West Wind Blows 24nov2024

This program is sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling, offering an affordable and sustainable way to dispose of old furniture and mattresses. The West Wind Blows is a weekly program of poetry, song, and story, hosted by Kathleen Faherty and produced by Bridie Cashin. The program begins with a story called "The Forest" written by John Stanton. The story reflects on the forestry practices in the 60s in Connemara, Ireland, where large tracts of land were planted with trees. The story evokes nostalgia and reflects on the impact of the forest on the landscape and people's lives. This program is kindly sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling. Say goodbye to your old furniture and mattress in an affordable, convenient and sustainable way. Call 091-760-877. Hello again and welcome to the West Wind Blows, a weekly program of poetry, song and story. My name is Kathleen Faherty and Bridie Cashin is producer and technician for the program. We'll begin the program this week with a story written by John Stanton and it's called The Forest and John himself will read the story. I'm going to read you a story I wrote myself, a short story, a simple story called The Forest. It really is a kind of a snapshot of the 60s when the forestry planted large tracts of mountain land in Connemara. It's very self-explanatory. It was literally outside our house and it was a huge forest called the Torrinacona Woods reaching down the Eina Valley and my father worked on that planting trees. They grew up seemingly forever and gradually but with modern machinery when the harvesting came the harvesting was so rapid they were gone in a matter of scenes like days and as it came near our house just one day the whole landscape was transformed and it brought me back to my childhood to see the forest felled. I think it's self-explanatory and I hope you enjoy it. The Forest I was a child of the 60s. I was too young to appreciate the feeling of hope and optimism that was taking root in Ireland. The country was awakening out of the dreary 50s and belief in ourselves was being nurtured. Immigration was still a huge problem with many young people attracted to the bright lights of London and the more adventurous heading to Boston and New York. At home great efforts were made to create more employment. It is here my story begins. My father got work with Irish Forestry. The semi-state body had acquired large tracts of mountain land in Connemara. Research had shown that unproductive bogland could in fact yield a good crop of timber and in our mild, wet climate growth should be rapid. Vast areas of marginal land were to be planted with coniferous trees, mainly contactopine and sitka spruce. I could sense the feeling of security in the home. Without understanding I knew something good was happening. Heavy tractor-like machines mounted on wide tracts were needed to drag the huge single furrow ribbon plough that left a never-ending line of wet, soft black peat in its wake. The tiny plants would be planted into these long ribbons of bog and nature would do the rest. I remember standing at the front door listening to the increasing hum of the great engines as they came closer, and the excitement at the first glimpse of the blue cab on the horizon as the tractor and plough crossed the brow of the small hill. Very quickly the landscape was changed into a maze of parallel black lines with some criss-crossing to help drainage. Here the workers got involved with their big spades to clear any obstructions that would impede the flow of water. This evening was special. My sister and I were to be taken out into the new wonderland to see for ourselves what had happened. I was eager to carry out a detailed examination of the tractor and plough to try and figure out how it could turn the sod to create these strange roadways through the soft bog. I felt disappointed at how wet the upturned peat was, and that I was getting stuck as I tried to race along the black highways. The evening came to a close with a visit to the little timber hut used by the workers at tea-time and on wet days. I sat on the narrow plank mounted to the sides of the hut, a relief for my tired seven-year-old limbs. This was pure bliss. I did not notice the gap between the door and the jam, nor was conscious of how damp and humid the hut became on wet days, where the workers had to stay confined until it was time to go home. The planting season was the busiest time. It ran from October until April. For this many part-time workers were taken on. These were usually young fellows in their mid to late teens. This added a new dynamic to the permanent staff. With youth came energy and laughter. On quite November days I listened to the latest pop songs, rehearsed over and over as the new planters looked forward to the weekend and the dancing bunnies all. For most of these young people it was a first pay packet. After contributing at home, a priority was to get one's own transport. Some strange vehicles appeared. On cold evenings they were slow to start. This was not a problem as there were many burly pals to give a push. Also the hilly roads of Connemara had advantages, and you soon learned where to park your price purchase in the morning, before you took to the hills to begin another day's planting. Martin the ganger would need the quota filled. After all, they were the second best planting crew in the country, only surpassed by another mountainous pack in Lumigol. Our neighbour Paddy, a lively chap, wanted more excitement, so he bought himself a span new Honda 50. The adrenaline raced through my veins as I mounted this mighty machine as a pillion passenger and held on for dear life to Paddy as we took a sharp right down the bumpy bog road to Laffey. For others it was a chance to put together the few quid needed to take the boat from Dun Laoghaire to Holyhead, to work as navvies on London's motorways and construction sites. The trees grew slowly at first, but as they approached their teenage years they got a great surge of growth. They grew tall and thin, standing side by side in great lines like young soldiers. The trees seemed to accentuate the height of the mountains in winter, and in spring the new needles added a welcome lushness to the bleak mountain landscape. Sadly these benefits were short-lived. The fast-growing conifers quickly started to interfere with the wide openness we were used to. A curtain was drawn, blocking out the lower hills, and a narrow line of the mountain ridge leading to Binbon was all that was visible from our kitchen window. Down at our gate the sun shone less, and in winter frost lingered, making the Inn 59 dangerous to drive on. My father was slow to complain, as if it was a betrayal to his employer, and on stormy nights he reminded us of the shelter the trees gave. Sometimes I would wander deep into the forest. The silence was scary. The high tree canopy had blocked out the sunlight, preventing any undergrowth to establish, and the carpet of fallen pine needles created a sterile acid environment devoid of all life. No birds nested here, and in spring the returning cuckoo gave the forest a wide berth. The trees, while very tall, were slow to girth up. We wondered what would ever happen to them. The state seemed to have abandoned them. Then suddenly the harvesters arrived. Two strange-looking green machines moved in down the Ina Valley, and the rapid cutting began. It lifted our hearts to see arctic loads of timber pass by, the better timber to be used in construction, and the thinner poles for fencing posts. Some were taken to the Waterford mills to make chipboard. The machines worked night and day. It was amazing how quickly they cleared the faraway slopes. A new landscape was emerging. Being aware of this, I was still caught totally by surprise one day in spring. It was February, in fact. Ironic, in that in former times the planting season would be in full swing. I had left for work that morning as usual, but returning for lunch I was taken aback. Such was the transformation. Getting out of my car I looked in awe at my surroundings. I could not take it in. From the kitchen window the ceiling was becoming more bizarre. The years had been rolled back. I was a returned exile without ever leaving. Once again I saw the beauty of being born in its entirety. My eyes moved speedily to check the many landmarks of my youth. Yes, they were all there—the rock where the lightning struck, the hillocky ridge where I watched the summer mist creep over ever so slowly, and the little gurgling stream which held so many happy memories. That evening our family gathered to witness the new revelation. It was in the early sixties—sixty-four, sixty-five, I'd say it was planted, my brother said, looking out the window. Yeah, I agreed. I remember walking down to the crossroads to the school van, and they were ploughing it. I wonder whatever happened to Jim Breen. He was from Kerry, and used to drive one of the track machines. Over supper we remembered the men who worked there. We named them all—sadly, many of them gone, including my own father. We reminisced about old times and the local characters that once were so much part of our childhood—a different Ireland, different times. Today new plants have arrived. There are more modern planting methods now. The trees grow better the second time round, as the mountain is drier and more firm. More thought goes into protecting the environment. Diffiduous trees—mainly alder, birch, and some mountain ash—will be planted nearer the main road to create more biodiversity, creating a more pleasing visual look and hopefully attract native birds to nest. I sit and watch as the last of the long, heavy logs are skillfully piled onto the trailer. The harvest is complete. However I feel a little sadness as the truck pulls away, severing the link with the ribbon plough and its planters. Trees by Alfred Joyce Kilmer I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree, a tree whose hungry mouth is pressed against the earth's sweet-flowing breast, a tree that looks at God all day and lifts her leafy arms to pray, a tree that may in summer wear a nest of robins in her hair, upon whose bosom snow has lain, who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree. The poem Trees by Joyce Kilmer was read here by Leora Moraghan. Robert Service was born in 1874 and died in 1958. He was a British-Canadian poet and writer, often referred to as the Bard of the Yukon. He is best known for his poems The Shooting of Dan McGrew and The Cremation of San Magee. His vivid descriptions of the Yukon and its people made it seem that he was a veteran of the Plondike Gold Rush, instead of the late-riding bank clerk he actually was. This poem you are about to hear is called My Madonna, and it's a kind of departure from his usual themes. Now Vincent Murphy will read My Madonna by Robert Service. My Madonna by Robert Service I hailed me a woman from the street, Shameless, but oh so fair! I bade her sit in the model seat, And painted her sitting there. I hid all traces of her heart unclean, I painted a babe at her breast. I painted her as she might have been, If the worst had been the best. She laughed at my picture and went away, Then came, with a knowing nod, a connoisseur, And I heard him say, "'Tis Mary the mother of God." So I painted a halo round her hair, And I sold her and took my fee, And she hangs in the church of St. Hilaire, Where you and all may see. I don't know how to love him, What to do, how to move him. I've been changed, yes, really changed, In these past few days, when I've seen myself, I seem like someone's else. And I don't know how to take this, I don't see why he moves me. He's a man, he's just a man, I've had so many men before, In very many ways, he's just one more. Should I bring him down? Should I bring him down? Should I speak of love? Let my feelings out. I never thought I'd come to this, What's it all about? Yes, if he said he loved me, I'd be lost, I'd be frightened, I couldn't cope, just couldn't cope. I'd turn my head, I'd back away, I wouldn't want to know, He scares me so. Should I bring him down? Should I scream and shout? Should I speak of love? Let my feelings out. I never thought I'd come to this, What's it all about? He's a man, he's just a man, I've had so many men before, In very many ways. And that was I Don't Know How To Love Him by Sinéad O'Connor and it's from the musical Jesus Christ Superstar. Robert Burns, Scotland's greatest poet, was born 1759 and died in 1796. His father was a poverty-stricken farmer but a man of great character who valued education and encouraged Robert to read and gave him as much schooling as possible with his limited resources. Robert read everything from collections of songs to Shakespeare and Milton. He carried small volumes in his pocket and studied them while he was out in the fields or at the kitchen table. The Burns poem you are about to hear is My Love Is Like A Red, Red Rose and the poem is read by Professor Stephen Marshall. Oh, my love is like a red, red rose that's newly sprung in June. Oh, my love is like a melody that's sweetly played in June. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, so deep in love am I, and I will love thee still, my dear, till all the seas gang dry. Till all the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt with the sun, and I will love thee still, my dear, while the sands of life shall run. And fair thee will, my only love, and fair thee will a while, and I will come again, my love, so twa'er ten thousand mile. I have heard the mayor singing in his love song to the morn. I have seen the dewdrops clinging to the rose just newly born. But a sweeter song has cheered me at the evening's gentle glow, and I've seen an eye still brighter than the dewdrop on the rose. T'was thy voice, my gentle Mary, and thine artless winning smile that has made this world an Eden, bonnie Mary of Argyll. Though thy voice may lose its sweetness and thy naive brightness too, though thy step may lack its cleanness and thy hair its sunny hue, still to me wilt thou be nearer than all the world shall own. I have loved thee for thy beauty, but not for that alone. I have watched thy heart, dear Mary, and thy goodness was the wild that has made thee mine forever, bonnie Mary of Argyll. And that was Count John McCormack with Bonnie Mary of Argyll. John Quinn is a writer, broadcaster and former primary school teacher. He retired from RTE Radio in 2002 after a distinguished career lasting 27 years. He now lives in Stradbelly North, Clern Bridge. His books are available in Charlie Burns Bookshop in Middle Street, Galway. Now we listen to John Quinn reading an extract from his audiobook, Moments. And this piece is called Bobby. Bobby. We had a dog at mass today. Not your usual mischievous mutt that saunters up the aisle and onto the sanctuary, defying all the altar boy's embarrassing attempts to capture him. No, this dog was a guest of honour, publicly welcomed by Father Dermody. His name is Bobby, and the occasion was the funeral of his much-loved mistress, Rosemary Kennedy. Rosemary was a writer, artist, dancer and dog lover. At the end of mass, Mark Green read out Bobby's story, as written by Rosemary. He had been abandoned in a nearby town some years ago, and was discovered by Rosemary when he was hanging out outside a supermarket in the hope of picking up some food scraps. Bobby's is an all-sorts pedigree. His tale, of which he is very proud, is definitely Pomeranian, and he has a lovely tan and white colouring. Rosemary adopted him, and the pair became inseparable, particularly on their riverside walks, and most importantly in latter years, when Rosemary bravely fought cancer. So, when Rosemary died this week, it was only right and fitting that Bobby attend her funeral, and be publicly acknowledged for the important part he played in her life. He was, of course, impeccably behaved at mass, though part of that may be the beginnings of his sense of loss. And when one of the mourners carried him out of the church behind Rosemary's coffin, we instinctively reached out to pet him, for he was a mourner too. And that was John Gerard Walsh on accordion, with A Gráma Chroí. The Scottish poet Mariette Edgar was born in 1880 and died in 1951. He was renowned for his wit and roll sense of humour. Pete Ball will read Albert and the Lion by Mariette Edgar. Albert and the Lion There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool that's noted for fresh air and fun, and Mr. and Mrs. Ramsbottom went there with young Albert, their son. A grand little lad was young Albert, all dressed in his best, quite a swell, with a stick with a horse's head handle, the finest that Woolworths could sell. They didn't think much of the ocean, the waves were all fiddling and small, there was no wrecks and nobody drownded, in fact nothing to laugh at at all. So, seeking for further amusement, they paid and went into the zoo, where they had lions and tigers and camels, and wholedale and sandwiches too. There was one great big lion called Wallace, his nose was all covered with scars, he lay in a somnolent posture, with the side of his face on the bars. Now Albert had heard about lions, how they were ferocious and wild. To see Wallace's lion so peaceful, well it didn't seem right to the child. So straight away the brave little fella, not showing a morsel of fear, took his stick with the horse's head handle and pushed it in Wallace's ear. You could see that the lion didn't like it, for giving a kind of a roll, he pulled Albert inside the cage with him and he swallowed the little lad whole. Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence and didn't know what to do next, said, Mother, you're on lions, I said, Albert, and Mother said, well I am vexed. Then Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom, quite rightly when all's said and done, complained to the animal keeper that the lion had eaten their son. The keeper were quite nice about it, he said, what a nasty mishap. Are you sure that it's your boy he's eaten? Pa said, am I sure, he had his cap, the manager had to be sent for. He came and he said, what's to do? Pa said, you're on lions, said Albert, and him in his Sunday clothes too. Then Mother said, right, right, young fella, I think it's a shame and a sin for a lion to go and eat Albert, after we've paid to come in. The manager wanted no trouble, he took out his purse right away, saying, how much to settle the matter? And Pa said, what do you usually pay? But Mother had turned a bit awkward when she thought where her Albert had gone. She said, no, someone's got to be summonsed. So that was decided upon. Then off they went to the police station in front of the magistrate chap. They told him what happened to Albert and proved it by showing his cap. The magistrate gave his opinion that no one was really to blame and he said that he hoped that the Ramsbottoms would have further sons to their name. At that Mother got proper blazing. And thank you, sir, kindly, said she. What a waste of our lives raising children to feed ruddy lions, not me. And now Pete Ball will conclude the story of Albert and the Lion. Now you've heard how young Albert Ramsbottom, at the zoo up at Blackpool one year, with a stick with a norse's head handle, gave a lion a poke in the ear. The name of the lion was Wallace. The poke in the ear made him wild. And before you could say, Bob's your uncle, he'd upped and he'd swallowed the child. He was sorry the moment he'd done it. With children he'd always been chums. And besides, he'd no teeth in his muzzle and he couldn't chew Albert on gums. He could feel the lad moving inside him as he lay on his bed of dried ferns. And it might have been little lad's birthday. He wished him such happy returns. But Albert kept kicking and fighting. And Wallace got up feeling bad. Decided it was time he started to stage a comeback for the lad. Then put his head down in one corner. On his front paws he started to walk. And he coughed and he sneezed and he gargled. Till Albert shot out like a cork. Now Wallace felt better directly. And his figure once more became lean. But the only difference with Albert was his face and his hands were quite clean. Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Ramsbottom had gone back for their tea feeling blue. Ma said, I feel down in the mouth like. Pa said, Aye, I bet Albert does too. Said Mother, it just goes to show you that the future is never revealed. If I thought we was going to lose him, I'd have not had his boots sold and healed. Let's look on the bright side, said Father. What can't be helped must be endured. Each cloud has a silver lining. And we did have young Albert insured. A knock on the door came that moment. As Father these kind words did speak. T'was the man from Prudential he'd come for. Their tuppence per person per week. When Father saw who'd been knocking, he laughed and kept laughing so. The man said, Eh, what's there to laugh at? Pa said, You'll laugh at all when you know. Excuse him for laughing, said Mother. But really things happen so strange. Our Albert's been ate by a lion. You've got to pay us for a change, said the young man from Prudential. Now come, come, let's understand this. You don't need to say that you've lost him. Pa said, Oh no, we know where he is. When the young man had heard all the details, a purse from his pocket he drew. And he paid them with interest and bonus, the sum of nine pounds four and two. Pa had scarce got his hand on the money. When a face at the window they see. And Mother cried, Eh, look, it's Albert. And Father said, Aye, it would be. Albert came in all excited and started his story to give. And Pa said, I'll never trust lions again, not as long as I live. The young man from Prudential to pick up the money began. But Father said, Eh, wait a moment. Don't be in such a hurry, young man. Then giving young Albert a shilling, he said, Eh, pop off back to the zoo. Get your stick with the horse's dead handle. And go and see what the tigers can do. Po Po, Po Po the Puppet. Po Po, Po Po the Puppet. Po Po, Po Po the Puppet. A fellow that you ought to know. Po Po the Puppet can do anything. A thing, a thing, a thing. Po Po can fly though he hasn't a wing. A wing, a wing, a wing. He can juggle a prune. Blow up a balloon. Or tickle a tune on the piano. He can fly a kite. In spite of his height. And swing through the base of the cloud. Po Po the Puppet can jump through a ring. Swing on a swing. Spring on a spring. Yes, Po Po the Puppet can do anything. When somebody else pulls the string. The string, the string, the string. When somebody else pulls the string. Po Po the Puppet he went to the zoo. The zoo, the zoo, the zoo. I went to the zoo with my mommy. And I saw all the animals. Didin' I. Didin' I. I went to the zoo with my mommy. And I saw an elephant. Didin' I. Didin' I. And then my mommy took me in the cage. And she showed me the cage. And I saw a hippopotamus on top of the elephant. Didin' I. Didin' I. And then I saw rhinoceros. Because rhinoceros. Rhinoceros because rhinoceros. Rhinoceros because rhinoceros. A giraffe I saw. Didin' I. Didin' I. Po Po can bark. Arf, arf, arf, arf. Sing like a lark. Woof, woof, woof, woof. Move like a cow. Moo. Do like a sow. Oink. Sound a note just like a goat. Meh. Po Po can go like a dog. And go like a bee. Bee. Go like a seal. Quack. And like a hen. Quack, quack, quack. Po Po the Puppet can do anything. If somebody else pulls the string. The string. The string. The string. If somebody else pulls the string. He can stand on his head. While making his bed. And death in a minute. Get it. Woof, woof, woof. Can do any trick. That you can pick. And in addition. Arithmetic. Po Po the Puppet can jump to a ring. Swing on a string. Swing on a string. Po Po the Puppet can do anything. And he did it. And he did it. And he did it. And I did it. Did I not? And that was Denny Kay with Po Po the Puppet. We have a story written by Bernie Corton. And the story is read by Mary Faherty and Vincent Murphy. Lisa's Jacket. By Bernie Corton. Here. Take my jacket. Lisa said. No, I'm fine. It's only a light mist. I said. But she insisted. So I gave in and put the jacket on. Besides, I thought. When would I ever get a chance to wear a designer jacket again? I'm only walking for about two minutes. When a speeding van nearly splashes me with mud. I'd better be careful, I think. My dad would probably have to work for the rest of the year just to pay it back if anything should happen to it. It's not quite the same as the good old St. Bernard brand. It's not a long walk home, about 15 minutes, which is usually spent daydreaming about Rick. Rick just started in our school last year when his family moved back from America. All the girls love him. I'm not sure if it is the American accent or the fact that he is tall and gorgeous. His deep and fulsome blue eyes are like the colour of the ocean on the clearest day that you can imagine. Or maybe it's just the name. Rick. What's not to love? I'm so busy daydreaming that I nearly walk into a man who is putting a ladder into the back of a van. Oops, sorry, I say. But he doesn't look up. He is wearing overalls that splatter the paint that look like they were put on deliberately, like someone who is trying to paint the stars in the sky. I make my way around the ladder as he slides it into the van and I notice that he is wearing well-polished black shoes, which seems a bit unusual for a painter. Then he suddenly grabs me from behind and my head comes into contact with the cold steel in the back of the van. Everything turns black. I become aware of a tightness around my head. It's cold. There is a distant rumbling sound and slowly, as if I'm waking from a bad dream, reality bites. Demented fears rise up in my mind. I can't move. What is he going to do? Rape me? Kill me? Dump my body in some ditch? I'm too young to die and anyway I haven't even kissed Rick yet. The van is slowing down. I'm sure I can hear a woman's voice so I try my best to scream but all that comes out is a low groan. We are moving again and I howl in despair. Mum, Dad, I should be home by now. A horror film crosses my mind about a woman who is abducted in the boot of a car. She tries to figure out which right or left turn her kidnapper is taking so I try that but after a while, because of the many twists and turns, I lose track. It feels like I'm in the van for hours but it probably isn't that long. There is a terrible stale smell like that of tuna sandwiches which has just gone off. I think I'm about to get sick which is not great considering this tape over my mouth. The van comes to a halt and I hear the clap of the driver's door. I brace myself. The door slides open and I wrestle in vain but he just heaves me like a sack of potatoes over his broad shoulders. Crows are squawking overhead. We must be in a wood. I try to shield my dangling, throbbing head from the swishing, ropey bushes. He is slacking now. His breath is rasping. If only he'll suffer a heart attack and die. Oh no, I think. Bad idea. What if nobody can find me in time? The crows call louder. He is off again. We're climbing. There is a creaking sound like a door opening. We're in a musty, smelling building going down steps. I'm dumped onto something soft like a wiry mattress and recoil in abject fear sensing his stinking breath in my ear. He speaks low with a gravelly voice. I'm going to untie you now. If you don't try anything stupid I won't hurt you, OK? And there's no point in screaming. Nobody can hear you. I wrench in pain as he whips off the tape around my mouth and unties my hands and feet but leaves my eyes covered. Why are you doing this to me? I imagine trying to sound brave. Please let me go. I won't tell anyone, I swear. The door bangs shut and I burst into tears. I can't believe I'm doing this. I'm not a criminal but I'm not letting that smartass get away with this. I've waited years for this. My revenge. Let him see what it's like to lose all your money, your family, well some of his money and one of his kids for a few hours. Why did I ever trust him? Just because he's a big fat businessman and politician he thinks he can use people any way that suits him. Oh yes, invest all your money in my business. I'll double it in five years, he promised. But the business didn't even last three years and my marriage didn't last much longer after that once the house was repossessed. Here she comes, the smug little madam in her fancy jacket. As they say, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Okay, I have to pretend that I'm struggling with the ladder. Oh crap, I didn't mean to be so rough with her. I nearly forget myself and say sorry. I must be careful not to show any kind of weakness. Now to get out of here before someone sees me. God, the adrenaline is pumping wildly as I drive out into the main street. I stop at the traffic lights. I hear her muffled mumblings but confident that nobody else can hear. I carry on. Driving along the open road the enormity of what I'm doing hits me. I can't do it. I'll just let her off when the coast is clear where someone can find her. But then that laughing mug of her father appears again. No, I say, composing myself. Man up, you can do this. Grow a pair. I take a quick look around, checking that I'm not being followed and turn left up the secluded boreen to my hideout. I exit the van. She's not taking it easy for me. I hadn't reckoned that for a skinny little thing. She's a lot heavier than I expected as I struggle to hold onto her wriggling body hanging over my shoulder. I need to catch my breath. I finally push on and enter the timber cottage hidden behind a clump of old oaks. She's moaning. I untie her. I think about Clara, my own daughter, and the guilt is overwhelming. At least she'll be comfortable enough on the mattress for what should be a short stay. For what father in his right mind wouldn't want his kid back pronto? I leave her a bottle of water and a bag of crisps. It'll all be over for both of us soon, I hope. I'm wrecked. I need a kip and it's late. Bright sunshine is streaming in through the cobweb window. Birds are squawking. Crows. I jump up. Oh no, I've overslept. The girl in the basement. I nudge open the door. Her blindfold is off. I cover my face and toss a sandwich in her direction. I have to do it now and get it over with. I practice my fake voice before picking up the phone. Is Henry there? Yes, speaking, he says in that superior tone of his. I have your daughter. I want five hundred thousand notes by nine this evening or else. Stay by the phone. No cops. I say, trying to sound as menacing as possible. Feck off, you nutjob. She's right here having breakfast. He hollers and hangs up. I sit here with my mouth open. The beast. How could he have such disregard for his daughter? Is there a guard beside him, telling him what to say? This is not going to plan. What do I do now? My head swims. I spend the next hour emplacing the floor, trying to think, work out what to do. I'm not going to ring him back yet. Let him shoo for a while, let him taste the floor. But of course, the radio. Why didn't I think of it earlier? It's just gone eight. I hurry to the van. My sweaty fingers turn the knob. A local girl with blue eyes. And got him. The so-and-so. I laugh out loud. The daughter of a local farmer. We're very concerned for her safety. I freeze. A white sport coat and a pink carnation. I'm all dressed up for the dance. A white sport coat and a pink carnation. I'm all alone in romance. Once you told me long ago. To the prom with me you'd go. Now you've changed your mind it seems. Someone else will hold my dream. A white sport coat and a pink carnation. And it all blew, blew, blew. A white sport coat and a pink carnation. I'm all dressed up for the dance. A white sport coat and a pink carnation. I'm all alone in romance. Once you told me long ago. To the prom with me you'd go. Now you've changed your mind it seems. Someone else will hold my dream. A white sport coat and a pink carnation. I'm in a blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, There is no right or wrong, but there must be justice for the poor, for the sick and the sick, and for the old man and the old lady. With both sides of the same coin, we must not forget the old man and the old lady, that is justice. There is no better way than to be as we are, and to put everything in order. We must not forget the old man and the old lady, that is justice. There is no better way than to be as we are, and to put everything in order. We must not forget the old man and the old lady, that is justice. There is no better way than to be as we are, and to put everything in order. We must not forget the old man and the old lady, There is no better way than to be as we are, and to put everything in order. But my dear mother, my dear mother, my dear mother, My dear mother, my dear mother, my dear mother, my dear mother, There is no better way than to be as we are, and to put everything in order. And my dear mother, My dear mother, my dear mother, My dear mother, my dear mother, My dear mother, my dear mother, My dear mother, my dear mother, My dear mother, There is no better way than to be as we are, and to put everything in order. And my dear mother, my dear mother, my dear mother, My dear mother, My dear mother, my dear mother, There is no better way than to be as we are, and to put everything in order. And my dear mother, my dear mother, my dear mother, And that was Barbara Bourke with An Bonan Buí. And it's from the Connemara Community Radio CD, Combah de Hills. Well, we've come to the end of the programme for this week. Thanks to all who contributed. Thanks to Bridie who produced the programme. And thank you at home for listening. Please tune in again next week, same time, to The West Wind Blows. Bye for now. We've come to the end of the programme for this week. Thanks to all who contributed. Thanks to Bridie who produced the programme. Thanks at home for listening. Please tune in again next week, same time, to The West Wind Blows. And thank you at home for listening. Please tune in again next week. Bye for now. Kindly sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling. Say goodbye to your old furniture and matches in an affordable, convenient and sustainable way. Call 091 760 877.