Kirkpatrick linens or Kirkpatrick whiskey you were buying a piece of what your ancestors had left behind, you were buying a dream. A dream Jamie knew, that was wrapped in shamrocks and tied up with dollar bills, a dream that bore little resemblance to the truth.
The reality of rural Ireland was one of dying villages, rundown shops and men who often clung to bachelorhood well past the point of being any earthly use to a woman. It was a land of old men and women, a land that time had forgotten. A land that saw 40,000 of her people emigrate each year, never to return. The cities were often worse, elegant ruins became rundown housing for the poor with inadequate plumbing, heating or space. Diseases that other western nations had obliterated still rode, like spectral horses, through the streets of Irish cities.
Jamie, with a certain amount of longing for the land that time forgot, knew what Ireland really needed, what the Irish needed were jobs. Jobs that meant they could stay in their own country, raise their children on Irish soil, send them to school for free, get proper medical attention and have a little left over to hope with, to dream with. So he, in place of his own dreams became the seller of dreams. Selling Ireland to the rest of the world to buy it back for her own people. It was, some days, almost enough to make him forget what he’d left behind.
The Seller of Dreams. He’d been called worse. Paddy, Mick, Bogtrotter and several variations on that theme. Colleen used to call him ‘you beautiful mick bastard,’ in affection and frustration. Colleen had been the one thing he’d done for himself, the one time he’d put what he wanted before the needs of his father.
He’d known Colleen from the time she was eight and he was ten. He’d wandered off from his father one day, waiting for him to finish a conversation with a man and found himself, several harrowing hours later, in a mean and lean part of Belfast he’d never encountered before. It had been Colleen, small and sprightly, a silver-eyed elf who’d found him and taken him home to her mother like a stray puppy.
‘An’ what have we here Colleen?’ Mary MacGregor had asked, work-reddened hands on hips.
‘Jamie,’ Colleen had said as if, very simply, she’d known him the entirety of her life.
‘Well young man, ye look hungry, sit yer backside down on that chair an’ we’ll feed ye.’ Jamie had nodded gratefully and taken the appointed chair. Moments later a steaming bowl of stew was placed under his nose alongside a plate of fresh bread. He ate like one half-starved, Colleen across from him tucking into her own bowl of stew. Her mother looking on now and then as she busied herself about the stove. Colleen smiling encouragingly through the steam above her bowl. He’d never felt so comfortable or welcome in his life, not even in his own home. He’d almost wished that his father would not find him, at least not for a little while.
Of course, his dad did find him but it wasn’t until the evening, long after he’d decided he’d marry Colleen when he grew up and live in the rundown little flat forever. Eventually he did marry her but, as was inevitable, he took her to live in his world and he was to always think perhaps that was where he’d been very, very wrong.
Colleen Colleen Colleen, eyes gray as the moon, a smile to light the world and his, his for the asking, his for the taking. Perhaps God never meant for people to have that which their heart desired the most, perhaps that, right there, was the ultimate sin. For it seemed to Jamie that if He let you have it He damn well found a way to take it back.
They grew up together, the two of them, Jamie spending what time could be stolen, bought and borrowed under the fond eyes of Mary MacGregor and her middle daughter. Seven kids and Colleen was number four, three above and three below her. ‘Nondescript,’ was the word she’d tossed at him when he’d asked her how she
The reality of rural Ireland was one of dying villages, rundown shops and men who often clung to bachelorhood well past the point of being any earthly use to a woman. It was a land of old men and women, a land that time had forgotten. A land that saw 40,000 of her people emigrate each year, never to return. The cities were often worse, elegant ruins became rundown housing for the poor with inadequate plumbing, heating or space. Diseases that other western nations had obliterated still rode, like spectral horses, through the streets of Irish cities.
Jamie, with a certain amount of longing for the land that time forgot, knew what Ireland really needed, what the Irish needed were jobs. Jobs that meant they could stay in their own country, raise their children on Irish soil, send them to school for free, get proper medical attention and have a little left over to hope with, to dream with. So he, in place of his own dreams became the seller of dreams. Selling Ireland to the rest of the world to buy it back for her own people. It was, some days, almost enough to make him forget what he’d left behind.
The Seller of Dreams. He’d been called worse. Paddy, Mick, Bogtrotter and several variations on that theme. Colleen used to call him ‘you beautiful mick bastard,’ in affection and frustration. Colleen had been the one thing he’d done for himself, the one time he’d put what he wanted before the needs of his father.
He’d known Colleen from the time she was eight and he was ten. He’d wandered off from his father one day, waiting for him to finish a conversation with a man and found himself, several harrowing hours later, in a mean and lean part of Belfast he’d never encountered before. It had been Colleen, small and sprightly, a silver-eyed elf who’d found him and taken him home to her mother like a stray puppy.
‘An’ what have we here Colleen?’ Mary MacGregor had asked, work-reddened hands on hips.
‘Jamie,’ Colleen had said as if, very simply, she’d known him the entirety of her life.
‘Well young man, ye look hungry, sit yer backside down on that chair an’ we’ll feed ye.’ Jamie had nodded gratefully and taken the appointed chair. Moments later a steaming bowl of stew was placed under his nose alongside a plate of fresh bread. He ate like one half-starved, Colleen across from him tucking into her own bowl of stew. Her mother looking on now and then as she busied herself about the stove. Colleen smiling encouragingly through the steam above her bowl. He’d never felt so comfortable or welcome in his life, not even in his own home. He’d almost wished that his father would not find him, at least not for a little while.
Of course, his dad did find him but it wasn’t until the evening, long after he’d decided he’d marry Colleen when he grew up and live in the rundown little flat forever. Eventually he did marry her but, as was inevitable, he took her to live in his world and he was to always think perhaps that was where he’d been very, very wrong.
Colleen Colleen Colleen, eyes gray as the moon, a smile to light the world and his, his for the asking, his for the taking. Perhaps God never meant for people to have that which their heart desired the most, perhaps that, right there, was the ultimate sin. For it seemed to Jamie that if He let you have it He damn well found a way to take it back.
They grew up together, the two of them, Jamie spending what time could be stolen, bought and borrowed under the fond eyes of Mary MacGregor and her middle daughter. Seven kids and Colleen was number four, three above and three below her. ‘Nondescript,’ was the word she’d tossed at him when he’d asked her how she
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