A Place Called Here

I smiled and nodded. The group had quietened and were studying me and I knew what they were all thinking. She’s tall.

‘Ah, great.’ His hands clapped together and remained clasped close to his chest. His face broke into an even more welcoming smile. ‘Where are you from?’

I didn’t know whether to say Earth, Ireland or Leitrim. I went with my gut instincts and, ‘Ireland,’ was all that came out of my mouth, which hadn’t spoken for days.

‘Splendid!’ The cheery fellow’s smile was so bright that I couldn’t help but return it. ‘What a coincidence! Please come and join us.’ He excitedly led me towards the group with a hop, skip and a jump.

‘My name is Bernard,’ he beamed like the Cheshire cat, ‘and heartiest welcome to the Irish contingency. We’re frightfully outnumbered here,’ he frowned, ‘although it seems that the numbers are rising. Excuse me, where are my manners?’ His cheeks flushed.

‘Underneath that sock over there.’

I turned to look at the source of the smart comment to see an attractive woman in her fifties, tight silver hair, with a lilac pashmina draped around her shoulders. She was staring distantly into the centre of the fire, the dancing flames reflecting in her dark eyes, her comments flowing out of her mouth as though she were on autopilot.

‘Who have I the pleasure of being acquainted with?’ Bernard beamed with excitement, his neck craned up to look at me.

‘My name is Sandy,’ I replied, ‘Sandy Shortt.’

‘Splendid.’ His cheeks flushed again and he shook my outstretched hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. Allow me to introduce you to the rest of the gang, as they say.’

‘As who say?’ the woman grumbled irately.

‘That’s Helena. She loves the chat. Always has something to say, don’t you, Helena?’ Bernard looked at her for an answer.

The wrinkles around her mouth deepened as she pursed her lips.

‘Ah.’ He wiped his brow and turned to introduce me to a woman named Joan; Derek, the long-haired hippy playing the guitar; and Marcus, who was sitting quietly on the far side. I took them in quickly: they were all of a similar age and seemed very comfortable with one another. Not even Helena’s sarcastic comments were causing any friction.

‘Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll get you a drink of some sort—’

‘Where are we?’ I cut in, unable to take his bumbling pleasantries any longer.

All other conversation around the fire stopped suddenly and even Helena raised her head to stare at me. She took me in, a quick glance up and down, and I felt like my soul had been absorbed. Derek stopped strumming his guitar, Marcus smiled lightly and looked away, Joan and Bernard stared at me with wide frightened Bambi eyes. All that could be heard was the sound of the campfire crackling and popping as sparks sprang out and spiralled their way up to the sky. Owls hooted and there was the distant snap of branches being stepped on by wanderers beyond.

There was a deathly silence around the campfire.

‘Is anyone going to answer the girl?’ Helena looked around with an amused expression. Nobody spoke.

‘Well, if nobody speaks up,’ she wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders and grasped it at her chest, ‘I’m going to give my opinion.’

Voices of objection rose from the circle and I immediately wanted to hear Helena’s opinion all the more. Her eyes danced, enjoying the choir of disapproval.

‘Tell me, Helena,’ I interrupted.

‘Oh, you don’t want that, trust me,’ Bernard fluffed, his double chin wobbling as he spoke.

Helena lifted her silver-haired head in defiance and her dark eyes glistened as she looked at me directly. Her mouth twitched at the side. ‘We’re dead.’

Two words said coolly, calmly, crisply.

‘Now, now, don’t you mind her,’ Bernard said in what I imagined was his best angry voice.

‘Helena,’ Joan admonished, ‘we’ve been through this before. You shouldn’t scare Sandy like that.’

‘She doesn’t look scared to me,’ Helena said, still with that amused expression, her eyes unmoving.

‘Well,’ Marcus finally spoke after his long silence since I’d joined the group, ‘she may have a point. We may very well be dead.’

Bernard and Joan groaned, and Derek began strumming lightly on his guitar and singing softly, ‘We’re dead, we may very well be dead.’

Bernard tutted, then poured tea from a china pot into a cup and handed it to me on a saucer. In the middle of the woods, I couldn’t help but smile.

‘If we’re dead, then where are my parents, Helena?’ Joan scolded, emptying a packet of biscuits onto a china plate and placing them before me. ‘Where are all the other dead people?’

‘In hell,’ Helena said in a singsong voice.

Marcus smiled and looked away so that Joan wouldn’t see his face.

‘And what makes you think we’re in heaven? What makes you think you’d get into heaven?’ Joan huffed, dunking her biscuit into her tea and pulling it up before the soggy end fell in.

Derek strummed and sang gruffly, ‘Is this heaven or is this hell? I look around and I can’t tell.’

‘Didn’t anybody else notice the golden gates and the choir of angels as they entered or was it just me?’ Helena smirked.

‘You didn’t enter through golden gates.’ Bernard shook his head wildly, his neck wobbling from side to side. He looked at me and his neck continued to shake. ‘She didn’t enter through golden gates.’

Derek strummed, ‘I didn’t pass the golden gate nor felt the burning flames of hate.’

‘Oh, stop it,’ Joan huffed.

‘Stop it,’ he sang.

‘I can’t bear any more.’

‘I can’t bear any more, someone please show me the door …’

‘I’ll show you the door,’ Helena warned, but with less conviction.

He continued strumming and they all fell silent, contemplating his last few lyrics.

‘Little June, Pauline O’Connor’s daughter, was only ten when she died, Helena,’ Bernard continued. ‘Surely a little angel like her would be in heaven and she’s not here, so there goes your theory.’ He held his head high and Joan nodded in agreement. ‘We’re not dead.’

‘Sorry, it’s over-eighteens only,’ Helena said in a bored tone. ‘St Peter’s down at the gate with his arms folded and an earpiece in his ear, taking instructions from God.’

‘You can’t say that, Helena,’ Joan snapped.

‘I can’t get in, I can’t get out, St Peter, what’s it all about?’ Derek sang in a gravelled voice. Suddenly he stopped strumming and finally spoke. ‘It’s definitely not heaven. Elvis isn’t here.’

‘Oh, well then.’ Helena rolled her eyes.