Downhill to Heartbreak Pier

Queenstown, County Cork, Ireland - Spring 1847

My eyes yawn open. The room is dark and still. My back groans as I shift around on the wooden floorboards, they creak a whining apology in return. I sit up and sense the emptiness of the room in front of me. The smell of cold peat ashes reaches me, there’s a sadness in the smell. Revive me, give me your blanket, why have you left me in this fireplace without enough fuel to last till the morning. How could you leave me to die?

My movements are almost silent, but there’s nothing to soak up the sounds. The floorboards feel like dry cracked earth. Everything is high pitched, a rustle, a crack, a scrape, a tap. The dread hangs in my chest like a cold metallic pendant. It sways in my ribcage as I feel my way across the room, reminding me there’s emptiness on my inside too. My fingers graze the flaking wall till I reach the corner. I kneel at the open suitcase waiting patiently for me. I push my hands inside, like a child with sand, to check the contents again. The bottom has a thin layer of clothes, on top are my keepsakes, my milestones.

I’ve taken the route to Heartbreak Pier - Scotts Quay - incrementally over the last few weeks, adding a little more each time. We gave it that nickname. Our last footing on Irish soil before leaving. My keepsakes remind me of the way, and they’ll remind me of what I’ve left behind after I’m gone. I put my hands in my pockets to feel the two items I put there yesterday, ready to guide me. I fold my blanket, and place it on top.

I softly bring down the lid of the suitcase, it overlaps with a dull hiss, sliding smoothly in place. I push the brass clasps into place with a muffled snap. I stand with my back to where we slept. I want to turn around, to kneel by him as I did this suitcase. I want to put my hands on him, grip his shoulders, squeeze them. I want to hold the back of is neck and press my forehead against his. A final farewell.

I lean against the wall as I descend the narrow staircase. I take the five steps over to the front door. Counting them for the last time, savoring them. I run my hand up the doorframe, fondle the handle and I’m out onto the stone path. I walk to the end, I pivot around the wooden fence post and begin walking the road.

I keep to the edge. My right foot taps on the hard road, my left silenced in the tufty brush. The air is sharp, it feels like snow is melting in the recesses of my nose, it runs. The irony of running from this country that I’ve barely been able to run in. Micahel would bring me to a field when I was younger, find a mostly flat place. He’d call my name and I’d run toward him. I’d fall and he’d catch me.

I feel the leaves of wild primrose reach for my hands, trying to get me to stay. A bramble catches my sleeve for a moment but it’s yanked out and left behind. My hand brushes a nettle leaf, the itching spreads over the outside of my palm. I hear a solitary robins liquid song, the only one awake this early. I feel a moment of kinship with him, then realize I’ll be abandoning him too. I continue down hill, as long as I stay on the decline, I’ll reach the town.

The wind rushes through the hedgerows beside me, like it’s racing me to the ocean. It can’t wait to hurdle the waves. I know this hedgerow, and the house that stands behind it. I don’t turn my head to acknowledge it. It now stands with no roof. The Driscoll family was evicted, the landlord took the measure to stop them coming back. Not the only landlord to do so. I’m sure our roof will be gone by the end of the week. Michael can stargaze. We could only sell what was ours, the house hasn’t been for a while now.

I march on, further down. I stumble on the curb and step onto the pavement. I’m on the edge of Queenstown now. Time to get my directions right. I can smell the fresh soda bread already. I put my hand in my left pocket and feel the twine from my final loaf. I had only had enough for a stub of a loaf, but Mary had given me half. I stop in the doorway a moment, take a few long inhales. The smell of the baked bread warms my lungs. I hold my final breath as I step onwards, hugging it inside me. A long sigh says goodbye. I turn left at the corner.

I swap my suitcase into my left hand, I put my right in my pocket. I twirl the twisted stick between my thumb and forefinger. I haven’t had a stick of barley sugar stick in a while, but this twisted stick feels just like one. I know the grocers is closed, but I’m sure I can smell the sugar boiling, and the brown paper they go in. It must be my imagination. I turn right before I reach the curb.

More birds have joined the dawn choir. Blackbirds, Wrens, Thrushes, Skylarks. My ears pick them all out. I hear seagulls. I’m getting closer. The cathedral bell rings down the corridor of houses leading to the ocean. The road is steeper, I fishing nets soaked in seawater, the damp of wooden boxes. Last stop.

I pause listening for any other sounds. Nothing, I cross the street, stubbing my foot as I step onto the pavement at the other side. I sit on the windowsill and lightly knock a rhythm at the glass. A few moments later, the soft crack of the door opening, I hear her hand reach up to silence the bell that alerts customers coming in. She steps out and I feel her questioning stare. I wave her over, her steps are gentle, making almost no noise. She sits close beside me.

“Where’s your brother?”

I sigh, swallow the jagged stone in my throat, “He’s not coming.”

“Don’t tell me…did you get here on your own?”

I cut her off, “I still have both tickets Jo.”

“They won’t have you alone Peter….” the words are barely out of her mouth before she realizes.

Before she can object I urge her, “Come with me.”

She’s silent, then begins stammering excuses. “I can’t leave my family… I’m not ready… I came out to say goodbye, not to leave with you…have you lost your mind?”

I grab her by the shoulders, turn her to face me, I interrupt her again.

“You know I can’t go alone Johanna. They’ll figure me out in a heartbeat, I’ll never get on.” I plead with her, I’m pushing the words through my teeth, “I’ve nothing here, everything’s sold, everything's gone!”

“Ma will be heartbroken.”

“We’ll write and explain everything. They’ll understand. No one’s going to blame you for going with me. You’re saving me!”

“I can’t go, Peter. I’m sorry, really I am.”

“Then you’re dooming me.” I feel guilty for saying this, but it’s true. A blind man, alone, going to America, I don’t think so. I’m surprised I made it this far.

She exhales sharply, gets to her feet,“Give me 5 minutes.”

She disappears into the fish mongers silent as a ghost. She’s gone for at least 15 minutes. The wait is agony. I hear the door open, she holds the bell again, she’s changed shoes. They make a different sound on the pavement.

“You’re coming?”

“You’re lucky you can’t see the scowl I’m giving you.”

“Oh I know it’s there”

She chuckles a little, I can hear the excitement underneath the scorn. I put my hand on her arm and she leads the way. Our suitcases bump against the outside of our knees as we take the steep hill down to the sea.

We reach the dock. We swap arms, so she’s linking onto me. She gives me pointers, talking like she noticing things for herself. It’s still early but there’s a lot of people here. I’m glad I convinced her to go. All I can hear is the bustle of people shouting, crying, wailing. I’d be spun around like a party game and never get to the boat.

We join the line. I carry both our suitcases, both light. Each time the line takes a step forward she drums her fingers over the top of her case in my hand. I listen to the ticket officer talking to the other passengers all this time. His voice is impatient, reeking of superiority, like he’s usually in the captains quarters and he’s filling in for someone who overslept.

Finally we reach the front. “It’s almost us.” she says, fear is in her voice now.

“Have your tickets ready!” his voice booms over the din of the crowd. I put the cases down, reach into my breast pocket and pull out the tickets. I slide them against each other to make sure there’s still two.

I hear the couple infront step onto the gangway. I take a step forward, holding the tickets out in front of me in the direction of the booming voice. They’re snatched out of my hand.

“Papers with your tickets young man.” I’m sure he was a teacher before this job. Johanna hands him our papers.

“Her name’s not on this ticket. Who is..”

“Michael’s my brother, sir. He’s not coming. She’s taking the ticket.”

“It must be the name on the ticket, young man. Better get him over here.”

“He’s not coming.” I insist.

“Name on the ticket.” He mocks my tone.

“He’s dead. I’ve paid for both tickets. He certainly won’t be using it, it’s hers now.” I’m lost, “I’m marrying this woman, please.”

He’s silent. I can read the smile in Jo’s mind at my last comment. I desperately wish I could read his mind.

He pushes the tickets and papers back into my hand, and begins bellowing over the crowd again. Is he letting us go? I pick up both suitcase and walk forward. Jo’s behind me with her hand on my back.

“Step up for the gangway” She whispers, subtly guides my hand onto the rail.

We clump up the laddered gangway, the roaring crowd falls away as we step onto the ship.