Summer is a good time for caravanning, relaxing and clearing out. Especially when there’s a Cash for Clothes shop in town. On this particular occasion however I was sorting through piles of old books, cataloguing them for a hopeful sale, which might or might not happen…In the process I found a special book which I had studied at the tender age of 15.
Sporting an off-white cover with orange arrows criss-crossing over it, its title ‘Exploring English’ gave no hint of the wonders within. At first glance its interior provoked dismay - dull pages with lines of small black type, regular instances of those dreaded ‘Dig Deeper’ questions and not a picture in sight. ‘Let’s start here!’ said my wonderful teacher and, gathering around the comforting gas heater, we began our journey into the world of Irish short stories which soon proved to be fascinating.
I think it was truly then that words alone came alive for me. I learned how a writer could create a whole world with a few adept phrases, a brief description of a passing expression, some sparse details about a rural landscape, an adjective, a name. I experienced how a half-page of print could transport me into a world completely alien to my own, where the people were so different yet so alike in their fears, loves, thoughts, feelings and actions. I realised that the best stories were the simplest - the annual journey to the beach, the father returning to his childhood home with a nagging wife and bickering children, the decision to abandon a mercenary life so that one could have time to gaze at the stars, the widow whose precious son dies trying to save a chicken…
Yes, the story of the Widow’s Son was my favourite. Despite all the literature I have since read for school exams and at university, the story of Packy has always kept its place in my mind - its endless potential and yet its inevitable ending. The widow’s son is coming home from school on his bike, clutching a newly-won scholarship, down the steep, rough hill that leads to the little cottage. His mother watches him, this son that represents all she lives for, and their main source of income, the hens, cluster around her on the dusty road, pecking and clucking. Suddenly as Packy nears the humble abode a jittery hen zigzags out in front of the speeding bike and the cyclist brakes violently. The dust blows away to reveal an unharmed hen squawking as she waddles back to the others and an inert body lying on the road. The widow runs to her son, desperately wipes the grime from his face and realises the awful truth - the impact of the fall as the boy was thrown over the handlebars killed him. ‘Why did he try to save that useless chicken?’ she wails, as the neighbours gather around.
But there was another ending to the story too. Again Packy is coming home from school, and the widow watches as he zooms down the steep hill. Again the flighty hen crosses the road at the wrong time and again there is a squeal of brakes. When the dust blows away this time, there is a dead chicken on the road and a stunned boy covered with feathers and specks of blood. The widow runs to the hen, sees its lifeless state and turns on Packy. ‘You’ve killed the best egg-layer, you ungrateful wretch! You couldn’t care less, could you? Here am I, slaving away for you to get an education from day to day and you just go and kill my prime hen…! What am I, your servant, is it? Who gets your meals, your books, your clothes, provides a home for you to live in…?’ A crowd of neighbours have gathered to silently watch this dramatic scene. They take in every word, and waves of shame cover Packy. The next morning he has disappeared and a letter eventually arrives, saying he has got a job on a trawler and will send back money every week - ‘to pay for everything you’ve done for me.’
It made me think then, and it still does. Despite different happenings, the poor widow lost her son in both stories. How often we wonder about our lives and ask that ‘What if it was different? question! We dream up alternatives and paint beautiful pictures of perfect lives and happy endings. The only One who knows the real story of our lives from beginning to end is God; there seems to us to be sometimes a way that looks just perfect but ‘the end thereof are the ways of death.’(Prov 16:25) Only ‘His way is perfect.’ (Ps 18:30)
