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                 Let Me Tell You a Story

If you missed the Bards latest story published in the Lancashire Post recently then here is your chance to realize just what you might have missed!                                                                Return to Athenry
 Foreward

Most of you will have heard the song 'The Fields of Athenry'. I've often wondered as to what became of the  characters in the song. Nobody really knows. However, I would like to think that what you are about to read could have been the outcome of the hero's and villains. I'll let you be the judge of my fantasy.

Chapter 4 – A Sweet Revenge

During the long and perilous sea voyage to Botany Bay, Michael proved his worth to the captain William Dobbs. His extraordinary abilities were apparently not limited merely to working with metal but it appeared he could turn his hand to anything that required an agile brain and nimble fingers to make or fix. These remarkable abilities had resolved a number of seafaring problems that had arisen on the good ship Adamant during the long passage to Australia, for which the captain was most grateful and eager to reward.
When it appeared that the journey would never end, the ship eventually dropped anchor in a port close to Botany Bay. Stretched out along the quayside were a fleet of horse drawn carts, commissioned by the authorities to transport the prisoners to the penal colony. As Michael was about to climb into one of the carts, he felt a strong arm on his shoulder.
‘This fine coach is not for you my bonny lad,’ a voice whispered in his ear. Michael turned and was surprised to see that his accoster was none other than the ship’s captain, William Dobbs.
‘You are to come with me instead.’ Michael hesitated, fearing the worst. Sensing his initial reluctance, William reassured him, saying that all was above board as his release into the captain’s care had been authorised by the governor general himself.
‘Cease yer worrying Michael. Where I’m taking ye is a hundred times better than the disease-ridden colony, where yer fellow convicts are destined to spend the next seven years…’
The journey took them to the suburbs of Sydney itself. The coach halted at what appeared to be a large factory.
‘This my boy is the establishment of one, Henry Dobbs, my beloved brother. He is one of the leading industrialists in this part of Australia and this is just one of his many thriving factories. Good metal workers are as scarce as hen’s teeth in Australia and I know that you, with your many skills will be a great asset to him - And here cometh the great man himself.’
Henry obviously placed great reliance on the advice of his brother and after formal but cordial introductions, Michael was shown to a well-equipped work bench on which was a rough hand drawn sketch of a pair of rather ornate gates.
‘Now me lad,’ Henry instructed him. ‘Let’s see what ye can make of them. Oh! And by the way, the customer, who just happens to be the governor general himself, wants them made and fitted by next Wednesday. I think you will find all the tools and material required for their manufacture by the bench, so I think you had better make a start Michael – don’t you?’
By the following Tuesday, Michael had completed the task. However, he had added such embellishments from the original sketch, that when Henry inspected the completed gates, he pronounced that they would not look out of place if they were the gates of heaven itself…
For the next seven years, Michael continued to produce work of such quality, desired by all who had gazed on the ornate gilded gates at the entrance to the governor general’s mansion. A true work of art for which Henry Dobbs had rewarded him well. With nothing to spend his money on. Michael had amassed a tidy sum and he knew just what he was going to do with it when the time came. Henry feared that when Michael was declared a free man, he would probably leave and set up business on his own with the small fortune he had accrued. There was only one way he could prevent this and that was to offer him a partnership in the thriving business – Which Michael duly accepted….
Their meeting on the quayside was as tender and loving as one would expect from sweethearts who had been parted for seven years and in which time Michael had related to Mary his good fortune. He then whisked her away to the beautiful house that he had designed and built especially for her and Rory, on the banks of the Cooks River. Life was good for the reunited family but a rage still burned within Michael’s breast as to how they had been treated by Trevelyan back in Athenry.
It was not long before the family were further blessed when Mary announced to Michael that once again, she was with child. Although delighted by the news, they were determined that the child should be born in Ireland. Arrangements were made for their swift departure and six months later they were residing once more in Kelly’s pub in Athenry. Mary had never sold it after receiving her paid passage to Australia. Before leaving she had installed a manager to run the hostelry for her, somehow knowing that one day she would return to her beloved Athenry.
It was during their first few weeks back in Athenry that Michael learned of the bad fortune that had descended on the Trevelyan family. Some poor business deals had left the family with massive debts and in order to repay them, Trevelyan was about to sell his mansion by auction. On hearing this, Michael was determined to attend the auction and make a bid for the building, the chattels and the surrounding land…
‘Tis sold Papa,’ Jacob Trevelyan informed his father. ‘Although I fear it did not raise enough to pay off all your debtors.’
‘And who bought it then?’ replied his father, Charles Trevelyan.
‘Apparently a former local man, Michael Cleary, who made his fortune in Australia. I do believe that name is familiar papa. Do we know him?’ On hearing these words, Charles Trevelyan turned deathly pale as he slumped back into his chair.
‘God preserve us son. Tis the very man who I dismissed some seven years ago and he was transported to Botany Bay. How on earth could a convicted criminal come into such a sum of money, enough indeed to purchase my estate?’
As Trevelyan passed through the gates of his mansion for the final time, he was not surprised to find Michael Cleary and his wife Mary waiting for him.
‘So, Cleary; come to gloat, have you? You were and always will be an ignorant Irish peasant – Now get out of my way.’ Michael grabbed at the reins of Trevelyan’s horse.
‘Not until you dismount from my property – sir! I believe that the bill of sale included mansion, land and all chattels, and I do believe you are about to abscond with what I believe is a very fine chattel. Get thee down you villain and depart as we did those seven long years ago, with naught but the clothes on our backs. If you are short of lodgings, I know of a very damp field where I hope you will be most uncomfortable….
The courtroom was packed, with Michael, the expectant Mary and even young Rory with seats in prime position to hear the verdict. Even with the sale of all he owned, Trevelyan could not raise enough money to pay off all his debtors and consequently he was put on trial for theft. After hearing all the damning evidence against him, the judge had no other option but to pass an appropriate sentence on the former peer.
‘And therefore, I sentence you to serve for seven years in Her Majesty’s penal colony in Botany Bay,’ was the judge’s verdict. Never before had justice and revenge tasted so sweet for the family who returned to Athenry!

 

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                      The Dying of the Light

Day 1   
The idea came to me during the night. I had been experiencing the terrible torment that visits even the greatest storytellers from time to time. It is commonly known as ‘writers’ block’, but in my case it was more of a personal literary cul-de-sac. My last story had been completed almost a year earlier and I had never gone so long before another masterpiece would pop into my head. Indeed there had been periods in the past when ideas and story plots were tumbling from my brain faster than I could commit them to paper (or the PC).
However, last night had been different from my usual dreamless slumbers. It was as if all the Muses from ancient Greece had visited my bedside and imparted their combined wisdom, giving me the idea for a unique story that would have universal appeal, gaining me legendary fame and perhaps fortune as well and might even be published in the Lancashire Post.
I could not wait to rise from my bed as the first feeble fingers of dawn crept through the window. I dressed quickly, washed and shaved with alacrity, devoured my breakfast with unnatural haste and in record time I found myself seated in front of my trusty computer.
I realized that speed was of the essence. The once vivid words and images were already beginning to blur and fade despite the continuing presence of the Muses who anxiously urged me to type in my password and commence committing to the machine that fantastic plethora of words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters that would surely herald my overnight literary success; an accomplishment that had taken me many decades of blood, sweat and tears to attain. Flirting with fame had been a dream that appeared to be just out of reach; achieving it now in my twilight years was a distinct possibility.
I logged into my computer and opened my STORY FILE. All my previous stories were set out before me in alphabetical order. I created a new document and was about to commit all those wonderful block-busting words to the opening page when I realized that before commencing, my magnum opus would require an eye-catching title - Mmm.
It was proving difficult to place the story in a suitable category. It contained aspects of virtually all human emotions including romance, humour, pathos, drama, but most of all it was undoubtedly the nerve-wracking suspense that each carefully crafted word would promote, holding my readers in that literary spell beloved by all writers of not being able to set aside the tale until the last word had been read.
The task of creating a suitable title for my story was proving daunting and though I grappled with a number of possibilities, none of the ideas that raced through my brain gave me any great satisfaction. The tension was eased somewhat when my wife Daphne brought me a cup of tea and a fig roll.
Feeling refreshed, I resumed my task. Somewhere in the far reaches of my mind was a belief that a line from a poem by Dylan Thomas would make a suitable title. I vowed to do a little research on his works in the sure and certain believe that this would reveal the line that I was searching for; in the meantime I knew I must commit at least the opening words of my story to the machine before they deserted me. I had already been aware that the once clear vision of the nine Muses was beginning to blur around the edges and without their assistance then I knew my literary task was doomed to fail.
It had been a struggle, but at least I had committed the opening paragraphs of my story to the safety of the computer. As I signed off for the day, I comforted myself in the firm believe that during my coming slumbers, those nice Grecian ladies, the daughters of Zeus, would work their magic for me once again.

Later
I awoke a little later than usual and spent the first five minutes trying to work out what day it actually was. After a hurried breakfast I switched on the PC and wasted another five minutes trying to remember my password, fortunately Daphne had remembered it. I read and reread those opening lines a thousand times; knowing even then that their composition was as good if not better than anything that the Bard of Avon himself had ever written. It was unfortunate that the words that followed, although satisfactory, were nowhere near as ground-breaking. There had been little help from the Muses over the past few nights. Oh they had appeared as expected but seemed more intent in spouting poetry or playing their music rather than helping me.
Despite the setbacks, I somehow managed to compose a couple of sentences but if anything they were of a lower standard than my earlier efforts. Even the appearance of my wife with a cuppa and a biscuit failed to revive my listless spirits. I decided to call it a day and retired to my bed early.

Much later
I was roused from a deep and dreamless sleep by whatsername shaking me vigorously. I missed breakfast, mainly because I forgot where the cornflakes were kept. Again I struggled to open the thingy and for the life of me couldn’t locate the STORY WOTSIT until that kind lady did it for me. As I once again read what I had written, I realized that the opening lines made little sense to me although the rest of my tale was promising. I had just finished deleting them when the lady came again with a drink and a snack. She was not best pleased when the cup fell from my shaking fingers onto what she told me was a new carpet. The incident made me angry so there was no more writing that day and again I retired early.

Later still
The woman was shaking me again and asking if I intended to stay in bed all day. I gave it some thought but after seeing the look on her face decided I had better get up. I didn’t shave that day as someone had hidden my new safety razor. When I told the woman (who is she anyway) she just laughed and said I was going doolally and that my electric shaver was where it had always been.
I knew there was something urgent that I should have been doing but couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was. I decided I’d ask mum what it was I should be doing – she always knows.
It was then I noticed the new ‘telly’. I didn’t like it. There were no buttons to press or knobs to twiddle with, just a board in front of it full of numbers and letters. The woman (I don’t like her) came over and did something with the numbers and suddenly there was a picture, but it was just a lot of writing. Then I remembered; I was writing a story – but why was it on the telly? I got mad ‘cos I couldn’t understand.
I asked the woman for some paper and a pencil so that I could write my story, but she just laughed and said something about it being on the ‘comb peter’ (I really don’t like her; she’s to bossy. I’m gonna tell dad when he gets home from work at Dick Kerrs).
I threw the tea on the floor when that bossy woman brough it in. She knows I always have orange squash in the afternoon. Then she started to cry but it was all her fault anyway. And where’s mum? She’s always home from Vernon’s Mill before now. I’m frightened as everything is so strange and unfamiliar and I can’t find my school satchel anywhere. Mr Hunt will be cross if I don’t do my homework and I’ll probably get the cane. It’s not fair; it’s not my fault either.

Much, much later
Why am I in this strange house in this big bed. This is not South Meadow Lane; we’re out in the country somewhere; are we on holiday? I like holidays but not in the country. I like Blackpool best, down at Uncle Tom’s Cabin, fishing for crabs in the big pool. Mum doesn’t like it much as she says that the pub gets more attention from dad than she does. I always laugh when she says this, only I haven’t seen her or dad for ages. That silly woman is always fussing about though. Saw her yesterday talking to a man about a home; perhaps were going back to South Meadow Lane again and mum and dad are sure to be there. Yes, that will be it.
The stupid woman has given me some sheets of paper and says that it’s my story. I don’t remember writing it. She says it hasn’t got a title yet, but I can’t see it very well – It must be the dying of the light!

If you like stories with a twist then our resident bard has written a number of books with tales more twisted than a corkscrew. To find out more then go to Page 4d for a list of all his very readable books.