Author: clareodea

Irish-Swiss writer and journalist living in Switzerland. Author of Before the Leaves Fall and Voting Day.
Short stories

A Long Way From Home

by clareodeaLeave a Comment on A Long Way From Home

The shelter was in a field behind a fairly new prison-style gated apartment block and a derelict red-brick hospital building. Walking through the old hospital gates, Natasha was surprised to see a relatively wide stretch of wasteland so near the city centre. Soon it would be swallowed up by the new technology park. It was a one-night shelter, with a first come first served policy and there was a queue of about fifteen men outside as Natasha stepped into the pool of light at the entrance. A few girlfriends were also hanging around, with their buggies and skinny children. Most of them were probably staying in B&Bs and would return to their rooms later. It was only a quarter to seven and these men were giving up the possibility of any other evening activity to guarantee a bed for the night. What they would do when the place closed down was anyone’s guess.

Natasha nodded with a rueful half smile at the group, as if they were fellow mourners at a funeral. The atmosphere was subdued, the only noise coming from the children playing on some rubble fallen from the high stone wall. The men concentrated on their cigarettes and some of them finished cans of beer or cider, their last drink of the night. The metal door had a square cut into it at eye height. Very conscious of her intrusion and her accent, Natasha rang the bell and introduced herself to the face that appeared on the other side.

She found herself in a small entrance hall. The security guard who had let her in ushered her into a side room with a cheerful grin. The man behind the desk looked up with a guilty expression. “Just getting ready to open up, last minute cup of tea, you know.” He introduced himself as the administrator of the shelter, Maurice Sheils, and gave Natasha a minute to get her recording gear out. “My job is to check everyone in, keep the records and all that. Derek here helps me make sure the clients all stick to the policy of no drink or drugs. We have a cupboard where we can hold onto the clients’ works overnight and we give the bits and bobs back to them in the morning.” He unlocked the little cupboard on the wall to the right and showed her the numbered empty ice cream tubs inside.

“We’re very strict on the whole question of drugs, and weapons of course. Anyone who’s caught using or with a knife after they’ve checked in has to leave. No exceptions, we have to consider the security of the volunteers.” Maurice’s pale eyebrows danced around as he spoke, his tone growing more theatrical as he warmed to his subject.

It was time to open up and Natasha squeezed into the space behind the desk to the left of Maurice, perching on a filing cabinet. The first two men didn’t mind her sitting in on the welcome chat but they didn’t want their own voices to be recorded. Natasha got some of Maurice’s patter on tape and watched the procedure patiently. The third client, Martin, was nineteen and just out of prison after a short sentence for larceny. It was his first time in this hostel but he didn’t appear to be shy or nervous, having spent plenty of time in various institutions from a young age. He didn’t mind being recorded and winked at Natasha when he started to debate, with mock outrage, the rights and wrongs of having to pay the nominal charge for his stay.

When Martin went off with his sheets and towel, Natasha went with him, interviewing him along the way. The first task was to choose and make the bed. The rows of iron bed frames gave the place the appearance of an old-fashioned hospital ward. If you disregarded the eight-foot high partition between the two eighteen-bed dormitories, the men were all sleeping in the same room.

One by one, new arrivals continued to trickle in and soon the place was a buzzing with activity. Some men made straight for the showers, preferring to wash the evening before rather than first thing in the morning. A television jutted out of the wall on a metal arm and a soap opera was holding the attention of several older clients, as Maurice called them. Natasha wandered around a bit, recording atmosphere for her radio report and feeling more at ease.

Derek appeared again and brought another willing talker with him. As Natasha listened to the gaunt young man complain at length about his ex-girlfriend, her attention was caught by one of the kitchen volunteers. He looked very familiar but she struggled to place him. She was trying not to be rude but had to stare. Pausing in his work for a moment, he ran his hand over his cheeks as if rubbing in moisturiser, a gesture she knew so well. In a flash she recognised him – Mr. Byrne. He had put on some weight since she saw him last but it was definitely her old English teacher. His classes had been the highlight of the week in school; Mr Byrne was the one who encouraged her to write. Natasha interrupted her interviewee expertly and gathered up her equipment in a rush. She wanted to leave just after dinner began; she had plans to meet friends in a pub nearby. What a stroke of luck to meet Mr. Byrne, Natasha thought. Such an articulate man, he was sure to say something compelling she could use.

Mr Byrne was setting places at one of the long trestle tables, absorbed in the task. Natasha felt slightly star struck as she approached, seventeen again. She had admired this man so much in school, craved his praise and attention. And here she was working as a journalist; he would be pleased. “You’re a long way from home,” she said, pulling out a chair for her gear. He looked up at her, blinking nervously. She gave him a moment to recognise her, then saved him the effort it was clearly costing him and introduced herself.
“Natasha Cullen,” he repeated, unsure.
“You taught all of us, remember? My three older sisters too,” Natasha smiled. “It’s great that you’re volunteering here, how long have you been coming to the shelter?”
Mr Byrne glanced around the room and looked to the cutlery in his hand for an answer. “Not long,” he said. “It’s one of the better places.”
“Yes, you do good work here,” Natasha said. “The producer sent me because of those tragic deaths last month. I can’t believe they’re closing the place down.”
Mr Byrne nodded. “Hard times,” he agreed. “And who are you working for?”
“Radio Nation, 101.7. Would you mind?” Natasha dug out her microphone and started untangling the lead.
“Sorry Natasha, I’m going to have to decline. We’re about to serve up here,” Mr Byrne moved up the table, placing knives and forks.
Natasha wasn’t expecting resistance but she switched automatically to persuasion mode. “Two lines will do, one even! Just give me something about hard times for the homeless. Please.” Mr Byrne shook his head and kept moving.

Five minutes later, dinner was being served and Natasha gathered the last of her audio material – an institutional din of cutlery scraping plates. She said her goodbyes to everyone she’d spoken to and Maurice walked her to the door. Natasha shook his hand warmly and they locked smiles for a moment. “Are you sure you won’t hang on ‘til I finish so I can walk you to your car? Honestly, I only need another 20 minutes and I’m all yours.”
“No need, it’s fine. I’ve got to be somewhere,” Natasha said.
“Are you happy with how the evening went?” Maurice unlocked the door and opened it to the cold January air.
“Yes everything was great, thanks. I’m just sorry Mr Byrne didn’t want to say a few words. It would have been nice to include one of the volunteers,” she said.
“Do you mean Robert Byrne? No he’s not a volunteer,” Maurice said as Natasha stepped outside. “He’s a regular client. Nice guy. Well goodnight then.” The door clanged shut and Natasha leaned against it. For a moment it seemed impossible to leave the comfort of that light. But only for a moment.

Short stories

Circle of Stones

by clareodea3 Comments on Circle of Stones

On her way across the green in the middle of her estate, Julie stopped and looked around her. She was due to leave for Cork with her mother in a few minutes and she wasn’t supposed to be outside. She gave up the pretence of walking somewhere purposefully. There were some children out playing, doing stunts on their bikes with an improvised ramp. They paid no attention to her. Julie knew every family in all the houses in this part of Chestnut Glen. She had sneaked out here because she wanted to say goodbye to something – she wasn’t sure what. All the kids her age were either still in bed or off doing their Saturday jobs.

This is it, she thought. I’ve let them take over and this is where it’s brought me. She sat down heavily on one of the small boulders, dropped there in a rough circle not by a glacier but by the developer of the virgin estate back in the 1960s.

Cork. The only person she knew there, apart from her mother’s awful cousin, was her first love from Irish College three summers ago. What sweet letters Marty used to write. Those few weeks away on the west coast had been exotic, enchanted. Not only the language was different – the air, the sky, the rain. Marty was staying with a neighbouring family. They used to walk home from the dances together, the boys from his house, the girls from hers. She remembered his pale face in the grey light of dusk. For a moment, she let her imagination take off. Dreaming up rescue scenarios had become her favourite pastime.

Somehow she would bump into him in Cork, and he would be filled with concern for her plight, realise he still loved her and decide to help her out. Marty would have matured beyond his years, he would have a proper job and his own place to live and they would set up family together. No, she didn’t like the last bit. The baby didn’t fit well into that picture.

Better if she stole some money from her mother’s cousin and escaped. She could rent a caravan somewhere by the sea in Wexford. There she would lay low and wait to turn eighteen, as long as the baby didn’t come first. She would turn up at the local hospital, a mysterious case. The staff would be intrigued. A nurse would take pity on her, offer her a room. They would become friends – and the baby, the baby. Julie felt the muscles across her swollen stomach tighten. It’s not looking good baba, she whispered.

If I had a giant camera, I would zoom out, Julie thought. First you would see this circle of stones in a field surrounded by houses, then up and up, the surrounding suburbs, the coastline, the hinterland of farms. Then Ireland surrounded by clouds and swirling blue sea, farther and farther away until the world looked quiet and harmless and nothing mattered anymore.

It was time. Julie walked slowly back towards the house. Her bag was packed, the adoption agency papers inside it. She would remember that walk; find echoes of it throughout her life. Each step leading her away from something open towards something closed. She recognised it when she walked down the aisle ten years later and the bitterly cold day when she walked into the doctor’s office to get her biopsy results. The moments when you realised the world was turning and you just had to walk with it.

About writing, Journalism

A new start in life, aged five

by clareodeaLeave a Comment on A new start in life, aged five

Do you know any five year olds? Imagine a little boy whose daily struggle to survive was so hard, he agreed to go away with a passing stranger for a chance at a new life. His name is Kam Moung and he comes from Myanmar (formerly Burma) in Southeast Asia.

Despite the heart-breaking choice made by this child, his story is a happy one. He has found security and acceptance in neighbouring Thailand in a school and orphanage set up specially for ethnic Shan refugees. His dream is to go back some day to his mother and his village and to travel around his homeland as a big music star.

km

In the meantime, Kam Moung is thriving in his new home. He is an excellent student and has won everyone over with his generous and bubbly personality.

A colleague of mine from swissinfo.ch, Luigi Jorio, introduced me to Kam Moung in the form of a book he had written with Mathias Froidevaux about the child and the plight of Shan refugees. Luigi discovered the school in 2010 and by chance arrived on the same day as Kam Moung, the perfect starting point for a story. I was only too happy to help out with the English translation.

The school and orphanage were set up by the young monk Noom Hkurh who himself fled Myanmar as a child after his village was burned to the ground. After getting an education in Thailand, he wanted to provide a caring home and safe place to study for orphans and other poor children to avoid the possibility of them being exploited or abused.

Last month, Luigi was able to return to Kam Moung’s school with copies of his book. Packed with photos and illustrations, the book will serve as a unique teaching tool. These stateless children will start English lessons with material written about their own lives.

More about the project here:
http://www.kam-moung.ch/index.php?id=10&L=1

Book reviews

The Woman Who Went to Bed For a Year

by clareodeaLeave a Comment on The Woman Who Went to Bed For a Year

No it’s not me. The most I have managed is half a day. Great title though. When I saw that this novel was written by the British icon of young adult comic fiction in the 1980s, Sue Townsend, I was intrigued. I hadn’t read anything of hers since the early titles of the Adrian Mole series.

The Woman Who Went to Bed for a Year is a cautionary tale for wives and mothers everywhere. When your identity – and all your time – is subsumed by what you do for other people, you may suddenly find yourself a lost cause.

On the day her twins leave home for university, Eva climbs into bed and stays there. She doesn’t have a plan or a manifesto, just a conviction which evolves into a phobia that she cannot leave that bed.

Against this backdrop Townsend introduces a host of characters, some loveable, some dreadful but all very human and highly amusing. The best laughs of the book come from the antics of Eva’s appalling husband Brian, closely followed by his long-suffering mother.

What I like about the book is that it’s entertaining first and thought provoking second. It will be enjoyed by young women – should even be handed out in maternity wards as a guide to the pitfalls of mothering (and marriage!) – but perhaps most appreciated by older women.

On a practical level what I took away from Townsend’s story was a decision to step back ever so slightly last Christmas. Eva’s long description of the exhausting self-imposed burden that the family’s Christmas celebrations had become rang warning bells for me. This time round I shared the festive secrets and the to-do list, and will do my best to resist the temptation from now on to scale up the traditions and obligations from year to year.

About Ireland

King and queen of fifth class

by clareodeaLeave a Comment on King and queen of fifth class

Competition is healthy, right? The will to win pushes human beings to excel and for those with the right attributes and drive, the reward is the sweet taste of success. But too much emphasis on competition brings out its destructive force. It can distort and poison relationships, even society.

Here is an example of what a regime of competition did to a class of 10 and 11 year olds in Dublin in the 1980s. Our teacher was an old-fashioned disciplinarian who clearly missed the days of corporal punishment. He used to stalk the classroom with a metre stick and bring it crashing down on the desks of chattering children, shouting “watch out” just before he made contact.

The teacher had what Catholics call a “special devotion” to St. Teresa of Avila. Beware of anyone with a special devotion. We heard stories about her wonderful qualities – purity, humility, and obedience – ad nauseum. Enough already we would have shouted only that particular Americanism hadn’t yet reached Irish shores (nor had insubordination in the classroom).

Our school master imposed a system of continuous tests on us. Not a day went by without tests. On the wall he had meticulously put together a detailed chart where he recorded every pupil’s name and score in every single test. On a separate sheet there was a ranking of the running totals. At a glance we could see the order of achievement for all 28 children. There was no escaping it. So what did we do in this oppressive atmosphere? We became very competitive. More than that, we developed our own feudal society based on our rankings.

At the top of the pecking order came the King and Queen – the two brightest children in the class who alternated first and second place between them. The next half-dozen kids on the list were the Knights and their job was to defend the King and Queen whenever the teacher left the room and we all slipped into open animosity, expressed through ruler fights. The rest of the children were Commoners. When the teacher unwittingly seated a Commoner in the Knights’ section, he or she became a slave and had to fetch milk at break time, sharpen pencils, defend the royals and so on. Interestingly all the roles disappeared when we went out into the yard to play at lunchtime.

But inside the classroom, we stuck rigidly to the social order we had spontaneously created. Not quite Lord of the Flies but King and Queen of Fifth Class.

Short stories

The Newspaper Hour

by clareodeaLeave a Comment on The Newspaper Hour

Beginning with the front page, Marta read out the headlines and waited for the nod. If there was a medical or health connection, Dr Cleary would definitely want the full article. The economy was also a must, although he tended to shout “mumbo-jumbo” angrily before she got the end. Politics brought on more heckling. He seemed to know all these people with their unpronounceable names intimately and he didn’t like any of them. The old man remained silent, his head bowed, during accounts of natural disasters or other senseless tragedies.

What made it tiring at first was that she had to pronounce everything right. He would interrupt her five times in a sentence. Inside she would be railing against him but she remained outwardly docile. On the Tuesday of her second week she deliberately forgot the paper but his disappointment was too much for her. She didn’t come empty handed again.

After reading through the first story, she would offer to do some housework but he always refused. Although the house was tidy, it needed a good clean. Marta considered switching with someone else. She was afraid someone might inspect the place and she would get into trouble. But all he wanted with his hour was the newspaper.

Three weeks into the job Marta made a stand. She struck a deal with him that the final fifteen minutes would be given up to cleaning. In this time she raced around with a cloth and disinfectant spray wiping down surfaces, speed vacuumed the hall, stairs and landing or swept and mopped the kitchen floor.

By the New Year the reading time had become less fraught and more interesting. Marta was getting to know the themes and the players. When she tut-tutted over the latest revelations about the minister for transport Dr Cleary chuckled. From then on they read and listened as a team. She would pour a cup of tea for herself and pause to take sips, enjoying his rapt attention.

On a mid-March morning Graham was passing the graveyard on his jogging route and stopped at the entrance. He pushed open the gate and walked down the hill towards the newer graves. It was a heart-soaring day, the first spring warmth in the air, the sky boldly blue. Could it only have been a week before that they had buried his father seemingly in the depths of winter?

All the what-to-do-about-Dad conversations were over. There would be no more late night skype calls from his brother in Australia. For over a year Conor had pestered Graham relentlessly, his anxiety multiplied by distance. A blind 79 year old man cannot live alone, he insisted, as if it were a known natural law. But Graham saw his father once a week and thought he was doing OK. He’s partially sighted, he would remind Conor. I organise the internet shopping. He doesn’t complain.

Graham turned into his father’s row, his sneakers compressing the soft grass. There was a child’s grave on the left complete with paper windmills and toy trucks. He hadn’t noticed it at the funeral but he hadn’t noticed much that day. The wooden crosses on the new graves were all the same. He assumed the last in the row would bear his father’s name but there was a new grave there and Dr John Cleary was now second from the end.

The funeral wreaths that still covered the mound of earth looked surprisingly fresh. Leaning against the thin wooden cross was something new. Graham leaned over to pick it up. In a plastic folder someone had placed that day’s Independent on the grave. Odd, Graham thought, Dad hasn’t read the paper in years.

About Switzerland, The everyday

Swiss crimes against tea

by clareodea14 Comments on Swiss crimes against tea

Image courtesy of podpad at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

When it comes to tea, different cultures have different ideas about what is appropriate and what is criminal adulteration. As an Irish tea drinker I am not a tea lover in the gourmet sense. I would never dream of owning a collection of fine teas. I shudder at the thought of accidently consuming Earl Grey. It’s got to be pure black and preferably one of the classic blends that have been sold by the Irish market leaders for generations. This is what we are talking about when we say we’d love a cup of tea.

Living in Switzerland over the past decade I am now wise to the dangers of tea crimes in everyday life here and can avoid the worst. For the uninitiated:

Crime number 1 – Hospitali-tea: Beware of a Swiss person, or French or German, offering you a cup of tea. If you listen closely you will hear that they are saying: Would you like a tea? Can you hear the broad sweep in there? It could mean literally anything, from lemon and ginger to a fruit berry concoction but almost never means a regular cup of black tea. The worst thing is when you are caught off guard and say yes gratefully to the offer of tea only to be presented with a cup of perfumed water which could not be further from the actual beverage you were gasping for.

Crime number 2 – Austeri-tea: You may work your way through the different brands of Schwarztee/ thé noir as systematically as you like, they all share the same unforgiveable weakness – weakness. Put the tea bag in and you will be drawing a pension before it draws to the right strength. Needless to say you can forget squeezing out a second cup.

Crime number 3 – Traves-tea: Sometimes, despite the best laid plans, you are going to have to order a cup of tea in a café or restaurant because it’s just what you want at that moment more than anything else in the world. Let’s ignore the fact that the French-speaking Swiss waiter will sometimes bring a can of sickly sweet iced tea because this is a more popular drink, the biggest problem is that you will be served a cup of hot water IN A GLASS. The water is not boiling hot and it does not contain tea. No, the tea is in an individually wrapped tea bag on the saucer. Good luck cobbling together a cup of tea with these raw materials.

Crime number 4 – Duplici-tea: In my book a cup of tea needs a decent splash of cold full-fat fresh milk before it is complete. This is considered an eccentricity in this part of the world, very Miss Marple. Tea here is served with no accompaniment apart from sugar and if you have the temerity to ask for milk you will be given one tiny container of UHT creamer. I don’t know what this milk-like product actually is, some kind of cream/milk hybrid, but it does not belong in a cup of tea, even in minute quantities.

Crime number 5 – Atroci-tea: A proper cup of tea belongs in the brown and amber part of the colour spectrum. The final crime against tea in Switzerland is not only that it is weak but also that it lets down the eye. When the milk is added all you have is an insipid grey brew which is about as appetising as all the other grey foods we like to consume. Oh wait, there aren’t any.

Disclaimer: Although black tea is my special area of prejudice, I have to admire how knowledgeable the Swiss are about the medicinal properties of various teas. A new mother in hospital will be served breastfeeding tea, babies with conjunctivitis have their eyes cleaned with cold black tea, children with stomach ache are given fennel tea and in every supermarket you can buy cough tea, bladder tea and, most importantly, calming tea.

Image courtesy of podpad at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Book reviews, Parenting

Strange and terrible stories

by clareodea1 Comment on Strange and terrible stories

Around the age of two and a half my twins discovered stories. At the same time I discovered the power stories had over them. It started with Goldilocks. The naughty little girl, the bear family, the repetition, the danger – I could not retell it often enough for them, always with the same cadence and gestures. They were hooked and stories like these got me over plenty of sticky moments, especially while travelling, when they were restless or bored.

By the age of four the girls were regularly demanding made-up stories. These they preferred to books, because they could be made to order and they lasted longer! The request was always the same. It should be about a little girl or animal, or both. One twin would demand that something “strange” and “terrible” had to happen, while her sister would modify this with “but not too terrible”.

So began a series of strange and terrible stories, usually involving the diminutive protagonist getting into some kind of danger herself, or rescuing an animal from danger. I got tired of this formula long before the children did. One story I told them about a Neanderthal family made a big impression. What really got them was that the people had not developed language yet and communicated by grunts, tone and sign language. Language truly is the greatest gift of our species.

This craving for stories stays with us for life. We meet friends and family to swap stories; we read books, watch films, follow television series. The news media are also part of the great storytelling tradition. These sources are all feeding the same need, which goes far beyond entertainment. We seek out stories to make sense of the world, to understand ourselves and others, to explore our worst fears and greatest hopes. Long live strange and terrible stories!

Book reviews

Back to Blackbrick

by clareodeaLeave a Comment on Back to Blackbrick

May I introduce myself? I was the person sitting next to you on the flight last Sunday who had to keep closing her book because she was welling up. I also had to keep going back to it because I was hooked by the plot. What was I reading? Back to Blackbrick by Sarah Moore Fitzgerald. I don’t normally read young adult fiction; it all looks a bit deliberately silly to me – judging by the covers (I know!). But this novel is different. The main character Cosmo is like Adrian Mole’s sweet younger cousin. He has all the right instincts in the face of life’s challenges, without the judgement or the conviction to make the right moves. Cosmo can’t really handle his emotions and yet he is the character who remains truest to those he loves.

Who hasn’t dreamt of going back in time to see how our forefathers lived? The Blackbrick of the title is the stately home where Cosmo’s grandfather lived and worked as a boy. Distressed at his grandfather’s decline brought on by Alzheimer’s, Cosmo goes back to Blackbrick and discovers a way to unlock the secrets that overshadowed his grandfather’s early life. There are some pretty adult themes in Back to Blackbrick – bereavement, the perils of the class system and the stigmatisation of unmarried mothers. But here is a writer who can make you smile when she describes the tragic advance of dementia, who celebrates the bonds of family and friendship no matter what. If you are looking for something a little more meaningful to buy your teenagers or bright pre-teens, Back to Blackbrick is it.

Sarah Moore Fitzgerald’s book was launched earlier this month in Limerick and Dublin, published by Orion. The US version will be published soon as far as I know and translations are in the pipeline. So, bearing in mind the small disclaimer that I was once Sarah’s sweet younger cousin (less sweet now), rest assured this is an exceptional piece of fiction.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Back-Blackbrick-Sarah-Moore-Fitzgerald/dp/1444006592

Book reviews

True History of the Kelly Gang

by clareodeaLeave a Comment on True History of the Kelly Gang

Last October I stepped off a bus in Wicklow town on the east coast of Ireland into hard driving rain. I made a run for the old town jail, a place I’d been meaning to visit for a while. On the tour of the building, which dates from 1702, visitors are transported back to crueller times, just as the inmates of the prison were once transported to Australia. You learn about the inhumane conditions the prisoners, including children, were kept in, the miserable rations they were given on the ocean voyage and the petty crimes, borne of poverty, which sealed their fate.

Under the Banishment Act, Irish convicts from Wicklow Gaol were sentenced to transportation up to 1856, around the time the infamous outlaw Ned Kelly, son of an Irish convict, was born in Victoria.

Kelly, whose remains were only given a proper burial in January this year, is a hero to many (though not all) in Australia but whatever your political colours, Peter Carey’s truly original novel True History of the Kelly Gang is captivating. Narrated in Kelly’s voice, the words come tumbling onto the page charged with passion and pain. It is such a convincing account, the period details and nineteenth century Irish-Australian idiom so fresh and vivid that within a few lines, you are there in the hot, dusty township walking in the footsteps of the little boy Kelly.

Carey’s novel is a story of a pride, prejudice and the abuse of power. It is also the story of a son’s love for his mother and the human capacity for endurance. When you read True History of the Kelly Gang you wear the clothes of the downtrodden colonials, eat their food and feel their burning sense of injustice. It must be one of the most accomplished fictional representations of the life of an historical figure. You believe Ned Kelly is speaking, you want it to be him – and you don’t want it to end.