A letter from Henry Hughes The Third

This week’s Boneyard column was written by none other than Omagh native, Henry Hughes. I first encountered Henry many moons ago when he was an aviator in the 1940s. Now, almost a century later, he is still only in his mid 20s.

How can this be possible, I hear you ask.

It is simply because past present and future are all happening simultaneously.

Or, as the great philosopher, Beck, once quipped, “Time is a piece of wax”.

Over to you Henry…

Mark.

Forgive me for standing you up last month.

I saw a sort-of a ghost on the train and had to get off at the next stop.

The initial part of the journey presented no issue.

I found my seat, stashed my coat above, and started into that book you loaned me a few years ago, ‘The Ginger Man’.

At least I think it was you.

Read through a bit anyway, then stopped to take a nap.

I look up, and there’s a couple sitting in the row ahead of me.

The girl was tall, slim, with a mop of curly black hair.

Essentially Irish.

Terrifically pale and striking red lips.

It was definitely her.

I slink down in the chair, and buried myself back in the book. I am indeed a cooked geek, Mr Donleavy.

She might not see me; she’s travelling with a fellow she’s clearly involved with these days.

A man of indeterminate nationality.

Perhaps British based on accent, but I knew too many French who sounded like they were from London when speaking English.

The context is this, and how this happened I’ll never understand.

But during part of my time in Paris, this same girl used to have me round to dinner with her good father.

A fellow countryman, and an older man, too, to have a daughter in her early 20s, but I understand her mother was some years his junior, and French, too.

By all accounts, he did very well.

He drank good stout, ate fine meat, and often insisted I dined with him; I was not to put my hand in my pocket.

Once, in an establishment owned by a friend of his, I paid for a round on the sly.

He then became much more alert to the subject, being most particular to keep an eye on me when I left the table, and ensuring all refreshments were paid for long before they arrived, allowing me no opportunity to establish status as his equal.

I was the young man escorting his daughter, and I was to be entertained by him on that merit, although I do believe he was perhaps more enthusiastic to me than he generally would be to other young men she may have presented to him in the past.

He clearly enjoyed having another Irishman in the house, and lived vicariously through my tall tales of reckless abandon in the old country and hedonistic decadence in the new, cleaned up for civil consumption though they were.

She tried to contact me several times after I stopped calling with her, believing she had offended me somehow and I would no longer see her as a result.

In truth, it was only because I didn’t believe our companionship was going anywhere. I probably could’ve been more courteous in my departure. Sin-é.

Back to the train journey…

With every lean across to her lover, I caught her side profile through the chairs.

The slightly-crooked teeth only revealed when she smiled more fully, the constant attempts to brush back her wild curls, and the nose which completed the composition of silhouette with a simple beauty reminiscent of a farmgirl, all of which served to remind me of my foolishness.

Naturally to avoid being spotted and subsequent awkward conversations, the only option I had was simply to get out of dodge and get off the train as soon as possible.

Please accept my humble apologies, I’m not trying to avoid you, and I really will get you that money very soon.

Cordialement,

Henri.