The Hurdy Gurdies
A jangling tumbleweed of children piled into Uncle’s car. Cousins with skin sun-raw and hair salt-stiffened from beach days.
‘Where are we going?’
We knew, we hoped, but he gave us nothing.
‘Ballyturnbackwards.’
Swaying left and right around the bends, pinned in place by the sheer mass of our bodies. We kept quiet. Any griping and Ballyturnbackwards would come sooner.
Few words were spoken in the front either. Uncle tried to wisecrack through the ice but his attempts hung suspended in the chasm across the gearstick between him and Aunt.
When we saw the lights we knew. We communicated with slow elbow nudges and knees pressed against another. He parked and Aunt was dispatched to the chipper for two bags. One in the front, one in the back. The air swirled with steamy vinegar and our fingers battled to stuff too-hot chips into our mouths.
‘Watch now,’ said Uncle.
And we did.
We watched the whirling dervishes of the disco waltzers, spun by macho boy-men with ripped sleeve shirts, foreplay in motion. The mesmeric twirl of the ferris wheel taking its passengers up, up and away. The crackle and smash of the bumper cars whiplashing their passengers to hysterical giggles. All the world of fun and screaming delight and melt-in-your-mouth candyfloss and ‘what will we go on next?’ was there.
Outside the car.
Inside, we watched until the bags held only salt. Then he drove away. The hurdy gurdies slipped into the distance behind us and our hearts stung. But we knew we were playing the long game. A few more nights like this, lurking, obeying. Then he’d say, ‘Do ye want to go on a few hurdy gurdies?’ And it would be our turn in heaven.
Author: June O’Sullivan lives on an island in Co. Kerry, Ireland. She is currently working on a novel and writes flash fiction and short stories. She is a part-time student of the MA in Creative Writing at the University of Limerick.
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