Scene:         A hospital room and bed which has been arranged so the principal speaker, Sinead Hackett, age 16, is sitting upright.  Her visitor, Bridie Minty, also 16, is Sinead best friend. Theme music (The Wind That Shakes the Barley) fades into hospital sounds which, in turn, fade to silence.

Bridie:         Girl, you look dread awful in that hospital gown.  You’d think they’d at least come in decent colour.  I hate that green.  It makes you look yellow. 

Sinead:        My bum shows too!  I want my pyjamas.  Would you ask mum to bring them when she comes after work?

Bridie:         Sure.  Would you like some make-up, love?  I have a bit in my handbag.

Sinead:        Why bother?  It’s not like I care. 

Bridie:         Because some fella from school may visit and you don’t want to frighten him.  You look crippled sick, ‘nade.

Sinead:        And, I lost my pinkie. (Looks at bandaged right hand.)

Bridie:         ‘The Mummy’s Revenge!’ You’ll make a mess of your lipstick.  I’ll help.   (Applies make-up to Sinead face while continuing to talk.) Do you remember what happened?  Will you tell us?

Sinead:        It was Friday afternoon and Mum was late getting home.  She missed the train.  So I put the pinney on over my dress and started making dinner.  Da and gran were watching the telly and arguing like they always do.  Anyhow, the auld one she calls out “Would you ever go down the Mary’s shop, love, and get us a packet of five Woodbines?”  She loves her coffin nails does my gran.

          Anyhow, it was sunny and warm for a change and I didn’t mind takin’ a wee walk to the shop.  Outside the windey it looked glorious.  Our ones, the twins, were kicking a ball around and there were loads of people out.  I thought I might see Skipper Savage and have us a chat before the night’s dance at the Pavo.   

You know, Mary’s shop is just around the corner from The Home Wrecker where the fellas all stop in the afternoon.  So I left the peeled spuds in a bowl of water, checked my hair in the hall mirror and went out the door thinkin’ about who I might see and nothin’ else.  I forgot all about the pinney I was wearing; thought I’d buy myself a fag and smoke it outside the shop before I went home.

          So I walked out the door and into a sunny afternoon; happy as grass is green I was.  It was that warm I didn’t even put on a shawl. 

Bridie:         You didn’t notice you was wearin’ that awful ol’ sailcloth pinney around your waist?

Sinead:        No, and lucky too.  I buy gran’s fags, a packet of sugar because we’re runnin’ low, and a fag for myself.  I sit on the ledge of the shop and have a smoke.  As I get up to go back home, I sees Skipper coming out of the pub.  He gives us a big smile.  I toss my hair back to say hello, and

WHAM!

          I don’t hear anything, just a bright white flash and I’m arse over tea kettle backwards. …  Smoke and an awful smell.  Bits of glass.  (Trails off, pauses, looks down.)

Bridie:         Where were you then, ‘nade?

Sinead:        On my bum, across the street an’ up against a lamp post.  Blown right out of my new plims and sprawled on my back.  I was covered in dust and rubbish, and can’t hear a thing.  I’m that dazed.  And, you know, the bloody first thing I think about is ‘are me knickers showing?  What am I doing on my back in Brewer’s Lane?’

          At first, I can’t see anything because the pinney blew up and over my face.   Lucky that.   It’s in tatters, but covers my face.  The Home Wrecker’s door and windey blown to smithereens and little bits of it cut me everywhere. 

Bridie:         It must have hurt awful!

Sinead:        I didn’t feel anything at first.  I just get up on my hands and knees and look around.  There’s glass and blood and bits of wood and bits of people everywhere.  I know some are screaming because I see them, but don’t hear anything.  I just sits there dazed like.  That’s when I notice I’ve lost the pinkie. There’s loads of blood on my hand and arm.

          Then I think I starts screaming too.  Next thing I know some big fella is carrying me in his arms to a van and my hand is hurting awful.

I’m crying, but not because of my hand.  That’s when I sort that Skipper is dead; has to be.  He’s gone, innit he?  I’ll go to his funeral instead of seein’ him at The Pavo.  God, he gave me a lovely smile!  (Crying)

Bridie:  Poor wee duck.  (Hugs Sinead)

Sinead:  Give us a Valium, will ya?  They’re stingy here.

Bridie:  Sure, love.  I pinched a couple from Mommy’s handbag.  Wanna share a fag?

END

Inspired by:

‘Woman in a Bomb Blast’ (1978)

F.E. McWilliam (1908-1992)

Bronze – Crawford Art Gallery