Just a short offering for Hallowe'en although perhaps a little different: there is nothing frightening, no ghoulies, ghosties, long-leggety beasties or things that go bump in the night. There's not too much in the way of sex, either, but the story is about the love between two women. I hope you enjoy it.
Characters in sex scenes are eighteen years old or over. All characters and some places are imaginary—any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 to the author
* * * * *
"...So I will take you back, Kathleen / To where your heart will feel no pain /And when the fields are fresh and green / I will take you to your home again..."
I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen
( Irish traditional)
Bereavement and grief 2020
They laid my beloved to rest in the old Ballynahoe cemetery. A half-century and more than half-century we had lived together and loved one another and now she was taken from me, leaving me alone and bereft. COVID-19 it was that had taken her, my lovely Siobhan, my lovely girl. I guess you could call it misadventure. She had been suffering with a bad cold then picked up the virus from somewhere and it worked its evil on her weakened system. Siobhan had died in the earliest part of the year when the weather was bleak and the trees bare and ragged as they clutched towards the grey, leaden skies. It was if they, too, mourned.
She slept now close by a grand old tree by the ruins of an ancient church. The plot next to Siobhan's was reserved for me so that when my time came we would be together once more.
The funeral service concluded, the villagers lined up to pass me, to shake my hand and mutter the customary Irish words of condolence, saying: "I'm sorry for your troubles." Peter Rafferty, who owned and ran the grocery-store-cum-pub, had laid on food and tea for the wake. Not a penny piece would he take from me. "You've been good customers and friends over many a year, Kathleen," he told me, "and this is the least I could do for Siobhan." Others could be relied on to bring stronger drinks if they wished. The last in line to reach me was Father Connolly.
The elderly priest took my hands in his. "How long was it you were together, Kathleen?"
"More than fifty years, Father," I told him, "We met at Trinity and gradually we just knew."
He sighed a little. "I respect your feelings, Kathleen, so I'll not do what many of my fellows would do and tell you to be happy because Siobhan is in God's hands. That kind of speech is comfort for some but small comfort for others. What I can say is this: you know my history, you know I've suffered loss and I can tell you that given time, it gets easier. The pain will never go away entirely but it lessens. Now, would you care for me to say a short prayer over Siobhan while you are by my side?" Unlike his predecessor, Father Connolly was a kind man, a caring man, and I could not be so churlish as to refuse his offer.
"Thank you, Father, that would be fine." So we stood together by the open grave and Father Connolly said a short prayer, nothing mawkish or overblown but a simply-worded entreaty to God to care for his daughter now recalled home.
"Thank you, Father," I said as we crossed ourselves, "Now perhaps we'd best be on our way to the wake..."
* * * * *
Even bereavement doesn't give those left behind any respite. I swear there is more bureaucracy involved with a death than any transaction in life. Still, in the first instance it held my grief in check while I went through the rigmarole. With most things sorted out, I rewrote my will and lodged it with a local solicitor. As neither Siobhan nor I had family worth speaking of, I made provision for my funeral and wake and all other assets were to be shared among a number of local charities. I named Father Connolly as executor and then I was free to grieve, remembering daily the time that Siobhan and I had met...
Way back when 1968
I met Siobhan at Trinity College, Dublin, where we were both students. It was 1968, a strange old year with more ill than good in it I'd say. It was the year that the thirty-year conflict, called The Troubles, started in Northern Ireland. It was the year of the Prague Spring when the Czech Communist Party's reforms were little better than window-dressing. It was the year of the My Lai massacre in Vietnam and the downfall of the young officer in charge of the soldiers who had committed the atrocity. It was the year that Martin Luther King was assassinated by career criminal James Earl Ray. It was the year that Richard Nixon was elected President of the US (and those of us old enough will recall how that ended a few years later). There were a few bright spots, a couple being that it was the year the maxi started to replace the mini-skirt and it was the year that Captain James T Kirk shared television's first inter-racial kiss with Lieutenant Uhuru in an episode of
Star Trek
.
And it was the year I met the love of my life.
I was sitting in a lecture hall, going over my notes while waiting for the professor to appear. I was aware of someone plumping themselves down beside me and a slightly breathless voice said: "Phew! Made it. I hope this one's not as boring as the last old fart I had to listen to." A woman's voice. Thank the good Lord for that---I was getting tired of fending off men who tried to make my acquaintance.
I turned to look at my neighbour and...
Pow!
It was what the French call a
coup de foudre
. A vision sat beside me, a vision with flaming red hair and sparkling green eyes, a vision with a slight resemblance to actress Maureen O'Hara. And here was me who'd had a teenage crush on Maureen O'Hara ever since I'd seen one of her old films on TV.
"Don't worry," I told her, I've seen this guy before and he's not too bad. Oh, here he is now." The teacher went straight to the lectern and without bothering about feeble jokes or snappy observations plunged straight into his lecture. His subject this day was of particular interest to me, being about negotiations with agents and publishers. Finished, he simply gathered up his notes and left the rostrum without a word. He had a reputation of not allowing time for questions, believing that all you needed to know was contained in the lecture and if you hadn't been paying attention, hard luck. There was a bit of a stampede as students left their seats and rushed the exits.
"Not too bad, I suppose," commented my neighbour, "at least he managed to put some expression in his voice." She looked around. "Seems we're the only two left. The others couldn't get out fast enough. Must be heading for the boozers. Is it in order to ask your name?"
"I'm Kathleen Sheridan," I told her, "In fact it's Mary Kathleen but I prefer Kathleen. There's far too many Marys in this country already." She started laughing and I bristled. "Would there be something funny about my name?"
The girl held up a conciliatory hand. "Not at all. I'm laughing at the coincidence. I'm Siobhan Kearney, baptised Mary Siobhan but I prefer Siobhan for much the same reason. Too many bloody Marys. There were seven or eight of them in my class at school. Of course, the nuns couldn't understand why I dropped the 'Mary'. They said it was an honour to be named after Our Lady. Silly ould fools---her real Hebrew name was Myriam or something like that although the nuns would never admit it."
I started to laugh along with her; the nuns in my school had said much the same ("The honour, child, the honour"). I stuck out a hand. "Then I'm pleased to meet you, Mary Siobhan Kearney."
"And I you, Mary Kathleen Sheridan," she replied as she took my hand. Her hand was warm and she had a firm grip. A thrill seemed to run up my arm and I felt a wee flutter in my belly.
Get a grip of yourself, Kathleen Sheridan,
I told myself,
she's probably straight.
