By Mae Leonard

 

Good Friday, in my childhood, was a black-fast-day. One meatless meal and two collations. And two collations they were, with my mother weighing slices of bread and holding back on the butter. She spoke in a low monotone all day.

This particular Good Friday there was a sort of unnatural quietness in the house that unnerved me. It was all doom and gloom. I had to get out or be smothered.

So, with our dog in tow and Mam’s warning ringing in my ears to be back by half past two to go to the church for the 3pm Kissing of the Cross, I headed for the tree-lined Island Bank.

The streets were practically empty, every shop in Limerick city was closed and any car that passed echoed with a hollow sound off the O’Dwyer bridge. There was nobody sitting on the river wall fishing for perch.

There were rowing boats out on the river for the first time that spring but ours was firmly tied to its mooring in the middle of the river and I had no way of getting it. This was a very gloomy day and getting gloomier by the minute.

At the gateway of the Island Bank, just as I was releasing the dog to run free, the sun burst through the clouds to flicker on the old chestnut tree laden down with big sticky buds. I should have brought a rope to make a swing on that stout branch. I sigh and walk on. At the end of the boat club wall, on my right, there was a large clump of summer snowdrops about to burst into bloom.

The swamp on my left was thick with yet to blossom flag irises, their blue/grey spears like an attacking army taking over all available space but there’s yet enough water for settling swans, coot and waterhen.

This place was normally the territory of mute swans but they were joined that year by a number of whooper swans with their strange lemon and black beaks. I hurried up the path trying to get a closer look at the unusual visitors when I noticed the boys.

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