Premier Writing showcases poetry, essays and short fiction by new and emerging Irish writers. This week’s short story is by Mary O’Sullivan from Cork.
Short story
An Autumn Storm
There was longevity on her father’s side. He and his siblings lived well into their nineties. The last brother, Fr. Colum, was being buried on that early November day in Rathangan after three o’clock mass .
Ellen was driving from West Cork with her Auntie Nell. They left early, remnants of the night sky still on view. Ellen’s daughter Rebecca was fastened safely in the back seat and was soon lost in dreams. They passed silent sleeping villages, the remnants of ghouls and scarecrows flapping in the breeze under a damp mantilla of rustic leaves.
“They make a great effort now for Halloween,” Nell said. “In our day it was just an apple and a bowl of water. Snap apple, we called it. God, we loved it as children.”
On they travelled. with light sleet showers making salt like dashes on the windscreen.
“How about the Horse and Jockey,” asked Ellen, raising her voice just a little to accommodate Nell’s hearing.
“Perfect, Alana,” she answered.
Pitstop decided, Ellen indicated right.
As she stood at the bar to order their coffees and toasties, three tall burly men in wax coats entered by the side door. Shaking rain drops from their fedoras, they stood discussing equestrian matters. One of them asked Ellen which direction they were taking. She told them they were going north to Rathangan.
“Take it easy,” he said. “The races have been cancelled at Naas. A strong wind is forecast.”
Going back to aunt and daughter, she saw that they were deep in conversation, the young absorbing the wisdom of the old.
Heading back to the car, they felt much refreshed from their pitstop. Ellen noted that the sky had taken on a navy blue and black, treacherous hue. Her head developed a slight ache.
“Thunder up there,” she muttered to the silent car.Then came the sound like rolling drums, and a multi-coloured flash lit up the road ahead.
“God bless us and save us,” said Nell, rattling her rosary in her right hand while holding firm to the seat with her left .
“Mammy, why are we driving in the river?”
The yellow snouts of ESB trucks came into view left and right. Crews of men, some with chainsaws, worked clearing fallen tree branches and neutralising power cables.
Seems to be bad ’round here, Ellen mouthed to herself as a gust threatened to take the steering wheel from her hands. The light faded fast as a torrential thunder shower rammed the car. Ellen could not see through the thick furrows of water running down the windscreen. Blue lights flashed, a yellow tape and mounted sand bags blocked her path. Ten minutes from Monasteravin and the road was closed.
The young Garda directed her to turn right off the motorway, and within fifteen minutes the landscape had altered totally. Her daughter’s voice, a mixture of fear and excitement, asked, “Mammy, why are we driving in the river?”
Ellen’s heart pounded in her rib cage. She still could not see and knew the car was floating now, out of control. Looking down, she saw water making its way in at the passenger door.
“Aunt Nel!” she called. Nell sat frozen in fear, emitting a low moan. Then came sirens and more lights. Red trucks discharged urgent wellie-covered feet. Men in white helmets ran and, with unbelievable deftness, steadied the car.
“My daughter is in the back!” Ellen gasped, trying to shout over the sound of the wind, gushing water, and sirens.
“It’s okay, you are all safe,” the tall skinny chap assured them. “All under control now. The Barrow burst its banks.”
Aunt Nell and Rebecca were carried shoulder high from the scene. Ellen waded to the river bank, flood water well above her waist. When they finally entered the welcoming guest house, the staff took over completely. After hot showers, they were seated at a blazing coal fire, blankets wrapped about their feet, and piping cups of sweet tea placed in their hands.
“Wait until we tell Daddy about our adventure!” Rebecca squealed.
Once contacted, Fr. Colum’s housekeeper told then to remain where they were until morning, the funeral had been postponed due to weather conditions.
The following noon saw then standing about the open grave, black umbrellas shading them from the dripping leaves of a spreading ash, as Fr. Colum was interred. Aunt Nell later told the gathering that in her 96 years she had weathered many storms but none as memorable as this latest one.
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About the author:
Mary O’Sullivan is a retired pharmacist who writes short stories for fun, and An Autumn Storm is her publishing debut. She lives in Ballinhassig, Co. Cork.
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