The Light In The Orchard - Updated Chapter 1 - The Sheet on The Line

Foreword

This book is a work of fiction, but like many stories, it’s rooted in truth: real conversations, real places, real events and the raw, unfiltered connections that shape a life.

What you’re about to read isn’t told by an all-knowing narrator or some distant observer. It’s told by the author, Jenny, writing to her younger self.

Think of it a bit like that scene in The Commitments, when Jimmy Rabbitte is sitting in the bath imagining he’s being interviewed by Terry Wogan. He’s telling his story straight, as if the whole world is listening, even though it’s just him and his thoughts.

That’s the tone here. Only instead of Terry Wogan, Jenny’s audience is her younger self, the girl who lived through it all. It isn’t a straight history. It’s fragments and flashes, memory woven with imagination, truth told on a slant. Because sometimes fact is stranger than fiction.

It comes out as a kind of letter. A conversation on the page. Writing it down felt easier than speaking it out loud.

She never kept a diary as a kid. Not because she didn’t love writing, she enjoyed English, loved stories, loved when a piece of writing could carry her somewhere else. But keeping a diary felt dangerous. Someone might read it. So the words stayed locked inside.

It wasn’t until much later, in her early twenties, that she found herself writing properly for the first time. Not for school, not for grades, not for anyone else, just for her.

Once the words began to spill out, she realised how crazy her life had been.

At first, she thought maybe she’d send what she wrote to a publisher. But the more she wrote, the more she realised: she didn’t need permission to tell her story.

So here it is.

A love letter to the girl she was.

And to the young people of Ballyfermot, Dublin, and Ireland, past, present, and still coming up, who’ve been handed heavy things and somehow found ways to carry them with humour, courage and heart.

This is for you.

Chapter 1:

It was impressive how they got into and out of our back garden because the back wall was like a smaller version of the wall around Cloverhill Prison. Except, instead of barbed wire, we had broken glass set in cement along the top, like icing on a cake, just sharper.

I was in the kitchen when I spotted Ger, Ma’s younger brother, standing out by the entrance to the shed with his arms folded, staring at the ground.

I slid the aluminium door open. God, remember the racket it made? And stepped out into the back garden, slippers barely clinging to me heels. It would remind ya of a miniature version of the courtyards of Kilmainham Gaol because it had a couple of different sections separated by small walls and patches of grass. The grass was too long, again. Ma used to call it “a jungle fit for Tarzan.” But no one had cut it since Da left for the job in London six weeks ago. It was only meant to be for a fortnight.

The place stank of damp muck and stale rainwater. A packet of Monster Munch flapped against the coal shed wall, clinging on like it had nowhere else to be. I walked down the concrete path under the clothesline towards Git.

The shed door hung limp, barely holding on to its hinges. The lawnmower was gone. So was the strimmer. The big old toolbox covered in faded Guinness and Dublin Bus stickers was gone too.

But it wasn’t just that.

I don’t know if you remember but…

Right inside the entrance of the shed there was an actual pile of shite. Fresh. Still steaming. The robbers not only stole stuff from the shed but took a shit in the process.

And guess what they used to wipe themselves?

Michael’s old Power Rangers pillowcase off the clothesline and left the evidence in the flower bed.

I couldn’t believe it.

Welcome to Cherry Orchard.

Even the robbers had no shame.

“The little toerags,” Git muttered, squinting at the shed. “I’ll find out who did it.”

“How?” I asked.

“Because people can’t hold their piss.”“Are their…..”“Stop.” Git said…smirking.

“It’s kinda funny.”“Which is” I said

“Breaking into the shed and robbing tools or taking a shite in the garden and using the sheets to wipe yourself?”Honestly, if someone told me this story I’d probably think they were lying.

“I’d be thinking, hardly, like.

“Do we ring the garda?.“No, said Git.” You needn’t ring the garda. Sure they’d be too busy if nothing else. Heard there was going to be a raid round Croftwood today. “Where did you hear that? I asked him before holding my hands up and saying “Actually, ask no questions tell no lies.”

I cleaned it up before Grace and Michael could see but I was dying to show the girls. Partly so they would believe me and partly because I didn’t know what they’d make of it.

Do you remember Goldie? Our Golden Labrador. I was real young when Ma said they gave him to a farmer. We named him Goldie because, well, he was a golden labrador. That’s how things were named where we grew up. If your dog was a black dog, it was called Blackie. If you walked with a limp, you were Limpy. If you were a twin, you were Twinny. We said what we saw.

Back inside, Michael and Grace were watching Bosco in the parlour, their legs swinging off the couch. Mornings were always a mad rush. The kids had the same breakfast most days. Two bricks of Weetabix in the bowl and a handful of cornflakes on top. I’d heat up a pot of milk until it boiled and pour it over the mound like petrol on kindling.

Ma was coughing again. It echoed through the box room walls like a car engine about to pack it in. She was still sleeping there, even though she said it was “just till I’m better.” It had been since da left.

I tiptoed in. Her face was pale, her skin pulled tight like dough that never rose. I poured water from the chipped jug into her glass and placed it beside her hand. Then I tucked the covers around her, kissed her forehead and whispered, “We’re off to school, Ma. I’ll drop Michael and Grace on the way.”

She stirred but didn’t reply.

“How’s Ma?” Grace asked when we stepped into the hall.

“Yeah, grand,” I said.

Neither of us believed it.

We grabbed our schoolbags and stepped outside. I locked the porch and slung my bag over my shoulder, the key jangling as I zipped it away.

Outside, the estate was already roaring. Not with birds or anything poetic like that but with people shouting, alarms going off, dogs barking and the 79 bus coughing up the road. It was quite the orchestra. The commuter train joined in with the symphony in the distance just over the walls of Gallenstown.

I remember reading as an adult that places could carry trauma the same way people could. Cherry Orchard had trauma soaked into the walls. They called it “the last stop before eviction.” A dumping ground for anyone evicted from anywhere else by Dublin Corporation. Even the guards treated it like a warzone. Trackies, sovereign rings, buzzcuts, it didn’t matter who you were. If you lived here, you were the enemy.I only got just past the gate when I thought. “Bollix, me lunch.” Didn’t matter. I’d grab something from Doran’s. Michael ran ahead, only delighted to be wearing his Buzz Lightyear schoolbag like a badge of honour. I missed primary school because I missed not having to think about lunch. I missed the cheese or corned beef sandwiches. I missed the lukewarm cartons of milk. And I particularly missed chocolate muffins of a Friday. Ms Hennessy was the lunch lady, and she was always so polite.

At the lawns I saw the girls, Ciara, Shauna, and Jade, perched on the stone wall like crows on a branch in school uniforms.

Ciara was mid-song

“Batterryyyy” So far….. You never had my heart. I love that song”.

“Battery”? Asked Shauna.

“What? Laughed Ciara as she asked.

“Batttery? You think she says battery.

Why? What do you think she’s saying?

“Out of reach”

“Oh”

We were in stiches..

Jade held out a crumpled copybook and asked me “Jenny, do us a favour, what’s the capital of Sweden? We’ve got history first.”

“Stockholm,” I said “And you’re doing geography, not history.”

“Same thing,” Jade shrugged. We were in fits.

I told the girls to walk on. I had to go to Dorans.The cream cakes and coffee slices looked divine behind the glass counter. I asked for a packet of King and a buttered role. One with no butter for Michael. He’s fussy. Although he didn’t lick it off a stone.

I dropped Michael at the first gate of Mary Queen of Angels or The Merrier as most called it and he ran in. Then I dropped Grace into St. Louise’s up to the door of the hall in time to hear, “Colour the world with gladness, Colour the world with song, colour the world with a rainbow of love, colour the world with song.” Ms Smithe with her blond hair and small hands was still directing the choir from the stage.

I just about got into Assembly before the doors closed. My school was Caritas College.

The P.E.hall smelled like polish and tension. Sr. Roletto stood on stage, giving out stink about takeaways and Liffey Valley, calling them “the devil.” Every class lined up in single file. 1st Years nearest the stage, 6th Years at the back wall. And behind Sr. Rolette, was that big statue of the Virgin Mary on the table. Everyone said her eyes followed you if you moved.

We didn’t have hymns like St. Louise’s, thank jaysus, but sometimes I missed them. “Colour the World” was a banger.

As we filed out of the hall, Ms. Hyland stood at the door like a hawk, eyes scanning uniforms. No jewellery. No makeup. Black shoes only. Green jumper. Manky green trousers or manky green skirt.  Take your pick.

I took art with Ms. Hyland in 1st Year. She asked us to draw our hands once and I looked around, everyone else had perfect sketches. Mine looked like your man’s hand from Scary Movie 2.

When she came around asking what we were picking for 2nd and 3rd Year, I told her I was switching to music.

“Probably best,” was all she said.