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Authors: Keith Reilly

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BOOK: Ahoy for Joy
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The couple nodded agreement to each other and Cees, now having adapted his driving mind to think in opposites, took the first left turn which led to a narrow lane. This in turn led around to a car park at the back of the pub.

The entrance was through a black, latched door, one of the kind that split horizontally in the middle, like those found in a stable and inside there was indeed something of the farm about the smell. However, this was mingled with the familiar musky scents of alcohol and home cooking that always provided the warmest of welcomes to weary travellers. The inside was gloomy, but cosy all the same with aged black beams in the ceiling, between which dangled an eclectic mix of vintage farming utensils and household trinkets. Some dangled rather too low for the tall elegance of the protein filled Dutch visitors and Cees found himself ducking as he and Anna headed for the bar. The walls were filled with old photographs of bearded farmers posing with prize cattle or groups of smiling patrons with tankards in hand. To the left of the entrance door, tables and chairs were being moved, clearing a space in front of a small window that looked out onto the main street outside.

“Will you have the
Irish
burger?” asked Anna, carefully pondering the menu. Cees elbowed her softly in the ribs and she yelped mockingly and smiled, flicking her eyes to his returned gaze beside her.

“I'd recommend the steak.” said the barman interrupting the foreign language he didn't understand, but figuring the inspection of the menus was a giveaway. “Cattle slaughtered locally. See yer man over there.” He nodded towards three old men sitting playing cards at a small round table in the corner. “The one with the hat. He could probably tell you which steer it came from. Gives them all names he does!”

The couple looked over and watched the animated activity of cards being thrown on the table amid the laughs and tuts of the players.

“Go for the rump. It's tender like fillet, but with a much fuller taste.”

Anna looked at Cees and shrugged. “I guess we'll have the rump steak then.” Cees nodded approval.

You English?

Anna smiled disarmingly. “No, Dutch,” she said.

“Ah,” came the reply. There was a long pause while the slow wheels of thought processed in his mind. “Andre Rieu!” he said at last. “He's Dutch isn't he?”

“Oh surely not!”
thought Anna, but said nothing, smiling politely.

“So what brings you to our little village?”

Cees broke in. “Well, we always wanted to visit Ireland, then my wife came across a poem by Michael Coglan and we wanted to try to find out a bit more, so we booked in for a long weekend.”

“Ah,” said the barman, “Ahoy for Joy. Nobody knows what it means, you know.”

“Yes, quite a mystery,” said Anna smiling more to herself than anyone else.

“Well, do stop with us a while. There's a wee band playing tonight and if I'm not very much mistaken, we will have another humble poet visiting us later on as well.”

Anna raised her eyebrows.

“If I were you, I'd get settled at one of those tables over there for it'll fill up fast and you'll be left standing, eating your steak in your hands like a burger. I'll bring them over when they're ready.”

The steaks were indeed very excellent and the pair chomped enthusiastically as they watched the activities develop around them. Before long, the door was wedged open and several rough looking men lugged microphones and amps into the small building and proceeded to set them up. In time, jackets were removed, revealing white shirts with jeans held up with colourful braces. Several violins were removed from cases, drums set at the back and a saxophone set on a stand to one side together with two flutes.

By the time Cees and Anna had finished their steaks, the little pub was filled with folk of every shape and size. At last the band were set and ready to go. Most of the five members looked to be in their fifties but the band leader who introduced himself simply as Paddy was much younger, maybe in his early thirties and clearly adept at keeping the crowd entertained. He beckoned for silence, then tapped his fiddle before the band sprang into song with a selection of Irish jigs and moody ballads. They played nothing that Cees and Anna recognised, but this did nothing to dampen their enjoyment for the spirit of Ireland lived there that night.

They had played for almost an hour when the main door opened and a young lad rushed in loudly whispering, “Jackie McDee's here. Jackie McDee's here.” He waited a moment for the song to finish, then whispered in Paddy's ear. Moments later, Paddy beckoned with his hands, waving them slowly before the little crowd. The voices slowed and stopped and before long the entire bar was covered in an eerie silence. Anna hadn't noticed but all eyes were now fixed on the little window. At last there were three firm knocks on the glass. Paddy smiled, looking expectantly at the delighted crowd as he pushed the casement open to the street. Outside, Cees and Anna could just see a bearded figure with a rampant mop of unkempt hair, peering through from the shadows.

“I am a poor poet, weary with travel and hungry too,” he said in a clear voice laced with mock sadness. “But, I have no money. Can I sing for my supper?”

Paddy, turned to the crowd, now stirring a little.

“Can he sing for his supper?” he cried. There was a cheer. “Can he sing for his supper?” he shouted now against the din of the crowd.

“Yes, yes, yes,” was the reply mixed with comments like,
let the man sing
or
yes, let's hear him
.

With that, Paddy calmed the crowd once more to silence and at his nod, the first notes of
Che Gelida Manina
, Pucinni's haunting refrain from the opera
La Boheme
filled the room, the fiddlers having suddenly morphed into concert violinists. From outside, the voice rose of an accomplished tenor, broadcast through the window as the Italian words he sang told the story of the carefree poet, squandering rhymes and love songs and of dreams of castles that melt into the air.

Anna was transfixed, her astonishment only tempered by delight. Cees, more the classical authority of the couple, strained his eyes to see the owner of such a remarkable voice, as his thoughts followed the song to completion. At last the final notes were struck and the crowd erupted in rapturous applause. The door swung open and a ragged man of sixty years or more walked through to pats and smiles and claps and whistles. He was barely five feet tall and nearly as wide. Despite the warm summer evening, albeit rare, he wore a three quarter length coat with a satchel over one shoulder, fastened tightly closed with two canvas straps. Cees wondered if he was dressed for the role or if he actually lived it.

He smiled faintly at the applause, as a table was quickly prepared for his supper by a smiling waitress who presently ushered him to his seat. Before long, the steak was served and a pint of Guinness settled in the glass as he tucked in to the hearty meal he had bought with his voice.

The second half was as exciting as the first and folk took to dancing and twirling around in front of the makeshift stage. The atmosphere was terrific and every age group was represented from old men and grannies through to scruffy youngsters, far too young to be in a bar.

At last, the band finished, but the crowd cried for more and the normally reserved Cees and Anna found themselves jumping up and down and cheering and shouting with the rest. Feet were stamped and eventually, grinning with delight, Paddy beckoned with his hands once more for hush.

“Ok, ok, ok. We'll do one more!”

The crowd cheered.

“Now, some will say that we Irish got nothing from the English.”

Muted mutterings followed, together with sniggers and whistles.

“But, I beg to differ! For the most beautiful tune ever to lilt its melody on the ears of man, or woman,” he paused for effect, “lay without a suitor of credible means for a century if not a day. It was not until 1913 that an Englishman called Frederic Weatherly bestowed on us poor Irish, the greatest of all gifts. He wrote the words, the Irish longed to speak, that of a ballad so haunting and beautiful it is sung the world over by people of every creed who wherever they roam are instantly whisked to this fair Isle in thought, in mind and in spirit.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, you all know the words.”

The cheers of the crowd grew once more.

“Jackie will you help us out with this one?”

“If I can have another beer!” croaked a voice to the laughter of the buoyant crowd, who had come to accept that the clarity of his spoken word starkly contrasted with the notes of his song.

Paddy opened with a solo on the flute and the fiddles built into a complex introductory arrangement, before the familiar lilt of the Londonderry Air broke through and Jackie McDee, who had not yet made his way through the crowd, opened with the familiar words;

Oh Danny Boy…

He sang both verses before the band returned to the beginning and the crowd joined in for a final refrain. It was after 11.00pm when Cees and Anna took their leave and set off for the drive to their hotel in Belfast. Anna curled up, relaxed, warm and satisfied. They had been fed, watered and entertained in a way she had never imagined. They had been welcomed openly without question or suspicion. Anna reflected once more and in pensive mood as the car sped along the narrow country roads of Michael's homeland. She looked across at Cees who was concentrating hard to keep the car on the left of the narrow road.

“So, which Irish do you think these ones were?”

“What?” replied Cees.

“You know, like Catholic or Protestant. Which do you think these ones were?”

“Does it really matter?” he replied, echoing Bernie's words of the day before.

Anna was silent and pondered his reply. Quietly to herself she blushed. It was a blush from a little shameful embarrassment and she reproached herself for it. It was a question she would never ask again, not even in her mind. As the busy day finally caught up with her, she drifted off to a gentle slumber.

Chapter 29
A Reluctant Scholar

The next morning they set off for the airport. The sun still shone. Anna sat back in the seat of the taxi, now at last relaxed. She was glad she had come. She had expected the trip to be sad and it was sad, it had been sad, but she did not
feel
sad. Instead she felt uplifted, elated even.
Michael would have loved this
, she thought, thinking of the little poem. He would have loved its notoriety, the unifying effect it had had on the community and its funny little controversy.

Ahoy for joy! She wondered if he was looking down on her, chuckling at the unintended little riddle. She felt close to him now, closer than at any time since events severed their contact. Now they were joined together in spirit, bound in the common knowledge they shared.

So, he
had
loved her then. She thought back once more to the young man she had met so very briefly who had wooed her with his letters and poems. Surely she had known that all along. Yes he did love her. Why was there ever any doubt? Maybe the doubt had been her only protection from the terrible truth. She thought again,
if she had known, she would have come at once. Of course she would have come at once.

Cees looked over and smiled at her but could see she was deep in thought. He watched the city go by, the people milling around, going about their business. The traffic was slow and the taxi edged forward cautiously in the Monday morning congestion. He looked at the buildings, the bridges across the Lagan and the ships beyond in the estuary.
Belfast was famous for something else
he thought. The traffic was just easing a little and the car picking up pace when he leaned forward and asked the driver,

“Titanic was built here wasn't it?”

The driver glanced at him in his mirror, “yes, surely indeed it was. If you look over to the right there, that's the shipyard. Titanic was built over there. Indeed,” he paused a moment, changing gear as the car swept around a long bend, “if you want to see the
exact
spot, we'll pass right by it in a minute. They're planning to build a visitor centre there to celebrate the centenary in 2012.”

Cees gazed intently from the window, but Anna was still lost in her own thoughts. Then the driver spoke again. “There. If you look now. Do you see just this side of the great, big cranes; Samson and Goliath, Titanic was built right there. That's the dry dock where she was built, right there.”

Cees gazed thoughtfully at the spot where the world's most famous ship had started its short life. Like so much else they had seen, the theme of the city seemed a constant paradox of beauty and tragedy, of majesty and disaster and yet the easy mirth of the people could surely warm the coldest soul.

He pointed. “That's the actual dry dock, just there,” he pointed. “Greatest ship of her day, you know. We specialise in that sort of thing here.”

“What, shipbuilding?” replied Cees.

“No, failure on a Titanic scale!” The driver chuckled, enjoying his little self-deprecating joke. “Only here do they celebrate that sort of thing!”

Suddenly, Anna stirred from her thoughts as a mighty din invaded her mind as she heard the driver's voice. Louder and louder the names of the two Biblical giants,
Samson and Goliath
chimed like a mantra in the wind. “What are Samson and Goliath,” she enquired urgently.

The driver, swerved a little and pulled out as the motorway traffic eased and they gathered pace.

“The big yellow cranes in the shipyard. Biggest in the world in their day. Look, you can still see them.” He nodded over his shoulder.

Anna looked. She hadn't noticed them before, but there they stood, towering over the city; bright and yellow in the sun. Cadmium yellow!

She sat back in her seat again.
Oh Michael
, she thought once more. It was all in the words.
For tis not flower but
plant
I seek, man-made upon the earth.
Not a plant that
grows
, but
industrial
plant, big pieces of equipment for construction, road building or
ship
building! She knew the words so well, for she had spent hours contemplating them. On she thought, reciting the poem once more to herself.

Then off toward home and o'er a ridge I
craned
my neck to see.
Oh it was there all along. He
craned
his neck. He was describing the huge shipyard
crane
s. The clues were all there. He was playing with the words. She scolded herself. They had
always
been there. Everyone in Belfast would know what Samson and Goliath were, but he knew she wouldn't. He had always reassured her, she would find out one day. He had always known she would come. Maybe she was late, very, very late. Twenty-seven years late, but she was here now and she was so glad, so very,
very
glad that she had come.

The car sped on, leaving the city a haze in the summer sun and the cranes faded into the distance. Anna turned for a final look. It seemed serene, the contrasts of heavy equipment silhouetted against the sea, then merging through the houses towards the overlooking hills, a rising permanence in a changing world and she felt a pang of sadness at her own departure. They had met the local people too. Where in the world was it quite as easy to meet people as here? Where in the world could you just walk into a bar and immediately be engaged in conversation, not just idle chat, but animated jokes and puns, fun and laughter.
Craic
! She had found out the meaning a long time ago, but this was a dictionary meaning. Now, she
really
knew what it meant.

But, it hadn't all been so relaxed. There had been some tension in the air when they visited Bernie as the old traditions of mistrust brushed against each other. There was that wall. She could still see it in her mind's eye, towering above them. A wall whose sole purpose was to keep people who hate each other apart. But what people? Which people were these? They hadn't met them. What was so different about these people? Maybe one day that wall too would fall, like the walls man has built since time immemorial. They all have their day, but their eras come to an end and that wall looked old, a wall of the past. Not a wall of today. It looked tired in its purpose. She satisfied herself that its days were indeed numbered.

Then they had seen the countryside whose peaceful glory her mind had recorded just the day before. There were indeed forty shades of green, but there were also tumbling streams of water, silent lakes, sand and rocks, forests and glens. The landscape was as varied as it was timeless.

She thought of Bernie, once more. She sighed. Bernie whose grace had held Michael's memory alive for twenty years, then modestly presented his work for publication. Bernie whose life of service and dedication had preserved his final little note that now rested in her purse, the final piece of the poetic jigsaw that would now join the others she held in her dresser at home.

*

They arrived rather early at the airport and the check in was not yet open, so they decided to have a cup of coffee. Finding a restaurant in the main terminal they settled down to wait. Just opposite, a smartly dressed lady wearing a black and silver dog tooth checked jacket and matching skirt sat together with her teenage son and a small daughter, aged about eight years old. The lady was reading a magazine, stopping and starting from time to time to engage with one or other of the children. The little girl had a freckled face and bright red hair tied with a green bow that matched her flowing dress that caught the air a little as she impatiently spun and twirled beside the table.

The boy wore a school uniform with a dark navy blazer, white shirt and a rather ruffled loose tie of dark blue with thin, red stripes. They appeared to be waiting for someone on an arriving flight. As they sat, the boy was fiddling awkwardly with a folded piece of paper, a photocopied sheet like one of those hand-outs often given to pupils in class.

The mother was pushing him to do his homework study as they sat. “You won't have time to do it tonight when we get home,” she said, “not if you want to watch TV.”

“Aw, but I don't want to read it” he retorted. “Sorry Mum but poetry's just not my thing.”

“Come on Malcolm, it's a beautiful poem,” said the mother encouragingly, “It was written by a boy, not much older than you who sadly died in the Troubles.”

The boy sighed. “Yes, yes, I know.”

The mother looked at him once more, then set her magazine aside.

“Look, here, give it to me. I'll read it.”

The woman took the sheet, unfolded it and sat upright in her seat. Projecting her voice a little and taking care to enhance the words with her own expression, she began to read:

Ahoy for Joy

The doctor speaks with wicked mendacity and the nurse's eyes are black

Mum and Dad are gone and they won't be coming back
What wretched mark did seal my fate
What flag or politik
What tortured mind did nervous seek
This little life to take

But as time erodes, conviction ebbs, oh beware contrition's ridged grip

It shatters hatred, love and fear, engulfs the mind in vain regret
A shudder in the daytime
A terror in the night
A tacit realisation
A lonely mental fight

But relax my friend, I bear no slight let me help you with your pain

The aged winds of discontent are really all to blame
Let not remorse your heart endure
Nor idle reprimand
For pardon's unconditional
By Anna's blessed hand

Oh Anna, muse and confidante, your wonder woke my muted voice

And made me know the beauty and in the world rejoice
Then words and rhymes that filled my mind
Fluttered from above
To settle on my pages
In messages of love

But is an unrequited love just a love forlorn

And ardour penned in text and prose of intimacy shorn
No lingered gaze of wanton eye
Nor taste of that first kiss
No mingled scent of close embrace
Or sensual caress

Or can this love immaculate transcend these mortal days

And see you blossom as your life abounds in many ways
A husband and some children then?
Oh happiness bestow
Your life with every blessing
Where ‘ere the winds may blow

Now as my mortal senses fade and life and death collide

All truth is known, all dies are cast, all doubts now brushed aside
I'm rising high no longer shy
And cry
Ahoy for Joy
Ahoy for joy
with angels sing
Eternal to avow

The boy sat slightly vexed, his head staring aimlessly at the empty cups and saucers on the table, but the girl stopped her spinning around and now stood listening attentively to her Mother's words. When the lady had finished, the boy got up. “I'm off to look in the shops” he said and with that he loped off alone, his loose shirt tail now visible beneath the hem of his jacket.

“Was the poem really written by a boy, just like Big Brn?” asked the girl.

The mother smiled. “Yes, it was. Look, see here at the bottom.”

This poem was written by Michael Coglan, a 17 year old student as he lay dying in hospital in 1980. His words were recorded by Miss Bernadette O'Callaghan, a nurse at the Royal Victoria Hospital who sat with him for many of the last days of his life. Miss O'Callaghan states that while she recorded his words as best she could, she does not believe she caught everything absolutely accurately and in one or two areas some editorial discretion was required to complete the work. The penultimate lines, recorded here as “Ahoy for joy” remains the most controversial of these as Miss O'Callaghan claims that when she referred back to her notes many years later, she really couldn't properly read her handwriting. She maintains that she was quite sure Michael was trying to say something either, made up or perhaps in a foreign language. The girl, Anna to whom the latter verses appear to be addressed has also never been identified.

The mother handed the paper to the girl and smiled softly. “Maybe at least one of my children will grow to love poetry”.

Anna had been watching the episode and at last caught the girl's eye. She beckoned her over.

“Oh, you have such lovely freckles,” she said smiling.

The girl scowled a little and pouted, “the boys at school tease me about them.”

“Oh but they shouldn't, they're beautiful. Look, I have them too.”

Anna pointed briefly at her own face and leaned forward. The girl looked attentively at her. “You're very beautiful” she said.

“In my language, we call them kusjes van engelen”

“What language is that?”

“Ah, that's Dutch, I'm from Holland, you see. We speak Dutch there. It means kisses from Angels”

“Angel's kisses! Angel's kisses! That's what Mummy calls them,” cried the girl now lighting up, her smile widening to reveal a row of little white teeth. Anna caught her eye once more and smiled. “Can I see your poem?”

The girl handed Anna the sheet and sat down beside her on the bench. The mother looked up and reviewed the scene briefly before going back to reading her magazine. Anna unfolded the paper and pushing her coffee cup to one side laid it flat on the table. She gazed avidly at the text. It was the first time she had seen it in print. “It's a lovely poem isn't it?” she said at last.

“Yes, it was written by a poor boy, just a little older than my brother. But he died”.

“Yes, I know” said Anna, “Michael Coglan.”

Suddenly the girl looked closely and for no other reason than some kind of sub-conscious, childhood intuition asked, “did you know Michael Coglan?”

“Yes, I did” said Anna at once. The girl's eyes widened and she drew a little breath, but Anna quickly caught herself and went on, “of course, in the way that we all do, through his wonderful poem.” She paused, briefly raising her own eyes, “but, I think I can help with this.”

She pointed to the penultimate lines of the poem, “I think Michael might have been trying to say something in my language here, in Dutch.” She opened her handbag and took out a pencil. Carefully beside the text, she wrote the words;
Ik hou van Jou
.

“Look, here, you see. It looks quite similar doesn't it”

The girl looked sceptically at the neat writing on the page, then back again at Anna.

“Of course, we would say it phonetically a bit like you might say, well,” she paused, “a bit like;
ik how fon yow.”
The girl didn't really know what phonetically meant, but she found herself shaping her lips to make the new little words.


Now
, wait till you see what happens,” said Anna delightedly. She read the last few lines of the poem out loud, but this time with her own words inserted in place;

I'm rising high, no longer shy

And cry
Ik hou von Jou,
Ik hou van Jou
with angels sing
Eternal to avow

“Look,
now
it
rhymes
!” she exclaimed.

The girl's expression broke to a wide smile as she surveyed the sheet and listened to the funny Dutch words. Then she looked again at Anna and raised her eyebrows, “is that how you say it?”

“Yes. Ik hou van jou” said Anna slowly, “can
you
say it?”

The girl smiled and drew a small breath; “ik – hou – van – jou,” she said carefully watching her teacher's face for approval.

“Very good, very good” laughed Anna, “but you say it like
how now brown cow
,” she said emphasising the rounded vowel sounds used in Dutch. “Say it again, say it again!”

The girl giggled at the funny words; “ik –
hou
– van –
jou
” she emphasised.

“That's much better. Now you're speaking Dutch. That's quite wonderful.”

The girl beamed, her bright teeth sparkling as she engaged with her new friend, “ik-hou-van-jou,” she said once more. “Yes, yes, yes, but what does it
mean
?”

“What does it mean?” exclaimed Anna, “what does it
mean
?” She paused, a moment, smiling, but the girls eyes never left hers, “Why it means
I love you
of course, what else
could
it mean?

The girl smiled, “Ik hou van jou, ik hou van jou” she said again, practising.

“Of course, you must keep it for someone very special indeed, don't you think?” interjected Anna cautiously.

The girl widened her eyes once more and nodded slowly, “oh yes, yes, of course.”

With that the frosted glass doors of the arrivals lounge slid open and a man with a shock of bright red hair came through, towing a large suitcase. He wore brown leather shoes, a grey jacket and a white shirt. He also wore a grin from ear to ear.

The girl sprang to her feet and running towards the man, cried “Ik hou van jou Daddy, Ik hou van jou.” She threw her arms around his neck and jumped into the air clutching him tightly, her face nuzzled against his cheek. “I love you Daddy,” she said softly once more.

BOOK: Ahoy for Joy
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