A man recites a list of names which includes “Jimmy the Dog” and “Mickey Finn”. There must be hundreds if not thousands of Mickey Finns around the world, but how did Jimmy get to be called “the dog” I wonder? A white van pulls up, the driver shouts, have you seen Mickey Finn?”. The doorway man says “No”. It drives off. Being close to the border, I’m wary of why someone might be listing names, or enquiring the whereabouts of another. I’ve nearly finished my Guinness when a red Ford Focus pulls up. A man about my age, but much heavier, gets out, comes straight up to me, says “Hello, where are you from, you’re welcome, would you like a pint?”. I accept his offer. He disappears inside and re-appears some time later with two pints of Guinness. He wants my life story and when I mention the Tyrone Guthrie Centre he says “Great man, great man, he paid for my first pair of shoes”. I confess to knowing little about Guthrie and he fills in some of the gaps. Guthrie was a Protestant and had no children. He left his huge estate mostly to the Irish Government to be used to promote the creative arts but also a significant part to his Catholic neighbours. “Where is he buried?” I ask. “Hop in and I’ll show ye” he says. We’re in the red Focus driving to Aghabog Church of Ireland cemetery, where Guthrie and his wife and his ancestors are buried. It’s a large, but not enormous headstone. We then drive back towards the town but he veers off, up a country road. “Do you want some fun?” he says. I’m a bit concerned by the question, but before I have time to answer, he has swerved a hard right into a field and is speeding around it, wheels spinning. He comes to a halt next to hedge with a hole in it. “Come in” he says “Have a cup of tea”. “Is your wife home?” I ask and am relieved when he replies that she is. We duck through the hole in the hedge to a bungalow, with a new Jaguar parked outside. That’s mine” he says “The wee Ford is Sarah’s”.  Inside, his wife Sarah seems unsurprised to see a total stranger following in her husband’s wake. “Will you have a steak sandwich?”. “No thank you, just a cup of tea”. I sit and am presented with a mug of tea, a plate piled high with steak sandwiches and another plate of Swiss Roll. “Ah, Just have one, at least”, she says. I daren’t tell them I’m vegetarian, knowing the disbelief it would cause. I force down a steak sandwich and a piece of Swiss Roll, wash it down with the tea. “Well now, let’s get you back” he says. We jump into the Jaguar this time and speed off. He stops at a bridge over a disused railway line. “That was the railway station”, he says. “Joe Martin and Mr. Guthrie bought it and started a jam factory. Irish Farmhouse Preserves it was called. Mr. Guthrie put a lot of money into it. I’ll say no more. But we used to pick strawberries and blackberries for the jam making. That was my first job. That’s how I got my first pair of shoes.”

 


 

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Copyright Mike Hopkins 2018

Image : Mike Hopkins

About NaPoWriMo

 

 

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NaPoWriMo 2018 – #20 – Realising Perfection

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Realising Perfection

at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre, Annaghmakerrig

From this bay window

the black lough,

the banks of bulrushes,

the silhouetted swans

 

are perfect and yet:

a longtail boat

churning a wake

across the surface

 

or a boat woman

hawking soft drinks,

and one plastic bottle

floating in the shallows?

 

Below this bay window

the perfect lawn

is disturbed only by

the shadow

 

of a beech tree

but maybe:

tyre tracks

gouging the turf,

 

fast food boxes

scattered around

and a stray dog

scavenging?

 

The perfect sky

could be tinged

with exhaust haze,

the perfect silence

 

pierced by jack hammers,

the perfect paths

pitted with pot holes

and broken pavers.

 

The scones and cream

could be served

from a street cart

by a Bánh mì lady,

 

the brewed Italian coffee

made piquant

with a blob of

condensed milk,

 

the vegetables coated

in cheap chilli sauce,

the spotless kitchen

could sport a cockroach,

 

the empty roads

might feel the pulse

of swarming motorbikes

that I might fully realise

 

this perfection.

 

 


 

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Copyright Mike Hopkins 2018

Image of Tyrone Guthrie Centre: Mike Hopkins

About NaPoWriMo

(Some / most of these could be rightly described as “chopped up text”. But that’s how first drafts often look.)