Short Story By: Stewart Brennan
The Barnsley Boat
Stonefield, the home of my precious guarded memories and
immortal youth; its been so long since I was home, so the first sight of the
long row of tenements today, gave me a warm feeling with a little shiver as if
I had gone back in time.
All my youthful memories came flooding back as I passed by
the homes of friends and families I once knew, calling out the original owners
by name as I drove by. They’re still there in my mind as sure as it was
yesterday.
Down a small side street within our little village of row
houses, was my destination and the place I called home, Barnsley Street.
Barnsley was on the outskirts of town and descended into a
marsh that served as a young child’s hunting grounds for frogs and pollywogs
but also for our tree forts and games of hide and seek.
The voices of children’s laughter and merriment echo back to
memory and paint the scenes of a street I grew up on in the mid 1960’s as I
emerge from the car and look down the road.
The long row houses on either side of the cobblestone street
had small yards just big enough to hang the laundry to dry so most of our time
was spent playing on the back street that declined into the marsh. When it
rained, the water would pool at the bottom of the road, which is where the
undefeated Barnsley Boat was. An old rusty 1939 P8 Plymouth automobile that was
our unsinkable ship, a boat that won every battle it faced.
The old steel and aluminium garbage cans across the road
served as the enemy ships and sounded lifelike when we made a direct hit with a
rock. Many times the old Barnsley boat was hit by subs that silently snuck up
on us with their torpedoes, but we always stayed afloat by the brilliant and
magical engineering of our crew.
We played outdoors, morning, noon, and night and never came
inside until family would call us in for supper.
August would bring the fireflies, an alien invasion by night
that we and old Barnsley held off to eventually save the world…and at wars end,
we decorated ole Barnsley for the victory parade that passed by an endless row
of people on either side of the street and waved until our little arms grew
tired.
The old boat belonged to Peters father, Mr Wing, who left it
parked outside his gate after it broke down for good. That is, until one day,
Peter who had just been in the marsh with his rubber Billy boots jumped onto
the hood of the car and slipped off hitting his head on the road. I saw it all
unfold as I had just closed the gate to my front yard when Petey called to me
and slipped.
I quickly ran towards Pete but was beaten by the lightning
quick strides of Mr Wing who scooped Peter up and brought him inside his house.
I stayed outside on his back steps worrying about my friend
when a lime green station wagon ambulance pulled up, followed by all the
neighbourhood kids running behind it. Concern was shared by everyone as I
relayed the story to them…we all stayed there in Pete’s yard waiting for word…
Within fifteen minutes, which seemed like an eternity, the
ambulance attendants and stretcher came out of the house with concerned
expressions and a reply to our questioning faces, “Don’t worry boys, Peter will
be alright, he just has a slight concussion.”
Relief ensued then as the group of us waited for the ambulance
to pull away, and as it did, we all ran behind it to give Pete a protective
send off as any good Barnsley crew would for their shipmate.
A week later Mr Wing had ole Barnsley towed away to a
junkyard, a sad ending for our old boat and stalwart champion…
Old memories give way to the grey skies above and drizzle
falling on Barnsley road. Our marshland now turned into a cemetery holding
stones with the names of people I once knew, including Mr Wing and Petey, who
sadly passed away last year in a car wreck.
Here now, a crowd gathers with black umbrellas in the
cemetery, with a priest waiting for the last few of us to arrive. Tom Fisk,
Dave Fallen, his brother Mike, and Sylvain de Bruit, whom I hadn’t seen in
years till today…no one had changed, it was like we never parted, the spirit
within each of them remained so recognizable…as if it was yesterday.
A melancholy atmosphere pervades the murmur of voices gathering
as another soul from Barnsley Street is laid to rest. Ashes to Ashes dust to
dust, we will all meet again here, to revisit our guarded memories.
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Story Summary: A Man revisits his childhood home with vivid
memories.
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