Written by Mark Keane
Clara looked out her bedroom window and inspected the sky through overhanging oak branches.
The sun hid behind wispy brushstrokes of grey cloud.
She went downstairs and turned on the TV, flicking to the weather channel. A woman in a
mackintosh, holding an umbrella, stood in front of a map.
“Wet this morning. Better bring a brolly if you’re going out. A spot of rain is good for the
grass and crops. It keeps everything nice and fresh.” She closed and folded the umbrella. “Don’t
we have a great climate?”
Clara turned off the TV and set about preparing breakfast. Porridge to start, and she’d left
the oats soaking overnight. Then a slice of buttered toast with a cup of tea. Since it was Saturday,
a ripe peach to finish.
She went through the post and tore open an envelope from the Electricity Board. It
contained the quarterly bill; another increase, costs continually rising to maintain the quality of
electricity.
Nothing from Mike. It made no sense to expect anything as Mike didn’t have her address.
Six months had passed, and it was unlikely she would ever see or hear from Mike again. Even
so, she held onto expectation. Better faint hope than dogged acceptance.
She skimmed the front page of the newspaper. ‘We Won!’ the headline read. Her eyes
picked out words and phrases…cause to celebrate…magnificent victory…best ever…
She folded the newspaper and left it in the pile for recycling.
The forecast on the weather channel rarely changed, either rain followed by sunshine or a
spell of sun followed by rain. Standing in the hallway, she dithered: umbrella or no umbrella?
Better faint hope, but she stuffed a waterproof hat in her pocket just in case.
At the bottom of the road, she met Mrs. Kavanagh. An imposing woman, her head shaped
like an enormous olive, salt and pepper hair in a crew cut.
“How are you, Clara?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Wasn’t that a great victory? My
young Jimmy was part of the team.”
“Congratulations.” Clara grinned in a show of enthusiasm.
“It’s some achievement.” Mrs. Kavanagh pursed her lips. “Another victory for our great
little town.”
Clara considered asking who were the losers and what was the prize, but she took too
long working out the best way to phrase the question.
Mrs. Kavanagh started walking away. “Got to dash. So much to do, planning the celebrations.”
Clara waited at the intersection with Main Street for a gap in the flow of human traffic.
She inserted herself into the first opening. The man in front pulled into a Mocha Express, and
Clara followed him.
Inside, the space was limited, barely enough room to accommodate six in a queue. There
had to be at least one Mocha Express every hundred metres, catering to the takeaway trade. Clara
knew of only three Mocha sit-downs. Not so long ago, all they had in the town were sit-downs
and a handful of takeaways. In the sit-downs, customers could linger and discuss the latest
victory and how busy they were, and agree that it was next to impossible to find the time to take
a break and converse over a Mocha.
A sign advertised the latest specialty: Mocha Supreme. Clara asked for one and watched
the mocha purveyor turn one knob after another, check a gauge, and release a thin cloud of
steam. He handed Clara a cardboard cup.
“That’ll be fourteen fifty.”
Clara hid her surprise and took the money from her purse.
Back outside, people rushed by in a run-walk. The majority carried cardboard cups of
mocha. The ground shook with the vibration of drills hard at work on masonry and natural rock.
Overhead, the swinging arm of a tower crane came into view.
Five building sites operated side-by-side in a continuum of construction, destruction, and
reconstruction. People needed housing, a pressing demand for accommodation in this town
where procreation outpaced death. Holiday accommodation too, and the town planners had set
holiday homes as their top priority. Everyone needed a holiday, a pause in the rush, a period to
take stock, slow down, and relax over a mocha.
A bridal party emerged from the parish church to a symphony of cheers. The guests took
up positions to best display their finery. Shiny suits and finicky cravats for the men, the women
in satin and silk dresses and elfin hats with intricate embellishments. Flowers everywhere, a
floral explosion of shoots and petals and stamens and carpels. The bridegroom kissed the bride,
accompanied by an eruption of hoots and hurrahs, and a scattering of confetti. The officiating
priest, Father Dowd, looked on benignly, resplendent in a white starched vestment with scarlet edging.
The priest frowned when he spotted Clara. The wedded couple climbed into a horse-drawn carriage.
The white horses neighed and scraped the concrete with their dancing hooves.
Father Dowd checked his watch, possibly in anticipation of the next wedding. People married
like billy-o in this town.
Clara followed the carriage along Main Street. Bins overflowed with Mocha cardboard
cups. Clara added her cup to the pile. A beggar sat under a bank ATM, a Mocha cup on the
ground beside him. He was reading a book, a glossy doorstopper, and took no apparent notice of
the coins dropped into his cup.
Seeing the beggar prompted a mental image of Mike in his duffel coat and faded jeans
addressing the public. He spoke softly, only audible to those passing close by. And the people
passed. Clara had stopped, more than once, and listened to what he had to say.
The first time, Mike paused when he saw Clara standing there, then continued speaking.
“Stop hurrying to and fro. It doesn’t have to be like this. Saying everything is wonderful
over and over doesn’t make it so. There’s nothing wrong with being dissatisfied. Stop and think.
Be curious, and rebel against this blinkered existence.”
On the seafront people moved more sedately, apart from the joggers and power-walkers
who managed to fit exercise into their hectic schedule. Clara came to a stop, hands on hips, and
breathed deeply. Then, she turned one hundred and eighty degrees in a gradual rotation, her view
spanning the sea and overhead cranes and the luring sky. Her ears accommodated the pounding
of the building site drills and the wail of seagulls. In her head, she heard Mike’s words.
“Stop and think about yourself, and have a good laugh. Let it all out, a good old belly
laugh. That’s a start. Laugh at yourself. Then, you’ll experience unbound possibilities and be
swept away, even if only for an instant.”
Mothers wheeled prams along the seafront, pre-school children in tow. A good number of
oldies were out, taking their constitutional shuffle, exchanging greetings.
“Lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Doesn’t the sea air work wonders?”
“It’s nice seeing you, but I mustn’t dally—so much to do.”
Clara had asked Mike what he hoped to achieve, speaking to people who had no interest
in listening. They all knew Mike, though Clara had never heard anyone make an explicit
reference to him. He was a feature of the town, like the telephone box that no one used or even
stopped to view out of curiosity.
“Achieve?” Mike shrugged. “Awareness, nothing more than that.”
“Do you think it’s working?” Clara asked.
Mike took his time before responding, staring at the ground and adjusting the sleeves of
his duffel coat. “Possibly not. There’s a resentment I can’t overcome. My very presence feeds
that resentment. I doubt I’ll be doing this much longer.”
One afternoon, Clara had looked on as Mike addressed an unheeding public outside the
church. Father Dowd emerged from the parvise and approached Clara.
“I’ve seen you talk to that demented soul.” The priest gestured to Mike. “He’s doing no
good, only spreading discontent.”
“I think he has some interesting ideas,” Clara said.
“He’s not right in the head.” Father Dowd plunged his hands into the pockets of his
cassock. “Something will have to be done about him, for his own sake and for the sake of the
people of this town.”
Clara left the promenade and picked her way along the rocky escarpment, as close as she
could get to the sea. She found a flat surface and sat.
A great little town, and she was blessed to be living here.
She observed the undulating grey-green wavelets and tuned her mind to each rise and
fall.
Delusion and corrosive self-absorption. A blinkered existence.
The briny air stung Clara’s eyes and she shut them tight. The sea mist wet her face. She
heard a pattering around her.
Laugh at yourself, let it all out, a good old belly laugh. Experience unbound possibilities,
and be swept away.
If only that was possible. If only Clara had it within her. If only.
Better faint hope than dogged acceptance.
The pattering grew louder as the rain fell harder.
.
Mark Keane has taught for many years in universities in North America and the UK. Recent short story fiction has appeared in The Interpreter’s House, Paris Lit Up, For Page & Screen, Midsummer Dream House, Avalon Literary Review, Shooter, untethered, Night Picnic, upstreet, Granfalloon, Into the Void, and Firewords. He lives in Edinburgh (Scotland).