Speaking Of

Speaking Of

Other books by Mary Murphy

Novel

The Emerald Diaries – Secrets of an Irish Clan

Children’s Series

Away with the Fairies – Book One

Away with the Fairies – Book Two

Away with the Fairies – Book Three: Prequel. The Adventures of Nash the Dash

Speaking Of

A houseful of eclectic works of fiction

by Mary Murphy

A Dove Creek Studios Book

Speaking Of

1st POD Edition, published Dec 2022

Copyright © 2022 by Mary Murphy. All rights reseved.

www.marymurphy.ca

All content within is conjoured by the author and is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is coincidental. Any gaffs in titles for American Police heirarchies are unintentional.

Editing, Book Design and pre-press by Kera McHugh, time4somethingelse.com

Photo on the About the Author page ©Paul Keim Aug 2022

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher (Dove Creek Studios), except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

To request permission, contact:

info@dovecreekstudios.com or mary@marymurphy.ca

ISBN:978-1-7387936-0-0

In loving memory of my mother and sister.

Praise for Speaking Of

"This is a beautiful piece of writing. It is observational, descriptive, thought provoking and fully realised. There is an intuitive mind at work and a subtle curiosity here that values the reader. It rewards them with a bouquet of delightful stories that beguile and charm with equal measure.

John O’Regan, Journalist/Broadcaster/Lecturer RTE/LCCR – Eclectic Celt, Ireland

Your writing – weaves into the gardens of fine Irish wordsmiths. Yer a talented wee divil, so keep ‘dippin the pen’ and dream up more yarns, more of your lush images - that have stirred memories and emotions.

Will Millar (Founder of The Irish Rovers)

Our book club devoured Mary Murphy’s first book, ‘The Emerald Diaries’, and we can’t wait to get our mitts on ‘Speaking Of’. Mary has a way of connecting with the reader on a deep level to the point where the characters jump to life, right off the page, to sit with us as the story unfolds. The room gets very crowded.

Lori K, New York Book Club

Inside this book

This Black Earth Speaks 9

Neala Speaks 21

Delilah Speaks 35

Night Petals 143

Arimé Speaks 145

Heckie Speaks 151

Resistance Speaks 165

Vivian Speaks 235

Smash The Windows 239

Eddie Speaks 243

Beatrice Speaks 249

On the Snowy Path 273

Malachí Speaks  275

A Mother Speaks 293

Tifs vs Mifs Speak 297

The Ten Tandy Sisters Speak 299

Backstories 305

Acknowledgements 311

Image Credits 312

About the Author 313

Also by Mary Murphy 314

Note to readers:

While stories can be read in any order, the author highly recommends reading Delilah Speaks before Beatrice Speaks.

Stories taking place in Europe have European spelling and vernacular.

Stories taking place in North America have North American spelling and vernacular.

This Black Earth Speaks

Peter Ó’Callaghan wiped the sweat from his brow with his gloved hand and looked up to a rare cloudless blue sky. He supposed it would be lovely down the strand, where the allure of the sea might be just strong enough to coax even the most hesitant to dip their body beneath the frothy waves. That notion soon departed as he looked to the gravestone, freshly cleaned. Hard work it was, filling a grave and replacing the grey and white stones on a day such as this, a day with pure heat in it. He was needed here. His calling had always been to mind those who rested beneath the black earth. He delighted in referring to them as his lodgers.

It took a person of a certain ilk to perform his job but Peter had been wandering this graveyard since he was but a young boy when his father, Cillian, had been the caretaker. He knew the intricacies of every inch of the place. Some gravestones were ravaged by time, while others had succumbed altogether and were but inclines in the grass.

As a child, Peter had been an introvert; thus, the graveyard had been a place granting significant serenity for his quiet inclinations. As the years passed, he felt drawn to specific graves more than others. One such site was that of brother and sister Finian and Fionnuala Rafferty, who had been buried on the same date at only eight years of age. Peter felt a kinship with the two since the souls resting beneath were children, like himself. Much joy was gleaned when sitting at their side, reading passages from countless books.

Peter’s father watched his son grow with the saplings that surrounded the graveyard and never felt at odds with the fact that his son tended toward solitude, as he was much the same. This is not to say that Peter was without friendships. It is more to say that the boy valued time with his father and the peaceful surroundings. 

Cillian taught his son everything he knew about the profession. From consoling grieving families to designing, carving, and engraving an appropriate slab, digging the grave, and the yard care thereafter.

How odd it felt this day for Peter to be wiping clods of dirt from his hands after having carefully etched the gravestone of that very man. Now the names of both his parents and brother were visible. One day his own name would be added, and that would be that. He had never really known his mother, Anna. She had died in childbirth, along with his new brother, Cian, when Peter was just two years of age. This left Cillian as sole provider and parent. Though there had been ample opportunity over the years that followed, Cillian had never desired to remarry.  

Peter lifted his rain jacket, which had been draped over one of the tree limbs that shaded the family plot, and shook his head. Why on earth had he brought any outerwear on such a clear August day? Force of habit, he guessed, or simply experienced in the ever-changing weather patterns of island life. Tomorrow, if the sky was clear, the jacket would be left hanging on the inside hook on the back of the hall door. 

Then he thought, How long will I allow my mind to wander, to postpone the inevitable? He lifted a bouquet of heather from the ground, held together with tawny twine. Heather had been his father’s favourite blossom. The intertwining of the mauve and purple stalks were pleasant for the observer, and he knew his father would love them on his grave, primarily since they had been gathered from the perimeter of their home garden.

The inescapable moment arrived. After placing the heather at the stone base, Peter rolled the wheelbarrow away from the graveside, returning to an empty house where the only sound would be that of a ticking grandfather clock in the corner of the sitting room.

This Black Earth Speaks

(The Departed)

Molly Flynn: Poor fellow. I wish we could console him.

Aiden Flynn: You wish you could console everyone who walks among the living, dearest.

Francis Dogherty: What’s today? Saturday? Cillian should wake to us in a week. Then, raising his voice to reach his wife, two graves over, Francis shouted, Rose, did ye hear me?

Of course, Rose Dogherty had heard her husband, but the two liked to bellow whenever possible, trying their utmost to annoy the old biddy, Nessa Flanagan (and her husband, Patrick), who were laid to rest in the double plot between them. Nessa had stolen their plot right out from under them (no pun intended), back in the day. Whilst among the living, Rose Dogherty had told Nessa Flanagan that she had planned on going the following week to purchase the double plot under the small oak tree on the west side of the yard. The location overlooked the sea, in the far distance. Herself and Mr Dogherty could rest together beneath its beauty one day, and that thought cheered Rose to no end. 

Upon Rose’s pronouncement, Nessa Flanagan had got a bee in her bonnet, as she resented the Doghertys. Nessa wasn’t shy about moaning to neighbours about them when the opportunity arose. Forty years married and still carrying on as newlyweds, walking hand-in-hand and unabashedly showing displays of affection. Not even a child to show for it. Ridiculous, the pair o’ them.

Nessa had gone that very afternoon and bought the double plot for herself and her husband, Patrick. Her self-indulgent logic had been that the Flanagans deserved that picturesque plot, as other family members were resting in the vicinity.

The Doghertys were not shy in fanning the flames of gossip either, relaying the truth of the matter to all who would listen. It was pure spite, in their minds, that had caused the old biddy’s purchase, not to mention the fact that Nessa and Patrick Flanagan barely tolerated each other in life. Why would Nessa want to share a grave with Patrick for all eternity?

Francis Dogherty had done his best to calm his wife, but anger seethed from her as vapour from a boiling kettle. Several minutes and several whiskeys later, Francis let out a roar of laughter and made a rebellious suggestion. What if they purchased two single plots, one on either side of the Flanagans? In so doing, they would have the opportunity to spend eternity causing annoyance to Nessa as well as Patrick (who had not interceded on behalf of the Doghertys when his wife had undermined them.) Upon hearing this riotous solution, Rose has risen from her chair, ambled to her husband and, well, let’s just say that Nessa Flanagan would have been appalled by their antics.

Rose Dogherty: Sorry, Francis, one more time?

Francis Dogherty (his voice louder still): I said, Cillian should wake to us in a week.

Nessa Flanagan: Ach, for pity’s sake.

Rose Dogherty: Francis. Did you hear something? Perhaps it was the flappin’ of an old bat.

Nessa Flanagan: Would you two ever be done with it? How many years must this continue?

Rose Dogherty: It is, so it is Francis, definitely the flappin’ of a bat.

Peter returned home to find his next-door neighbours standing at his front gate offering stew and fresh brown bread. He accepted the token of generosity but did not ask the two inside, not even for a cup in the hand as would be customary. Instead, and true to form, he simply thanked them and turned to his front door. Peter was certainly not a rude man. He was quite a sensitive and caring one but was not always cognisant of social graces.

Peter stared into the steaming, delicious-smelling bowl. He was too out of sorts to consider opening the newspaper that lay on the table beside him. After several minutes of inaction, he concluded that exhaustion overrode hunger. The stew was returned to the pot, the lid replaced, and weary steps to the bed were taken.

Sleep had eluded Peter since Cillian’s death. He found himself staring into the blackness of night, revisiting his father’s last moments on a strange loop. It had been a typical workday. Father and son wandered the yard, checking tidiness and discussing the possibility of getting the inside of their house painted. His father had simply bent over to pull a few weeds and fell, mid-sentence. The doctor relayed it had been an aneurysm and that Cillian wouldn’t have been aware of any predicament. This information granted at least a modicum of solace to Peter.

Finally, this night, Peter crawled into bed and slept as though the world did not exist. Lost he was, in a place so quiet and still that dreams were elusive and perhaps even unwelcome. 

The din of whipping wind and lashing rain upon his windowpane is what woke him at first light. The previous day’s thought of abandoning his jacket to the back of the hall door was decidedly out of the question. Peter knew a bowl of porridge and a pot of strong tea would set him on the right path for the day. He rose slowly and dressed haltingly. Once in the kitchen, and out of sheer custom, he removed two teacups from the kitchen press. Peter held his father’s favourite for a moment, shook his head, and replaced it.

Over many years, he had spoken to countless customers, friends and strangers alike about loss and forward momentum, but this was the first time death had oppressively come to burden his soul. He found the sound of laughter to be very disruptive. Did those who released sounds of joy not understand what had transpired? There was no room for laughter. Birds? Singing joy from the trees and sky? How dare they. It is hard to fathom the toll loss takes until one walks in the shoes.

Of course, this was part of the process. Peter knew this, but the raw, visceral sorrow within was an inescapable black cloud in which he was enveloped. He also knew that his depth of grief only reflected his depth of love. This awareness would be the one constant that would guide him through the lonely early days. He sat at the kitchen table, pen in hand, and wrote his thoughts on the back of an unopened brown envelope.

Memory petals

The flower, upon its twilight folding

maintains beauty within its self-embrace,

thus, he is that flower, folded

yet that beauty remains encased

within 

me

It is the treasure of blossom,

memory petals bright with joy

that prevail to heat the soul

on the inky nights of loss

Memory petals bright with joy

ever-victorious

companions

Placing his pen softly down upon the table, Peter noted the warm silence that wed the air between each tick of the clock. He rose to tidy the few dishes and looked out the window. The rain had ceased, and the sanguine sun was breaking through from behind the cumulonimbus clouds.

Black Earth Speaks

Aiden Flynn: Isn’t that your niece, Bríd, comin’ through the gate, Rose?

 Rose Dogherty: Indeed it is, and isn’t she a sight for sore eyes. Back visiting my sister Grace, no doubt. Bríd has grown into a fine looking woman, hasn’t she Francis?

Francis Dogherty: A fine-looking woman, a fine looking woman. Carrying a potted plant looks like. Sure, it looks to be a Geranium, Rose.

Nessa Flanagan: Ach, I hate Geraniums.

Rose Dogherty: O, she well knows that you hate them, Nessa. And that I love them. 

Nessa Flanagan: What a nasty bit of work. To be so wretched toward a woman at rest. Why would she put a pot of offensive flowers next to my head?

Francis Dogherty: Everything’s not about you, Nessa. Besides, did ye think she’d forget how ye poured poison on the roots of the Geranium she gave her Auntie many a year ago?

Nessa Flanagan: I told you that wasn’t me! But, I was glad to be rid of it, as it fouled up my front garden, so it did.

Rose Dogherty: (sighing) We know it was you, Nessa. You shouldn’t be uttering lies in a place like this. You’ll have flight privileges taken away, so you will. Ah dear, I just remembered, you’ve used all yours, haven’t you?

Nessa Flanagan: I was only given a half dozen, which was sorely unfair. There are loads of places I’d be happy to see again as a flyover.

Aiden Flynn: Well now, if you’d been more cordial in life, you would have been given ample flights in death.

Nessa Flanagan: Why is your niece whistling, Rose? You should never whistle in a graveyard."

Patrick Flanagan: What? Never whistle in a graveyard?

Nessa Flanagan: Not only is it vulgar, but it brings bad luck. Someone needs to sprinkle holy water at the gates.

Molly Flynn: Bad luck? We’re deceased, Nessa. What more bad luck could befall us, except having to listen to your constant complaining?

Nessa Flanagan: Shut your gob, Molly. I tell ya, whistling is bad luck. We need holy water! What’s that? A dog? She’s brought a dog? There are no dogs allowed in here! The cheek! Where’s Peter when you need him? Where’s holy water when you need it? 

Francis Dogherty: O, she did indeed bring a dog. She’s brought Naggin’, Grace’s Lurcher. He’s a fine boy, isn’t he?

Hello Auntie Rose, Uncle Francis, mused Bríd, "Thought I’d pop to you first today. Ma won’t mind. I miss you all somethin’ terrible.

Uncle Francis, I’ve brought a bright blue stone to add at the base of your headstone. You always loved stones, and blue, for that matter. Auntie, a nice Rose Geranium for you, she bantered, eyes looking toward Nessa as she spoke. I’m home for a while now, and guess what? There’s to be another little me coming soon. Bríd touches her belly.

Francis Dogherty: Don’t cry, dearest. She’ll bring the wean (child) when it arrives.

Rose Dogherty: (sniffling) O, of course I know she will. Sometimes I just wish I could walk among the living again, for just a little while.

Bríd called, Naggin’, Naggin’, here boy.

Nessa Flanagan: Get that dog off the graves! Go away, whist, whist, you horrid, horrid beast of a thing! What are you … ? He’s playin’ with my stones! Why won’t she stop him playin’ with my stones?

Rose Dogherty: Wind your neck in, Nessa. Remember, you did die before me. Bríd and I had plenty of conversations about you and our plots before I departed the earth. She knows what he’s doing, full well.

Nessa Flanagan: What’s he sniffin’ around for? Don’t you dare, you bad dog, don’t you dare! Not on my headstone!

Molly Flynn: Not exactly holy water, but it’ll do.

ONE YEAR ON

Peter Ó’Callaghan sat on the stone surround near the headstone of his parents and brother. I wish you coulda been there. It was a small affair, as that’s the way we wanted it, but marrying Maeve has changed my life in ways I cannot describe and certainly never expected.

Cillian Ó’Callaghan: Ahh, but we were there, son. Your mother and I both took a flyabout together.

I wish you could give me a sign that you hear me.

Anna Ó’Callaghan: Come ‘ere Cillian. Help me blow some of these oak leaves down upon our son.

Oak leaves. How nice. I’ll take it then, that you can hear me. Peter smiled. How’s about a sing-song?

Nessa Flanagan: Spare me. He’s not got a note in his head, so he doesn’t.

Rose Dogherty: Don’t be a melter, Nessa. We haven’t had a good sing-song in a long while. 

Peter removed a flask of Jameson whiskey from his pocket, took a sip and poured a few drops on the stones. Without fail, his father had a drop of uisce beatha (water of life) before retiring every night, so as to settle peacefully.

"Howz about one of your favourites, Da? When boyhood’s fire was in my blood, I read of ancient freemen, for Greece and Rome who bravely stood, three hundred men and three men, and then I prayed I yet might see … "

Nessa Flanagan: If only I could cover my ears.

Francis Dogherty: If only we could cover your mouth.

An hour on, all was quiet once again, and one could almost feel the joy permeating from the good black earth.

Peter removed a small round cask, about a foot in diameter from a brown sack, along with a pointed knife. Turning the cask to its side, Peter lightly, barely, punctured the bottom and rested it upon the stones. 

There now, he said. You used to say that there would be nothing as fine as being buried beneath a cask of whiskey. And with any luck, that cask would have a slow leak.

y

Neala Speaks

Life creases time into an accordion of memories—billowing and contracting as I walk the familiar path that leads to the old cottage, which lies deep, almost buried, amid the colourful crowning vibrancy of Rowan and Birch trees.

 Even at the middle-old-age of seventy-five, I remain altogether besotted with autumn. While yes, the aforementioned high chroma is a peripheral reason for my inclination, it is the meeting of Imogen on a breezy, long-ago, mid-October morning that tips the scale of my autumnal devotion. 

Reflection allows one to acknowledge the privilege of years not bestowed on everyone. I am confirmedly conscious of endorsing this fact when I open my eyes every morning to the familiar warmth of Imogen lying beside me. I know she will rise to the day once she hears the clink of breakfast dishes being laid upon the table (I invariably arise before her).

I was but a child when we met. Still in ownership of blithe sprightliness, not yet burdened with the mindfulness of a maturing adolescent. I remember it as if it were yesterday.

The year was 1926, and my mother had asked me to pop down to the local shoppe, Niall’s Bits and Bob’s, to acquire a sewing needle. My twin sister, Tara, was not interested in accompanying me; thus, I hastened from our little cottage alone, singing a song about a young woman who falls in love with Lugh, a High Irish King of Legend. This was a romantic notion to an eight-year-old girl, marrying a handsome King. I clearly remember advancing down the lane, procession-like, taking long, elegant strides, stick in hand, waving to the trees and shrubs, fantasising that they were my royal subjects.

This fantasy did not last terribly long, as the wind surged and swept a smattering of crisp autumn leaves up into the air, inspiring them to swirl, suspended, for longer than gravity would usually allow. One, in particular, was so taken by the updraft, that it whirled above the tree line and