HOLLOW 18

The corncrakes had gone, staying longer than anytime he could remember. Maybe the hot summer and mild autumn had suited them. It was hard to believe that these noisy yet frail birds could fly all the way from Ireland to Africa. There had been more of them this year, not long ago Jonjo thought they might disappear altogether. It was a cause for optimism, the world was putting itself right.

His thoughts turned to another visiting bird that harbinger of Spring the cuckoo. He'd learnt at school how these creatures laid their eggs in other birds' nests. Their large chicks would hatch quickly and throw out the remaining eggs. The chick would be fed by the foster parents, birds that might be six times smaller than their supposed offspring.

As a boy, Jonjo had waged a guerilla campaign against them. He became adept at listening for the cuckoo's call and throwing out their eggs. Mostly this involved climbing trees, but sometimes the eggs were in ground nests.

He started out on his own, but after a while, some of the other boys from school joined him. They spent a couple of glorious weeks tracking through the undergrowth, climbing and occasionally falling from trees.

One early summer evening, his Mammy had taken him to task about this. He thought she was going to warn him about the dangers of tree climbing. But no, it was to explain in the kind but very firm way she had, that he had no right to destroy the eggs. The unborn life inside, even if it was a cuckoo, had a right to live. She told him that nature must take its course, and it wasn't for him to interfere. His Dad too joined in, explaining that killing animals for food was fine, but not for sport.

They explained to him in such a kindly way that he felt no resentment. He knew they were right. His parents would literally no hurt a fly. "They're all God's creatures," they would say.

Jonjo was thankful that his parents had not seen the changes in Ireland concerning the sanctity of life.

As always when his mind strayed to sad thoughts, Jonjo brought to mind happy memories as an antidote. He remembered the rope swings by the river, swinging out further and higher than everyone, doing his Tarzan call. His great reward was bringing a smile to Mary's lips. He used to imagine saving her from lions and tigers, neither of which were prevalent in the West of Ireland. There weren't even any snakes to rescue her from, thanks to St. Patrick.

All these thoughts flashed rapidly through his mind as he sat in his cousin's orangery, watching the rain bucketing down. Cousin Sean was on his exercise bike doing the high-intensity training that Jonjo had shown him. The fitness regime that Jonjo had devised for his cousin had worked wonderfully well. Sean now looked ten years younger than when he returned from America.

"I've lost so much weight," said Sean "that I've packed a suitcase full of clothes for the charity shop."

"That's grand," approved Jonjo.

"I have some coats that would fit you. I've never worn them, still in their bags. You are broad in the shoulder, and you could pull in the waist with the belt," offered Sean.

"Thanks," said Jonjo, "but I've me plastic mac."

" Well," Sean laughed. "If you are going for the demobbed in 1945 look, your mac and suit are fine. Look you are always getting me to try new exercises, your turn to try something new.

Sean's trousers were obviously too large in the waist and short in the leg for Jonjo. However, some of the coats, jackets and hats were passable. So it was, that when they were waiting in the porch for Micko's taxi, Jonjo was wearing a blue raincoat from Boston's finest.

"I think I'll use my third best suit for my scarecrow," said Jonjo.

"Well, don't be upset if it turns you down," laughed Sean.