A trip to Dingle

Órna Loughnane

by Órna Loughnane

Story
Ireland 1955

The horse and buggy would be ready for the trip to Dingle town tomorrow morning, her mother assured her at bedtime when she was anything but sleepy. Get your rest a chroi, and be ready for the day ahead, to remember all my messages, to lead your father straight up the main street, to Foxy John’s for the candles and thread, a sieve and a set of nails, then into Dick Mack’s for the leather strap, to Curran’s for the sacks of maize-meal and flour, and to Kenedy’s for the sausages and black pudding. Her mother recited the activities that were to be accomplished the following day, keeping her daughter wide awake, as she looked wistfully at the curtains blowing gently in the fresh evening breeze. They would go without her mother to Dingle tomorrow for the big monthly shop. She would need to remain at home to milk the cows, boil more than twenty eggs, bake a currant loaf and buttermilk bread whose crumbling fresh slices, slathered with butter, she would place in a basket with a rag-stuffed bottle of sweet milky tea, sending it over with Séan to the spailpíní in the field beyond, so they would have lunch in between the cutting of long summer grass.

A lone bee played between the curtains in her bedroom, searching among them perhaps for a garden flower that, had not night fallen upon them all, would be opened up to the sun. Neither the sheep nor cows seemed to have a notion of sleep on this promising summer night and their lowing was heard through the open window blending wakefully with the sound of anxious anticipation in her mother’s voice; all of it hardly a soothing lullaby.

Be sure to tell me everything, each and every detail of the day and all about who you meet, her mother repeated, poking at her leg underneath the quilt. She was so excited herself at the prospect of the trip with her father, sitting up in the front of the buggy with him and holding the reins. They would meet neighbors along the road and exchange news and stories and there would be a mineral to be had in town and a mutton pie and who knew what amount of sweets. Och, wouldn’t I love to be going with ye, and see the fine material in the haberdashery window, her mother sighed, tapping at her daughter’s leg again. But sure there’s always next time isn’t that so. Goodnight now my darling óg, and get your sleep. Her mother went to close the window, shaking the curtains to shoo the bee outside. It’ll be a fine day for it tomorrow in any case, and the belt of leather, make sure to remind your father that there need be three new holes stamped in it. Then we can share it amongst you all. And if Maire Bracken is atop Goat street observing, be sure to tell her that you’re reading all the books she gave us the last time. Ach, sure I’ll leave you now a chroi, off to sleep anois. In bed, her head filled with details of tomorrow’s duties, she lay on her pillow and stared up at the dark ceiling, picturing the activities ahead, of walking up Main street, of the sound of horses’ hooves, the bustle of crates and canisters, the animated greetings and laughter. Sleep was the last thing on her mind now as her heart raced ahead to the following day.




© Órna Loughnane 2024-03-10

Genres
Novels & Stories
Moods
Reflective