The winner of our current Short Story Competition is published in the July|Aug issue of Irish Country Magazine, out now. This story came in second place and was written by Gráinne Daly, from Co Dublin.
There was a right crowd at eight o’clock mass. You’d know there was a match on.
A fence of men stood at the back, caps in hand, their blue and white rosettes already on. Sheila Daly sat three pews from the front, clasping her mother of pearl rosary beads, offering her prayers for special intentions and a win for Cavan. She wore a wool coat that was dusty pink and had the big open pockets that she liked because she could fit plenty in them.
Reaching into one, she took out a small bible she had bought in Medjugorje. Its covers were baby smooth from wear, the plum leather of it worn into a delicate film by the soft pads of her fingers. The gospel was according to Luke; it spoke of generosity. Sheila closed her eyes and hoped that her husband was listening closely from down the back of the chapel. Phil had told her that she could not come to Croke Park with him today. He was getting a lift with a colleague who’d promised to bring to one of the Murtaghs as well. “No, Sheila,” he’d said all week, “none of the other wives are going… listen to the radio.”
Fr. Teehan gave one of his long sermons and Sheila was glad she’d set the ham to boil on a low gas. When the offertory basket came around, she folded a note and placed it gently on the red velvet lining of the basket. This week’s collection was for the missions. It made her think of Brother Reilly who was beyond in Ethiopia. A cousin of his played in the final in the Polo Grounds. Brother Reilly had himself played intercounty up to minors before heading to Maynooth. Sheila had been blessed with six boys none of whom seemed destined to ascend to the ranks of the senior panel. Nor Maynooth, for that matter.
The walk home from mass was quick. Sheila set the pace and Phil struggled to keep up. When she got in, she lifted the ham from the pot and covered it with a tea-towel.
“I might take a sandwich with me,” said Phil, nodding at the steaming joint.
No reply.
“When it cools,” he added.
“Do what you like, Phil,” said Sheila.
She tore cabbage in strips and dropped it in ham-water to boil. One of the boys threw something in the yard that hit the kitchen window, rattling the pane. Then came the patter of feet running away. Sheila heard Phil say goodbye. Moments later, her son Ultan walked in followed by a bleeding boy.
“Mrs. Daly,” said the Clarke lad, “I think a bird dropped something on me. Would you be able to bandage it up please?”
Sheila was a nurse.
“Come here and let me give it a wee wash first, pet,” she said, “and tell me what type of bird do you think it was?”
“A bauld eagle,” said Ultan, grinning.
By the time she had the boys fed, all of the cars bound for Croke Park had already left the town. She said a prayer to St. Jude and, lo and behold, didn’t a Morris Minor round the bend in the familiar colours of the Sheridans from Coothill. Sheila waved down Bridey Sheridan and her prayers were answered, there was room to squeeze one more in the car.
The crowds swelled in all directions around Croke Park. A group of chaps in soft caps stood outside a pub nursing stout and talking about the price of heifers. Beside them was a couple, the woman nursed a Babycham with hands that were neatly ensconced in gloves the colour of clotted cream.
“Howaya Sheila,” came the voice of a tall Garda.
“Hello Myles,” she said, “so this is where they have you now?”
Myles Dillon was from Edgeworthstown too, not far from where Sheila had grown up. Their fathers had been RIC men.
“And are they stripes I see on you? Congratulations, Myles.”
He blushed. “About time, as the fella says,” he replied.
“Well, it’s lovely seeing you but I was late getting a lift up and I’m afraid I might miss the start.”
“Let me walk you down, Sheila, and I’ll have one of our lads get you in the side gate.”
“The blessings of God on you.” She beamed her great wide smile that gave her a girlish look.
A few minutes later she found herself waved in beneath the Nally Stand. She spotted a gap over beneath the Hill 16 goal line and sat herself down beside a woman from Blacklion. There was the smell of tobacco in the air, and summer grass.
The bishop threw in the leather and up went the two midfielders. The Cavanman came away with it and quickly released it to Phil the Gunner who was making a run down the right wing. A ball to the hands of Charlie Gallagher resulted in an early point that set off an early round of scores for Cavan who went five points ahead. Roscommon found second gear and with some hard graft by Dermot Early who pushed up on the Cavan full back and forced an awful fluke of a goal sent in off Cavan legs.
The kickout was won by the Rossies and they put a point on the board. The gap was down to a single score. When John Wilson kicked over a magnificent point from the 45, Sheila and the Blacklion woman nodded to each other.
“As fine a point as you’ll ever see,” said Sheila.
“Shocking good,” said the woman.
At half-time they poured cups of tea from slim black flasks. Sheila reached into her canvas bag and took out something wrapped in greaseproof paper.
“I made it yesterday,” she said handing a slice of porter cake to the Blacklion woman.
An umpire on the Hogan Stand line scowled when a blue and white crepe hat landed squarely on his head. The donor didn’t claim the hat back after the umpire tossed it to the grass verge with a sharp flick of his arm. Five minutes later the place erupted when Roscommon found the back of the net. If Sheila was a cursing woman, she would have cursed the sloppiness of the Cavan backs. Seconds later the referee blew the final whistle. A draw. They would have to do it all again.
Sheila made her way towards the Hogan Stand side to where the crowds were dispersing. As she set her foot on the concrete steps, she heard a voice call out her name. She turned and there was Phil, his jaw hanging slightly.
“Sheila…?” he said, his eyebrows arched.
“Hello Phil,” she replied.
His eyes widened, before the beginnings of a smile stretched across his face.
“You’ve a run in your stocking,” he said.
When she looked down, she realised she had snagged her good nylons and there was a fine run the length of her calf. And with that, Sheila and Phil laughed loud as the watery sun dipped behind the Hogan Stand.
“Come on,” he said, taking her hand, “I suppose you’d better be coming with me.”
You can read the winning story in the July|Aug issue of Irish Country Magazine, in shops now. Click here for details on how to enter our Sept|Oct competition.
