B Gerad O'Brien

The Stories ...

Dreamin' Dreams

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The priest’s face was pale and solemn. He shook the earth in his hand for a moment before scattering it into the open grave where it pattered gently down onto the oak coffin.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

I glanced across at Zoe. She was standing with her father who was trying to shelter her from the rain with a big black umbrella, but the soft drizzle still mingle with the tears that lined her face. She leant her head against his shoulder.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and … ”

Over two dozen people came to the funeral and afterwards most of them went back to Zoe’s house where food and drinks were laid out on crisp white tablecloths. We helped ourselves as we wandered about in little groups, talking softly and commenting on how sad it was that Zoe’s husband, Kieran, should have died so suddenly. And in such strange circumstances, too.

“Tell me, Liam,” Zoe’s father put his hand on my shoulder, “what do you make of it all? I mean, what do you really think happened to your brother? Do you think that eejit of a coroner was right when he said it should be an open verdict?”

“I just don’t know, Paul,” I answered, glancing across at Zoe. I picked up a glass of wine and took a sip. “But what else could the coroner say? No one will ever know what exactly happened that day. There will always be that awful question: was it just a terrible accident, or was it …”

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A Christmas Holiday

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“Well? Did you get that stupid car fixed?”
I stopped dead in my tracks, stunned by the venom of her words. Well, this was not my normal welcome, you see. And the look Jayne usually gives me with those beautiful, deep blue eyes is soft and welcoming.
This time, however, the glare she threw at me when I walked through the door came at me like a bullet.
“What?” I asked, confused by this most unusual reception. “Shur I’m only just after finishing work. When did I have the time to get the car fixed?”
“I don’t want excuses!” she snapped, scooping the baby off the floor and flopping back onto the sofa. “Have you any idea what it’s like having to catch a bus into town with the baby under one arm and the pushchair under the other and ten bags of shopping and no seat to sit on?”
She wagged the bottle of milk at me before popping it into the baby’s mouth.
“You have to go rummaging in your purse for the right money while the people behind you are tutting in your ear,” she continued without drawing breath. “Then the stupid bus takes off before you’re ready so you end up galloping down the full length of the aisle and landing in a heap at the other end. I’m fed up with it! So you’d better get that car fixed right now or you can do your own shopping from now on!”
I sagged into the armchair, speechless at the verbal onslaught. I couldn’t believe it. Here I was, full of excitement, having rushed all the way home from work with a wonderful surprise for her, and she goes and takes the wind right out of my sails.