On Monday at school Mrs O’Neill confirmed what I already knew. She said she was disappointed at hearing Ronan wouldn’t be back before Christmas but was glad to hear that I had spoken to his parents and had made plans to see Ronan over the holidays.
‘That’s wonderful,’ she said. ‘I was thinking our “old friendship in a new way” plan was ruined. Now it’s more like “the oldplanin a new way”.’
Again, her way of putting things made them seem much less daunting.
All classes in that final week were due to be filled with mock exams to give us a taster of what was to come in the new year, so we didn’t have the usual wind-down movie-watching that we’d had in previous years.
In English Mrs O’Hagan decided to give us a ‘break’ from exam pressure with a poetry assignment. We’d been reading and discussing Seamus Heaney’s poem ‘Digging’, and she wanted us to take inspiration from it and write a poem thatevoked a ‘rural spirit’. We’d each get a chance to read our poems out over the remaining classes of the week. In Monday’s class, Stephen Maxwell was the first to read his poem out. He was one of Kevin Sherry’s gang and his poem was about his local football field, which Mrs O’Hagan wasn’t sure counted as rural but could understand the blending of his football passion with the earth it was played on as a unique personal perspective.
Jennifer Beattie was to read her poem next. She was the smartest girl in our year, but she wasn’t showy about it. Just like Ronan, she excelled in all areas – except in sports, Jennifer was all academic and creative. She was someone I’d barely spoken to since she joined our school in third year. She’d been at a boarding school in America before that because her parents travelled a lot. Her accent sounded a bit posh and she often got teased about that.
‘My poem is entitled “The Forgotten Field’’,’ she said.
A knock at the door interrupted her.
‘Come in,’ said Mrs O’Hagan.
It was a small girl, a first year by the looks of her.
‘Miss, Jennifer Beattie is needed for play rehearsals.’
The Drama group had been rehearsing for the Christmas play and students involved had been getting out of some classes for extra rehearsals. Jennifer was the lead, the same as she had been the two previous Christmases.
‘Thank you,’ said Mrs O’Hagan, ‘do you want to hold on so Jennifer can read her poem first? Is it long, Jennifer?’
‘No, Miss, it’s only a short one, I can read it before going, no problem.’
Jennifer looked at me for a second.
‘‘‘The Forgotten Field”, inspired by someone who used to be here but no longer is.’
I froze. I knew she meant Ronan.
She began to read:
‘Barley brushing fingers,
Dappled by the sun,
The summer days linger
Longer than when spring sprung.
And, static, on the edge
Of the field, all alone,
The creature is standing
Moaning its animal moan.
Blind to its stalking
The boy is having fun,
Deaf to its hunger pangs
And its clicking, licking tongue.
