An Early Childhood Chapter 12 Part 2


Continued from Chapter 12 Part 1
                Her eyes were of the deepest, pinkest hue of blue-green ruby I had ever encountered, of ever. And ever more. Hers were a lips the pair of which had never been seen on anyone else’s face, of which I’d certainly never seen, nor ever since, never, were blue and black and purple – like an overripe beetroot – and as full therein but certainly not as pickled. And her shnouth turned up austerely as a nose does, like a redundant and uncaring pig’s, with a page-boy’s nose thrown in as a part of the bargain, moving so far up that it retreated back onto her visage so that it was known at times, when she was in a hurry, thinking with the blind and instinctive perspicacity commonly found in women, yet unique to her alone – or when she was under pressure, for example – to glance off her high forehead. And her milky white breasts - of which there was just a hint in her de-cottage - were like watermelancholia singing a lament for the lost souls of Irish warriors of times gone past.
                The woman claimed she had fled from her betrothed, the colleague of a leader of a rival group of nationalists I had once had the misfortune of associating with – a shower of less socialistic reprobates led by the prodigious apple salesboy, Little Billy “Bad to the Bone, Bad Boy” Cullen.
                So I fled with her, from Englanders, Irishmen and Brackentans (British soldiers disguised as withered bushes) until fourteen days and thirteen nights later we reached the source of the River Shandy in the Tamoo Shanty Hills, and we sat down to rest, breathless, and a salmon shot out of the river and onto the bank and leapt up into Gráinne and gave her much satisfaction, before being grilled on a spit by myself over an open fire.
                “That salmon has done more for me than you have the courage to do,” she says then, but she was so lovely I was afraid to taint her with my lustful ways.
               She smiled at me and looked at me in the most mesmerising of hypnotic ways. She told me cryptically that I was to ask somebody about the green shoots of recovery. She told me that the person who was asked would understand, even if I did not. And I'd be humbled.
         I understood nothing of her words, pulchritudinous visionary that she was.
And while we were having our last meal together, Gráinne looked at me with those beautiful, multicoloured eyes, and she let a burst out of her.
                “Excuse me,” she said afterwards, and she went off into the bushes to answer a call of nature. The more smelly kind, the more beautherful the woman, as the saying goes.
                And I heard the report of a Howitzer rattattatting in the distance, the noise of a gun so advanced that only an Englishman with his clever technology hands could be squeezing the trigger. When I rushed off the bank and into the forest and arrived at the clearing which Gráinne had been using for her tyletries, her dead and limp and broken body lay spreadeagled on the grass. With her brains coming out the back of her head, shards of skull lying beyond her. And I wept. Because I’d loved that woman more than life itself, and I would’ve forsaken my own had it meant releasing her from fate’s cruel, long, fat, meandering arm. I abandoned the body, too stricken with grief to attend to a burial, and left it there in the meadow before returning to my men, a meadow from which a hugely offensive number of garish poppies sprung over the course of the following week, and in complete spontaneity.
                I felt very cool then, a bit like a predecessor to James Bond, with the women’s corpses piling up in a big heap, so very cool was I and all the villains giving me sly digs about it, and me puttin' on the sourpuss, pretending to be sad. Like. I. give. a. shit. I revived Charlo Malloolly, and he was rabid grateful to me for saving his life, but again, I would have given anything to have saved Gráinne’s life instead. I told Charlo such, that his life was not as important to me as Gráinne’s, and he got fierce jealous and annoyed with me over it.
                That got me thinking about Charlo, and it dawned on me that each time we were about to be captured or killed, Charlo was invariably off somewhere else, getting the groceries or what not and so forth, and I realised with a sick feeling in my gut that chances were high that Charlo was a fifth columnist working for the Brithish. So I had an idea pertaining to Charlo; I said to him one day when we were in a cave in the forests between the Wicklow mountains and the country’s capital, I sez:
                “Charlo, we’re running out of supplies and you’re our only man for gettin’ the supplies, so I’m sending you down the mountain to fetch them and I trust you’ll be back before midnight.”

Continued in Chapter 12 Part 3