Golden Days

                                                                                    GOLDEN DAYS
He laughed aloud as he thought about the young reporter's last question.
  'And how much would you sell your cottage and land for now, Mr. McCool?'
          He laughed again as he remembered his own quick reply. 'I'd want no less than a million pounds fer it.'
          Gold, he thought. Who would have thought his cottage and two fields were sitting on the biggest gold find in Ireland, maybe in the whole world? What would Maggie have said about it all? Would she have wanted to sell?
          He turned to look through the half-door at the pink sky and the setting sun. The shadows had almost finished creeping down the wide valley below and a frosty mist was beginning to grow. He sighed deeply and turned back to the turf fire. What good would a million pounds be to me now? he thought. I’m too old to enjoy it. Reaching for the poker he stabbed it at the dying fire. It had been a hard life for him and Maggie. Would the money have made them any happier? He sighed again. Aye it was a hard life but they had been happy. Raising his head he squinted up at the faded photograph on the mantelpiece. Smiling shyly, Maggie was posing beside one of the three cows they had owned back then. She was wearing her Sunday dress and her black hair was tied up in a bun near the top of the back of her head. Beside her was their only son, Frank. His thoughts now went to him. It had been Frank who had showed him how to take the photograph. The camera had been his fourteenth birthday present. What would Frank have to say about the farm? 'Ach!' he muttered as he reached for his matches. 'Sell. That's what he would say.' With a grunt he rose from the stool, went over to the table and slowly began to pump life into the oil lamp. Moments later as its cosy glow filled the room he went to the door and stared out. Without taking his eyes from the night he felt for his pipe and filled it, fingering the tobacco tight into the bowl. His eyes fell to the flame as he lit the pipe and took a long drag. Waving out the match he turned and threw it in the direction of the fire and then as he sucked hard on his pipe he reached to bolt out the darkness. Returning to the fire he sat down. His thoughts once more drifted to his son. How long ago had it been since he had last seen Frank, and his wife? He shook his head trying to remember. Time seemed to pass more slowly these days yet the rest of his life, the happy times, seemed to have gone by in a flash. He wished he had given more time to his son, built up more memories. He had very few he could reminisce about except the day he had taken Frank fishing.                                                               
                                                                                  * * * *
          'Da! Da! The sun's up! Wake up! We're goin' fishin', remember? Da!'
  'Eh?' He woke, staring for a few moments at his excited, curly haired son. He felt for Maggie. She was already up. The morning smells drifted to him.
  'Aw aye, the fishin'. Right son, give me a coupla minutes and then we'll get diggin' fer some bait.'   
          Five minutes later he was splashing cold water into his ruddy face. With a loud, 'ahhh,' he stepped away from the basin and reached blindly for the towel. As he dried his face he was aware of Frank watching him. With a smile he reached and ruffled the grinning boy's brown hair. 'Right son, let's get some food intay us.'
          At the table as she filled their mugs with tea, Maggie remarked, 'Ye'd need tay wear yer oilskins the day. There'll be rain fer sure.'
          Turning he looked through the open half-door at the black clouds hanging over the valley. 'Aye yer right there, Maggie.' Turning to his son he smiled. 'All the better fer catchin' trout, eh, Frank?'
  'Aye Da,' said his son almost choking as he sipped at the remains of his tea. Then he rose to stand by the table and waited impatiently for his father to finish.
  'Have ye checked that ye have everythin'? Have ye plenty of hooks and weights and things?' 
  'Aye, da I have. All we need are the black heads.' 
  'There'll be plenty of them down in the lower fields. Have ye got a jar?' 
  'Jar?'
  ‘Aye a jar. How did ye think ye were goin’ to carry the worms, in yer pockets? Ha, ha, ha...'           
          Maggie smiled and then said, 'Ye'll find an empty jar in the cupboard, Frank, the bottom shelf.'       
          They both smiled as they watched their tiny son stand on tiptoes as he stretched to reach for the crockery jar.   
          Later with a spade resting on his shoulder and his son shouting, 'Hurry da!' they headed down the path to the lower fields. Minutes later a light breeze whipped at his long hair as he drove his sharp spade into the turfy ground. As his son gathered up the worms he leaned on his spade and looked up at the cottage. Maggie was standing at the door watching them. With one hand on the spade he waved. She waved back then went inside. As he gazed up at the cottage a single ray of sunshine hit it for a few seconds then moved away as the sun hid behind more black clouds and he smiled, contented.
          'Do ye think we have enough, Da?' 
          He turned to stare at the overflowing jar of angry worms. The black head's shiny mucilage sparkled in another brief blink of sunlight. 'Aye son, that'll be enough. Come on let's get down tay the river.' Turning he rammed his spade into the ground then hurried after his son down along the trees and across two more fields to the river. 
          Minutes later and with a gentle 'plop,' the first wriggling black head was cast into the calm water. As he eased back onto the grass that sloped down to the water he watched the changing lines of concentration on his son's face as he followed the drifting float.
                                                  -----------
          He sighed. It had been a perfect day; a day he would always remember. He sniffed as he felt the tears running down his face remembering the day Frank told them he wanted to emigrate. Maggie had been heartbroken. He had kept his feelings to himself. 'Ah, Maggie,' he croaked aloud, his thoughts going back to her funeral.                                                             
                                                                              * * * * 
          A few distant neighbours had turned up for Maggie's wake and he had sat by the fire watching his son and his wife greeting them and making them welcome. He had been unable to cope with it all. Apart from Maggie’s death he had not been able to get over the change in his son. He had been shocked by how old his son had looked, and as for Frank's thin wife. He wondered how anyone could love the dour looking woman. Why, he had thought, Maggie looked younger than she did. What age was his son, over forty? Frank, his son was over forty.   
          After the funeral and after an awkward parting his son’s last words had been, 'Ye'll have tay come and visit us da, one of these days.' 
          As he watched the car drive them away he remembered thinking that he didn't even know where Frank lived. Maggie had the address somewhere. But he had been glad his son was gone; glad everyone was gone. Now he could mourn by himself.                                                             
                                                                                * * * *
          A night creature howled, its echoing cry reverberating down the valley. He shivered then reluctantly rose to go to bed. Tapping his pipe against the fireplace wall he stared into the glowing turf ashes for a few moments then turned and walked to the door to check the bolt. Reaching for the bolt he paused then eased it open. A cold wind whistled into the cottage as he gazed up at the frosty, star-filled sky. The night creature cried again. It seems closer this time, he thought. Maybe it's askin' me not tay sell. He felt a strange allegiance with it now and thought about the many creatures that would have to leave their homes when the machines came, if they came, if he let them. Could he stop them? Where would he live if he left here, in Canada with Frank and his wife? He couldn’t live with Frank’s wife- nor Frank. He’d changed. She’d changed him. Maggie had been right about her. No, he could never leave the oul sod. But where would he live? Would he live in the town? He would be rich and living in the town. And what was rich anyway? Was it money, possessions? Or was it waking up on a beautiful day with all the sounds of summer and Maggie. Then as the night creature cried again he bolted the door and turned to go to bed. As he was walking past the fireplace he glanced at the mantelpiece, at Maggie’s photograph and stopped. Reaching he lifted it and with tears streaming down his face he tried to see her face. Then shaking with sadness and still holding the photograph he stumbled to the bedroom door.

                                                        THE END

                              1570 words