Free Country Days by Alice; Taylor Page B

problem solved, the man on the stool resumed his transcendental meditation. Suddenly, in the door came a man cycling without a bike. Almost as if the mechanism of his hip joints were faulty, he lifted his legs in a semi-circular movement high off the ground and they fell heavily by themselves. It was either that he had spent years cycling up against steep hills or that he lived in a very untidy house and automatically lifted his legs to get across miscellaneous pots and pans. Dressed in a dirty fawn suit, he had the face of alaughing gnome. He peered up at the man under the cap. They could only have come from the same hill. No salutations passed between them.
    “Would you say that you’re sixty-one?” was his opening remark.
    “More,” from under the cap.
    “Sixty-two,” he tried.
    “More,” came back from under the cap.
    “Sixty-three?” in surprise.
    “More,” in the same tone.
    “Sixty-four!” in disbelief.
    “More,” came back the toneless reply.
    And so it continued until the fawn man said in amazement, “Sixty-nine!”
    “Next spring,” came the answer in a tone which implied that wonders would never cease.
    That topic of conversation exhausted, from under the cap came the announcement, “Tom is taking the paper to court.”
    “Why?” asked the fawn man.
    “They called him a jailbird.”
    “Well,” with caution, “he was in jail.”
    “Only once, and once doesn’t make him a jailbird,” came emphatically from under the cap.
    That gave the fawn man something to think about, and having thought it over with a look of intense concentration on his face he finally pronounced, “Tom is in trouble with the paper, in trouble with the guards, in trouble with herself…” and with utter conviction he finished up, “Tomeen is in troublewith himself.”
    The man under the cap was not convinced. “The just man falls nine times,” came the proclamation.
    It is difficult to argue with a man who thinks bigger than God, so the fawn man knew that he had lost that round. His next shot was, “You’d be getting the dole all the time.”
    The man on the stool straightened up with the arrogance of movement that gave his rusty gabardine the air of a crimson cloak, and his burnt cap took on the splendour of a jewelled crown. The majesty of the Kerry hills was in his bearing as he spat out the words, “Never drew that in my life!” Stepping down from his high stool he had the dignity of a king descending from his throne and he swept out the door with the grandeur of a great actor taking his final curtain call.
    I waited for the applause, but none came. Then I returned to reality and realised that this was not lunch-time theatre but real life, and I had been privileged to be present at a private viewing.
    Later that morning my strong-willed seven year old bulldozed me unwillingly into a chilly navy-blue sea that splashed threateningly against my ankles of the same colour. In a navy-blue swimsuit I blended in perfectly with my surroundings. My daughter dived under scurrying waves and yelled at me to join her. As I high-stepped gingerly over the oncoming waves, I prayed that God might turn on a giant immersion somewhere out there in the Atlantic and take themurderous chill out of the freezing water. Having closed my eyes to add fervour to my prayer and to control my chattering teeth, I was taken unawares when a high-jumping wave swept over my head and showered me in its salty essence. Suddenly, as I came up gasping, the sun burst forth like a light in a darkening room and lit up the whole scene. The sea sparkled and white horses swept towards us wrapping us in their swirling tails. Looking out across the leaping waves that went on and on and reared higher and higher in the distance, I felt an overwhelming sense of exhilaration. Holding out my arms I felt part of a great creation and thanked heaven for the seven year old who had dragged me back into her sparkling world.
    That afternoon the rain came down in