Summer 1967, Age 15

I woke to sounds of clattering from the tiny kitchen area a few feet from my head. Mother was boiling the kettle for tea and making porridge. In the transition between sleeping and wakefulness, I felt a churning mix of peace and alarm. Half asleep, I imagined I was a child; someone was making my breakfast. As my eyes opened, reality hit: the claustrophobic caravan, the smell of paraffin and Mother’s overpowering presence. Even with her back to me, I sensed her edgy energy; like the porridge, she might over-boil any moment. Be careful! [Read more…] about 9: The Complex Mother

Late Summer 1967, Age 15

“You need a job.” Mother’s announced out of the blue one morning in the middle of August. Dad had sent me my O Level results—I hadn’t done too badly—and had reminded me that school started soon. Now Mother wanted to settle the question whether I was staying or going once and for all.

Work was scarce in Dungarvan. Dejected men in dirty gray coats stood around the Square each morning, smoking and hoping for a day job. As soon as the pubs opened, the Square emptied—but the shabby men were there again the next morning and the next. What chance did I have? But Mother had a plan: we should talk to an old friend of hers. [Read more…] about 10: Learning to Lounge

Autumn—Winter 1967, Age 16

A week after my birthday, Mr. O’Connor called me into his office. My first thought was, what have I done wrong? But he was all smiles as usual.

“Máire tells me you’ve been doing great, but we won’t need you in the lounge now summer is gone. They’re a bit short-handed behind the bar—would you like to give it a try? You’d start at five pounds a week.” ($125) [Read more…] about 11: Going Public

Winter 1967—1968, Age 16

I awoke with a start as wind buffeted the caravan and rain drummed on the roof. The usual misty showers—a fine soft day as it’s called in Ireland—had turned into a torrential downpour. At the other end of the caravan I heard plink, plink, plink of water dripping. The oil lamp was turned down to a flickering orange flame and when I cracked my eyes open, I could make out Mother’s lumpy outline in the gloom. The drips were coming from an area shrouded in shadow a few feet away. My bed was warm and dry; I just needed to slip back into unconsciousness.

Mother stirred, sat up suddenly and barked in a scratchy voice, “For God’s sake Owen, wake up. Get some pots under those drips.” [Read more…] about 12: Misery

Early Spring 1968, Age 16

The day was fresh from a spring shower as I set off along the Cork road. After a mile or so, the road climbed out of town; on the left was the turn-off to Ring, the Gaeltacht where the original Gaelic language was still spoken. From the top of the hill, I looked down over Dungarvan bay spread beneath me. At this distance, it was beautiful, a perfect bowl of shallow blue water reflecting the sun and clouds. Some said it looked like a miniature Bay of Naples.

My wallet held the grand sum of ten pounds, enough to seek my fortune in the big city of Cork, some fifty miles away. [Read more…] about 13: Seeking a Fortune

Spring – Summer 1968, Age 16

“ … you are thinking of nothing, nothing but what I say, your arms and legs feel heavy, heavier and heavier, and you are relaxed, more and more relaxed… as I count from one to ten, you will sleep even deeper: one, deeper and deeper—two, deeper and deeper—three…” My voice droned on and on—soft, slow and monotonous—putting Danny into a hypnotic trance.

We were in our bedroom under the eaves, a dim light shining through the thin curtains. Kevin, raw from our confrontation, had moved into another room—so there was just Danny and me. Over the past two weeks, I’d hypnotized Danny a number of times. He seemed to like it. [Read more…] about 14: A Hypnotic Trance

Autumn 1968—Spring 1969, Age 17

The world turned softly gray and overcast. In the intermittent drizzle, the caravan sagged like a deflating balloon, sullen and brooding in its garden of nettles and thistles, bedecked with leak-proof silver ribbons. I was back in Dungarvan, living with Mother. Cork was no more than a glimpse of freedom, a dream of escape fading into a prison nightmare. How could it all have slipped away?

I couldn’t really blame Mother; it wasn’t all her fault. I’d agreed to everything—every choice, every change of direction, but like a labyrinth, whenever I turned a corner, there was another dead-end. I couldn’t find a way out and now I was trapped, doing the same dreary things day after day. I had to believe there was a point; I had to hope there was an exit. [Read more…] about 15: Stuck in the Mud