The Bay of Nectar by Margaret Kiernan

The Bay of Nectar

The Bay of Nectar

Margaret Kiernan

Margaret Kiernan. Photo credit: Kelly Professional Photography, Gleann Petit, Mullingar, County Westmeath.

The Bay of Nectar Margaret Kiernan

Copyright © Margaret Kiernan 2024

First published by Margaret Kiernan- kiernanmargaret@yahoo.ie Ireland

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical without permission in writing from the author and publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cover image: ‘Dublin Bay’, Painting in acrylic by Margaret Kiernan.

Golden Field of Rapeseed crop. Painting in acrylic by Margaret Kiernan.

Foreword

These days it can feel like most of this planet’s population is reluctantly on the move. War and emigration, terror and devastation. How have we not yet learned to prioritise peace above all else. Millions of people are forced to leave all that is familiar and make a treacherous journey into the unknown, in search of a new home.

It is not right but, then again, it has always been that way. For example, in 1840s Ireland, a million people determined to escape the Famine by putting their trust in ship captains and their crew. They also had to trust their chosen destination - be it England, America, Australia or South Africa - that it would provide them with a job that would allow them both to rent space of some description and buy food.

They needed to maintain hope or else there was no point in going anywhere. This future had to be worth the hurt of separation from their land, their history, and the country that contained their ancestral lines in the graveyards. Who would they be somewhere else, miles away from home. Some of us can only imagine the courage it takes to bundle up one’s family, risk your life savings, and step into a boat to sail miles to somewhere foreign.

Lucky us that are ignorant of the desperation involved.

In the end we all want the same thing, to feel safe. In the end, we can only hope to rely on the kindness of strangers.

Nicola Pierce-Writer June,

2024

Summer Pastoral, Lough Owel, Westmeath. Photograph by Margaret Kiernan.

Preface

Two boys, and the story of their lives, as diverse as the lives of their parents. Cody, aged eleven, lived in a seaside and Port town, ten miles south of Dublin city, Ireland, his often absent parents meant he had grown up with help from his neighbours around the harbour, and Radnor, aged thirteen began his life in war-torn Tamla, Idlib Province, in Syria. Their cultures as varied as the moving tides that brought them together.

Radnor began his journey with his family heading to France. A disaster in the Mediterranean sea ended that dream and he was taken into safety in southern England. Some months later, he travelled to Ireland and was then alone in the Port town, a refugee, an orphan, homeless. He fed himself from restaurant food bins to survive. He could have reported himself to the authorities, he choose to remain free, outside the system. Meeting Cody enabled him to continue doing that. Cody found a new purpose to his days and his loneliness abated.

They came together in the abandoned mansion above the Bay. Two boys, not on a desert island, but making the best of the situation in the seaside town, avoiding capture and looking out for each other. It seemed at first glance an unlikely, or a slim chance, of friendship, but each boy had found a true home. The house above the Bay wasn’t a Fifth Avenue Manhattan pad, it had the basic unit of safety and belonging that the boys needed, and the liberty to enjoy their days.

Margaret Kiernan June, 2024

Cut-away Peatlands, County Westmeath. Painting in acrylic by Margaret Kiernan.

Cut-away Peatlands, County Westmeath, acrylic painting by Margaret Kiernan.

Salt-wind under the Acacia tree

Out in the Bay, the siren sounds loudly from an incoming ship. Blue water with silver scudding waves pushes against the surface.

Cody Chapman stands in the shade of a large Acacia tree in the front garden of number eight, Beach Road. He stares out to sea. When the siren sounds for the second time, Cody looks upstairs to the second-floor window. The blinds are closed there. Shortly, that will change, as Elizabeth Breslin Chapman is on her way home.

Cody thinks he must be very cool, stay strong. In all his eleven years, he’s never had so much to suffer the loss of. He holds his secrets close now. His new friend from faraway.

He grabs his bike and cycles shakily to the East Pier and the arrivals area for passengers, travelling by ferry ship. Propping his bike against the harbour wall, he strolls inside the building to meet his mother. A woman nearby selling toffee apples from her street stall watches him go in.

He is an only child and lives in Beach Road with Elizabeth’s Great-uncle in-law, Dan, who had been away at sea all his life. A merchant mariner who declares that he has seen the world.

He had retired to Beach Road, the same house where he had grown up. Shortly after he retired, Elizabeth and Jack were married and along came their son, Cody. Elizabeth introduced Dan to Cody. Dan and babies didn’t mix well. In time Cody became equally indifferent to him.

Elizabeth’s husband, Jack Chapman, brought little to the home.

“Only trouble,” stated Dan. The problem was, he would own the house after Dan. It was in the Will. It made Jack noticeably confident about many things.

He was known to the Law, for all the wrong reasons. He used his address to extend himself. He conducted his business of sorts, on the passenger and transport ferries. He worked hard and landed himself in prison, finally for a long stretch. Elizabeth found herself a new boyfriend and life went on at number eight. She has been to England to spend time with her boyfriend these past months.

Dan became the default childminder. Cody had bright blond hair, and when he smiled, he beamed. All his young life he lived with the push and pull of harbour life. Ships hooting and gulls squawking.

People liked the wandering boy. He was always alone. Peddling his bike and helping where he could. He stayed out of the house a lot. He didn’t have friends as such. People were aware his parents were adrift, and Dan cooked a meal each day.

If only school were a place of refuge, it could all have been so different. The bullies had set the tempo of life for Cody. Crushed ribs and a constant growing fear inside his chest, being strangled by a minor terrorist, while his hands were clawing through air. Bored and lonely, and feeling faint was a regular day for Cody Chapman.

It didn’t help being taunted about his wayward parents. There were more bullies per square centimetre at his school, it could make a stone cry, Cody told Dan. Sweating and fearful days wore him down.

His only comforts were his bicycle, he cycled everywhere, and his phone. That obscure piece of plastic and its technology kept his head together.

It was his refuge, and life was ordered by having it. It kept him in touch with Dan. That was why Elizabeth purchased the phone for him. Still, he could get bored. Going exploring one day was how he found himself mitching from school on Abbey Road.

There were a number of derelict houses to explore on that road. It was a favourite place for youths to hang out during school term, and a place for them to smoke cigarettes.

Climbing the hill to Monterey school, some boys gave up the effort. Instead, they spent time together among the ancient houses, now long vacated. Cody could remember clearly when he first did that. It was a Wednesday and his gym day.

Gym was best avoided if you wanted to give the bullies a miss. Those guys were not lovers of the gym. They liked better to capture the unsuspecting boys, as they held back from the gym activities. Cody had been a victim several times. Going on the mitch or hiding out was his solution. That was when he first went to the old ivy-covered house on Abbey Road.

That first time, he had let himself in the back entryway, pushing aside the heavy creeping vine that hung all over the porch. Stepping over debris and dead leaves, he came face-to-face with another world, a place he would grow into and come to love. He would call it home. Life at Beach Road, overlooking the harbour, would dim into the back of his mind. He would spend many hours in what he thought of as his new home. He had no way of knowing then about his new friend in the future, when Radnor would be there too.

In a mansion above the Bay

Radnor was no longer the quiet boy that had arrived at Abbey Road after a long journey over sea and land. Small for his size and aged thirteen, he was an orphan and possessed only the clothes on his back, and a knapsack of badly soiled garments. His family were lost at sea on route to what had promised to be their new life, full of hope, lost at a border in an ocean. The most dangerous border in the world in twenty seventeen, lay in the Mediterranean Sea.

Life faraway in Idlib province was over forever. The war there since twenty eleven had changed everything. Textbooks were altered and, classes had begun in war safety awareness.

Boys were expected to go to school from six to eighteen years. Radnor left Syria before his Brevet exam. His uncle, Ismail Nader, his mother’s brother, called the family attention to the opportunity to flee. He helped with the arrangements and, the money too.

The Mediterranean rescue of Radnor took him to England. After time in a detainment centre, he was approached by a man, who offered him a lift to Ireland by truck. Radnor handed him all the money he possessed to get him into Dun Laoghaire harbour, ten miles south of Dublin city, in an Irish Ferry ship. Making it clear to Radnor, the man stated once the truck was through customs, then he, Radnor, was on his own.

The truck stopped on Seacrest Road, just outside the port. Radnor got out and the truck sped away towards the M 50 road network. Radnor was thousands of miles away from home in Syria, and he was now all alone. He spoke extraordinarily little English. For a while, he couldn’t move himself. He was frightened now, as much as he had been in the boat before it had capsized, in the Mediterranean Sea.

It was a lovely warm day, yet he felt cold. He shook himself and put his knapsack on his back. Taking his time to clip it tight.

He looked around, he watched everything. He noticed on a road up above him, a stand of tall green trees. He loved trees. He began to walk towards them. Abbey Road rose above the town. His imagination got going about trees and the richness of hardwoods. At home in the East, timber was a valuable item.

He remembered the story about Robin Hood of England. In his past dreams his parents had told him they were going to join Robin in Nottingham Forest, to live there. He had been excited but when he woke up and the dreaming faded, he knew it was to France they were headed.

Now he reached the tree-lined roads of the Irish sea-side town of Dun Laoghaire. He thought about how he could be resourceful. What he might do to help his situation. He walked past Monterey School, looked in and realised he wouldn’t ever be going there. This made him sad.

When he got to Abbey Road, the derelict mansion named Monterey House, caught his attention. It had beauty still and the large monkey-puzzle tree near the front gate reminded him of somewhere. The house had flaking pale red masonry and windows with panes of glass missing. Scampering over the wall, he beat back overgrown shrubs, to get to the house. He went around the back, poking his way along. He removed his knapsack as it was catching in low-lying thick branches of laurel. He checked around for signs of habitation, quietly making sure he was not seen.

He pushed hard against the back door in the basement. It finally gave way and he cautiously stepped inside. It was obvious to see that no-one lived there. It was dusty and damp inside, with objects strewn on the floor. He quickly ran through the house, peeping into rooms. Some rooms had furniture in them. Clothes piled on chairs, in wardrobes too, and curtains hanging at odd angles. In one room there was a fireplace that had soot spilling onto the floor where several dead birds lay. Radnor looked out a front window on the second storey. He could see two piers below, yachts and small boats and beyond that, the Irish Sea. And so, his new life began, in the place where he un-wrapped his grief, and he left his childhood behind him. In future his childish heart would be silent.

That first night in the abandoned mansion, he dreamed of Syria. He could feel and smell the land as he breathed deeply into the ancient feather mattress, scents of lemon trees and verbena wafting on wind. His dreams were filled with his friends, Bilal, he with an endless grin full of mischief, Ghanem, Masoud, Khalil with his short leg, all playing happily, forgetting what had caused his foot to be amputated, or why he crunched wildflowers under one foot as he played. He dreamed of breakfasts full of dairy products. Dinnertimes full of meze, then kibbeh, hummus, tabbouleh, Syrian flat bread with Shatta sauce. They play in the heat, tick and ball play, hoop rolling with a pokey stick. He could taste the dust in his mouth, he is running wild and free. The Meeusen call to prayer echoed all along his street. Lizards sizzle on the pavement as he traversed the land of his ancestors. His dream is of schooltime before ISIS.

He startled awake in the mansion, trees were rattling against the window, and he was very cold. An east wind was blowing up off the bay. He realised too; he was crying. He felt so lonely, it hurt his chest.

It was daylight outside. He couldn’t find the will to move or get up. He pulled rags around himself and tried to return to sleep. Noise from the road traffic receded as he drifted into fitful bursts of sleep and anxiousness. His dream did not return. He was all alone in a new country, and he knew no-one.

Storytime after sleep

In time, he would tell Cody about his journey and that first night at Monterey House. It would ease his pain to share it. The two of them together would tell stories. Fill their days with propping each other up.

Yet, Radnor did not want to share about the nights in Syria sleeping together in one bed. The entire family sheltering together, deeply afraid, while outside rockets were zipping across the night sky. Buildings were collapsing in a puff of dust.

In the mornings, there would be bodies strewn across the streets. Some bitten by dogs. Wild packs roamed with an appetite for flesh. Radnor and his family had lived for years like that.

One day Radnor’s father made a decision that would change all their lives forever. Murad Hasen was not a man to decide in a hurry. He had been considering it for some time. He had spoken to his brother-in-law Ismail, several times.

For a full year, the pros and cons were tossed about between the family but, keeping it quiet in the neighbourhood. Ismail had tried to talk Murad out of it at first. Citing the danger if found out and, the expense.

Dangerous might mean a life punishment, and a great deal of legal trouble. It was discussed at length many times, hearts in mouths.

Finally, Murad Hasen made up his mind, made the decision for himself and his own family. They were going to go, travel overseas to a better life, a safer place.

He sold what little he owned. They then did a tour visiting selected neighbours and family, saying farewell. None of them knew if they would ever meet again.

It was emotional for everybody. Mother leaving all her little treasures, the reluctance to leave weighted her down. She shrugged about everything, as if she had given up the will to live, to be decisive. However, her daughter Laila sang each day. She was ready. She was hushed by her mother, told to be quiet.

Finally, all the details were sorted, and the money paid. One day later they slipped away, just as the evening star rose in a darkening sky. They were going to the new paradise, Murad said. It was in France, or at least he thought so.

The boat journey was a trip of fear and distress. Overloaded and no food to eat once their own that they brought with them, was eaten. Hours of agony wondering if they would be apprehended and sent back, bickering with the captain of the boat, about everything.

That night, of the massive storm at sea, they were all sick. Radnor could recall that people shouted they could see the lights of Marseilles on the horizon.

People were excited about that and began to stir and move out from under the tarpaulins. The storm was raging. It was dangerous, and the sea swell was frightening. Laila began to throw up violently.

The next memory he had was of lying on a beach with men working on his body. He felt awful, he felt like he was going to die. He did want to let go but thought he ought to try to hang on, try.

Everyone around him was willing him to live. Rescue boats had gathered up the living, and the dead too. It was a terrible sight.

All his family had drowned, they were dead and he their sole survivor. When Radnor realised this, he turned over on his side, and spewed green bile from his mouth. The effort to breathe took all his strength and he passed out again. The darkness took over.

Sundays in the Park

Living in his squat at the derelict mansion was lonely for Radnor. To survive was challenging for him. Hunger was the main issue each day. He kept a low-profile during daylight hours. He slept for extended periods.

Weekdays, he avoided the boys going to school, he knew it was dangerous for him to be seen, as an unofficial refugee, he could be fair game for the bullies.

However, after dark he travelled downhill to Sea Road and the restaurant there. Visiting the bins outside in the backyard, he searched for tasty morsels to feed himself. Later, he went walking around the Port, he watched passenger cars and trucks arrive and leave on the ships. The sky at night he watched while he lay out on the harbour walls.

Saturday was his loneliest day. He was afraid to walk through the town. This became Radnor’s pattern of days, except for Sundays. That day there was a market in the town park, the peoples park, and it was a long established one over years. When Radnor first discovered it, he was fascinated. He loved the jostling crowds, the colours, and hippy looking people in the stands.

Smoke filled the park and people were cooking food and selling it. There was a bandstand with music playing. The smells of spices drifted everywhere, and the colours of exotic and regional foods and cuisines, was laid out on tables. Some other stalls sold incense and crystals.

Radnor found it all exciting. Something about it reminded him of his home far away in Syria. This made him a little sad as he doubted, he would ever see his home again.

Tamla, in Idlib province, seemed a long way away from Ireland. So much so there were days when he doubted its existence at all.

Watching all the faces in the market on Sundays, it was easier for him to imagine he was from this very place in county Dublin. That made things better for him for a while, his internal story held together better.

Sunday market became his favourite time of the week. He felt at home there. His mind became stilled in all the hustle and noise, colourful people rushing around, all shapes and sizes, and assorted colours, some were like him.

When he dreamed at night in his sleep, all were the same colour in far-off Syria. When he woke in the mornings in the house above the bay, the freezing air struck him as cruel.

Staring around at his shabby surroundings, he decided that living in this cold climate was hard, silent, and chilly. One of his consolations was the sirens from the in-coming ships in the harbour far below.

Sunday mornings were the exception for Radnor. Grabbing clothes as he put his feet out of bed before jumping out, dressing quickly, going carefully through the trees, and running down the hill.

To meet with the movement of people of all shapes and sizes, and colours, with all the excited chatter and the ocean close by, made him feel better. He forgot about his bad dreams, his waking in a cold sweat from sounds of aircraft bombings, avoiding shrapnel pieces flying around him, as he twisted and turned in a grubby bed.

He forgot too that the sun glowed stronger in the sky elsewhere. About the lizards scuttling on the sizzling pavements. That was another place. He let it go quietly, like a paper boat on a river. He began to forget how he came to be in the harbour and in time he came to feel at the centre of himself again.

The day that Cody Chapman entered the mansion named Monterey House, he had found himself face-to-face with the refugee from Syria, he was shocked, as Radnor was too. For moments they had eyed each other up and down, like two feral animals caught in a cage.

Shivering in a threadbare blanket, lurking and listening to the wind, Radnor was caught unawares. He had suddenly noticed movement, like a photograph suddenly moves quietly, unsure if the green leaves are stirring aside, outside.

Yes, the boy was coming in, stepped through the basement doorway. Eyes met eyes, and after some time, Cody spoke first.

“Hi, who are you,” he asked.

Radnor just stared sullenly at him. The language differences made it difficult, once Cody realised this he knew where to focus. He pulled out his phone and used an App. to translate. It took time and co-operation, but finally some things got figured out, and some background information cleared up filled the gaps. In time their stories would be shared fully.

Title, Rocks. Painting in acrylic by Margaret Kiernan.

Getting stuff done

Cody was appalled to see how dirty Radnor was. He was flouting weeks of dirt. Cody persuaded Radnor to come down to the sea after dark; to wash. He thought a swim would be good for him. That became a plan, and they went.

There followed a tragic scene. Radnor stood close to the edge, with the water barely covering his knees, when suddenly he shrieked and cried. Memories had come flooding back to him, of the stormy ocean far away, near Marseilles, it filled him up with sad memories. It was all too much for him. The capsizing event was now uppermost in his mind again, the relived trauma and stress, and felt fully by Radnor in the chilly waters of Ireland.

Cody tried to understand what was happening. In parts he sussed it was a memory of something awful. What shocked him was the depth of suffering from his new friend. He stepped over to where Radnor stood and placed his arm around his bony back. They stood there together for some time.

Cody thought it would be lovely to find help for Radnor. Find someone to whom he could talk to, tell his story about what had happened to him, and how he was feeling mentally.

But Cody wouldn’t be able to do that, as their confidence would be broken. He had promised his silence to the refugee.

It was tough having a friend in so much pain, thought Cody. The price of being his friend with that secret. He would keep his promise to Radnor and tell no one.

He would help him in whatever way he could do so himself. He would be the one person in the world to be his friend and support him. He felt like a brother to him. They were alike, Cody reasoned. Forget about the blond hair. They each hadn’t a father. Murad was dead and Jack Chapman was in prison, indefinitely. So, in a way they were both orphans, Cody felt.

Later at the house, they talked about those things, using the phone App. to communicate. Radnor was shiny clean from the sea water. Cody promised to try to get him new clothes, or at least clean ones, to also get a scissors and trim his hair. He’d bring one from his home on Beach Road next time. No one would miss it. Other stuff too.

Train tracks ran along behind the pub, down on Sea Road. Walking there they found a puppy on the rocks. It looked awful and was wet, with long ears, and sad looking. They decided to bring it up to the house. It would be company for Radnor when Cody was gone home at night. For a while it didn’t look as if the pup would live. In time it got stronger, and the boys named the dog Rocky. They were delighted with their new friend, and time sped on.

Moving on

Cody managed himself; he went home to the elderly man to eat dinner. Sleeping there mostly still, but sometimes going again to Monterey House on Abbey Road. Monterey was where the boys spent most of their time. Cody had managed to buy a phone for Radnor, using Dan’s name as the applicant, for the internet protocols it was important that Cody got it right. He didn’t want Radnor arrested and to end up in county Meath in the Refugee centre. It would be the end of their life together if he was captured now.

With the Apps, it meant they had free calls. Games and music too. It gave Radnor a broader window to the world. Cody worried about this in the beginning. What if his friend tried to find other friends. Go away from him. Search for his relatives overseas. That day might be in the future.

Who knew. For now, all was well with the boys together, with their dog Rocky, who was loving all their attention.

Clothes for Radnor was a problem Cody was going to sort that out if he could. He hadn’t any spare clothes of his own to give to him, but he had a plan in his head. The Convent was one place about which he had heard.

Tee-shirts and shorts would be good to get, not exactly Ben Sherman trunks, but whatever he could get would be appreciated. Radnor was almost naked, and threadbare now. Many days when the wind blew cold, Radnor was wearing a woman’s coat found upstairs in a wardrobe. Cody was considering how he could find him other clothes, and he planned to do that.

Along a street that was new to him, Cody arrived at the Convent back wall. Grey and plain with a gate painted black. He pressed the bell in the wall, and he waited. Overhead a big fat seagull sat atop a chimney pot. Cody clapped his hands.

The bird flew up screeching and whooshed away. Impatiently waiting, yet fearful, Cody turned up his collar and drew himself upwards. He now heard footsteps approaching from within. The door was opened and a woman in a pale blue dress asked what he wanted. He replied,

“I need to find clothes and food for a poor boy. He is cold and has had no food for weeks.”

“Where is he, she queried. Why hasn’t he come along himself.”

“He is not feeling well. He caught a cold” replied Cody.

“Well, how do I know that. Come in and I will speak to Sr. Anne.

I am just a house housekeeper” she replied.

Moving forward, Cody saw for the first time inside the convent walls. It was a place he had never ventured near before now.

A rose garden with a walkway led to a door. They stepped in, and he was told to take a seat and wait. He sat on an oak tall-back chair, one in a line of chairs. He heard her footsteps echo as she walked away along a corridor, and the clanging sound of doors closing.

Cody felt uneasy. The smell of beeswax and stale air induced a kind of nausea in him. He waited for ages it seemed, and eventually the woman returned followed by a tall nun in navy dress. Quizzical eyes surveyed him up and down, and back to his eyes. Cody stood up.

She began to interrogate him, firing questions at him, in staccato, who needed clothes, where was he now, how come his parents weren’t looking after him and his needs, how did she know if he, Cody, wasn’t going to sell the clothes.

Cody was exhausted answering and defending his position. The nausea was still there, only worse. His knees began to shake but he didn’t want the nun to see that. He crossed one leg over the other and tried to stand still. She asked if he needed the bathroom. Cody squeaked no, only to realise that he did. It was all getting out of his control.

Cody wished now that the ground would open and swallow him. Telling so many fibs to the Nun made him feel strange. He regretted coming and his stomach was doing somersaults. If only he could exit.

Suddenly, and for no apparent reason for the change, the nun agreed she would give clothes and food for now. A voucher for the town drapery shop would also be written out for him. He was weak with relief. What brought about her change he couldn’t even guess?

The Blue Lagoon. Mixed media painting by Margaret Kiernan.

Cutting the cloth to the measure

Cody returned to Monterey House, bearing the box, and trucking it uphill all the way left Cody with a swirling headache. Past the pub where Radnor had fed himself from the bins and on up the hillside. Entering the house as usual through the trees, his friend was delighted to see him back. His eyes popped at the large box. It was full of clothes and food.

“Allah be praised,” he said aloud, repeating it, as Cody removed the string and began to unpack the goodwill from the convent.

Laughs from both boys filled the room. The trousers were too long for Radnor. They fetched the scissors Cody had brought from his home to trim Radnor’s hair.

Cutting in a straight line, Cody removed a length from each trouser leg. Radnor put them on and turned back the un-seamed hems. He then became worried, what if those people came to get him. Could they do that Cody, he asked.

Cody laughed, and said the nun told Radnor to call down to the convent when he was ready, and in his own time. Radnor had tears in his eyes as he pulled the ring-top from a can of peaches taken from the box, while stuffing his mouth with a scone. No room for more praises.

Silently, Cody wondered if he could trust that nun, she could report him. She did suggest school for his new friend. Cody had spun a good yarn but now he wasn’t so sure. He became edgy. He had been mitching a lot himself lately.

Breaking free from authority wasn’t easy. Cody knew this above all things. He had been living on the edge for a long time in his young life. There was always a danger from the law and authorities, breaking through your barricades. Cody was used to making decisions for himself, measured moves, he had done numberless times.

Radnor was delighted and ate loads of food from the box. He then began to whimper in his own tongue, he said aloud to Cody,

“The generosity makes me sad; they are strangers that gave me food and all these clothes. My parents’ clothes were washed clean in the sea, what use have they of clothes now. I am too sad.”

Cody was furiously using the language App.; he was trying to understand what Radnor was saying. Cody said,

“Oh, thanks buddy, come on now, give over your sobbing, I only put my head in a noose to get it, risked prison time. If you saw the nun, you would have run out of there quickly. And all the questions she asked me. Interrogation is not enough of a word to describe the grilling I got.”

Radnor choked up again and for a while, no one talked. But he was trying to find a hard part within himself, to help him survive the kindnesses of strangers. It was proving hard for him to survive this way. Hardness was something he would need to find within himself if he were to make it in the new country.

Now suddenly, he is swallowing his grief in gulps, tears streaming down his face, choking like a drowning person. He has yet to learn about indifference, to make a hard spot in himself to re-make a world for himself.

For now, his inspiration comes from Cody. Even Rocky the dog stays quiet in his box on the window seat. Green laurel shadows are falling across the box, and the noise from the road can be heard in the room again.

Woodland Ruby. Painting in acrylic by Margaret Kiernan.

Friends go to the mountains

Rocky loved Radnor as his handler. The love between them was apparent. Cody could see for himself that the dog had a strange bond of attachment for Radnor. However, Cody comforted himself by acknowledging that they were all strays. The three of them, joined together by love. The dog was never going to win the prize for best of the litter. He could win in the prize for the dog you’d most like to bring home. He was a one- off. A deep shade of brown and a mixed breed. He had a white shape above his eyes, it looked like a star. One ear was missing a piece. He had limpid brown eyes, with an almost constant wet snout.

Rocky was kept busy each day. Early morning swims in the sea and all day runs in the woods nearby. They decided to go further afield one day, spread their wings, and experience new ground. Radnor had admired many times the blue mountain range that seemed to wrap around the city, said he would love to go up there, and one day the decision was made to go up there.

Rocky wearing his new red collar and bronze name tag, with Codys phone number on the tag, they began their long walk. Knapsacks on the boys’ backs holding food for the long walk ahead. They couldn’t take the bus with Rocky; it wasn’t allowed. The three of them made their way through Monkstown, The Farm, across Stillorgan to Leopardstown and on to the Dublin mountains at Two Rocks, walking and running parts of the way. They arrived warm and sweaty.

Chasing through the heather disturbing the rabbits, they played in the ruined building of The Hell Fire club. Rocky got a cool drink in the running stream. He appeared overjoyed with his outing. The place inspired the two boys’ imaginations.

Cody told Radnor the stories and myths associated with the mountains. All about Oisin and Niamh, characters from Irelands ancient folklore and myths. How they too had roamed and played in these places. Ancient gullies and streams, old ruins of dwellings from long ago, the place was magical. Their imaginations soared. They dipped and dived, chasing each other, arms wide. Cody searched for wet grass lizards, he wanted to show Radnor that they were there.

Exhausted, they lay on the heather to rest, and to watch the clouds chasing across the summer sky. The blue crescent of the hills and mountains surrounded them. Way below was the sweep of the bay where a warm wind was blowing from.

Buzzards and other hawks flew, beneath sky contrails of aircraft flying into the airport in north county Dublin way below. Packs of wild horses moved gracefully across the moor. Someday, they agreed, they would try to catch one. Those animals were fleet of foot, skirting and rearing up against capture. When the boys got tired, they burrowed down into a hollow dugout, made of stones and clay and they slept, while giant hares watched, and chewed grass nearby. In future, they planned how they would stay on the Moor overnight.

Thrilled with the place and its freedom, Radnor now had enough language to say that to Cody.

“Moor,” he said was a strange word.

Radnor unfurls in the mountains; he loves all the small animals. He spoke there about his family. How it could all have been so different for his life, and theirs. Cody urged him not to grieve, saying one day they would all meet again.

Rocky agreed, by jumping on top of Radnor, barking playfully. Radnor stroked the dog’s head and ears, he believed that too, it helped him to deal with his loss. Beautiful places raised nostalgia in him.

Somehow, he’d have to move on. He found it hard to have those thoughts, letting go was difficult. He thought perhaps that he was too soft.

Cody didn’t believe in permanency; he knew little of it from his parents. He was happy enough that each day brought the latest changes. Absent parents had made him independent. He wasn’t that bothered by Dan, the age gap made a difference, he could ignore the points of view of the older man.

Cody hadn’t a need for close family, the neighbourhood was all his. That was as permanent as you could find, to Cody. The daily life of the sea-side port town. The ships sirens, the foghorn in the bay.

The east and west pier for rambles where so much happened. The bells of the churches ringing each day, yachts in the bay, playing with the wind. The creaking of ropes and masts on boats, were music to his ears.

A cycle ride to Dalkey village, to climb the hill there. The need for, or pull from, a father figure or advisor wasn’t a stage he had yet reached. He was at peace with his world for now.

Radnor however would soon need to escape his lonely isolation and find a full life. He wants to let go of his fear, and his anger, to find a path of recovery from grief for his dead family, and homesickness for his old country, where the lizards were home, and dry.

Ocean blue. Painting in acrylic by Margaret Kiernan.

Acknowledgements

I would like to acknowledge the migrant community in Ireland and all refugees living here in Ireland. As a professional advocate, I worked with migrants, and refugees, and Special Protection cases.Their stories are mostly unheard. People arrive on our shores for many reasons, political upheaval, war, famine, the drive to better themselves. They bring their human condition with them, they also bring their talents, hopes and fears. Many have been looked after very well. Training and education have been provided, homes and shelter too. Ireland has a rich heritage of welcoming people to our country; it is to be admired and hopefully will continue, for as long as there is a need for it.

As a Race, Irish people have endured, for centuries, prolonged periods of emigration to countries around the world, but mostly to the UK and the United States of America. Shifting migration is on the increase in the world. There are many reasons for that. What each one of us need only address in our daily meeting with another person is, how can I help you.

Margaret writes fiction and poetry. She is widely published in literary journals and magazines. She has a professional background in Human Rights and Social Justice advocacy. She is a democracy activist.

A reviewer from the Galway University Press wrote, and I quote,

“Margaret Kiernan is a prolific writer known for her captivating poetry and compelling short stories. With a remarkable literary career, she boasts publications in esteemed journals and magazines such as The Blue Nib, The Ekphrastic Review, and The Galway Review, The Red Fern Review, Live Encounters, among many others. Margaret’s talent has garnered her nominations for The Best of The Net Award on three occasions and earned her the title of Runner-up in The Hannah Greely International Competition. Her work is not only celebrated in the literary world but also recognized in The Index of Contemporary Women Poets in Ireland, 2020. Beyond her literary pursuits, Margaret brings a wealth of experience from her background in professional advocacy. In her leisure time, she finds solace in the company of her faithful companion, Molly the dog, and channels her creative energy into painting landscapes and still-life scenes. Margaret G. Kiernan’s dedication to her craft and her diverse range of talents make her a prominent figure in the contemporary literary scene.”