Phyllis McKenna

 

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.

 

 

Our duo collided literally – if you’ll excuse the pun – at the entrance to the only bookstore in Ballymadoughtrery. Now, to state it was a bookstore would be an overstatement. It would better be described as the only grocery store in Ballymadoughtery with a few donated tomes from summer visitors.

Having exchanged apologies and pleasantries the pair entered the store together.

Fidelma was here to collect the new Stephen King novel, which Mr. McMillen, the proprietor dutifully obtained for her. Oswald was in to browse.

Having obtained and paid for their purchases, both turned to leave and collided once again, dropping bags on the floor.

“Why, I am so so sorry, little lady” said the tall, good looking stranger, in the broadest Southern American accent. “My fault entirely, Ma’am”

The beautiful, resonant voice melted Fidelma’s temper and she inclined her head, tucked her parcel under her arm and left the store.

“What an enchanting creature” observed the gentleman to Mr. McMillen, who was looking a little amused at the tableau.” But I imagine she will be more than a little annoyed with me when she reaches her home. I appear to have picked up the King rather than the Count. Dracula was my choice.”

Their lives were never quite the same again. This chance meeting was to change them forever in so many ways. Over the next few months, Nuala and Oswald met frequently in every literary, written word establishment to be found in Ballymadoughtery all two of them – the library and the bookstore. Very, very gradually they began to really notice each other, began to look forward to their chance meetings. Discussions, sometimes heated, came about between the pair, concerning the merits and demerits of their favourite scribes.

Was Dracula a love story or was it horror? Has Stephen been losing his muse over the last few years?

Their subconscious minds accepted their growing attraction – their conscious minds denied it.

Convent life paled substantially for Sister Nuala and eventually the time came, she knew, to leave the confines of monastic life.

Oswald began to question his way of life, began to realize that he only turned to homosexuality to thwart his strict, moralistic parents. He had never had a boyfriend, never looked for a boyfriend and knew now with certainty, he didn’t want one.

And so it came to be, with the passage of time, that the bells of the little parish church in Ballymadaughtery rang out in joyous celebration of the union of Fidelma and Oswald.