Solstice

Solstice

Wednesday, 21st December 1988

One mile outside Ballinastrad, County Sligo, Ireland

As it was the shortest day of the year, it was already getting dark when Tom rolled back the sleeve of his jumper to check the time on his watch.

“Ten past four,” he whispered to himself as he leaned on the grape handle while he took a pull of his fag. He finished off the cigarette with one long, last drag and threw it out the shed door onto the farmyard outside, stamping on it forcefully with the heel of his boot.

Better get on and finish the job, he thought to himself as he raised the grape, arching his strong, tall, and wiry frame. He continued to clear the straw bedding and dung from the floor of the shed, placing it on the heap outside in the yard.

When the floor was clean and the work complete, Tom took the grape and placed it carefully in the corner of the shed, then closed the door securely behind him. After washing his boots clean under the tap on the wall next to the hayshed, he walked across the farmyard and looked back to ensure everything was in order and in its place.

He took pride in his work. Everybody always said that Tom Kearns was a tidy man who did a job right. He was no slacker. He could turn his hand to anything, laying blocks, plastering, and carpentry work; he could even do a spot of wiring and plumbing. The locals always remarked that Tom was “blessed with great hands and a sharp mind, but it was a shame he was so fond of the drink. Ah, sure he could have done anything he wanted, but the drink got the better of him.”

Since his wife died back in ‘73, fifteen years now he wasn’t the same. His wife Maureen had died of cancer in terrible pain. He was heartbroken, but of course never spoke of it, instead burying the pain within himself the day he buried her in the ground.

Tom crossed the farmyard and walked towards the back door of the farmhouse. He tapped gently on the glass. Mrs Mary O’Brien, a short stout woman wearing a flowery apron, came to the door.

“That’s a cold evening Tom,” she said. “Do you think it will freeze?”

Tom looked up at the clear starry sky, tightened up his black top coat, and rubbed his hands. “I’d say it will all right, Mrs O’Brien.”

“Come in, Tom. Come in and warm yourself.”

“Ah . . . okay, so,” Tom replied, pulling off his Wellingtons and leaving them in the porch on a sheet of newspaper Mrs O’Brien had left out. He followed his host into the kitchen, where he was met with a warm and comforting blast of heat from the Stanley Range and the smell of warm soda bread baking.

Mary O’Brien was the wife of John O’Brien: gentleman farmer, publican, and undertaker in Ballinastrad. Tom worked on the O’Brien’s farm as a farm labourer during the winter months. The pay wasn’t great, but he got his meals and plenty of free pints in John’s pub at night. He was good old reliable Tom Kearns, who never looked for much pay. Cash in hand and on the scratcher too, of course. He was no fool.

“Sit down there, Tom, and have a cup of tea,” Mrs O’Brien said as she poured him a mug of tea and brought him out a plate of soda bread, cheese, and ham. It had only been a few hours since she’d given him a large feed of boiling bacon.

Tom pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. Taking off his cap, he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

It was a hardened, tired, and lined forehead. He was fifty-eight now, but he had the face of a man ten years older. However, his body was fit and agile, apart from a barking cough from too many fags.

“It’s hard to believe Christmas is almost upon us again, Tom.”

“It’s unbelievable, Mrs O’Brien. It comes around so fast; sure, the time is flyin’.”

“What are your plans for Christmas day, Tom?” Mrs O’Brien asked.

“Oh, I will be at home this year. My daughter Regina is coming home from England with her husband and her kids,” Tom said.

“Ah, isn’t that lovely, Tom. It’s nice to have company at Christmas time. Regina, God. I haven’t seen Regina in years; how is she getting on?”

“She’s fine. She hasn’t been home in about five years. She has two boys now. I think they’re around seven or eight years old. God, I’m not too sure; I don’t see them too often.”

“How long is Regina in England now?” Mrs O’Brien asked.

“I think she’s there about eighteen years,” said Tom.

“My God, eighteen years. I didn’t think she was away that long. You must be delighted that they’re coming home,” Mrs O’Brien said as she tidied up the mugs and plates from the table and brought them over to the sink.

Tom finished his supper, and at around five o’clock, he got up from the table. He knew not to outstay his welcome. Thanking Mrs O’Brien, he told her that he would be back in the morning to fodder the cattle.

He walked out towards the back porch and closed the kitchen door quietly behind him. Putting on his Wellingtons, he went out the back door and around the side of the house to where he’d parked his Ford Cortina.

A dog ran out in front of him and growled as he turned the corner and opened the front gate. Tom patted the old dog on the head to reassure him nothing was wrong.

He got into his car and lit another fag, then turned the ignition four times before the 1974 grey Cortina eventually started. It was hard starting the last day or two thanks to the cold weather and probably needed a new battery. He’d would have a look at it tomorrow when he had time.

Following the short journey into Ballinastrad, Tom parked outside Dolan’s Pub on Bridge Street. He turned to the pubs of Ballinastrad night after night for solace, comfort and companionship. It was better than sitting at home in a lonely house that was too full of memories, emptiness, and silence now.

Opening the front door of the bar, he went in and warmed himself next to the open fire, then ordered his first pint of stout from Jennifer Dolan, the publican’s daughter.

”That’s a bitter evening, Tom! I’d say we’ll get a hard frost. They were saying on the radio that there’s heavy snow coming around Christmas, but sure, they haven’t a clue,” she said, placing Tom’s pint on the bar and giving him his change.

“You’re right there—they haven’t a feckin’ notion. Give us out a packet of Twenty Major there too, Jennifer, good girl.”

Tom took a seat at the bar and sank the pint, following it with a half one of Powers Whiskey as he lit a fag.

After spending about two hours in Dolan’s, he strolled up Main Street to O’Brien’s Pub at around eight o’clock to meet the boss and get his Christmas wages and a few pints on the house.

The craic was good in O’Brien’s. There was plenty of slaggin’ going on and Tom didn’t say too much, as usual; he preferred to listen in and make a few dry comments that always got a roar of a laugh from the other regulars. Tom was quiet, a shrewd man, a listener, a thinker. He was admired by his peers as a good worker and a clever man you could always rely on. “Sure, Tom Kearns could have been an engineer or an architect if he had got the schoolin’,” was often repeated around the village of Ballinastrad.

At about 11.45, Tom looked at the clock at the side of the bar and swallowed down the last mouthful of stout, then said good luck to the publican and the boys at the bar.

“See you tomorrow Tom,” said John O’Brien as Tom walked out the door as straight as if he had never had a drink.

Tom stood outside and lit a fag. The footpath and road were glistening with frost. There had been a light fall of sleet earlier that was now coated to the ground and frozen firm. It crunched under his feet as he pounded them to keep warm.

He walked slowly and carefully back to his car. The car door was frosted shut, and he had to give it a good pull to open it. Sitting in the car, he pulled his car keys out of his coat pocket. He turned the ignition.

There was no response. He tried it four more times. Still no good.

“Feck it,” he whispered to himself.

He got out of the car, slamming the door behind him, and thought about going back into O’Brien’s and asking John for a lift home. On second thought, he decided he wouldn’t; Tom was a proud man and didn’t like having to ask for a lift from anyone.

Instead, he looked up and down the street to see if any of his neighbours were in town to give him a lift the three miles out to his house. The town was quiet, but he spotted a blue Toyota belonging to a younger man that often travelled out the road to Rossbeg; maybe he might carry him if he was on the road.

Tom decided to walk out the Rossbeg road a bit. He would probably get a lift from someone, and if not, sure, the walk wouldn’t kill him. He’d done it many a time before.

Pulling his cap down tight on his head and buttoning up his top coat, Tom walked against the biting frosty air and looked up at the sky with the whole of the moon shining down upon him. The road was treacherous underfoot and he slipped a number of times. He walked on for about ten minutes, and two cars passed him. Eventually, he thought, somebody would recognise him and stop.

He heard another car coming up behind him. Tom decided to stand out from the ditch a bit and turn his face towards the oncoming car so he could be noticed better.

The car was approaching fast behind him. It seemed to be slowing and speeding up erratically. Tom recognised the car: a blue Toyota Starlet.

He turned to wave at the car, and at that, it swerved in towards the ditch. He tried to jump out of its way, but the car rebounded off the ditch and swerved back out in Tom’s direction, hitting him on his side. He fell under the car, and it dragged him fifty yards down the road before the brakes screeched.

Tom could hear the car stopping, and, after a few minutes, the car door opening, but he couldn’t see anything for the warm blood pouring into his eyes. He heard a man’s voice slurring, “Oh Christ. Jesus Christ.”

But the man did not walk towards him; in fact, Tom heard footsteps walking away. He tried to speak, but was unable to get the words out. He tried to lift his arm to make some sort of gesture, but he was unable to raise it. He was starting to feel himself drifting into unconsciousness.

The car door opened, the engine started, and it drove away.

The last thing Tom could hear was a gentle cold breeze rustling in the branches of the trees overhead. He felt cool drops of sleety rain on his face.

Then there was silence.