The Parish Page 3

  “Well, of course we should have something in the hall,” he declared. “When millennium night comes around, a lot of those high flyers will have come down to earth.”

  Later, when our cousin Con, who had been part of the family for over thirty years, came home from his school in Bandon with a bundle of textbooks under his arm, I asked: “Con, what had you planned to do for the millennium?”

  “Never even gave it a thought,” he told me mildly.

  That was the end of my survey and, as with lots of surveys, I was as wise at the end as I had been at the beginning.

  The following week a supplement fell out of a newspaper that I was reading on a train home from Dublin. The headline ran “Last Light Ceremony”. I read and reread the article, marvelling at the simplicity and imagination of the entire concept. The idea was that everyone in Ireland was to be furnished with a millennium candle to be lit on the evening of the old millennium so that the entire country could be united in this Last Light ceremony. The accompanying message with the candle would read: “As the sun sets on the millennium on December 31st 1999, the National Millennium Committee invites you to join with family and friends, neighbours or colleagues, to light your millennium candle at this milestone in history. Mílaois faoi sheán is faoi mhaise.”

  It was, I thought, an imaginative and visionary concept. The last light of the millennium would fade out over Dursey Sound and our parish would be in its dying rays. Our parish could build its whole millennium celebration, incorporating the congregations of both churches, around the Last Light ceremony. We would gather in Christ Church at four o’clock, which was the scheduled time for the Last Light ceremony, and later go up the hill to St Mary’s for a second ceremony, and finish with a party in the parish hall to welcome in the new millennium. The possibilities of the project gave me food for thought that lasted the entire train journey.

  When I got home, I rang my friend Joy, an active member of the Church of Ireland.

  “Joy, what do you think of a Last Light ceremony in Christ Church at four o’clock for both congregations and later a joint ceremony in our church and then a party in the parish hall for all of us?”

  “Sounds great,” she enthused. “But will all of you come to our church?”

  “Of course we’ll come,” I assured her, never doubting it for a moment. Relations between both congregations had always been cordial; we attended each other’s weddings and funerals, though up to this we had never shared ceremonies. We ran the idea past both sets of clergy and there was no problem.

  That year, Christmas took a back seat as the whole country waited with bated breath for the coming of the new millennium. It seemed that people were planning to be in the most exotic of places to welcome it in.

  On Christmas Eve, a man from the bogs of North Cork came into our village selling huge pieces of bog deal. He was pointed in my direction and his cargo made me gasp in awe. What would be more appropriate as a centre-piece for a millennium celebration than bog deal from the deep belly of ancient Ireland? This bog deal was probably as old as the millennium itself. There was a huge claw-like creachaill on the top of the trailer which was the jewel in the crown of the load. It was probably placed there to act as bait. He was a large, jovial man in a hand-knitted jumper, with a twinkle in his eye, and would have made a great Santa Claus. But this was no Santa Claus! He had what I wanted and he knew it. Like the cattle jobbers at the fairs of old I tried to mask my enthusiasm, and so began a long bargaining session.

  He assured me regularly: “Ah, Missus, you’ll never see the likes of it again!” He was right, but I sensed that he had raised his prices to an exorbitant level in order to bring them down and make me feel that I was getting a bargain. It rained softly down on us and his knitted gansey draped across his large round belly glistened with raindrops, but we were both so stuck into our wrangling that we would not give in to the rain or to each other.

  Eventually we reached a compromise, but to get a good price I had to take the entire load, so he probably came out the better of the deal. But I had enjoyed battling wits with him and he told me, “You’re a hard woman, but sure ’twas great doing business with you and I wouldn’t have enjoyed it half as much if you gave in on the first round.”

  So he stacked the bog deal in the backyard and every day I admired it and loved it more. I recalled the creachaills of bog deal that had been brought home from the bog when I was a child. We had splintered them up to start the fire and my father had used them to light his pipe. Sometimes they were pared into long strips to act as scallops for thatching. Now they are no longer needed for practical purposes but they speak to us of an earlier age when they formed the floor of an ancient Ireland. It was wonderful to have this treasury of the past to welcome in the new millennium.

  During the days of the dying year, a small group of us moved into both churches. Old candelabras that had been relegated to the lower regions of Christ Church and into the abandoned gallery of St Mary’s were polished and brought back into active service. Candles and flowers were the order of the day in both churches but for the parish hall a more flamboyant atmosphere was required for the parish party. The dark red curtains of the stage became the backdrop for two enormous silver trees, festooned with blue stars, and Elizabeth brought in her solid silver candelabra with blue candles for centre-stage. In every parish there are big-hearted people like Elizabeth, blessed with a great sense of occasion.

  The balcony at the back of the hall was smothered by Noreen in mounds of ivy, threaded through with silver ribbons. Our best flower arranger, Rose, created a huge arrangement in the millennium colours of blue and silver, and the food tables around the hall were draped in white and silver cloths. We had bought wine and soft drinks and the parishioners brought in an abundance of home-made food.

  The women of parishes around Ireland will still come good when it comes to providing eats for festive occasions, and fortunately we have not yet reached the stage where we need to get in professional caterers to provide for parish events. There is a great sense of togetherness in the sharing of bread that has been baked by parish people. As I watched the laden trays arrive, I felt that a large communal cake had been baked and would later be shared by all. By late afternoon, we were ready to feed a small army, though we still had no idea of numbers.

  To welcome in a new year, not to mention a millennium, a clock was needed to add a sense of drama to the occasion. We required a substantial timepiece, preferably a grandfather. But could you ask anyone to move a valuable grandfather clock and bring it to the parish hall? We did not need to ask because one farming couple, Ted and Phil, not only offered their clock but Ted brought it along in his tractor and trailer. We all held our breath, wondering how grandfather would take to his new position in front of the stage, but once he was level, he took the move like a man, and tick-tocked into action. In the centre of the hall we had laid out the huge sea of ancient bog deal and on it we mounted an enormous millennium candle. It was an island of bog deal and light, around which the activity would flow. All was ready for the party to begin!

  It was a calm misty evening as we climbed the steps of Christ Church, and the trees in Dromkeen Wood across the river were slowly gathering their dusky coats around them. Along the street the shadows were drifting into doorways and silently people were emerging and all heading in the one direction. The traffic on the road outside had slowed to almost non-existent as by now everyone in the whole country had gone to their chosen places to welcome in the millennium. People were pouring into Christ Church and taking time to sign the leather-bound Millennium Book, which would be a record of all those present on this historic night. The seating capacity of Christ Church is about three hundred and fifty, and every seat was occupied, and more people were standing along by the walls. Joy and her friends were trying to find a place for everybody and eventually there were almost five hundred people packed into the church.

  When the incoming tide waned, it was decided that the ceremony should begin. A
delighted Canon Burrows—who was later to become Archbishop of Cashel—emerged from the vestry and assured us smilingly that he was not accustomed to such a packed house. He rose to the occasion with an inspiring homily befitting a special event, which he combined with playing the organ and leading the people in songs of praise.

  Some lights had been left on to guide people to their seats and now these were all turned off. The church was in darkness. Slowly three members of St Mary’s emerged from the back porch and walked up the aisle, bearing the gift of a tall Jubilee candle which they placed on a central table. Canon Burrows lit it from a little candle that he had brought from Iona earlier that year. St Columcille had taken the light of Christianity from Ireland to Iona in the sixth century, and this gave the small candle a special symbolism. A light was then carried to the candles in the windows, and the light slowly spread along the pews as all the little millennium candles were lit. This was the idea of the National Millennium Committee becoming a reality: the church was aglow with candlelight, and voices were raised in songs of praise as we all sang from the same hymn sheet.

  Afterwards people drifted slowly from the church, reluctant to leave the communal pool of peace. Some stayed on to sign the Millennium Book which had not been possible for all on the way in, and as they queued now, they chatted quietly. The Jubilee candle was left lighting in the centre of the church, and on the gothic windowsills candle-lit floral arrangements flickered light along the now empty pews. As we went down the sloping pathway from the church, we looked back at the candles softly illuminating the rich stained-glass windows.

  Then three members of Christ Church brought the still-lighting Jubilee candle through the village and up the hill to St Mary’s. Our parish priest welcomed them and led them in procession to the altar. Twenty-four people followed the candle-bearers, all members of different parish organisations, each carrying a symbol of their own organisation. On the steps of the altar, six people represented the different age groups in the parish, ranging from Denis, the oldest at eighty-seven, to Sarah Louise, the youngest at four months. The light was passed down through the ages and then down along the church. The small millennium candles glowed for the second time that night and the dark church was turned into a sea of wavering candles. Members of both churches did the readings and raised their voices in songs of united praise.

  Afterwards the Jubilee candle led a candlelight procession down the hill and along the village street to the parish hall. With the street empty of traffic, it was a night when our parish could move at its own pace.

  The parish hall was transformed into a wonderland. The beautiful grandfather clock in front of the stage looked down over lit candelabras on tables of food and wine. The huge candle in the centre of the sea of bog deal was lit, and slowly the hall filled to overflowing, and we wined and dined, keeping an eye on the clock.

  Long-separated friends were reunited with whoops of joy and delighted hugs. In the excitement of the reunion, full glasses of wine were abandoned. Later, when the owners went to recover their glasses, faces took on baffled expressions. Locals who had wisely held on to their drinks smiled knowingly and quietly refilled the empties. Old Johnny with the big thirst had unobtrusively slipped around, tossing back unguarded glasses. Never before had he got such a free supply—all his Christmases had come together! (The following day, he was so sick from over-indulgence that he turned over a new leaf and became a teetotaller. Miracles are not always as a result of divine intervention.)

  One strikingly handsome young man home for the occasion flitted like a butterfly around all the pretty girls. He worked the room like a politician before an election. My friend Joan, who likes to call a spade a spade, viewed him with a jaundiced eye. She was well versed in his colourful curriculum vitae. When he began to chat up her daughter and mine, she strode purposefully across the hall to me, and with the look of a high court judge on her face, she pronounced acidly: “The two of us would want to keep an eye on that fella. Given half a chance he could make grandmothers out of the two of us.”

  Slowly the long, golden hand of grandfather climbed upwards, and, as it neared twelve, we all gathered in a circle. The countdown began. Suddenly the time was upon us and we were welcoming in the millennium with hugs, tears and kisses. Then the doors of the hall were thrown open and the bells of both churches pealed in the millennium as grandfather finished striking twelve.

  When the bells finished pealing, the soft background music in the hall changed tempo and people decided that it was time to dance. And so the hours were danced away and photographs were taken. It was a night to be held in cameo. When we finally left the parish hall in the early hours of the new millennium, we knew that this night of light would be forever imprinted on the back pages of our minds. The idea of the National Millennium Committee to give each of us a millennium candle had illuminated the whole occasion. This special night had been celebrated all over the world but in Ireland the Last Light ceremony had given the Irish celebration a special sense of togetherness. We had been united by light.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Beekeeper

  The Christmas of the millennium year brought to an abrupt end a story that had been interwoven through our lives for many years but to tell that story we must go back to the day it began.

  It was the late summer of 1968 and as I walked along the corridor that led from the kitchen to the front hallway of our guesthouse, situated at the village corner, I wondered about the cousin who my husband Gabriel had told me was looking for accommodation. As I came into the front hall, a pale-faced, dark-haired young man smiled uncertainly at me. There was about him an aura of tranquillity.

  “Our cousin Maura told me to call to you,” he said quietly. “I’m coming to teach in Bandon and would like to stay until I find some place there.”

  “Well, we are really only open during the summer months for the tourists,” I told him, “but you’re welcome to stay for a week until you find a place in Bandon.”

  “A week will be fine,” he said with a smile.

  So Con came into our lives. He came for a week and stayed for over thirty years. At the time, we had three young teachers from local schools staying with us, along with my sister; they had been sharing our home for a few years and had become part of the kitchen scene, together with my husband Gabriel and our three small boys, aged six, three and one. Con fitted in like a bird into a nest. He had come from a household with five brothers and no sisters, but now he was surrounded by five women and became the adopted brother in his new family. He was quiet, gentle and considerate, and if we had gone out and looked for somebody to be part of our household, we could not have found anybody more suitable.

  For Gabriel he was somebody who shared his great love of sports, and they spent many hours discussing matches. The two of them shared a deep affection for the Irish language and culture, and they started Irish nights—Oíche Ghaeilge—in the parish hall and tried to turn us all into fluent Irish speakers and top-class Irish dancers. They may not have succeeded 100 per cent but we had great fun practising the intricacies of a two-hand reel and weaving our way through the haymaker’s jig.

  One of our neighbours, Kathleen, who lived across the road, later told me that those nights had given her a deep appreciation of the Irish language and culture. Con, who taught Maths and Science in nearby St Brogan’s, gave grinds to children from all over the parish simply because he could never say no to a distressed mother; he always assured a parent who worried that they did not have a bright spark on their hands that most education was 99 per cent perspiration and 1 per cent inspiration.

  To Aunty Peg and Uncle Jacky, who lived next door, he became a regular caller, brightening up their lives, and Aunty Peg and himself often enjoyed a quiet drink together in her little sitting room behind the shop. If their beloved Gabriel had to be away, they felt that we were all in safe hands while Con was around. As a child, I had lost a much-loved brother called Connie, and for years had silently mourned his loss, and now this b
lessing of another Con had come into my life and taken his place.

  One sunny summer’s day a swarm of bees found its way into Jacky’s garden much to the consternation of all. The bees hung off the branch of a tree in the middle of the garden and we all admired them from a safe distance. Aunty Peg decided that it would be very unlucky to let them go because she believed that if bees came, you looked after them; otherwise they went and took your good luck with them. That was fine in theory but the practical reality of non-beekeepers handling a swarm of bees was another thing altogether. A bucket and a sheet were brought into the garden, and because Aunty Peg believed that you rang a bell to keep a swarm from flying away, a bell clanged in the background.

  Gabriel and Con approached the tree, one holding the bucket and the other with a stout stick with which to hit the branch and cause the bees to fall into the bucket that was to be promptly covered with the sheet. That was the plan, but the bees had other ideas! As the two prospective beekeepers cautiously approached the tree, Aunty Peg continued to ring the bell and we all stood well back, shouting words of encouragement and caution. We were enough to drive any swarm into a demented state, which was exactly what happened. When the branch got a severe thump, some of the swarm fell into the bucket but the remainder went into a frenzied buzzing attack on the two beekeepers, who dropped the bucket and ran for their lives with angry bees in hot pursuit. The rest of us dived for cover all over the garden. The bees won that battle and within minutes had the place to themselves.

  However, as the day passed, they swarmed around the bucket, and under the calming influence of approaching darkness it was then possible to cover them cautiously with Aunty Peg’s sheet. I doubted her belief in the bell-ringing theory, but wrong or right we now had a swarm of bees. A hive was procured from my brother who was a beekeeper in North Cork, and so Con and Gabriel became beekeepers in the back garden and the hives gradually increased over the years. Gabriel, because of his long hours in the shop and post office as well as being involved in every organisation in the parish, was often short of beekeeping time but Con’s job, with its long holidays, lent itself to beekeeping. He was the ideal beekeeper, patient and painstaking, with an infinitely inquiring mind that became completely fascinated by the bees.