Death of An Irishman

It feels good to put the axe down and head in from the scrub to spend a piece of time with mates on Fridays in the pub and yarn about the week that’s gone, with an elbow on the bar; listen to the idle gossip and hear who was the star. From the corner of the mouth in a whisper hard to hear, there’s stories of the wayward folk with tongues loosened by the beer. Whether they be true or not is no concern for anyone; it’s shocking if the rumours wrong with what damage can be done. Other stories come to light, about hard times that someone had. Because they don’t titillate the mind and because they’re only sad, few want to hear my story; less would probably understand, how I should have read the signs that destroyed an Irishman. * * * * * I glanced with little pity at the hearse and who’s behind. This cavalcade of mourning stuck loosely on my mind as I watched the Priest who followed, and one man who walked alone. I wondered who had left us, until the Priest spoke to us at home. “So sad” the Father said - “She was the mourner’s wife. The poor mother of three children who died when giving life. They migrated here from Ireland with no work and naught for rent. They’ve been living near the river; the whole family in one tent.” With sullen face the Father spoke “There’s two boys and a little girl”. ‘Adams apple’ moving up and down, he spoke of harshness in this world, until finally he got around to alleviate his bother. We took the little red haired girl - my ‘Els’ became her mother. * * * * * A saddened Dad, lad on each knee, tears rolling down his cheek. He motioned us to wait a while for he found it hard to speak. Beneath his bed from an old trunk he held a needle and some thread, plied to the hem of a tiny dress by the woman who’s now dead. “Your little boys!” Elsie asked - for some time the tent went quiet. He said he’d get some work soon so the boys would be all right. For weeks we never saw him. Elsie spoke of this concerned. He had not come to see his daughter who still for her mother yearned. * * * * * One Friday night I questioned friends, as we gathered in the pub. I asked them about the Irishman. They said ‘he’s in the scrub’. He can’t get work, lord how he’s tried; of late he’s been downhearted. I felt I should check his welfare so from the pub departed. The boys, unkempt and hungry - ‘Three days’ they said their Dad had gone. Alone in the open bush they waited until I had come along. “Coo-ee!” I called; searched scrub surrounds; smelt an odour in the air … finally I found the Irishman - a gun lay beside him there.