Spaceships

2006-09-25T00:33:06+02:00

Spaceships

He stood in the doorway in baggy white underwear inviting Liam to come
into the kitchen. With his large chip-like index finger he beckoned his nephew
forward, facial expression almost manic. For a few moments Liam was startled
and frightened, remaining seated whilst trying to make sense of the
situation. There seemed to be no way out. Spellbound, Liam rose from the
creaking chair and slowly walked towards his uncle John.

The sudden surprise of seeing his uncle standing there in his underwear,
had now given way to curiosity about why the hell he was asking him to come
into the kitchen in the first place. It seemed that there was something
going on out of the window that he wanted Liam to see. On guard, Liam walked into the dark kitchen, following his uncle’s luring finger. It was as if he was being drawn in by some sort of Pied Piper, mesmerised by his uncle’s glaring grin, not uttering a word in the process.

It was a very late dark night in Donegal. Liam was on holiday with his
family at his gran’s house. Everyone else was down in the local pub. He was
at home for two reasons; firstly because he was asthmatic and was going
through the usual holiday bought of wheezing and breathlessness. The second
was basically because he was too young to go to the pub. The asthma thing
was the norm any time they went on holiday to Ireland in those days. They
would arrive at his gran’s house in the twelve seater minibus that had
carried them all the way from Glasgow, having travelled for around ten hours
to get there. On arrival Liam and his brother Neil would go out for the
first scout about, messing around with cousin’s and friends they
hadn’t seen since the previous year. Inevitably things would become a bit
wild and he would then be hit by the usual asthma attack and spend about the
next seven days out of their two week holiday bedridden. But every year
they’d go back for more and the same old cycle would start again.

Anyway, there they were in the kitchen, in the dark, apart from the
moonlight, which didn’t help matters where his uncle’s facial expression was
concerned. Talk about a crazed look - Liam was seriously expecting a hand
around his neck at any moment and was steadying himself for the fight back.
How would he explain this one to his family when they returned from the
pub?

Oh, he must have slipped on something in there, yes, I just heard the
noise and found him lying on his arse. Or what for that matter would his
uncle be able to come up with as an explanation. Well yes, that’s right
yes, I was in me underwear ... now I know dis doesn’t look good but... em...
there is a perfectly good reason why I was trying to lure, em, ask, Liam
to come into the kitchen.

His paranoia was soon put at ease. Look, John said, out there,
on the horizon. At first Liam thought it was a set up, or some trick of
the light. There, far out above the Atlantic Ocean, were strange orange
lights ; dancing lights, with no obvious rhythm or flight path that he could
understand. They moved so fast that it was difficult to say how many there
were, sparkling and dazzling across the night sky in all sorts of irregular
patterns.

For what must have been around ten minutes Liam and his uncle watched in
amazement, neither of them able to offer an explanation for what they were
seeing. The lights continued to dance before them, almost in celebration of
the darkness which assisted them in glowing so strongly. Then, as suddenly
as they had arrived, they were gone. Vanished just like that. The sky was
now back to it’s former deep blackness, only this time a faint glimmer of
starlight began to emerge as their eyes began slowly to focus on the
constellations above.

Aye, his uncle said, You never know what you’re going to see out there
at night . Spaceships eh, don’t you think ? Well who knows, was all
Liam could say, being much more of a sceptic even at that age . Maybe, he
offered, trying to give the impression that he was entertaining the
possibility that they had indeed seen something extraterrestrial. He was
surprised that a grown man could seem to believe he had actually seen such a
thing. The look of fascination in his uncle’s eyes amused him. It reminded
Liam of his youngest cousin Rory, simply because of the childlike expression
of wonder on his uncle’s face. Soon he became aware of kitchen sounds. As
his concentration on the far away objects came to an end, he imagined that
the hum of the fridge could have been the distant drone of an alien
spaceship.

Just then, the front door opened and in came his family back from the pub.
His cousin’s, Paula and Mark stumbled in the front door, obviously having
had a few pints more than they could handle. Behind them, deep in
conversation, his father and mother and other uncle, Padraig. Anything good
on the box tonight Liam?, said Paula, trying to adjust her eyes to take in the
late night weather forecast on the telly. He walked from the kitchen, happy
to feel the energy they gave off ; behind him he realised John had slipped
off to bed without saying good night. No nothing much ,he said, just
spaceships.

That night proved to be worse than ever. Breathing itself was so difficult
that he felt as if he was trying to extract oxygen through a straw. His
windpipe felt so narrow that he felt like ripping his throat open to let the
air flood in. His mother by now had realised that this was going to be a bad
night, and had come into bed beside him to nurse him through the night. She
propped him up on pillows and opened the nearby window to allow a cool
draught of air to reach him. His father left the room only to reappear with
the usual plastic basin. This was his phlegm catcher. His dad placed the
basin to the side of the bed, a tipple of disinfectant in it, the strong
smell catching his nostrils as he leaned out of bed to spit. As a family
they always slept in the room at the top end of the house. The room, like
all of the bedrooms in the house, was basic. It had two double beds, a
wardrobe and a couple of chairs, that was it. What else did a room need ?
Well on occasions like this an oxygen mask would have been quite handy, but
who was he to expect oxygen in such a basic environment ?

On this particular night he really was struggling and his parent’s were
beginning to get worried. When things turned that way he would sometimes
devise rituals to get him through the night. On this occasion a ritual or
two was very much needed. He asked his folks to let him out of the bedroom
for a while to try breathing somewhere, anywhere else. He closed the door
and slumped against the first of three hallway windows. He could completely
let his guard down when alone like that, standing in pyjamas, shoulders
hunched with the strain of breathlessness. He pulled the curtain to the side
and opened the latch to allow the cold night air to come in. He was facing
the Atlantic again and could now see the ocean illuminated by moonlight.

The first of his rituals began. He pushed his mouth as close as he could
against the too narrow gap that the window allowed and imagined that he was
breathing for Celtic . He really had to do his best to survive otherwise
the whole team would suffer. Billy McNeil, Celtic’s Captain, willed him to
keep going ; there was only five minutes of the game left. Celtic & Rangers
were drawn at 1 - 1. Liam’s contribution to Celtic’s survival was essential.
Another deep breath of sea air would give Jimmy Johnstone just the surge of
strength needed to outwit the Rangers defence. He dribbled past one, two,
three defenders then chipped the ball over Colin Stein’s head, which landed
at Tommy Gemmil’s feet. Thwack ! He slammed it past McCloy to put Celtic in
front 2 - 1 ! The Celtic fans went wild chanting - Easy ! Easy ! Seconds
later the referee blew his whistle to bring the game to an end. He could now
rest his breathing knowing that the effort had been worthwhile. As McNeil
walked off the park he raised his arm to acknowledge Liam’s role in this
famous victory.

Next, he had to pace, slowly, very slowly, finding some strength again for
the first time that evening. Whilst pacing he began counting shapes on the
linoleum floor. He had to count ten, his age, before he could turn and pace
again, repeating the process. He carried on like this for some time, until
his body became slightly more relaxed and his breathing more steady. He felt
in his pyjama jacket pocket and brought out a paper tissue and coughed up
some more phlegm, still on the move. The hanky was now wet and heavy and
rather than go back into the bedroom to dispose of it, he decided to go to
the bathroom which was just down at the end of the hallway.

He stood at the toilet and peed. This was about the most energetic thing he
could do. He tried his best to disguise the wheezing noise that he made with
every breath, worried that he might wake relatives who were sleeping in other
rooms. It sounded as if wild animals were imprisoned within his chest, they also
gasping, drawing the last breath of air from within their rib cage prison.
He flushed the toilet and opened the bathroom window, once again stealing as
much air as he could to give him the strength to walk back along the hallway.
From the window he could see some people leaving the pub down the road.
The pub door opened and the barman stuck his head out, checking that all
was safe; that is that the Garda were not there, waiting for after hours drinkers
to fall into the waiting police car, too drunk to argue.

He passed the third hallway window on his way back to the family bedroom.
On the wall beside it, positioned right at the top of the stairs which led down
to the living room was a tapestry of the Kennedy’s. The Pope also managed
to find his way into this 'family' portrait, finding himself to the front of the
Kennedy brother’s. Of the brother’s themselves, John was at the centre,
Bobby to his right and Teddy to the left. Their presence at the head of the
stairway served as a kind of Catholic ideal ; if they can do it so can you .
Not become President of the United States that is, but just something worthy
of hanging at the top of the stairs one day. On this occasion Bobby seemed
to be a more sympathetic presence within the group, his eyes following Liam
as he made his way to the bedroom. Well done for saving the ‘Tic wee man!,
Liam imagined him to say, his American accent tangled in fake Glaswegian.

On reaching the second window he stopped once again as the wheezing
threatened to take control. He pushed his mouth right up to the gap in the
window and took in as much air as he could. He stood there looking at the sea
in the distance, daylight now. This time he could taste and smell a different air.
The not so far off sea mingled its essence with earthy peat deep moistness, a
richness which allowed him to experience Ireland in a different way that perhaps
only his asthma could allow.

Liam quietly opened the door to the bedroom and climbed into bed beside his
brother ; his mother and father were fast asleep together once more, musical
beds over again for another night. The morning seemed very still outside.
Breathing now calm and steady, he settled down to sleep.

They stood before him, a large sheet of newly opened brown wrapping paper
held between them. The paper crackled in protest at their impatient handling
as they attempted to cut from it a section which would soon find itself
destined for a purpose much different than it was intended. After a couple
of attempts and much ordering him to keep facing the right way , he soon
felt their cold hands upon him. Aw your kiddin! no, don’t put that up
there ! he protested, as they manoeuvred the paper over his afflicted
chest. Somebody will see it and laugh, he protested. They seemed to find this
quite funny, which infuriated him even more. Liam tried to pull away but his
mother held him by the shoulders and said, Look it’s for you own good,
auntie Annie knows what she’s doing , it’ll help you get better just you wait
and see. The only problem that worried him with Auntie Annie’s remedy was
that he would be the laughing stock of the village if his friends or
cousin’s knew anything about it. Please don’t tell anyone then, promise,
he said to his mother. Who’s going to know - nobody, unless you tell them.
Now pull your jumper down and tuck yourself in.

They both watched as he fixed his jumper and tucked in his t-shirt, waiting
to see what would happen next. He was conscious of their amused looks and
felt reluctant to do anything; they weren’t going to get their fun out of
him if he could help it . Auntie Annie was sipping from a cup of tea and
staring at Liam’s chest. It was almost as if she was expecting the paper to
suddenly object to being used for such an embarrassing task and come
shooting out from below his jumper, back to the safe haven of its original
sheet. As she stared he couldn’t help thinking that it would take more than
a small piece of wrapping paper to cover her chest. Her tits were almost
down to her knees. In his mind he saw her completely wrapped in parcel
paper, with rolls of string surrounding her to hold everything in place, her
huge tits defining her as auntie Annie. No wrapping could ever conceal
that.

He decided to take a walk down to his uncles shop which was about a hundred
yards away. He rustled all the way. Know matter how he walked, whether
slowly, or with as little arm movement as possible, he still made this
ridiculous sound, russle-crackle, russle-crackle, all the way. Jesus this
was totally embarrassing he thought. When he got close to the shop he
spotted his cousin’s Peter and Mark and decided to turn around immediately
(crackle, crackle, crackle ) and go back to the house. He ran as quickly as
he could and after a very rapid series of russle-crackle,
russle-crackle, russle-crackle, russle-crackles, arrived out of breath at
the door. Rather than go inside though he stayed put. The last thing he
needed was for them to start fussing all over him again. God knows what
other strange cure they might try if they were to see him in this state.

Walking around the back of the house he could hear his grans voice in the
distance. As he got closer to the back door he saw her, moving surprisingly
quickly for someone in her eighties, in her familiar stooped way. Her grey
hair, usually tightly tied back, was now slightly out of control as she went
about the business of ‘feeding’ the hens. With one hand she gently threw
seed from her apron whilst wooing them with her usual, here chick-chick,
here chick-chick. The hens pecked madly at the seed, oblivious to her next move.
In the other hand however she carried a pitch fork.

He stood and watched. There she was, a women of eighty five years of age,
becoming the hunter for their Sunday lunch. It was all over in seconds.
She turned around and walked back towards him, the hen still in its dying
throws, its wings beating violently. As she approached him she turned the
pitch fork to the ground, the hen now on the grass, its wings beating less
frequently. She placed her foot over its neck and twisted the pitch fork,
ringing the last seconds of life out of it in the process. That’ll make a
good dinner for us eh? she said, walking past him into the kitchen. Liam
stood up to follow her inside - russle-crackle, russle-crackle. In the drama
he had completely forgotten about his own problem which now seemed fairly
trivial in comparison to the bird in his gran’s hand, blood dripping on the
linoleum floor. His paper cure did not extend to pitch fork wounds. His chest
now felt surprisingly warm and comforted by the strange protective wrapping.

Uncle John had appeared outside and was standing down the field at the back
of the house, near the peat coloured stream which they all played in. Liam
watched as John lit a cigarette and gazed out at the sea. He was taking a
break from his work in the family shop. His grandfather had established the shop
back in the forties. It served as many Irish shops do, as multi-purpose; general grocer’s,
barber’s, fish & chip shop, hardware store, you name it they did it. John had been
in charge of running the shop since his father died in 1960.

Liam left the house and wandered down the field to see him. Hiya,
just having a break then ?, he said. Aye , the shop has to close sometime.
Do you think I should stay in there all day without a breath
of fresh air ? He seemed annoyed about something. No I don’t , anyway
your’e the boss, you can close the shop whenever you want to, Liam said,
trying to get on John’s good side. Aye, suppose so, suppose so, he said,
drawing deep on his cigarette. What’s the good having your own shop if you
can’t go pleasing yourself now and again eh ? What’s that bloody noise
coming from you ?, he said looking at Liam as if he was about to explode.
Oh nothing, just something that my mum and auntie Annie think will get rid
of my asthma, Liam said, trying to think of something to change the
subject. In the background he could hear his gran muttering to herself in
the kitchen, busy plucking the unfortunate hen. He started to tell John
about gran catching the hen, but he wasn’t listening. Instead John began
telling Liam something about ‘ships’ and ‘the Spanish’.

Liam listened carefully. They say that we’re related to them, did you know
that, eh ?. Related to who, who says ? Liam said, trying to
understand the shift in conversation. The Spanish, their ships were all
sunk out there, right along the Irish coast you know. Twenty or thirty ships
in all. Thousands of Spanish sailors died when the ships went down, but many
others survived to tell the tale. Look at you now, brown eyes, brown hair,
you could pass for Spanish. Sure you look more Spanish than Irish. That’s
where we came from, we’re related to them. The Spanish Armada.

John was confusing but Liam he stuck with him, all the while thinking that his
uncle had lost his marbles. What’s the Spanish Armada then John ?, he said.
John seemed pleased that he had asked him this, here was his chance to
educate another young member of the family about their supposedly true
ancestry.

Ah now, I don’t have the time to tell you all about that now. It’s time I
was getting back to the shop. There’s a queue outside already see that ?.
Sure enough a group of about five people were standing at the door to the
shop and generally looking impatient. But what about the story?, Liam
said, When are you going to tell me the rest ?. He was walking away from
Liam now, he wore a white shirt always with the sleeves rolled up, the
breeze from the coast catching and ruffling the material. Never mind that now,
he said, there’s work to be done, I’m off to the shop now. He was
deliberately winding Liam up, he knew that he’d hooked him on the story and
that he wanted to hear more. Liam watched as he opened the shop for the
afternoon, the customers shuffling in behind him with their cheap plastic
carrier bags crushed and worn from constant use.

Liam reached inside his t-shirt and pulled out the brown paper which had by
now gone limp from his perspiration. He crumpled it up and threw it into
the stream and watched as it began it’s journey to the sea. The water
carried it quickly as it tumbled past all possible obstructions. Soon it
disappeared out of sight. In his minds eye he saw it drift out to sea, then
sink slowly until finally finding it’s resting place on a long lost sunken
wreck.

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Spaceships