Page 91 - November 2020
P. 91

                                                                                       November 2020

                                       The Cynical Revloutionary

                                               Dr. Arthur Broomfield

                 Dr  Arthur  is  a  published  poet,  short
                 story  writer  and  Beckett  scholar  from
                 County Laois, Ireland. his work has been
                 published  in  Ireland,  the  UK  and  the
                 USA.  His  most  recent  publication  is  a
                 poetry collection, 'The Giants' Footsteps
                 at  the  Rock  of  Dunamaise',  [Revival
                 press, Limerick 2019].

                 I shuffled through carriage D of the packed train. “Excuse me,’ I said, ‘but is this
                 seat free?”
                 The woman      mumbled  and  looked  at  me  from  beneath  her  lowered  head.  She
                  heaved  a  bag  from  the  seat  beside  her  –  to  the  unmistakable  clatter  of  cutlery
                 rattling against crockery -       and landed it on a space on the table beside a bag
                 clutched  by  the  man  opposite.  The  dividing  arm  rest  had  been  lowered  to
                 accommodate  her  belongings.  She  grasped  a  banner  entangled  round  two
                 flagpoles,  each  about  three  feet  long.  After  a  period  of  tugging,  timed  to  the
                 rhythm of her audible breathing, during which the poles banged off the overhead
                 luggage compartment and the carriage window, the seat was cleared. I sat.  I had

                 boarded the Cork Heuston train in Portlaoise and was heading for the Asian food
                 Emporium in Jervis Street. I never seem to get a favourable seat on the Cork train–
                 I dreamed of one next to the window, facing my destination, ideally with the three
                 adjoining  seats  unoccupied  but  in  a  push  would  have  settled  for  the  silent
                 company of text happy younger women. What is it about Cork people that they
                 have  this  irresistible  craving  to  travel  to  Dublin?  Aren’t  there  enough  people  in
                 Cork to listen to them? Cork people never seemed to shut up. If the men weren’t
                 pulling  off  business  deals  on  their  mobile  phones  –  “and  you’ll  have  the  paper
                 work in order Frank and I’ll have the draft, and no phone calls, Brabazon would
                 blow a fuse if he heard it”  morbid women would be on to some distressed
                 friend “and how is poor Jack today Jane?... I didn’t think he would be…ah no, no,
                 Jane, it’s too bad, too bad…. Poor Jamesie O’Loughlin didn’t last too long after
                 his either…”and so it could go on till the train reached Newbridge or Sallins/ Naas,
                 killing  any  desire  in  me  to  even  look  over  my  latest  contribution  to  English
                 literature. What a day I chose to replenish my Asianfood stocks, I thought.
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