Shamrock

Shamrock

Patrick Daly McGuire  knew what he was about.

Paddy knew what he wanted.

Knew where he was going.

Paddy had the world at his feet.

When he was born Patrick Daly McGuire had a glow about him and he smelled like ripe peaches . His mammy had given him the gift of life with the greatest of ease, a strapping babby as beautiful as could be that made his titian haired mammy’s heart burst with pride and she told her friends that the last push felt as though she split in half, the best orgasm ever  and she loved her baby dearly from that moment, adored her husband even more for this gift of a child and the true fulfilment as a woman… one single little stitch, that’s all…

Patrick Daly McGuire was the first of eight siblings, all girls, the rest, titian minis of their mammy, all, and their Da was very proud of them. Patrick took after his Da, blonde but curly like Mammy. A god- loving family, church on Sundays, gleaming shoes every one of them and he was doted on by all the sisters, grew up a bit of a lad as they said…and that was not surprising with so many women about the place…

He was as winsome as he was strong when he was at the age when his voice grew deep like his Da’s, with an eye for the ladies but had been known to cast an eye on the lads as well…out of interest really…he never quite  knew whether all was as it should be…girls weren’t like he was…and Daddy was never about so he might catch a glimpse...so it took him a while to find out who he was and  there was no doubt in his mind any more when he and the lovely Lola met. They hit it off bang on and could not bear to be parted from one another from the first, even for one moment... So life in Revere just ticked away quite nicely for them but all the same Patrick began to feel yearnings and stirrings for wider horizons and in any case it was high time he began to earn his way in the world. He must start to work for  a living…the doctor, lawyer, Indian Chief time was long past and no one  asked anymore what he was going to be when he grew up…he’d long grown up, his lovely Lola taught him that…he would drive a truck like his Da did and see the world that way…

Patrick Daly McGuire’s seven sisters  taught him early that the need for money was never very far away, ladies had great needs for pretty things that a man might provide for them if he were to have a chance…yes, he would drive a truck like his Daddy and learn to drive it Paddy did. He drove his Mack like a Mini, he polished it so that it gleamed and drove the highway like no other…away from Boston he would drive with a heavy heart as his Lola stayed behind but once the wheels purred on the tarmac and the steady rhythm of his engine set him dreaming he was happy and then there was the pleasure of his coming back to her to look forward to. Out and away from the heat of the city, on to the super highway, Interstate 95, north toward Maine where the nights were cool and the highway snaked endless miles through the bush…he was the centre of the universe and he would build a fine life! Irish American he was, first generation, born in Revere in Boston in the poor part of town in a room with the share of a bathroom, one toilet and sink to wash in and a kitchen. His Mammy and his Daddy arrived there with nothing but an old leather suitcase scuffed on the corners and a handle made from a piece of rope, a knowhow of driving, a willingness to work very hard, confidence in what was to be and Mammy’s pregnant belly, just in time for him to be an American from birth. They registered him straight away to be sure of it…and they held the paper to prove it proudly in their hands…they had arrived and Daddy had soon done well for himself, worked his way up, swore the oath when the time was right but kept a dried shamrock in his wallet and from rooms in the wrong end of town they moved into a neat clapboard house with a basement and a garden where Mammy grew potatoes  and stored them in slatted boxes below ground for the winter.  They had an apple tree too and dried apple rings to eat like candy and the sweet scent of them strung on jute rope from hooks in the basement ceiling greeted you as you descended the stairs into the dark.  He learned to prime the pump for the well there and found an old black glazed bean pot, chipped on the rim so you could see the colour the clay had been, forgotten by  the loyalists when on their way north. So he knew the house was old. With history. And that was good…

Paddy  wanted all this for Lola Daly McGuire when he would ask her…he worked it all out in his mind as the Mack headed north…a clapboard house, painted pale blue or mint green with sparkly white window frames and shiny wooden floors, a huge fire place to sit by on snow cold nights with plenty of logs for the winter stacked tight on the west wall under the porch, he would look after them all and make sure they were warm. They would have a large kitchen, all painted pale green with a big table and chairs to sit round and talk when visitors came and when his titian haired Mammy now streaked with white would sit and tell of the old times, drinking endless cups of tea and would not say no to a stout for her health neither. Built in flour bins they would have, one for white and one for brown to pull out with large wooden scoops and a range to bake and make bread in and pies and cookies, he liked cherry pies the best, a room for them and a room for a titian haired babby or two and two rocking chairs. A garden with two trees and a lawn, flowers and roses to cut for the table and a hammock for them both to lie in and gently swing on sultry nights… when they would watch the fireflies dance and the moon rise and set…when he would hold his Lola so tight that you wouldn’t know where one of them ended or the other began…

Patrick Daly McGuire knew what he was about.

Understood his roots…

knew where he was going.

Paddy had the world at his feet...

and

he dreamed the future.

He dreamed of his Mammy and Da and his babbies and theirs in their turn…

He dreamed the dream where the past caught the moment of now and the now looked into tomorrow… The engine roared steady, the forests sped by and the bright sky escaped into the night…the highway snaked on, no one but him on the road, his headlights lit and the stars above him, a good time to dream and to think…

 He saw the movement  too late, huge glowing eyes reflecting his lights, yellow…he could not get out of the way, he would hit it he knew…was it a bear? Or a moose?

He tore at the wheel, the engine screamed and brakes screeching  Patrick McGuire’s  Mack  buried itself head on into a tree and burst into flames…