guardian of the wreck

                         

                        THE GUARDIAN OF THE WRECK

What's the matter with me? I can hardly breathe, and it's so hot.

    The collie watched him from beneath the oak table, its eyes turned upwards and its black and white head resting easily on its dirty front paws. Its tail swished gently back and forth hitting the leg of the table with a dull, hypnotising thud.         

  “Mornin' oul fella,” he croaked, swallowing immediately.

    Slipping out and jumping to its feet the dog licked greedily at its master's jaundiced, mottled hand.

    Making his morning tea on the black stove proved a greater task than he thought, but at last he carried the steaming mug over to the table. Cupping his hands around the mug he raised it to his lips, his thumb brushing against the several days growth of white stubble on his chin. As he placed the mug back on the table he looked around. The dark, damp cottage walls seemed to close in on him. A few dusty photographs of his wife and family sat above the oak mantelpiece. Hanging bright and colourful beside them was a calendar. Every year, ever since his one and only donation to the Nuns of Killieshandra he had received a calendar from them. He squinted at it then frowning rose and took a close look at the date. It's my birthday, he thought checking the date again. Eighty-seven, I’m eighty-seven. He sighed heavily then returned to the table shaking his head. Where have all the years gone?

    The tea seemed to have helped him and feeling a lot stronger he thought I'll go down. Rising he reached for his walking stick.

    As he closed the wooden gate behind him he glanced at the old cottage then turned to set off on the steep walk down the fuchsia-hedged road to Kinnagoe bay.

    It had been a while since he had made the walk and now familiar smells hit him as he slowly stumbled along the road.

    Bees were already hovering hungrily among the scented

hedges in their never ending search for nectar. A Magpie, with one of its beady eyes on the collie and the other on the juicy dew soaked worm lying on the edge of the hedge, landed in front of him. It was denied its meal for a while by the barking dog. Screeching, the bird lifted and flew out of reach of the bouncing dog into the hedge, but its black wicked eyes never left the worm.         

  “One fer sorrow,” muttered the old man as he walked on.

    The road hadn't changed much since he had first taken his wife and family down it all those years ago. They had been the only family living in the glen then. Now several modern houses nestled on the steep slopes of it overlooking the picturesque bay. He remembered when he had brought his family to live at the cottage after his father had passed away.

    The horse and cart was loaded up with what little furniture they had and it took nearly three hours to make the ten-mile journey. The memory of that Saturday flit was as clear to him now sixty years later. How excited the boy and girl had been, and how strained and apprehensive his wife, Mary had looked as she walked beside him behind the cart. She hadn’t wanted to leave Greencastle, her hometown.

    Suddenly a rabbit darted out from behind the ditch, its brown nose wrinkling with surprise, when it came face to face with the dog. With an amazed snarl the collie tore after it into the hedge. The commotion snapped Paddy out of his reverie and poking hard at the barking dog's rump with his stick he shouted, “Here boy! Quit that! Here now.”

    He headed on and shortly he was at the top of the winding path that led down to the beach. Pausing on the promontory he leaned heavily on his stick and shading his eyes he gazed away out to the horizon. His eyesight hadn't faded much. He could still make out the misty outline of the islands off Scotland. Turning to his right he looked along the near coastline, to the headland were the white waves crashed thunderously into the grey rocks tossing up a thick candy-floss of soup made of sea-weed and other flotsam the rough sea occasionally brought to the bay.

    Kinnagoe Bay still looked much the same, as it had been when the survivors of the Spanish Armada ship, 'La Trinidad Valencera' had sailed into it. He had often tried to picture the scene on that stormy day as the great Galleon sank. He had learned about the history of the Armada at school of course and he enjoyed relating the tale of the sinking of the Valencera to his son and daughter. Later, in the early seventies he had enjoyed the duty of Guardian of the wreck of the Valencera.

    Thirteen members of the City of Derry Sub-Aqua Club had found the galleon and the Club had paid him a small remuneration to look after the wreck site in case any other divers tried to steal the cannon and other valuable artifacts that still lay beneath the clean clear waters of the bay. The B.B.C. and some other foreign television companies had filmed most of the salvage operations and he had been featured in one particular documentary. Perhaps it was this that had brought his son and his family all the way from America to visit him. It had been twenty years since he had last seen his son. He had been sixty-six then and the visit had disturbed him. He remembered studying his son with some astonishment, unable to take in the fact that this old man really was his son. He was dead now. A heart attack, the letter from his daughter-in-law had informed him. He didn't weep when he read it, for his son had been dead to him a long time. His daughter had married a Derry man and she was living in the heart of the Bogside with her husband and he had only met three of her adult sons. He had visited his daughter once and it had disturbed him to see the change in her. It had been a long time since he had seen her. She had written a few times, but he had never replied.

    He remembered sitting by the fire feeling a gnawing loneliness and depression a few nights after her wedding. He had missed his daughter then. They had been close, but now she too was gone. His wife had hugged him close that night as he cried. He had cried for his son too and rocking in her arms he made her promise never to leave him on his own.

  “Ah well,” he sighed as he stepped back onto the path again.

    Barking, as if to say, can I go on, the collie jumped around him.         

  “Alright boy!” he grunted. “Go on. Go on.” He smiled as he watched his four legged companion race speedily down the path past the car-park and onto the fine sandy beach where it began snapping at the waves, barking loudly as it frolicked excitedly at the waters edge.

    Slowly the old man picked his way along the narrowest part of the path using his stick more as the path grew steeper.

    Halfway down, he stopped. His breathing had become much laboured and he felt hot again. Reaching up he took off his battered cap and wiping his sweating brow with the sleeve of his coat he squinted up at the sun. Its full glare was hidden away in a hazy white                                             

film of mist. I shouldn't be that hot, he thought. He stood trying to catch his breath until he was breathing normally again.

    A few minutes later he reached the quarry stone-wall that separated the car park from the beach. Leaving his stick to one side he leaned over the cemented top his stomach pressing against it. He watched smiling as the waves tried to catch his nimble-footed dog. Mary would have loved this day, he thought. No one about, just him and her. What dog had they back then? It was the bitch, Lady. Aye Lady, that's what her name was. A lovely animal.

    Mary had died just over a year before the wreck had been found. The evening she died, calling for her son, he had cried, begging her to keep her promise not to leave him alone.

    Every day for over a year after her death he had gone down to the beach and walked for miles across the sand, up over the rocks and cliffs to the headland and back. Then the Valencera had been found.

    He wiped his brow again. Reaching for his stick he pushed away from the wall and stepped down from the car park onto the

deep clinging sand and headed along the beach with the collie snapping at the sand as it fell from his heels. Suddenly he stopped. Choking he tried to catch his breath. His legs wobbled unable to support his weight, and then buckled causing his stick to dig deep into the sand as he fell on his face. As he did he heard a bark, the sound sharp and unmistakable.           

  “Ladyeeee! Ladyeeee!” The voice too was unmistakable. It was hers, Mary’s. His head swam as he looked dazedly at his cap lying in front of him. Then slowly he raised his head and looked along the beach. It was his Mary. She was running across the sand towards him, with Lady barking by her side…       

          ...and the waves stretched to reach for him.



                                        THE END





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