THE CORN CRAKE by Pat Watson

THE CORN CRAKE


When we were young in the nineteen fifties we used to discuss what the birds said. We could never agree about the black bird, the thrush or indeed any other songbird but we all knew what the corncrake said. He went 'grake grake, grake grake, grake grake' and everybody knew that meant, stand back, stand back, stand back. At that time there was a corncrake in every field in Ireland. At this time there was a certain young girl who had just turned sixteen and she had her mother annoyed to let her go to a dance in the town but there was no way her mother would agree as she did not have a chaperone and towns fellows were not to be trusted.

Then luck struck. The local GAA club hired a big tent in which to run a carnival for two weeks and it was close by the girl's house. Now she could go dancing. She cycled to town and bought a lovely piece of material and a pattern. The material was spread
out on the kitchen table, the pattern carefully spread on top. There was great excitement. The mother was jitterier than the daughter. They had just got in the electricity. They had a brand new singer sewing machine. We will put in shoulder pads and you can wear your new bra. I will lend you my black patent belt to match the shoes; sure it would go twice round your little waist.'

These were modern times. For the moment meals were suspended. The men could grumble and wait. Oh it was wonderful, Harry Belafonte was singing on the wireless,
'I see woman on bended knee, cutting cane for her family,' 'Well God be with the days.' 'I see man by the waterside, casting nets at the surging tide.' 'He might as well be, as looking for a bit to eat round here.' In spite of those unhelpful remarks and a few minor glitches the needlework classes paid off, the project was successful and the dress was completed. Now for the hair! All hell broke loose.

After tea, her mother rolled her hair on her
finger and held each curl in place with a pipe
cleaner. It took ages and was sometimes painful
but there were no complaints. You have to suffer
to be beautiful.

Next day, when the pipe cleaners were removed the
hair brushed out perfectly. On the night when she
put on the multi-coloured dress over the new bra,
with the shoulder pads and the patent belt, she
was beautiful. Even the hungry grumblers agreed.

'Mammy' she said, 'what is it a Gra?' (Love)
'If a boy wants to walk me home after the dance, will it be alright?'
'I suppose as the place is well lit up and if he is a nice respectable country boy, it will.'
'Mammy.' 'What is it now child?' 'If the boy wants to kiss me will I let him?'
The mother thought for a moment, her mind was racing, racing back to her own youth, her dreams, her dilemmas, her desires, 'You can if you both agree to obey the corncrake and when he calls stand back you're to stand back.'

As it happened, the boy who walked her home on the night was a friend of mine and next morning I waylaid him. 'Well how did you get on?' 'How did I get on?' says he, with some agitation. 'I'll tell you how I got on! You know as well as I know that the sweet girl lives only a hundred yards from the marquee, and I walked her home all
of five miles but we never did get away from the blooming corncrake.'

'The Corn Crake' is one of sixty lyrical yarns from 'Original Irish Stories' by Pat Watson, Creagh, Bealnamulla, Athlone, Ireland. First published in May, 2006.
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