I had some short stories, poems and photographs to share ... and so here I am

The Fish In The Phone Box !

 

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Be jaysus, Doreen! Would ya bleedin’ well listen to me now. I’m tryin' to tell ya there were fish in the phone box. For the sake of heaven! Don’t be an eedjit! Listen to what I’m tellin' ya. Don’t listen to y'ma. Of course I tried to ring y'up. Be jaysus and begorrah! I did. We’ve got photos. We’ve bleedin’ well got some photographs! I was mortified. He was all googly-eyed, see? A right bold little bugger, all cheerful, swimmin' there in that phone box like it were his own bleedin’ fish tank.

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What d'ya mean have I been eatin’ some of Declan’s mushrooms? I only ever did that once, Doreen. I swear to God. I went outside to call y'up, to tell ya I'd be staying out for a pint. Well, maybe a couple. That phone box by the pub. You know the one. It’s a bleedin’ ordinary phone box, right? I stumbled there in the dark, spillin' half me pint down me trousers. A stripy fish, Doreen. Blue and green, and bits of bleedin’ orange, starin' straight out and laughin' at me, right? I blinked and blinked, Doreen. Faith and begorrah. I splashed beer in me eyes. A right waste, I know. But it didn’t get rid of them. What an eedjit!

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His friends were smaller, right. Moodier lookin'. Hangin' out near the bottom. I would’ve opened the door, to get on the blower t'ya. But the water, Doreen? What about the fish? They would’ve died right there on that bleedin street. Is that what ya would’ve wanted? The bleedin’ water crashin' out? Murder, Doreen. The slaughter of innocent fish. Be jaysus! Those poor little buggers suffocatin' on the street. Murder, Doreen. Bleedin’ murder! Hello? Ya still there? Doreen? We've got photos to prove it! Don't be a bleedin' eedjit!

© Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney.

A Shameless Graffito (N°4)

 
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* * *

Oh, this also came into my inbox from The New Yorker poetry section today, after sending in five poems:


Dear Seamus Kearney,

We're sorry to say that this manuscript is not right for us, in spite of its evident merit. Unfortunately, we are receiving so many submissions that it is impossible for us to reply more specifically. We thank you for the chance to consider your work.

The Editors

Now, is that a standard reply or what? Should I be pleased that someone at The New Yorker thought the poems had "evident merit"? I don't think so somehow. A Google search shows that it's not personal at all. Also, it may just be me, but is it not slightly odd to call five poems a manuscript? I do wonder what kick the editors get out of saying "in spite of its evident merit". Ah. Unless of course there are different kinds of rejection letters, and mine was in the pile of those with "merit". Mmmmmmm.

Anyway, I'm smiling. I will let the poems marinate a little longer and then no doubt post them here. Who needs to publish in The New Yorker when we can publish here ourselves, right?

A Short Story

 

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When Thomas arrived at his usual place on the café terrace, he still hadn’t decided whether to say anything to the others about the death of his wife. Why didn’t I ever bring her here? Would it have been such a big effort? My darling, impossible Valerie. Barely able to keep a hold of his frosted-up glass of beer, he sat down opposite Paul and forced a smile. He also acknowledged Bernard, at the next table, with a clipped wave. ‘Nice day for it,’ he said. Some bold sparrows skipped from table to table, attacking plates not yet cleared away. Don’t need to worry about us oldies, eh? Too slow now to be a threat.

‘Nice day for what?’ asked Paul. He had both hands spread around his drink, as if he were hoping for some heat, with his book, keys and cigarettes neatly lined up in front of him.

Thomas sighed. Everything tidy. Everything in its place. He saw that Paul’s long grey hair remained unbrushed and greasy. Forget the tidy piles, my friend; you need to look after yourself.

‘See? You can’t answer,’ said Paul. ‘Just another silly expression people use.’

‘Well, nice day for a beer is the first thing that comes to mind,’ said Thomas. ‘A nice, cold beer in the sun.’ After taking a generous mouthful, letting it rush down in one go, he clasped his hands and let them rest on his belly. His wedding ring glistened in the sun. Was it the second or the third Saturday in August, 1952? Who would’ve thought, eh? All that time together. I always said she’d go first, though.

‘Don’t need nice weather to enjoy a beer,’ said Paul.

Thomas couldn’t help but feel regret for all those days he’d left Valerie at home. What else did she do, except fuss over household jobs that hadn’t really been necessary for years? He knew that at some point he would have to phone a list of distant people and tell them the news. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps in a week. And is it better to say "died" or "passed away"?

‘Paul’s gone all moody because he lost a big whack on the horses,’ said Bernard. He turned on his mischievous look: the little-boy-grin, the gyrating of his chin, his green eyes lost among wavy skin and a silver fringe.

‘The figures were all over the place!’ said Paul. He hunched further over his drink, his nose almost touching the beer. ‘Earlier bloody wins and losses weren’t right. How can I calculate things with dodgy figures?’

Nearby, council workers fought with the remains of the morning market, hosing away the shards of ice that still stunk of fish, scraping up rotten bits of cabbage and cauliflower. Thomas didn't think it was right that the sky hadn't turned grey. How can it remain so bright and still after such an awful event? He wanted to say something about Valerie. He really did. But how does someone just bring up something like that, all of a sudden, in front of men like this?

After a few minutes of silence Bernard said, ‘Where’ve you been the last few days anyway, Thomas?’

Paul nodded and frowned. ‘Yeah, where have you been?’

Thomas thought for a moment. ‘Been having a bit of a time.’ He crushed some leaves about his feet, this time scaring away some of the sparrows.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve found a woman,’ said Paul. ‘You cunning old devil!’

Thomas put his finger on the lip of his glass and made slow circles. ‘I’m a married man.’

‘Oh, yeah, that's right,’ said Paul. ‘Veronica, isn’t it?’

‘My little pixie,’ said Thomas. He quickly put his beer up to his lips, surprised he’d let those words slip out. That was just our secret. Not just for anyone to hear. He then heard Valerie’s light voice calling him her “unicorn” for the very first time. The pixie and the unicorn.

Bernard rolled a cigarette, folding his legs and leaning forward. ‘Little pixie?’ He squinted, suppressing a smile. ‘I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.’

‘No, I don’t think you have,’ said Thomas.

The spray from the hose came close to the terrace. One of the council workers yelled out, ‘I can refill your drinks if you want! Hold them steady.’

The three men waved and nodded. 'Best to humour him,' said Bernard. 'Poor fellow obviously wasn’t the sprightliest of the litter, coming up with the same joke every Saturday.'

Paul put on an exaggerated frown. ‘You know what, Thomas? It’s not our fault if you never bring your wife along.’

‘I don’t think he said it was our fault,’ said Bernard. He pretended to hit Paul on the back of the head.

Thomas avoided Paul’s gaze. ‘Funny, because I was thinking about that just this morning.’ He downed the rest of his beer in one go. ‘I don’t know why I never considered bringing her along ... and it’s Valerie, by the way.’

Paul slouched back in his chair, his eyes looking red and tired. ‘I knew it started with a V.’

Bernard spat out slightly to get some tobacco off his bottom lip. ‘Better off without the ladies anyway. Better left at home, I say.’

Thomas took off his cardigan, gently touching the leather patches that Valerie had put on the elbows just a few weeks before. He’d worn it to the service that morning, on the other side of the city. Why buy a dark suit just for one day? Valerie would’ve been against it. Anyway, she loved this cardigan, having mended it so many times. He hadn’t chosen the church. He hadn’t chosen anything. Valerie’s sister, Ann, had become the efficient organiser. She'd started crying, though, when he told her that he wouldn’t be staying for the reception after the service. But he didn’t care any more about her tears; Valerie was no longer there to make him apologise. He'd ended up lying, telling Ann that his own friends had organised their own reception in his wife’s honour.

‘How long have we been friends?’ asked Thomas. Is “friends” really the right word, considering the circumstances? He stood up and signalled to the barman that he wanted another beer. His legs felt like slabs of stone.

‘Not all that long,’ said Bernard. ‘You’ve only been here a couple of years, haven’t you?’

‘Must be three,’ said Paul. ‘You came the year we got our kitchen done.’

Bernard took a hold of Paul’s ear. ‘Never seen your bloody kitchen. You go on about it, but we’ve never actually seen it.’

Thomas slumped down onto his seat again and folded his arms. ‘Suppose I should’ve introduced you to Valerie. Just didn’t think it was urgent. Seems like only yesterday we moved here.’

Paul patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. Retirement is a full-time job. Everything in its own time.’

The young barman arrived with the beer. ‘How are things with you lot then?’

‘Could be better,’ said Thomas.

The barman walked on, pushing in chairs and taking away some of the dirty plates. ‘You’re not going to start complaining are you?’

Thomas shook his head. ‘No, that wouldn’t do, would it?’

Bernard and Paul spotted one of their friends from the Irish dancing club. They seemed to come to life as they moved off over the road to greet him, putting on Irish accents, hitting each other on the back. They admired their friend’s new car, a Buick Electra, imported from the States, according to the talk in the pub. Now that’s a car Valerie would’ve loved. Something she never got the chance to ride in.

After finishing his beer in three quick gulps, Thomas decided to leave. He felt sick when he thought about the task that lay ahead: he’d bought large plastic rubbish bags to pack up Valerie’s clothes. The woman from the charity shop had insisted that she would take everything, as long as they were clean, but Thomas knew that Valerie would never have left any dirty clothes in the cupboards. He pictured her standing there complaining about the way he always left his clothes around the house. He didn’t want to cry, not there on the terrace, not in front of the boys, so he made for the exit on the other side of the café.

‘Tell them I’ll see them next week,’ he told the barman.

‘You haven’t had your lunch yet, Thomas.’

‘No. Having lunch with the wife today. Too much time in here has gone and made her all lonely.’

The barman nodded, looking confused. ‘Didn’t even know you had a wife.’

Thomas stepped out into the street and put his head down to avoid the direct sunlight. ‘You and me both, my friend.’ The unicorn forgot about his little pixie. On the walk back to the flat, his tears made it almost impossible to see the way. He had to stop on a bench at one point, overcome with the realisation that Valerie wouldn’t be there with a cheerful greeting when he walked in the door. He sat there for hours, just simply observing all of the couples, young and old, hurrying past.


© Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney. "Little Pixie"

Light Up My Life

 
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OK, I'm now ready for Christmas. The festive season kicks off here in Lyon with the annual Festival of Lights, which has just taken place. It's a way of breaking ourselves in gently, with spectacular light and colour. The above photo was taken in a big square in the centre of the city. A large bubble was placed over a giant statue of a former king and fake snow drifted through the coloured lights. Yes, this was supposed to be like one of those water-filled Christmas toys, where snow falls over a picturesque scene when it's shaken or turned upside down. It looked pretty impressive from a distance.

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Over a period of four days buildings across Lyon were lit up with the most amazing light displays. I took many photos, but here is an automatic selection of the scenes I loved the most:



There's something nice about a city lighting itself up, with the aim of lighting up the lives of its residents.

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A Postcard From The Jungle !

 

All together now: In the jungle, the blogosphere jungle, the lion's not sleeping tonight!!

I feel like a proud father who's just received a postcard from his first-born, to say that his adventures out in the jungle are going far better than expected.

It's been a month now since I launched A Roar For Powerful Words, an award that sets out to recognize good and powerful writing in the blogosphere. As you can imagine, I've been trying to assess the impact of these pink, blue and purple lions, to find out whether the objective is being achieved - the aim is to celebrate the high quality of the writing that can be found on the Internet, despite what many in the mainstream media would have us believe.

Is it true that this award has been featured or mentioned on more than 14,000 blogs after just four weeks? What? Don't you mean 140? 1,400? My computer friend Stuart has just got back to me after doing some research using fancy search methods that leave me confused. He has left me speechless with this figure, and I'm still wondering whether his machines are telling the truth (nothing personal, Stuart, but it's always good to be sceptical of science, just as you once told me). Does anyone else have a reliable, mathematical way of checking, to be doubly certain? I've been limited to simple search engines, which apparently are not very representative, whereas Stuart has used super-duper university machines that trace and match with long, skinny fingers! Yes, he assures me, he has found traces of the award on more than 14,000 sites, ranging from a simple mention by text to a full post with photo and link. I must say I am very surprised. I am also very humbled.

I do know that my own Google alerts went bananas from the start, and they definitely weren't sending me all of the links. I quickly realised that with such exponential growth in the number of awards being passed on (every recipient hands it on to five others) I had no chance of keeping up with where the award has gone. Someone in the writing circle suggested that we keep a list of all the recipients, so we could all check out the sites being honoured, but I'm so glad now that I didn't promise to do that. I wouldn't have time to sleep!

But statistics aside, it's absolutely wonderful that this award has been able to honour blogs that are providing people with enormous reading pleasure. It is still spreading as we speak, giving a big thumbs-up to people who produce blogs that others can't live without. There is absolutely no doubt that good and powerful writing is not the exception in the blogosphere. The biggest problem for me, and for many others, is finding the time to read all of the wonderful, exciting material that is out there.

It's been a real pleasure in these past few weeks to randomly visit blogs I've never been to/never heard mentioned before, only to see a big pink, purple or blue lion staring out at me! I've seen the award on many different sites: general blogs, writing blogs and news-related blogs. I even got an email out of the blue from a guy I used to work with years ago, who saw my name mentioned along with the award on someone's site. That is what makes blogging so amazing.

So, to everyone who's taken part in this, a big thank you! The roar has definitely been heard, loud and clear, and it's still spreading along wires and microchips right around the globe! (Gosh, that's a scary thought, when it's put like that!). Let's hope it will encourage people to keep on down this new, exciting communications highway. Now, Stuart, are you sure of those figures?

A Crash Of Symbols

 
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Lorna sat down on the beach, failing to grasp the significance of her husband's words. I'm leaving. I want a divorce. We can talk about the kids. We can avoid a court case, can't we? She looked over at the family playing nearby and couldn't help but notice that the tide had now come in and started to demolish their sandcastle, the loving home the little girl had spent so many hours creating.
Oh yes, that complicated subject in writing: symbolism. It can make a piece of writing sail, but it can also bring it crashing to the ground! It depends how it's used, and that's the difficult part. I prefer symbolism that hides beneath the surface, stuff that we often miss on a first reading. I don't like to get the feeling that the writer has deliberately put the symbolism in. Do you know what I mean?

The above example of symbolism, featuring Lorna on the beach, is far too obvious to my liking. I wrote it especially for this post, to demonstrate how I don't like to write. (That's a sandcastle we made on the beach in Greece over the summer, by the way). Did the text strike you as grating though? I ask this because stuff that annoys me will often be described as "beautiful" by a friend who's read the same piece. Yes, my friends, the reading experience is a very personal thing.

This is what Robie Macauley and George Lanning said about symbolism in their book Technique in Fiction:

“Symbols are not bright devices to be hung on the tree of the story. Nor can they be fabricated in an attempt to give the fiction an air of deep significance. They are serious and useful only when they are born from the narrative itself, when they come from the same well of imagination as the story.”

I tend to agree with this. Look at these other examples and tell me whether you agree with me that there is a "crash of symbols". I've made up these excerpts to help illustrate my point:

1) Tina told him she felt much better about her life. The sun suddenly came out from behind the stubborn clouds as they walked into the park. Later, near the fountain, he dropped and smashed the bottle of wine he'd been carrying. She knew then what he was about to announce.
2) The terrible news of the killing had come on a Friday morning. Mr Panguy had opened the letter from the consulate with a butter knife that had been left on the breakfast table. He'd noticed the droplet of jam on the blade as he sliced open the top of the envelope, and had been careful to ensure it didn't touch the contents.
3) He didn't want to fight her anymore. He decided he needed to be with her, in every sense of the word. Yes, she was right: commitment was everything. The vines they lay next to seemed to be on top of them all of sudden, the feelers actually now wrapped around his legs, around his arms, even curling up around his groin.
So, tell me what you think of those passages. I'd be interested to see whether you think they work or not.

In the meantime, for perhaps THE BEST LAUGH you will have this month, and while you meditate further on the question of symbolism, I invite you to watch this excellent video that a journalist friend sent me a few months back. I really encourage you to watch it right to the very end! It's one of the best videos I've seen on YouTube. It puts the whole question of symbolism right into context. Click twice on the play button.

Read My Hands!

 
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It wasn't easy, but I'm finally able to say the alphabet fluently, without any mistakes! I've also cracked the days of the week, how to say hello and how to spell out my name. I can also ask a couple of basic, polite questions. Now there's no stopping me!

No, I'm not deaf, but I've decided to study sign language, which has always fascinated me. It's been on my list of "things to do" for a long time. I'm not saying that I'm going to become completely fluent, but I want to know enough for basic communication with a deaf person. What's prompted me to make a move on this? - the same thing that got me started on French back in 1994, when I was 26. I was on holiday and met some really nice people, but I couldn't talk to them. We could only smile and nod. I knew they were people I would click with, but there was no way of crossing the language barrier. I decided that I didn't want to be stuck with just one mode of communication for the rest of my life and so began to learn French ... not knowing then of course that it would totally consume me and I would eventually move here and settle for a French life!

I've often met deaf people and felt hopeless; again, there's just been that smiling and nodding. Now I will at least be able to say something. I'm learning British Sign Language (BSL), on my own at first, but I would like to do some kind of course as well. Don't forget that there are many different kinds of sign language, depending on where you live. At least 250,000 people use BSL, which was only recognised by the British government as an official language in 2003!

I love watching people sign with each other. I think there is such unique beauty in the movements and the expressions, and it's definitely something I want to experience. To see how signing can be just as powerful as the spoken word, take a look at this woman signing along to the song The Rose: (click twice on the play button)

A Shameless Graffito (N°2)

 
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Allez, Splash Me With Colour!

 
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I love it when the Beaujolais Nouveau arrives in France; not only is it a good excuse to forget about the looming winter, but it's also a chance to see something colourful and fun on a wine bottle! Just take a look at that label above, which is definitely not what we normally see on the average bottle of French wine. The labels are usually simple, in one colour. So when Beaujolais Nouveau comes out, I find it so refreshing! (Oh, that's our fridge in the background of the photo, in case you're wondering!)

50 million litres of Beaujolais Nouveau are sold every year, released in a party-like atmosphere on the third Thursday of November. The wine, made from gamay grapes, is distributed only weeks after coming off the vines (little fermentation), which is why it's called nouveau or new. Beaujolais is a region north of Lyon, where I live, so this little drop has a special place in our hearts! By the way, it has to be enjoyed immediately because it doesn't keep well. No problem!



Now, believe it or not, this leads me on nicely to the subject of books. Have you noticed how many of the front covers of French books are plain and sterile looking? Take this very popular, big-selling book, Les Bienveillantes, which is currently being translated into English - it's actually written by a bilingual American, Jonathan Littell, who decided to write it in French. I bet the cover won't look like this when it comes out in the English-speaking world! Fancy, colourful and artistic covers are not deemed necessary in France to get the public to buy them. Translations of foreign books and small paperbacks do have images on the cover, but French books printed by the big publishing houses still go for the "less is more" policy. But for how long?







Just as the Beaujolais Nouveau wine bottles are bucking the trend in terms of colourful, interesting labels, small publishers in France seem to be experimenting more and more with the idea of colour and images on covers. The latest edition of this very successful book by Jean-Dominique Bauby - printed in English as The Diving Bell and The Butterfly - is a good example of how French publishing is changing. There are plenty of other examples of smaller publishers bringing out books with images on the cover, and French people I speak to seem to be in favour. "Allez, splash me with colour!" Also, on the shelves in bookshops, it's now quite common to see books turned outwards to show the covers - before there probably wasn't any point.




So, in keeping with this whole theme of colour and fun, I thought I would buy some bright purple and yellow dye and give Miss Muffin a make-over. Here are her "before" and "after" photos. She is absolutely delighted! Or at least I think that's what she said.


A Short Story

 
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The Cry Of The Peacocks

When our family and friends back on shore started waving at us – slow, sad gestures from the older ones, a joyous scrubbing of the air from the younger ones – I couldn’t help but notice that Tom didn’t join me in waving back at them. He pretended to be busy fastening something down on the side of the boat, with that shirty face he puts on when he thinks he’s surrounded by complete incompetence. I had to wave for the both of us, mouthing ‘I love yous’ - and hoping that Tom’s mother didn’t think they were meant for her. Before we became just specks on the sea, I finished off my farewell by standing up tall and waving my white handkerchief, just as I'd threatened to do. I'd joked that I would do it in theatrical fashion, like a stuffy governor’s wife embarking on an exotic journey to Africa, to a lavish home and tea farm, where servants would rush around to make the stay as bearable as possible.

Tom’s behaviour increasingly worried me. He didn’t smile at my antics with the handkerchief, choosing instead to go inside the cabin and join the posse of four men from the Department of Nature Reserves. They were rough, dour men, there to make sure we settled in to our new posting without any disagreeable surprises. Tom pretended to be busy with plans spread out over a table when I announced with enthusiasm that I would make coffee and heat up a quiche we’d been given. He didn’t even look at me.

‘We’re on our way,’ I said, close up to his ear. ‘No going back. I’m okay about it. I promise.’

He nodded without expression and then gazed out over the waves, perhaps worried that one of the men would overhear me. His dark curls looked duller than usual, his face grey.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll stay overly enthusiastic,’ I said. I went down into the small kitchen, confused about his moodiness.

The trip proved to be speedier than I thought. Before I even had the chance to think about how I could soothe my sea sickness, I caught sight of ropes flying across the porthole and the boat bouncing up against old tyres on the side of a frail-looking jetty. When I came up from down below my attention was immediately seized by the Victorian-style mansion house we’d been told about. Set a short distance back from a sandy beach, the two-storey wooden house had a picket fence out front; a cupola high up on the main roof; and glorious, intricately designed terraces wrapped around the house on both levels. Clouds gathered across the sky, blocking out the sun we'd enjoyed since our departure, but the colours of the sea, the house and the greenery on land remained rich.

‘Looks like your kind of house, Rebecca,’ said one of the men.

I put both hands up over my mouth. ‘All of that just for the two of us?’

‘Well, until you get the visitors coming back for summer tours.’

I didn’t need to be reminded. Part of my mission was to get the place ready for the resumption of day trips from the mainland. Someone from the department had talked about the possibility that I could organise coffee and muffins; put up displays to explain the island’s history; clean up after years of neglect; rearrange the antique furniture; maybe even sand down and revarnish some of the walls. The previous ranger had been a single man - apparently an alcoholic who preferred to live as far away from other people as possible - and he'd been too busy conserving and protecting animals and plants to be worried about the state of the decaying homestead. His retirement had opened the way for something new: a husband and wife team that could magic up a new showpiece for the department.

‘Used to be a house fit for royal visits,’ said one of the other men. ‘I’m told there are 12 rooms in total, each with a different style and theme. Dusty now though. Probably needs a lot of work.’

Tom didn’t seem to be taken by the house. His eyes seemed to be focused on the dense forest that provided an overwhelming backdrop. Some palm trees close to the beach looked as if they were acting as gatekeepers for the wild belt of native and exotic trees behind. With every passing minute the clouds seemed to be coming in lower, almost covering the giant trees at the top of the hills around the bay. We all had to put on jackets.

‘House looks out of place,’ said Tom. ‘But I don’t suppose discreet was their strong point back then.’

‘Well, it’s home now,’ I said. ‘No point wishing it was something else.’

He looked at me with accusing eyes, like I’d said something wrong in front of the others.

I walked down the jetty and leapt onto the sand, leaving the men to unload the boxes and bags we’d brought with us - just a tiny selection of our things. Tom had only signed a contract for one year, to see how things went, to find out whether this specialised island work was what he had in mind.

I first noticed the peacocks when I took a small, sandy path up onto the lawn in front of the house. There seemed to be at least a dozen of them, some sauntering along with their heads pushed back, others chasing one another like excited children. The overgrown garden seemed to provide the perfect playground. I then recalled the little snippets we’d been told about the place.

The house had been built in the mid 1800s by a Scottish architect who’d bought the island for a pittance. He’d imported zebras, wallabies, deer, monkeys and peacocks - not to mention hundreds of foreign trees and plants - with the aim of creating his own “little paradise”. The island passed from one rich family to another and then eventually to the state, which ended up deciding to create a nature reserve. Sadly, the monkeys and the others didn’t fit in; too many native trees and creatures had been destroyed. The peacocks and some resilient deer were the only ones to survive a campaign of terrible culling. I still can’t bear to think about the monkeys getting shot.

After a brief inspection of the grounds, I stood outside the house and grinned, wishing the girls could’ve seen me there in front of that awesome homestead. Yes, it’s me! The governor’s wife! It was obvious there was going to be a lot of strenuous work ahead though. The enormity of the task became clear during a hesitant tour of some of the downstairs rooms. The dust was as thick as carpet in some places and the revarnishing looked like it would take years: virtually every surface was made out of wood, probably kauri and rimu. Old plastic sheets covered the majority of the furniture, with cobwebs covering the gaps.

At one of the windows, through the grime, I spotted Tom at the end of the jetty, making angry gestures at the other men, apparently over the way the boxes had been stacked up. The men, looking bemused, just shrugged and walked away. The day had now become decidely darker, and I wondered if the clouds were bringing a threat of rain. The valley of trees on the other side of the bay also took on a very unwelcome, almost sinister appearance in the dimmed light, and I couldn't help but think that the chasing away of the sun was not a good start to our new life.

I looked down at Tom again, asking myself why he'd become so hard to decode all of a sudden. For months he’d almost been at the point of getting down on his knees, begging me to reconsider my resistance to living on an island. He’d told me that a single man – or a man whose wife wanted to stay on shore - would have no chance of getting the post. The department was only interested in a couple who could work together. It didn’t want any more single men who would just become lonely, not look after themselves, turn to alcohol. He promised he would make it comfortable, our own little haven. I relented when he told me about the gardens, the peacocks and the mansion house. No more living in run-down, cold department homes. He said we would make regular trips back to the mainland and I would be free to throw parties whenever I wanted. An open invitation would be extended to the girls! In the weeks before our departure, however, he'd become uncommunicative and volatile, almost as though he regretted his decision to take on the post. I'd just put it down to nerves. The stress of having to move.

‘Bloody clowns,’ he said, bursting into the house. ‘They’ve broken the antenna off the top of the radio. Rough as guts.’

‘Was it important?’ I pretended to examine an old sideboard with lovely stained glass panels in the doors.

‘Of course it was! To keep in touch with the outside world.’

‘Oh.’

He folded his arms and looked down at his boots.

‘This will be lovely in here,’ I said. ‘Look at this furniture and all this amazing wood.’

He didn’t look around though. He checked his watch and then headed over to the window, apparently to check on what the men were doing.

‘We’ll get another radio,’ I said.

‘They cost the bloody earth.’

‘Seems to me it’s more than just the radio, Tom. You’ve been a bear with a bad tooth for days. And today ... well, you wouldn’t exactly win the title for Mr Civilization.’

‘Just leave it.’

‘Just leave what?’ I went over to him and tried to read his face, to see whether this was more serious than I thought.

‘Do you not want to be here?’ I asked.

He didn’t move, his hands trapped in his pockets, his shoulders sticking straight up. I took some deep breaths as I tried to assemble my thoughts.

‘You probably don’t want me to be here,’ I said. ‘Scared of it just being us. You and me, and all this work.’

‘Stop the psychological, Rebecca. Won’t change anything.’

He turned and went back outside. Through the window I saw a small gathering of peacocks take fright and sprint away from him. They made a ghastly screeching sound, like something I’d never heard before. Tom kept on towards the jetty, his steps heavy on the grass, his shoulders still hunched up. I stood there staring at the grass for a few minutes, while the peacocks kept up their strange cries. A dark cloud then swallowed up the sky's last little corner of blue.

I did my best to put aside the tension, again trying to convince myself it was probably the stress of the move, saying goodbye to our family and friends. You probably don’t want me to be here. I mounted the stairs to check out the other rooms.

One of the men from the department had told me about the upstairs library, which he said would be the perfect place to organise some displays on the history of the island. He said I would even find some old exhibits that had been put together back in the 70s, complete with black and white photographs and protected in glass cabinets. When I entered the room I could see that the dust was going to be the biggest challenge. Luckily I’d arranged to have the men bring over an industrial vacuum cleaner.

One of the first glass cabinets I found was waist-high, sticking out from beneath an old sheet and facing in towards the wall. I wrapped my foot around one of the legs and pulled it out towards me, so I could see some of the old photographs and pieces of card with small writing on them. I skimmed over what appeared to be general details of the island’s animals and plants; and then something else caught my eye:

The history of the island is not all joyous. A certain Captain Gordon Lambie, who was brought over from England to be the official conservator of the exotic plants and wildlife, was arrested in 1876 over the mysterious disappearance of his wife, Jane Lambie, the daughter of a doctor from Taunton. The young woman’s friends on the mainland had alerted the local constabulary to the fact that they had not heard from Mrs Lambie for several months, which was highly unusual, and the numerous letters they'd since posted to her husband had gone unanswered. When he was eventually questioned, Captain Lambie told an investigating magistrate that he had awoken one day to find his wife missing and had assumed that she had hired a boat and fled their marriage. The constabulary established, however, that no single woman had hired a boat in the entire district over the period in question. The inquiry took on a sense of urgency when a fisherman, who’d anchored his boat in the harbour about 12 weeks after the couple’s arrival on the island, came forward to declare that he’d heard a long and loud argument coming from the mansion house. He also reported that during the night he awoke to the sound of what he thought was a woman screaming for help, but then decided it was nothing more than the loud cries of the famous peacocks. The island was searched by constables but nothing was ever found. Captain Lambie was never charged in connection with the disappearance of his wife, due to a lack of concrete evidence, and he returned to England where he later died of tuberculosis. There was never any trace of Jane Lambie. However, some years later, the investigating magistrate, Arthur Shipton, revealed in some personal papers that he was convinced that Mrs Lambie had indeed been killed at the hands of her husband and her body had been buried somewhere on the island or dumped at sea. He wrote that he based his opinion not only on the testimony of the fisherman who’d been anchored in the bay, but also the testimony of Jane Lambie’s friends, who said that she’d written to them several times to complain about her increasing unhappiness on the island. Mrs Lambie told her friends that the captain had become angry and resentful of the fact that he’d been forced to live alone with her, with no one else to talk to. She also expressed her concern that her husband had developed what she called a kind of “island fever”, and over numerous weeks he became deeply depressed about his “loss of contact with the outside world”. The magistrate finished his diary entry on the subject by saying that he'd been disturbed by Captain Lambie’s “aggressive” behaviour during questioning and his apparent lack of sorrow over the disappearance of his wife. “If only it had been possible to question the peacocks,” he wrote. “Theirs are perhaps the only other eyes who saw the final moments of Jane Lambie’s life.”
Just before dusk - long after reading the disturbing account in the glass cabinet, and after the men had finished all their important electrical and mechanical checks - I saw Tom raise his hand and wave goodbye to the departing boat. He turned around towards the house a few times, probably to see why I hadn’t come down to see the men off. His annoyance was evident in the stilted rhythm of his waving. I looked over towards the palm trees, and the forest that seemed to be creeping closer, and I thought of Jane Lambie. I may’ve been wrong, but I think I also saw some of the peacocks join in with Tom’s waving, their glorious blue and green plumage fanning out in a collective demonstration of farewell and good luck. I can’t be sure though, because just as my eyes started to focus on the peacocks, approaching footsteps up on deck meant I had to quickly pull away from the porthole and hide back under my blanket.


© Copyright, 2007. Seamus Kearney. "The Cry Of The Peacocks"
Photograph of peacock by Adrian Pingstone, England.

Le Manifeste des Oliviers

 
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So, I was thinking to myself, what if I get the first few chapters and the synopsis of my novel translated into French? Oui! Le Manifeste des Oliviers. Why not try to attract the interest of a French publisher? What have I got to lose? I live in France. A big part of my book takes place in France. I would be here to help promote it. French publishers are famous for being more open, willing to take a punt on something, aren't they?

Well, you know what? I have taken a tiny step towards bringing that idea to fruition, just in case it's a path worth walking down. A French journalist friend who lives in Paris has offered to turn the synopsis and the first few chapters into French. He has great English, is really into creative writing and is currently translating a novel and some short stories by an American author. He says he also knows a publisher who has printed work by foreigners who haven't been published in their own countries. She also recently published a book of short stories by a dozen New Zealand authors, so it wouldn't come as something bizarre to meet my main character, who comes from New Zealand.

Of course, for now, I'm just putting my big toe into this new pool. I'm not going to get all excited just yet. But this is an option that I want to look at. It's different - and different is what we need in this business, isn't it? I've been looking hard for bites in the UK and back in New Zealand. One big publisher said my novel would be better suited to a small, independent press; a small press said it would be more successful printed by a big publisher. That's right! That is why we need to think outside of the box, explore different ways of cracking this whole thing!

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Meanwhile, I've been working on my new novel, a short story and some poems this week ... all to the sounds of some wonderful music from Ireland. Has anyone else seen and been blown away by the film Once, starring Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova? This is a superb movie, full of romance and inspirational music. Here's one of the main songs, Falling Slowly : (click twice on the play button!)


If you want to hear some other great songs from the film then click HERE, where you can hear the entire album for free and on a loop. I strongly recommend these songs: If you want me; When your mind's made up; and Gold. Check out the film if you haven't already; it is quite something!

A Shameless Graffito (N°1)

 
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I'm very pleased to announce the beginning of this new series here at Shameless Words. That's right, dear reader, graffito is the singular form of graffiti! I do have a bit of a naughty, daring, irreverent side, which I want to give some space to here on my blog, to make sure there is both light and shade. Oh, the power of just a few words, in the right setting, at the right moment! It is sometimes more difficult finding these few words than filling up pages for a novel! I will post my very own piece of graffito here every week - or at least I will try to. (If you would like to borrow any of the images from this new series, please feel free to do so, but please make sure there is a credit/link back to me). Oh, and don't worry, nothing was damaged in the making of this series!

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I was also very excited yesterday to receive this in the post: the new book by Bill over at View From The Pundy House. I'm really looking forward to reading this, having closely followed Bill's posts about the highways and side roads he took on the journey to publication. I must say that the quality of the book (the cover, the printing, the paper) is wonderful. The novel has been available for some time on the web as a free PDF, but there's nothing like settling down on a couch with a real book, with a nice cup of tea and the cat nearby. I wish Pundy all the best with this project.

Shameless Graffiti: The Series

 

N°18

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N°17

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N°12

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N°1

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The Shameless Gallery

 
This is a gallery that will continue to grow, as I keep adding my favourite photographs from among the hundreds I take every year. Just keep scrolling down to view the images, which are protected by a copyright notice at the end. Enjoy!

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© Copyright, 2008. Seamus Kearney. All rights reserved. These photographs may be reproduced on non-commercial websites and in non-commercial publications, but only when Seamus Kearney is identified as the photographer. Please email me if you would like to use a photograph for commercial purposes, or if you have any other questions.