The big party was at our house as it so often was. The Parents weren’t fussy; we could drink, we could smoke, or just be. The regular gang were there, hanging out. Bottles of Smithwicks and Guinness, Cinzano and Gordons, littered The Mother’s prized teak table; they jostled for position with bowls of crisps and cheesy spreads and soggy canapés. The music was loud, the lights were low, and the usual culprits were snogging in corners. We had already played our two party tricks; wedging the youngest into a dustbin where it was left, abandoned, in the middle of the road; miming the pulling of an imaginary rope across the self-same road should a car have the nerve to pass by. When the demands to turn down the music escalated along with the passion in the corners, a new plan was hatched. We would go into town.
There followed the jostle and giggle of arms into coats and scarves wound around; the dash out the door to catch the next bus. The scramble and leaping as off it went with only the half of us safely onboard; the helter and skeltering, pushing and boosting, up the curved stairs of the old number 10. Then the surreptitious passing around of the tickets; bamboozling the conductor that the fares were all paid. The ould wans giving us the stink eye; the young wans wishing they were happy like us.
Disgorged into dark streets we wended our way with the gathering crowd to Christ Church Cathedral. We’re still waving at friends and passing the mickeys when the crush thickens up and the countdown begins. Then the bells ring out and the ships’ horns sound off and strangers embrace us and dancing breaks out. Happy New Year we shout as the crowd flows around us; Happy New Year again when it ebbs on its way.
The last bus has gone and the taxis avoid us, so onward we wandered, arms linked and cross-legged. We stole a wheelbarrow, shared rides in its bowels ‘til the guards flagged us down and demand its return. One by one we peel off as we reach destinations, and the last of us stagger the few feet up the hill. The Mother will crease us, there’s rings on the table, there’s mess to clear up and more work to be done; with leftovers to eat and more drink to be taken and laughter at memories fresh made and old. ‘Twas the best New Year’s ever we all would agree. The best and the last and the mood then turned sombre. For this was the last New Year’s we’re together. Adulthood stalked and snapped at our ankles as we scattered the earth in search of a future. Many connections were lost in the interim. Though some do remain, they’re still oceans away.
As the clock ticks to midnight on this New Year’s Eve, I’ll think of a wheelbarrow, used and abandoned, of fast fading rings on a teak tabletop and of folks once known that are gone from my life. As the church bells ring out on the first stroke of midnight, the memories will flow through the tough times and sad, through the moments of laughter and wild paths we’ve wandered to my last Dublin New Year’s and the friends of my youth.
The Last New Year’s Eve – Clo Carey
Photo Credits: CIE, The Church of Ireland, Clo Carey
#amwriting #writingmemoirs #experimentsinwriting #NewYearsinDublin
Teetering on the Edge 