SAINT PATRICK’S DAY STORM

By Bob French

It was six o’clock in the evening on Saint Patrick’s Day and those who partied their lives away were already heading into town for the festivities, but the Gods that controlled the weather had taken offense at something, and storm clouds were gathering out into the wild Atlantic.  Low pressure deepened, dark clouds coiled and swelled, pulling winds into a frenzy and setting great waves rising and crashing into each other.

Those who lived off the sea, knew about such changes in the weather and realised that this was no normal storm.  The old fishermen who made their living on the west coast of Ireland had no need for such things as weather forecasts. Their senses told them what they needed to know; whether to launch or beach their ancient fishing boats.

Kelly O’Hara and Jean O’Connell were walking arm in arm towards the bus stop.  They had become best friends since infant school, and been inseparable since the day they left The Holy Cross Roman Catholic Senior School for Girls in County Cork. Everyone thought it normal when they turned up without a boy on their arm for the end of school dance.

Kelly looked up at the dark clouds that had formed on the distant horizon, they were still a long way off and frowned.

“God! will you look at those clouds. I’m thinking it’s going to be a bad night, Jean.”

Jean, wondered if the buses would be running if the storm hit that evening, but discarded her concerns in favour of what the party held for them; after that, who cared. “Och it a long way off.”

Then, with no warning, the early evening skies lit up with bright lightning forks that scarred the dark distant clouds. Both girls screamed as the sound of earth-shattering thunder crashed around them, sending them into a race up towards the bus shelter.

Kelly laughed at Jean and yelled at the top of her voice,

“I thought you said it was a long way off?” But Jean never heard her.

The storm unleashed its fury on the west coast of Ireland. Within seconds, fierce winds and ice-cold rain lashed at the girls, forcing them to sprint the last twenty yards up to the bus shelter.  By now, the puddles that occupied most of the streets earlier that day had gradually turned into shallow ruts and streams of rubbish, dragging and cleansing the gutters and grassy banks both sides of the street, pushing the rubbish that had been discarded by the town’s folk along like a wave, it moved down towards the coast road.

Kelly screamed as she lunged for Jean’s hand, frantically dragging her towards the entrance of the bus shelter.

“My God, that was close.  Another second and I’m sure you would have been dragged down the street, so you would.”

          Even though they clowned around during the last few years at school, they both gained distinction in their final maths exams and were quickly accepted by the manager of the Bank of America in Cork.  Both had understanding parents who readily agreed they could flat share and had put down the deposit for a nice flat on the outskirts of Cork for them.

They had planned on going down to the Blacksmith Arms, their local pub for the celebrations, but had received a personal invite from the manager of the bank to a posh do at the Royal Hotel in Cork. This meant, that instead of jeans and a pullover and their comfortable Dock Martins, a suitable smart cocktail dress, new matching evening bags and shoes, and a hair do to die for was now required.

          They stumbled into the darkened bus shelter panting for breath before unceremoniously landing on the cold stone bench in fits of laughter. The tattered and worn advertisements that stared down at them from the walls of the shelter, boasting that if you applied this cream or ate that food, it would provide a miracle cure.

It was Kelly who had to raise her voice above the noise.  “Jesus, will you look at our clothes, they’re ruined!”

“I’m not bothered about our clothes; will you just look at our hair. We spent the last of our wages on a posh hair-do down at McGinty’s for this party.  Now look at us.  We look like a couple of Kyle Street scrubbers.”

But Kelly wasn’t listening.  She’d got up and moved carefully towards the opening of the shelter. The ice-cold wind had turned the horizontal rain into a hail storm and the sheer force of it nearly sucked her out of the shelter into the path of certain death.

Jean, who had been shivering in the corner of the shelter suddenly lunged towards Kelly, yelling at her as she grabbed her around the waist and dragged her forcibly back into the shelter.

“God Kelly! what are you trying to do?”

As Kelly stumbled back and fell, she screamed as she felt the ice-cold water instantly penetrate her clothes, sending a shock-wave through her body and taking her breath away.

Jean spun around and looked down at her best friend, who was now floundering in knee-high ice-cold swirling water, then screamed at her.

“Kelly! get up, get up or it will drag you out.” 

With extreme effort, Kelly managed to crawl onto the bench and bring her knees up to her chest and buried her face in her hands.

“Be-Jesus Jean.  This looks bad.  Really bad!”

Jean stared out of the shelter and noticed that it had turned very dark and the water level had risen, sucking the litter out of the shelter and into the river that now rushed past the shelter opening and down toward the sea.

Kelly started to shiver, then cry.

“What are we going to do? We can’t walk out of here; we’ll be swept away.”

Jean sloshed her way through the swirling dark murky water and climbed up onto the bench next to Kelly and put her arm around her and pulled her into an embraced, trying to keep her warm.

“So much for attending the Bosses party.  Still, I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t have enjoyed it as I hardly know anyone.”

“You know me, you silly cow. We would have had a few dances, then sat in the corner and got drunk, don’t you think?”  This assumption brought laughter between them, until the cold and fear of what might become of them brought silence.

After a period of contemplation Jean tried to speak with confidence.  “Don’t you worry none. We’ll get out of here, just you wait un see.”

In between bouts of shivering and chattering teeth, Kelly stared at her friend.  “Do you think we are going to die then?”

“Na, don’t be silly, someone will notice we are missing and come and get us.”

“Pity, I fancied Malcolm from CHAPs department.”

Jean forced a smile as she looked at her best friend.

“Really.  When did you have a crush on him?”

“I’ve spoken to him loads of times when he gets a cup of water from the water cooler.”

“You’re a dark horse, so you are Kelly O’Hara.  Did you ever pluck up the courage to ask him out then?”

“No!  Didn’t need to.  But you can talk.  I’ve never seen you take an interest in any of the lads down at the Blacksmith Arms or the bank. Kelley took a quick deep breath as the flowing ice-cold water came over the lip of stone bench in the shelter. then reached out to hold Jean’s hand.

“No, I didn’t need to. I always had my best friend, didn’t I?”

Jean took Kelly’s hand and kissed it gently. “If we aren’t going to make it, I think we should leave something behind to show people we were here.”

“Oh God, do you think we are going to die then?”

No one spoke for a moment, then, with shivering hands, they took off their crucifix and chains and hung them on a nail above their heads.

They clung to each other in the darkness, amidst the heavy volleys of thunder, lightning and howling wind, and the rising raging and sucking ice-cold water that slowly penetrated their young bodies.

No one came looking for them during the night, nor the following day. A wide search party was organised a day later but never found them.  The police sergeant who led the search spoke to the press.

“Though we have not found the girls, we found a crucifix and chain hanging on a nail in the bus shelter on Drombridge Road which has been identified by Mrs O’Connell as belonging to her daughter. The only thing I can think of is they, the young women, sought safety in the shelter but were overcome by the elements, rendered too weak, then sucked out of the shelter and probably down into the Atlantic. I have contacted the Coastguard but there is little hope.

Copyright Bob French