Joe Ramsey was a familiar sight , cycling around the neighbouring areas of Ramoe in N. Ireland. With a cheery wave and a jaunty air he was the peoples favourite person first thing in the morning. Being the village postman, Joe took his position as Communications Officer very seriously indeed, and in forty years service, rain, hail or snow, Joe had been missing only one time – when he lost his beloved wife Edith to cancer some years past. The light had gone out of his life and he didn’t believe he could function anymore. But the good people of Ramoe requested his return and Edith would not have wanted him to let them down. So Joe donned his well worn uniform once more.

 

That was why, on this particular Tuesday morning, the residents of Crombie Avenue were puzzled. Joe was late – her was never late. Was he sick? Did he have an accident? Should they call the hospitals? He wasn’t just their postman, he was their friend and they worried about him. There was no need, around the corner came Joe, fifteen minutes late, on his trusty steed. His customers breathed a collective sigh of relief and returned to their morning rituals.

 

Joe swung his sack jauntily over his shoulder and whistled merrily. He was in a particularly happy mood this morning.

 

“ This is my last delivery, only three letters and I hang up my mailbag for good. I’ll miss my good friends but there is a place waiting for me, has been for a while.”

 

Three letters but three very, very important letters Letters to make or break a persons life and Joe had to deliver them. Joe sighed, knowing the contents of the missives, knowing the news bad or otherwise that he was bringing to lifetime friends. They lay at the bottom of his sack, two sparkling, bright, white envelopes sending out rays of love and hope but the other writhed and hissed like a black serpent, coiling and uncoiling with no apparent shape and emitting noxious fumes from Joe’s bag.

 

The first delivery was to old Mrs Carruthers in No. 36, it would lift her spirits no end. She had been so lonely since her husband died, a part of her gone with him, and then her only son had married , emigrated to Australia with a lovely wife, and now they were the proud parents of a bonny baby boy. She had seen photos and videos, had spoken to them on the phone, couldn’t be doing with those new-fangled internet thingies! Now they were coming home. Derek, her son , having found a new home and a new job here, they would be with her again. Joe smiled as he sensed the joy that would flood the old lady’s heart.

 

Joe’s thoughts then drifted to young Mrs Hughes at No. 26, his next visit. Widowed at the early age of thirty, she was the mother of two beautiful little girls. Joe, her husband was killed , an accident at work, at the tender age of thirty two and Jane missed him terribly.. A devoted couple, the loss was devastating to everyone. The sparkling letter in Joe’s bag promised hope and a new life for Jane and the children. An invitation to a party, where, Joe knew, she would meet a man who would become her second husband, who would love and cherish the girls as if they were his own. Joe’s heart glowed with happiness. He was nearly home. Just one more letter. At the thought his spirits sank, as he felt the evil thing writhing and squirming in his sack. He gazed heavenwards and sighed.

“Is this absolutely necessary?” he pleaded. But he knew it had to be done. With dragging steps he approached the steps of No. 54, the home of Mr and Mrs Roberts. Their son Thomas was serving in Iraq, had been for almost three years. He was due home soon, his tour completed. It was not going to happen. Tommy and three of his friends had been shot and killed two days before by insurgent rebels. The news had filtered through to his Mom and Dad about the tragedy but no names had been released until now. They had lived in limbo for 48 hours, now their intolerable grief would start.

Joe wept for them but he knew Tommy was happy and he swore that by some means, with a little help, he would deliver that message. His duty was done here now. His last post round completed. He deserved a rest and Edith had promised to wait for him.

 

“Joe, it’s time. Your place is ready. Your friends and family are waiting and a new friend Tommy thanks you for your concern for his parents. You will meet him soon. Take my hand ,Dear. We have to go”

Joe turned towards the brightness, towards a shining light emitting rays of love, peace and contentment and gazed into his beloved Ediths’ eyes.

The news spread sadly through the village that day. Joe Ramsey had been found lying peacefully at home, having suffered a massive heart attack. The delivery of the three letters was never explained.

 

 

 

 

She beckoned, rough and grey, like an old Belfast matriarch with goodness in her heart. Sparkling stones winking in the early morning sunlight, dark ash swirling, magically transformed into microscopic clouds of colours. Uneven, unpaved, unfinished but a safe haven for young feet in school shoes.                                                                                                          The Cinder Path, memories of childhood, positioned at the topmost end of Andersonstown Park West. A tiny portion as yet uncompleted, but a portion that was destined to become a milestone in the lives of the children in this West Belfast estate.

It led to what is now known as Kennedy Way but a lifetime ago was a warren of muddy paths, grass and weeds. Over the Cinder Path to school at five years old, over the Cinder Path, twice dressed in flowing gowns of pristine whiteness, Holy Communion and Confirmation, depicting childhood purity and innocence. Excited, glowing faces, chattering and giggling, preening and pirouetting, no interest whatsoever in their destination, only in their appearance and fashion. The boys were not so appreciative of their new restrictive garments, sulking and kicking at the cinder path, scuffed shoes and sullen looks. The only time I did not traverse the cinder path beautifully dressed in white was my wedding. Perhaps an omen for future disaster. Indeed!

The path was the children’s recreation area, unfortunately too close to one grumpy neighbour who complained of the noise and banished the revellers from her doorstep. But revenge is sweet and every Halloween saw justice done. Crunch! Crunch! Tiny feet approached the witch’s house, fireworks placed on her porch, then sounds of scattering scamps.

But time defeats us and plodding progress prepares us for the sanitised world we now live in. As I stand sadly gazing at the bland concrete slabs covering my cinder path thoughts of my father surface and I remember him. Bearing an uncanny resemblance to Christopher Lee, he was continually referred to as The Count by his motley, friendly crew of fellow bus employees. But proudly striding beside him down the cinder path caused me no fear, just a sense of security and safety. My idol, my hero, my father.

Before I leave my memories behind and the cinder path vanishes into the forgetfulness of old age, let me share with you a poignant, funny moment. Lagging behind our chaperoning mothers on one particular morning, my friend Esther and I were in no hurry to reach the school gates. Our minders gossiped and gabbled in front of us. Suddeny Mrs McGivern commenced to swivelling her hips like Elvis, rotating her rump in imitation of a comical belly dancer, every part of her jiggling with some sort of discomfort. To our utter amazement a large white garment slowly peeked from beneath the lady’s frock, sliding swiftly to the ground, a hastily unfurled flag of surrender. Her underwear had come adrift, causing no undue concern or embarrassment to herself. She simply stepped out of them, stuck them in her bag and the pair continued on their merry way, giggling like schoolgirls.

Those were the days of freedom and fun, dirty faces, hands and grubby clothes. No instant wipes to sterilise a child, just the Crunch! Crunch! of The Cinder Path at the topmost end of Andersonstown Park West.

 

 

I HOPE THAT SOME PEOPLE WILL REMEMBER THE CINDER PATH FROM CHILDHOOD.  IT IS NOT THERE NOW SADLY BUT THE MEMORIES OF IT WILL NEVER FADE.

 

 

 

The reverberation echoed around the house as the last wedding guest vacated the premises. The large door slammed shut, cutting off Fidelma’s escape. Not that she wished to escape.

She was a married woman now, her new husband’s strong arms encircling her in the emptiness of the vast Colonial hall. Her handsome, new husband stood tall and erect, his dark skin gleaming with a patina of sweat. He was unused to such restrictive clothing, his wedding suit, and yearned to divest himself of it, as did Fidelma.

She shivered slightly with anticipation, and Oswald, misinterpreting her movements as a sign of fatigue, whispered to her in his beautiful Southern brogue, these tempting, salacious words,

“Time for bed, Ma’am, would you accompany me”

Would she!

She had been living for this night, dreaming of forbidden passion as she strained at the invisible leashes binding her to the convent.

Slowly, she slithered round in his arms and sighed.

“Yes, bed, my sweet honey. I can feel your need and it compliments me so.”

With adoration and deep desire shining from his eyes, Oswald dropped a soft kiss on his wife’s bare shoulder, swept her up in his powerful arms and climbed the stairs to their honeymoon room.

There the constraints, denials and frustrations of years past broke forth and they loved with complete abandon. All senses heightened, all touch intensified, all taste enhanced, they explored each other. They came, again and again, to know each other in many , many ways and with the knowledge came realization. They had each found the right one. Their waiting had not been in vain. They had been waiting for each other.

As the night slowly lightened to day, our lovers lay entwined as one, totally comfortable with their nakedness and each other. Sated, satisfied and so completely happy.

They were joined as one and would remain so for the rest of their incomparable days.