The winner of our NewsFour Short Story Competition is Jennifer Betts of Irishtown (pictured right) for her short story ‘The Lakeshore’. We are very happy to present her with her prize of €100. This competition will now become an annual event due to the great interest shown by our readers.

Paul Howard (of Ross O’Carroll Kelly fame) kindly agreed to judge the competition and had great praise for Jennifer. Paul was fascinated by ‘The Lakeshore’ and said her story was: “Excellent, emotional but without being over sentimental.” Overall, he was astonished by the standard and gave praise to all the writers. This is praise indeed coming from a best-selling author with his debut play ‘The Last Days of the Celtic Tiger’ due to open in the Olympia in November. He was especially taken by George Kearns’s ‘Trolley Boy’, typifying as it does so many unfortunate men in the supermarket, so we have decided to publish this one too (see page 4).

Emma Costello, who is 13 years of age, sent in an excellent story, ‘The Gas Mask’, which we will publish in our December issue.

Thanks to all those who entered, keep writing, there is so much talent out there.

Ann Ingle

The long winding path seemed to lead to nowhere. My mother had a knowing smile about what lay ahead, the cottage where she spent many summers as a young girl. It was a far cry from our two-storey council house back home, but it didn’t impress me much. I hadn’t wanted to leave the city, but I made no fuss.

My father said that my mother needed peace and quiet, somewhere to come back to. I didn’t know what that meant at the time. My sister, Sissy, was too young to remember the cottage, too young to remember our mother.

I wandered too far from the house one day, too far for a 9-year-old boy, but I don’t think my father noticed me gone. I had heard about the lakes in these parts, but never imagined such beauty.

My father, being a Scotsman, remained openly unimpressed by the Loughs of Ireland, he would say that all the Loughs of Ireland put together would fit only into the corner of the smallest Loch in the Highlands. Everything was bigger and better in Scotland according to my father.

It was at the lakeshore of Lough Bann that I met Brill, an eight-year-old local boy, who knew the lakes well. He was a boy far older and wiser than his years.

“Can you swim?”
“Erm, yeah.”
“Ok, race ye!”

And so began our friendship, Brill the effervescent explorer, me the cautious, sheltered follower. Brill was much wilier than what I expected of a country boy. Maybe I was out of my depth, plucked from the familiar surroundings of my city life. I can’t explain why I trusted this boy with a whole heart, but our kinship was immediately unquestionable. Brill taught me how to fish, how to catch rabbits, even how to build my first club house, or ‘The Station’, as we liked to call it. He lived on the hill with his family, but didn’t mention them much.

“Why do you miss the city?” he asked me one day.
“I miss my friends I suppose, the shops, the busy streets.”
“Over rated if you ask me.”

Brill seemed unimpressed by my descriptions: there was no importance of belonging here, out in the freedom of natural surroundings.

I went to meet him one day, at our usual spot. Brill was already there, gathering more materials for the station.

“What are the rocks for Brill?”
“Monsters.”
“Monsters??”
“Yeah, in the caves, don’t worry we’ll be safe with our weapons.”

And of course I believed him, I trusted him. We sure gave those unwelcome guests a run for their money. Monsters weren’t a problem here anymore.
“What kind of a name is Brill anyway?” I asked him one day.

“Dunno..”
“Is it short for anything?”
“Don’t think so.”

I came back late to the cottage one evening, my father didn’t question where I was, he just said what he always said.

“Get up tae much today lad?”
“No sir.”

He protectively kept me sheltered from my mother’s suffering, but he couldn’t hide his feelings as well as he thought. I would see tears in his eyes as we ate supper, but I never commented on it. I didn’t tell him about Brill. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought if I shared my friendship with anyone that it would disappear as quickly as it had arrived.

Summer turned to autumn and the lake became even more beautiful in the dusky light. Yellowish brown leaves fell silently from pubescent trees.

As I took in the splendour around me I noticed a small black bird with a red beak, swimming at the water’s edge, collecting discarded leaves that floated on the water. Back and forth he went, carrying the leaves back to his nest, hidden in the bushes. What a task I thought? Where does he get his energy?

He didn’t seem to mind the hard work though, nor did he notice his forage being cruelly blown back into the water. I couldn’t help but think how easy it would be to do it for him, take a big bundle of leaves and hand them to him. It seemed like a pointless exercise. How could such a small task make such a difference in this mighty world? It made a difference to him though and then I realised that I was a guest in his world, not him in mine.

I went to meet Brill the next day, as usual. He ran towards me, looking excited.

“Better get some covering for The Station, it’s to rain later.”
He didn’t seem to notice my anxiety, nor my formal attire.
“I can’t stay today Brill.”
“Some sort of sheeting we’d need…”
“Brill! I can’t stay today, it’s my mother.”

He didn’t say anything else, just looked at me, smiled and said “ok”.

It did rain that day, just as Brill said it would. They say rain at a funeral means a peaceful passing. Who really knows though, lest Christ no one else has ever come back to tell us otherwise?

The cottage was so busy with mourners that I didn’t make it back to the lakeshore for several weeks. My father did his best to create decent meals for my sister and me although they lacked the care and attention of a mother’s hand. I still thanked him for his efforts though. He didn’t say it, but I think he liked having me around in those few weeks. For company? help with Sissy? who knows?

It was after the last egg salad sandwich was eaten that he came to my room one day and softly dropped a letter on my bed.

“Here lad, you’re old enough.”

It was a letter from my mother. If my father thought turning ten was old enough then who was I to argue?

I didn’t know what to expect from the letter, or how to react. And I knew that there was only one person I wanted to share it with.

I raced down to the lakeshore, the cold wind sweeping me along. But when I got there I sensed that I was alone. Everywhere looked untouched, like no one had ever been there, ever played there. Even The Station stood still and barren.

And there was no sign of Brill. I sat down at the water’s edge and nervously opened the letter. My emotions immediately calmed when I read the first three words. “To My Charlie” it was my mother, every sense and breath of her poured into one page, right down to her scent. She told me to look after my sister, my father, to have a fulfilling life, to laugh and play and be happy. And some other things that I will not share with anyone else, for as long as I do then she is still with me.

I wept for her hard, I wept for myself. As the water soothingly crashed against the rocks I could have sworn I heard her call my name, but when I turned all that was there was my old friend the black bird, still there, still surviving.

We left the cottage soon after. I didn’t return to the lakeshore until many years later. My wife and daughter came too and even my father, whose tired and weary legs had left him wheelchair-bound, but the fire was still there in the old man.

I don’t think I imagined the delight on his face when we settled, even he should be impressed by ‘my place’. We sat there together, staring out at the water as my wife and daughter played a few feet away.

I looked over and saw two boys larking about at the water’s edge and for the first time in longer than I care to remember I thought of Brill. One of the boys bore an uncanny resemblance to him and for a moment I had to remind myself that even imaginary friends grow old. Was he imaginary? I really don’t know.

My father seemed distant as he stared out beyond, then he seemed to smile.
“Your mother would have loved it here.”

I grabbed his hand as we both held on to our fondest memories of her, hoping she could hear us.

Maybe Brill wasn’t real; maybe he was a fantasy, created by my foolish young mind. Maybe he was an angel, sent by my mother, to watch over me. Or maybe he was just the best friend I ever had.

I don’t know which conclusion gives me more peace. Some people say that our minds sometimes delude us into remembering events past with more sentiment than what the event itself actually deserves. You don’t think at the time that this day will stay with you, comfort you, in years to come.

For me and for whatever reason I met Brill, I consider myself lucky for the experience. That I still think of it now, shows me that innocence never dies, if you don’t let it.