Oisin
gone but not forgotten
Sorry folks, I'm on a roll now:
IT NEVER RAINS BUT IT POURS
With temperatures hovering around 25ºC+ for weeks, the good weather had persisted for longer than anyone would have imagined. The tarmac was melting on the roads and motorways. Lakes had dried up, crops were left scorched in the fields, and a hosepipe ban had been in force for nearly three months. All in all, it was a strange state of affairs when the British public were reduced to praying for rain. But, as they say: “it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good”. Sales of sun block, suntan lotion, ice cream, soft drinks, swimsuits, sunglasses and big straw hats had reached an all time record high.
Brendan Egan worked hard and earned good money as a self-employed plasterer. The long days and good weather had suited him. As there had been no hold ups on the new housing development he was working on; the job was well ahead of schedule and the bonuses were high.
If there was one thing Brendan looked forward to after a long week of hard work, it was a Sunday lunchtime drink. With this in mind he had arranged to pick Gloria up at her place and take her out for the day. Knowing his liking for a pint or two, Gloria had agreed that he should leave his Mondeo at her house while she drove them in her Peugeot 206. The plan was to drive to Bewdley, park the car and take a leisurely walk along the river to a pub that had been recommended to Brendan by a work colleague. Over lunch and a pint he could then decide, with Gloria, what they should do with the rest of the day.
Perhaps he should have made it plainer when he said they would take a stroll to the pub, because it was a little bit more than that. In fact, it was more of a long walk. No, even that was erring on the conservative side; it was really more of a hike. If she had known in advance, maybe she would have left the house better equipped. Or, knowing what she was like, she would have rejected the suggestion altogether.
Gloria was ready and waiting when he pulled up outside the row of neat little terraced houses. After greeting him on the doorstep with a warm smile, he gave her a peck on the cheek before she showed him through to her tastefully decorated living room.
‘Well, how do I look?’ she beamed as she held out the skirt of her simple white dress and did a little twirl in front of the original black cast iron fireplace.
‘Gorgeous,’ he said and he wasn’t exaggerating.
But that had been the opportunity he had missed. He had not been sufficiently strong willed to tell her that while he appreciated how adorable she looked in that little white linen number, it wasn’t exactly suitable for what he had planned. Well, what red-blooded male would have the will power to talk a girl like Gloria into changing out of something so feminine as that and into a something more practical? He was also wary of her temper: She had red hair and a redhead’s temperament. If he suggested anything other than what she had chosen, he would be in trouble, and it was sure to lead to a row. The day was too good for that.
They left the Peugeot in the municipal car park at Bewdley and bought 99s from an ice cream vendor. It had only just turned 11:00 and already the sun was blistering the grey gravel path in front of them as they ambled along the riverbank. With her chestnut locks flowing onto her shoulder and her full red lips, the way Gloria nibbled at her chocolate flake, prompted Brendan to make a mental analogy between her and the girl in the Cadbury’s TV advertisement. That thought sent a little quiver of anticipation through him.
‘River’s higher than I thought it would be,’ Gloria commented as she paused to toss the last remnants of her ice cream cornet to a swan.
‘Yeah,’ Brendan nodded, ‘But according to the weather forecast I think they’ve had some rain in Wales over the last couple of days?’
‘Oh, well the sooner it gets to here, the better,’ Gloria smiled.
Bewdley had been a major river port before the Industrial Revolution and until the smaller town of Stourport–on–Severn, further down the river, had been linked to the Midlands canal network. While they ate their ice creams Gloria and Brendan had been strolling along what had been the main quay, in the direction of Bridge North. Ahead of them, the shear grey stonewall of the quay progressively gave way to a steep grassy bank, which sloped down into the water. Here, the path was reduced to a red clay track. At times when the river level was higher, the grassy bank to their right was a favourite haunt of anglers. Now it appeared deserted.
Brendan had always been amazed at the abundance of energy Gloria exhibited. She was only two years younger than him but she made him feel like an old man. Even allowing for the fact that she wore less than him, and was therefore much cooler, as far as he was concerned, anything more than the slowest pace was too much in the heat of the day. He was already experiencing the discomfort of his jeans sticking to his legs, but she was keeping up a sprightly pace, which made him feel far older than he normally did.
And why shouldn’t Gloria be filled with the joys of life? If anyone had everything going for her it was Gloria Bains - she was beautiful and a picture of good health and vitality. In a way, he supposed, that’s what he liked most about her – she made him feel privileged by association.
‘So how far is it now?’ she asked, pausing to harvest more daisies for the chain she was making.
A look of apprehension crossed Brendan’s face. Avoiding her eyes, he stared down at his Cat boots and mumbled, ‘To the Ferry House? Oh, about another mile or so.’
He was aware of Gloria’s nose wrinkling and her brow creasing into a series of deep furrows. ‘I thought we were out for a leisurely walk, not a bloody cross-country trek! Honestly, Brendan, I sometimes wonder about you. Do you do these things on purpose just to wind me up?’
‘Does it matter?’ he shrugged.
‘Does it matter?’ she mimicked. ‘How far could you walk in these?’ She held up her right foot and waggled it at him to draw his attention to her lightweight, heeled sandals. As if by cue, there was a faint but steady roll of thunder behind them in the distance.
The heaviness of the sky soon became all too apparent as the clouds gathered and merged until they completely encapsulated the whole world in a mantle of dark grey. The air was still very sticky while the rumble of thunder gradually transcended the universe, bringing with it the first few smatterings of raindrops. Within seconds torrents were splattering onto the riverside path.
The recent hot weather had left the path as hard baked as a kiln-fired pot, making it impossible to soak up the flood. Instead, the cascade of monster sized droplets hit the ground and splashed back up to above calf height on Gloria’s naked legs, leaving them randomly patterned with red/brown splodges of mud. The route in front of them was instantly transformed into a minefield of puddles, behind them forked lightning tore through the blackened skies, ripping bright narrow jagged connectors between heaven and earth.
Instinctively, Brendan took Gloria by the arm to hurry her along. They broke into a trot. Then, realising how futile this action was, Brendan slowed them back down to a brisk walking pace again. The jerking action on her arm and the swift change of pace caused Gloria to briefly lose her footing. Her right ankle rolled over the side of her frail, strapped sandal. The sudden jar caused her to suck in a pained whimper through her gritted teeth. ‘Will you make up your mind whether we’re bloody coming or going?’ she snapped through a veil of sodden hair. Reaching forward, he gently brushed aside a couple of matted tangles that clung to her face, to reveal her wide brown eyes, the source of the sooty tram lines that ran down her face and under her chin.
He was just as wet and miserable as she was but, judging her mood, he felt inclined to keep it to himself. ‘It’s not my fault. I can’t control the soddin’ weather.’ He tried to reason with her.
‘It was your stupid idea,’ she reminded him, pausing to remove the offending footwear. ‘And you didn’t tell me we were going on a bloody route march. Look at me, Brendan; I’m bloody soaked to the skin. My hair’s a mess and my dress is ruined. Some bloody day out this has turned into!’
Despite her fury, the way her bottom lip trembled with frustration and the way her teeth were chattering with the sudden drop in temperature, she looked so pathetic and vulnerable; he couldn’t help but feel responsible. Besides her dress being “ruined”, it had also been rendered transparent. He wasn’t going to make her aware of that; he was in enough trouble as it was. Instead, he took her elbow to steady her as she perched herself on one leg to drag a sandal from her foot.
‘Sod off!’ she snarled, ‘ I can manage myself. You’ve done enough damage as it is.’
The effort of shrugging him away threw her slightly off balance. The small handbag containing her purse and car keys slid from where she had it clamped under her right arm. Brendan looked on in alarm as he watched it beginning to slither down the grass embankment. He hesitated for a moment in the belief that it was sure to get caught up in some of the undergrowth before cascading into the river. The instant he realised this was not going to happen, he took off after it.
As if heralding some great disaster, an almighty crash of thunder exploded in the blackness above his head. No sooner had his feet left the path than he found himself struggling for traction in the quagmire of the grassy slope. Although his quarry had not been caught in any of the brambles or other vegetation, it had come to a halt in a small natural indent. But with the rate the deluge was washing off the track, Brendan feared it would only be a short time before the brown leather bag was en route to the river again. His feet pawed frantically as his Cats strained for grip against the greasy surface. All the while he was slithering about time was ticking away. He needed to retrieve the bag, and fast! In desperation he finally launched himself, headlong, belly down at his objective.
The bow wave he created in the surface water was something phenomenal as he slid towards the fast flowing Severn like a tumbled water skier being dragged by a boat. And all the time he was surfing the grass he was aware of Gloria in an impatient stance with her arms folded across her chest, seemingly oblivious to his plight, nonchalantly observing his progress.
Halfway through his descent, he managed to twist over and round so that he was sliding on his bottom, facing the river. His projected course was a touch to the left of where the bag lay. When he finally came alongside, with great trepidation, he braked by ramming his heels into the soft ground, shot out his right hand and grabbed out at the bag. His next thought was one of relief as he sensed his fingers closing around the soddened leather.
Once he was confident that it was firmly secured in his grasp, he manoeuvred so that he was again belly-down, this time facing up the slope. All he needed to do now was to get sufficient purchase by digging the toes of his boots into the ground so that he could crawl back to the top of the trail he had blazed down the embankment. It was no easy task.
Like a cyclist with a disengaged chain, his initial attempt resulted in plenty of leg movement but no forward progress. Eventually, with the assistance of his left hand gripping a small shrub, which miraculously remained firmly planted in the ground, he managed to draw his body up and along. Slowly and painstakingly, by roughly half metre increments, he gradually made his way through the mud and spoil until came to rest at eye-level with Gloria’s bare feet. Still with her arms folded, she gazed down on him, seemingly devoid of emotion. With what was left of his stamina, he drew himself up off the ground and up to his full, muddy height on the edge of the path.
‘You got it then?’ she huffed.
‘Yeah,’ he responded breathlessly.
‘Good!’ Her eyes narrowed into slits as she took the bag from him and slipped it under her arm. Then the unexpected sensation of Gloria’s palms pressing hard into his chest took Brendan completely by surprise as she growled; ‘Now you can bugger off back to where you’ve been!’
Normally he would have been able to resist the force of the push but he was drained of energy, soaked to the skin and was standing on the edge of a very slippery slope.
He went back down the embankment like a ship being launched on the Clyde. Before he really knew what was happening, he found he was taking in enormous amounts of water as he spluttered and splashed about in a vain attempt to grapple a hold on the riverbank. It was a futile exercise. An undercurrent grabbed him and he was whisked away. And all the time Gloria stood dripping, safe on the path, her face completely devoid of emotion.
Gloria Bains didn’t move until she was sure Brendan had been swept well away, out of her life and his own.
THE END
IT NEVER RAINS BUT IT POURS
With temperatures hovering around 25ºC+ for weeks, the good weather had persisted for longer than anyone would have imagined. The tarmac was melting on the roads and motorways. Lakes had dried up, crops were left scorched in the fields, and a hosepipe ban had been in force for nearly three months. All in all, it was a strange state of affairs when the British public were reduced to praying for rain. But, as they say: “it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good”. Sales of sun block, suntan lotion, ice cream, soft drinks, swimsuits, sunglasses and big straw hats had reached an all time record high.
Brendan Egan worked hard and earned good money as a self-employed plasterer. The long days and good weather had suited him. As there had been no hold ups on the new housing development he was working on; the job was well ahead of schedule and the bonuses were high.
If there was one thing Brendan looked forward to after a long week of hard work, it was a Sunday lunchtime drink. With this in mind he had arranged to pick Gloria up at her place and take her out for the day. Knowing his liking for a pint or two, Gloria had agreed that he should leave his Mondeo at her house while she drove them in her Peugeot 206. The plan was to drive to Bewdley, park the car and take a leisurely walk along the river to a pub that had been recommended to Brendan by a work colleague. Over lunch and a pint he could then decide, with Gloria, what they should do with the rest of the day.
Perhaps he should have made it plainer when he said they would take a stroll to the pub, because it was a little bit more than that. In fact, it was more of a long walk. No, even that was erring on the conservative side; it was really more of a hike. If she had known in advance, maybe she would have left the house better equipped. Or, knowing what she was like, she would have rejected the suggestion altogether.
Gloria was ready and waiting when he pulled up outside the row of neat little terraced houses. After greeting him on the doorstep with a warm smile, he gave her a peck on the cheek before she showed him through to her tastefully decorated living room.
‘Well, how do I look?’ she beamed as she held out the skirt of her simple white dress and did a little twirl in front of the original black cast iron fireplace.
‘Gorgeous,’ he said and he wasn’t exaggerating.
But that had been the opportunity he had missed. He had not been sufficiently strong willed to tell her that while he appreciated how adorable she looked in that little white linen number, it wasn’t exactly suitable for what he had planned. Well, what red-blooded male would have the will power to talk a girl like Gloria into changing out of something so feminine as that and into a something more practical? He was also wary of her temper: She had red hair and a redhead’s temperament. If he suggested anything other than what she had chosen, he would be in trouble, and it was sure to lead to a row. The day was too good for that.
They left the Peugeot in the municipal car park at Bewdley and bought 99s from an ice cream vendor. It had only just turned 11:00 and already the sun was blistering the grey gravel path in front of them as they ambled along the riverbank. With her chestnut locks flowing onto her shoulder and her full red lips, the way Gloria nibbled at her chocolate flake, prompted Brendan to make a mental analogy between her and the girl in the Cadbury’s TV advertisement. That thought sent a little quiver of anticipation through him.
‘River’s higher than I thought it would be,’ Gloria commented as she paused to toss the last remnants of her ice cream cornet to a swan.
‘Yeah,’ Brendan nodded, ‘But according to the weather forecast I think they’ve had some rain in Wales over the last couple of days?’
‘Oh, well the sooner it gets to here, the better,’ Gloria smiled.
Bewdley had been a major river port before the Industrial Revolution and until the smaller town of Stourport–on–Severn, further down the river, had been linked to the Midlands canal network. While they ate their ice creams Gloria and Brendan had been strolling along what had been the main quay, in the direction of Bridge North. Ahead of them, the shear grey stonewall of the quay progressively gave way to a steep grassy bank, which sloped down into the water. Here, the path was reduced to a red clay track. At times when the river level was higher, the grassy bank to their right was a favourite haunt of anglers. Now it appeared deserted.
Brendan had always been amazed at the abundance of energy Gloria exhibited. She was only two years younger than him but she made him feel like an old man. Even allowing for the fact that she wore less than him, and was therefore much cooler, as far as he was concerned, anything more than the slowest pace was too much in the heat of the day. He was already experiencing the discomfort of his jeans sticking to his legs, but she was keeping up a sprightly pace, which made him feel far older than he normally did.
And why shouldn’t Gloria be filled with the joys of life? If anyone had everything going for her it was Gloria Bains - she was beautiful and a picture of good health and vitality. In a way, he supposed, that’s what he liked most about her – she made him feel privileged by association.
‘So how far is it now?’ she asked, pausing to harvest more daisies for the chain she was making.
A look of apprehension crossed Brendan’s face. Avoiding her eyes, he stared down at his Cat boots and mumbled, ‘To the Ferry House? Oh, about another mile or so.’
He was aware of Gloria’s nose wrinkling and her brow creasing into a series of deep furrows. ‘I thought we were out for a leisurely walk, not a bloody cross-country trek! Honestly, Brendan, I sometimes wonder about you. Do you do these things on purpose just to wind me up?’
‘Does it matter?’ he shrugged.
‘Does it matter?’ she mimicked. ‘How far could you walk in these?’ She held up her right foot and waggled it at him to draw his attention to her lightweight, heeled sandals. As if by cue, there was a faint but steady roll of thunder behind them in the distance.
The heaviness of the sky soon became all too apparent as the clouds gathered and merged until they completely encapsulated the whole world in a mantle of dark grey. The air was still very sticky while the rumble of thunder gradually transcended the universe, bringing with it the first few smatterings of raindrops. Within seconds torrents were splattering onto the riverside path.
The recent hot weather had left the path as hard baked as a kiln-fired pot, making it impossible to soak up the flood. Instead, the cascade of monster sized droplets hit the ground and splashed back up to above calf height on Gloria’s naked legs, leaving them randomly patterned with red/brown splodges of mud. The route in front of them was instantly transformed into a minefield of puddles, behind them forked lightning tore through the blackened skies, ripping bright narrow jagged connectors between heaven and earth.
Instinctively, Brendan took Gloria by the arm to hurry her along. They broke into a trot. Then, realising how futile this action was, Brendan slowed them back down to a brisk walking pace again. The jerking action on her arm and the swift change of pace caused Gloria to briefly lose her footing. Her right ankle rolled over the side of her frail, strapped sandal. The sudden jar caused her to suck in a pained whimper through her gritted teeth. ‘Will you make up your mind whether we’re bloody coming or going?’ she snapped through a veil of sodden hair. Reaching forward, he gently brushed aside a couple of matted tangles that clung to her face, to reveal her wide brown eyes, the source of the sooty tram lines that ran down her face and under her chin.
He was just as wet and miserable as she was but, judging her mood, he felt inclined to keep it to himself. ‘It’s not my fault. I can’t control the soddin’ weather.’ He tried to reason with her.
‘It was your stupid idea,’ she reminded him, pausing to remove the offending footwear. ‘And you didn’t tell me we were going on a bloody route march. Look at me, Brendan; I’m bloody soaked to the skin. My hair’s a mess and my dress is ruined. Some bloody day out this has turned into!’
Despite her fury, the way her bottom lip trembled with frustration and the way her teeth were chattering with the sudden drop in temperature, she looked so pathetic and vulnerable; he couldn’t help but feel responsible. Besides her dress being “ruined”, it had also been rendered transparent. He wasn’t going to make her aware of that; he was in enough trouble as it was. Instead, he took her elbow to steady her as she perched herself on one leg to drag a sandal from her foot.
‘Sod off!’ she snarled, ‘ I can manage myself. You’ve done enough damage as it is.’
The effort of shrugging him away threw her slightly off balance. The small handbag containing her purse and car keys slid from where she had it clamped under her right arm. Brendan looked on in alarm as he watched it beginning to slither down the grass embankment. He hesitated for a moment in the belief that it was sure to get caught up in some of the undergrowth before cascading into the river. The instant he realised this was not going to happen, he took off after it.
As if heralding some great disaster, an almighty crash of thunder exploded in the blackness above his head. No sooner had his feet left the path than he found himself struggling for traction in the quagmire of the grassy slope. Although his quarry had not been caught in any of the brambles or other vegetation, it had come to a halt in a small natural indent. But with the rate the deluge was washing off the track, Brendan feared it would only be a short time before the brown leather bag was en route to the river again. His feet pawed frantically as his Cats strained for grip against the greasy surface. All the while he was slithering about time was ticking away. He needed to retrieve the bag, and fast! In desperation he finally launched himself, headlong, belly down at his objective.
The bow wave he created in the surface water was something phenomenal as he slid towards the fast flowing Severn like a tumbled water skier being dragged by a boat. And all the time he was surfing the grass he was aware of Gloria in an impatient stance with her arms folded across her chest, seemingly oblivious to his plight, nonchalantly observing his progress.
Halfway through his descent, he managed to twist over and round so that he was sliding on his bottom, facing the river. His projected course was a touch to the left of where the bag lay. When he finally came alongside, with great trepidation, he braked by ramming his heels into the soft ground, shot out his right hand and grabbed out at the bag. His next thought was one of relief as he sensed his fingers closing around the soddened leather.
Once he was confident that it was firmly secured in his grasp, he manoeuvred so that he was again belly-down, this time facing up the slope. All he needed to do now was to get sufficient purchase by digging the toes of his boots into the ground so that he could crawl back to the top of the trail he had blazed down the embankment. It was no easy task.
Like a cyclist with a disengaged chain, his initial attempt resulted in plenty of leg movement but no forward progress. Eventually, with the assistance of his left hand gripping a small shrub, which miraculously remained firmly planted in the ground, he managed to draw his body up and along. Slowly and painstakingly, by roughly half metre increments, he gradually made his way through the mud and spoil until came to rest at eye-level with Gloria’s bare feet. Still with her arms folded, she gazed down on him, seemingly devoid of emotion. With what was left of his stamina, he drew himself up off the ground and up to his full, muddy height on the edge of the path.
‘You got it then?’ she huffed.
‘Yeah,’ he responded breathlessly.
‘Good!’ Her eyes narrowed into slits as she took the bag from him and slipped it under her arm. Then the unexpected sensation of Gloria’s palms pressing hard into his chest took Brendan completely by surprise as she growled; ‘Now you can bugger off back to where you’ve been!’
Normally he would have been able to resist the force of the push but he was drained of energy, soaked to the skin and was standing on the edge of a very slippery slope.
He went back down the embankment like a ship being launched on the Clyde. Before he really knew what was happening, he found he was taking in enormous amounts of water as he spluttered and splashed about in a vain attempt to grapple a hold on the riverbank. It was a futile exercise. An undercurrent grabbed him and he was whisked away. And all the time Gloria stood dripping, safe on the path, her face completely devoid of emotion.
Gloria Bains didn’t move until she was sure Brendan had been swept well away, out of her life and his own.
THE END
No need to be to be sorry Paul...This one speaks for it's self a master piece if ever there was one 
