the visitor. “Your door’s wrecked,” said Sissy. Ash told the
story of the night before, the ruckus, her run around the
house, the f leeting shape. “Ah, we have those in our barn.
Those bloody pineapples, with their big sharp teeth. They
come out of the forest at night and head straight for the
woodwork,” said Maeve. Sissy looked at Ash and nodded.
“Wait, hang on, it’s not pineapples, what are they called
again?” The girls paused and thought for a moment. “Pine
martens,” said Sissy. “Pine Martens,” agreed Maeve. “You
were mad fearsome to go and tackle it though, without
even a poker as a weapon,” then she added, “We’re cycling
to town, do you want to come?” And Ash, newly burnished
with bravery, agreed. The trio set off, and Ash, regal as
a queen on the High Nelly, coasted along the town road,
while pretty pink blossom from the cherry trees settled
on their hair and shoulders, as celebratory as confetti.T
he things that Ash inherited from her great aunt
Vera included pale skin, easily bruised shins, and
the small stone cottage that was Vera’s childhood
home, dark as a cave and nestled against a hill
and beside a pine forest. The things that hadn’t
been passed down would make a long list, but top
of it would be anything that might help a timid person survive
in the wild days and nights of the countryside – where the
rain rained a river, the fire refused to light and the silence
was undone by loud and unidentifiable noises that could be
marauding ghosts or somebody alive with bad intentions.
Outside the window was spring, budding trees and a cackle
of crows on the power lines; inside, ivy was growing and
the cold was creeping through the three small rooms as Ash
tried to remember Vera’s lesson about kindling and wood
and embers. Soon it would be night again, the sky as dark
as the soot drifting down from the chimney, and Ash would
be awake on a damp truckle bed listening to the two clocks
ticking seconds out of sequence and wondering if she could
walk back into the town – two and a half hours on foot, but
much faster on the bike that she’d also inherited from Vera,
a sturdy ‘High Nelly’ that gave Vera the posture of a heavily
corseted Queen Victoria when she cycled past the rows
of cherry trees that lined the town’s streets. But Ash was
a city girl now, used to buses and trains and chary of
chancing her luck on two wheels
She managed to fall asleep, huddled under the duvet,
dreaming of restless phantoms knocking at old wooden
doors in the deep dark of the countryside.
And then someone did knock at the back door, rattling and
shaking, determined to get in. Ash, her heart as loud as the out
of time clocks, ran to the door, hoping she was imagining the
rattle of the lock, the shake of the bolt – but no, the door was
quaking in its frame. “Who’s there?” she shouted. “Who is it?”
No one answered, and still the door shook. She stood for long
years in the unquiet of the kitchen, but mere seconds passed
until she scurried across the cold cement f loor, opened the
door and harried around the side of the house, with no
thought in her head, adrenaline cancelling out fear, to see a
silent, sinuous sprite run towards the forest; to see the wooden
door nearly gnawed through to open air near the jamb.
The next morning was bright as a new wish. A wren sang,
and two of the far away neighbour’s girls arrived to check on ILLUSTRATION: LARA PAULUSSENEithne Farry is the books editor of The Simple Things, a London-based
journalist and writer, she spends a lot of time walking and cycling the
Irish countryside. Her simple pleasure is looking at ferns in the garden
centre, wondering if she can fit just one more on the mantelpiece.CONFETTI
A short story by EITHNE FARRYBEDTIME STORYthe visitor. “Your door’s wrecked,” said Sissy. Ash told the
story of the night before, the ruckus, her run around the
house, the f leeting shape. “Ah, we have those in our barn.
Those bloody pineapples, with their big sharp teeth. They
come out of the forest at night and head straight for the
woodwork,” said Maeve. Sissy looked at Ash and nodded.
“Wait, hang on, it’s not pineapples, what are they called
again?” The girls paused and thought for a moment. “Pine
martens,” said Sissy. “Pine Martens,” agreed Maeve. “You
were mad fearsome to go and tackle it though, without
even a poker as a weapon,” then she added, “We’re cycling
to town, do you want to come?” And Ash, newly burnished
with bravery, agreed. The trio set off, and Ash, regal as
a queen on the High Nelly, coasted along the town road,
while pretty pink blossom from the cherry trees settled
on their hair and shoulders, as celebratory as confetti.T
hethingsthat Ash inherited from her great aunt
Veraincluded pale skin, easily bruised shins, and
thesmallstone cottage that was Vera’s childhood
home,dark as a cave and nestled against a hill
andbeside a pine forest. The things that hadn’t
beenpassed down would make a long list, but top
ofit wouldbeanything that might help a timid person survive
inthewilddaysandnights of the countryside – where the
rainraineda river,thefire refused to light and the silence
wasundonebyloudand unidentifiable noises that could be
maraudingghostsorsomebody alive with bad intentions.
Outsidethewindow was spring, budding trees and a cackle
ofcrowsonthepowerlines; inside, ivy was growing and
thecoldwascreepingthrough the three small rooms as Ash
triedtorememberVera’s lesson about kindling and wood
andembers.Soonit would be night again, the sky as dark
asthesootdriftingdown from the chimney, and Ash would
beawakeona damptruckle bed listening to the two clocks
tickingsecondsoutofsequence and wondering if she could
walkbackintothetown – two and a half hours on foot, but
muchfasteronthebike that she’d also inherited from Vera,
a sturdy‘HighNelly’that gave Vera the posture of a heavily
corsetedQueenVictoria when she cycled past the rows
ofcherrytreesthatlined the town’s streets. But Ash was
a citygirlnow,usedto buses and trains and chary of
chancingherluckontwo wheels
Shemanagedtofallasleep, huddled under the duvet,
dreamingofrestlessphantoms knocking at old wooden
doorsinthedeepdark of the countryside.
Andthensomeonedid knock at the back door, rattling and
shaking,determinedto get in. Ash, her heart as loud as the out
oftimeclocks,rantothe door, hoping she was imagining the
rattleofthelock,theshake of the bolt – but no, the door was
quakinginitsframe.“Who’s there?” she shouted. “Who is it?”
Nooneanswered,andstill the door shook. She stood for long
yearsintheunquietof the kitchen, but mere seconds passed
untilshescurriedacross the cold cement f loor, opened the
doorandharriedaround the side of the house, with no
thoughtinherhead,adrenaline cancelling out fear, to see a
silent,sinuousspriterun towards the forest; to see the wooden
doornearlygnawedthrough to open air near the jamb.
Thenextmorningwas bright as a new wish. A wren sang,
andtwoofthefaraway neighbour’s girls arrived to check on ILLUSTRATION: LARA PAULUSSENEithne Farry is the books editor of The Simple Things, a London-based
journalist and writer, she spends a lot of time walking and cycling the
Irish countryside. Her simple pleasure is looking at ferns in the garden
centre, wondering if she can fit just one more on the mantelpiece.CONFETTI
A shortstorybyEITHNEFARRYBEDTIME STORY