Black Acres

Eamon swung the car into his short driveway without slowing. “I might lose you for a second,” he said, as he turned off the car and unplugged his phone from the charger. It took a couple of seconds for his Bluetooth headphones to click in and he was already reaching into the back seat for his laptop bag and heavy wool coat. The voice on the other end had not missed a beat and continued to talk as he crossed the few steps to his back door in a hurry. The gap between the turf shed and the house caused a wind tunnel effect that was rarely pleasant. He fiddled with his key in the door and dropped his laptop bag. He was rooting in the fridge before it was his turn to speak again.

“No, no, I’m just back from the funeral.”

“Who was it today?”

“You know Terrance Lynch? Well, his brother in America, Pascal. He’s been away nearly fifty years now but, sure, I’d be crucified if I wasn’t there to sympathize. Mad that he was brought back here to be buried after so long away.”

“Aye, you would be crucified. Was there a meeting today?”

“Yeah, a fairly short one. Procedural stuff. Black Acres is almost ready to move to the next phase. There’s talk of a town hall to discuss that, and getting another traffic light up near the school. I’m pushing hard to get that on the docket before the election is announced.”

“The whole road should be traffic lights, if you ask me. Ever since the Aldi opened there, people have gone daft altogether.”

“They have, mammy.”

“Sure, you would know best. Don’t you have to listen to them day in, day out. Was that aul’ biddy Mrs. Daly into you today?”

“I didn’t have office hours today, and even if she was in, you know I’m not supposed to tell you.” He hesitated for a second, as he sunk the teeth of a can opener crisply into the lid of the tin of beans. “She did corner me at the funeral though. Well, corner is being kind. I was up paying my respects at the feckin’ coffin! Could you credit it?”

“She’s a right wagon altogether. No respect at all. Is she still going on about the potholes?”

“She said she’s going to send the council her next mechanic’s bill and expects us to pay it. Reckons they’re causing awful damage to her car. But, sure, she drives like a snail around town so they’d need to be craters in her boreen to be doing the damage she’s claiming.”

“She had your father driven demented, too, God rest him. He was never able to figure out how to plámás her.”

“I don’t think I will either but I’ll do my best. I told her I’d tip out tomorrow to look at them.”

“I suppose you can do that and promise you’ll get her road added to next year’s budget and hope that keeps her happy.”

“That’s all I can do for now. C’mere Mammy, I’m going to try and get some dinner together and get to bed.”

“Not beans and toast again, I hope?”

“No, I have some leftovers from lunch,” he said, his face turning red as he slotted two slices of bread in the toaster and pushed the lever. He was a bad enough liar that he couldn’t slip one past his mother over the phone without turning crimson.

---

His plate a mess of bean sauce and toast crumbs, Eamon took a good slurp of his now drinkable tea. He took a Kit Kat from the fridge and turned his attention to the post on the table. It was a healthy pile today.

On top was a leaflet from the local Credit Union offering a great interest rate on short-term loans. Not interested. The next was a letter from the Taoiseach reminding all party members about the importance of fundraising in the lead up to an election. Noted and nervous. His electricity bill was next. Paid online but needed to be filed.

A handwritten letter from a concerned constituent followed. Her neighbour’s dog was shitting on her lawn for the last several weeks. She made a passable attempt at the word defecated but it was one of several spelling mistakes, including Eamon’s own name on the envelope. He got the feeling she had not yet attempted to talk to the neighbour first and had come straight to him for a solution.

Pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, he placed the letter back in the envelope and added it to his ever-growing HENs pile. It looked like there would be another one to add in a minute as he grabbed the next envelope. Hand-written and with the post mark of the local Post Office, he thought about just leaving it until tomorrow morning. Maybe it was the neighbour who owned the dog doing the shitting though. That would be entertaining. He slid his butter knife beneath the seam and sliced the envelope and removed the sheet of paper.

It was indeed hand written but didn’t follow any letter format. It read almost like a poem with no true structure. No return address, no salutation, no sign off. He skimmed it but quickly went back to the start and read it word for word.

This ground has always been handed on, not handed over.

It has been worked, rested, cut, and minded for longer than any of us have been here. It does not belong to those who pass through it once, or look at it from a distance.

It was never meant to be idle. It was never meant to be finished with. Taking from it is part of how it is kept.

There are boundaries here that don’t appear on maps. They are learned by weight, by repetition, by time. When they are crossed, things don’t move forward. They break apart.

This ground holds what is put into it. Tools. Decisions. People. It holds on longer than we do.

Be careful what you decide to take responsibility for.

Eamon read it again before putting down the piece of paper and picking up his phone. He searched his contacts and hit dial.

“Hello?”

“Donal, sorry to be calling so late. I just wanted to check if you got any weird letters from any constituents today?” There was laughter on the other end of the phone, and Eamon quickly corrected himself without returning the laughter. “I mean really weird. Anonymous. Vague.” He paused for a second before adding, “Not your typical Hard Earned Number-one. It seems to be about Black Acres?”

“Jesus no, nothing that we wouldn’t consider ordinary, no. I have a woman who wants her neighbour’s mutt neutered because he won’t stop riding her little poodle and her husband is getting sick of drowning the puppies. She says she’ll be dropping the next litter off at the Council building. What did the letter say?”

Eamon was unfazed. “It doesn’t matter, probably just some crazy. I’ll do some digging and get back to you on it if it is anything. Sorry to bother you again so late, Donal.”

He hung up and looked at the envelope. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Just his name and address, a stamp, and the post mark for Tulfarrow Post Office. He didn’t have any idea who might have sent it and had never received anything like this before. There had been some objections from locals to the plans for Black Acres, but it was mostly from older folks wondering how they were going to heat their homes if they could no longer cut turf.

It was a fair argument but this didn’t feel like that.

---

Eamon pushed the narrow door open and sidled through the opening like a crab. He was a slight enough man and it was beyond him how some of the larger locals made it through the door without issue.

“Eamon, a mhac, have you come to see your Auntie Angela. The Lord above knows it’s been a while.”

“I have, actually, Auntie Ange. How are you keepin’?”

“Well, now I don’t believe you. What are you after?”

“Honestly, I just popped in to say hello, and pick up the paper. I can go to Gavin’s if you want though?” He opened the door as he said this, knowing there would be protestations.

“Will you come in here, ya little bollix ya, and give your Aunt a hug.” She had been behind the Post Office counter but made her way through the back office and out into the shop area at the speed of a woman half her age. She had to reach up to get a good grip on him and planted a wet kiss on his ear as he was stooping down to meet her half way.

“What have you got on today? Are you passing your father at any stage? I left some nice flowers for him yesterday but they might need water.”

“Yeah, I’ll be passing the graveyard. I have to call to a constituent out that way next.”

“You’re still entertainin’ Mrs. Daly, are ya? Christ, she’ll put you down beside your father yet.”

“How do you know ab… Mam told you?”

“Sure, everyone knows she has the whole council driven demented.”

“Yeah, because Mam tells everyone!” He made a mental note to share a little less County Council business with his well-meaning but entirely-too-nosey mother.

“What’s that in your hand? A letter? Do you need a stamp?” She started to grab at it. “Sure it already has a… is it open? What are you bringing an open letter to the post office for?”

“I, eh, I thought you might be able to help me figure out who sent it.”

“Here to visit your Auntie Angela, is it?” She picked up the Midlands Tribune and began to roll it up. “Popping in to get the newspaper, you were?” She whacked him on the head with the paper a couple of times, a playful smile on her face. Eamon turned a deep red, his eyes wide.

“Sorry, Ange, I know you don’t see enough of me,” he said, flattening his hair where she had just smacked him. “This feckin’ councillor gig takes up a lot more time than I expected. Daddy made it look so easy.”

Auntie Angela stretched her hand out. “Give it here and I’ll take a look.”

Eamon handed her the envelope, the letter removed and left in the car. He knew she’d read it, probably out loud, and then recite it verbatim to everyone who entered through that narrow little door for the rest of the week.

“Well it was sent from here, and it was sent on Monday, but I’m sure you’ve figured that out already.” She looked up at him, questioningly, and received a blank stare in response. “Of course you did, you’re not a complete feckin’ eejit.”

Eamon looked over at Louise, who was standing silently behind the counter. She quickly buried her head in a magazine she hadn’t opened yet, pretending she hadn’t been listening eagerly to every word.

“Now, that stamp is a picture of St. Brigid. We got a lot of them but they were long gone by Paddy’s Day. Whoever sent this didn’t buy the stamps recently and could have just put it in the letterbox at any stage. I don’t think I can help you.” She turned the envelope over to examine the back. It was blank. She turned it again. “It is a man anyway. No woman writes like that. What was in it?”

“I can’t tell you that, Ange. Just a confusing letter from an anonymous constituent.”

She held the envelope closer to her face. “You’re looking for a farmer.”

“A male farmer in Tulfarrow? That narrows it down.” Louise chimed in sarcastically, seemingly unable to stop herself any longer.

“How do you know he’s a farmer?” Eamon asked, a puzzled look animating his face.

Angela held the envelope right under Eamon’s nose. “Breathe in,” she commanded.

Eamon did as he was told and a faint but unmistakable smell of silage filled his nostrils. He nodded at his Aunt and she just looked into his eyes, waiting for him to say the next thing.

“It’s from someone who’s not happy about the plans for Black Acres.”

“A male farmer who is mad that he can’t cut turf on the bog anymore. Jesus above, we’re going to need better clues than this. That’s still all of them.”

They both scowled at Louise now. “Have you anything useful to say or do you want to go out and help the bread man bring in those loaves?” Angela snapped at the other woman.

“I’m just saying, he’s not giving us much to work with, is all.”

“He wasn’t giving you anything at all, you nosey little so-and-so.”

Louise lifted up the counter and walked towards the door. As she opened it, she turned back. “Mam was talking to Ann Dempsey the other day about Black Acres. They were saying something about how a similar development was tried 20 years ago and it got very messy. My neighbor, Timmy Walsh, was a councillor at the time. Mam said he retired after it all fell apart and was never the same man again.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Anyway, mam and Ann seem excited about it. They want a nice, safe place to go on their walks. The roads are fuckin’ lethal these days.” Out the door she went to help the bread man.

“I’m near sure Tim Walsh stepped down and that was the by-election your father won to get his seat.” Angela looked puzzled. “I’m not sure I’ve ever met the man but he might be worth a visit if you are worried about this letter. Would you not just go and get it and we’ll have a look together?”

Eamon smiled at her. “I better go, Angela. Thanks for the help. I will go see that man. He lives down beside Louise?”

“You might want to ask her on your way out to be sure.” She handed him the newspaper that was still rolled up in her hand. “Here, bring this with you. Don’t say I never buy you anything.”

---

Eamon stopped the car outside the tidy little bungalow and tried to peer in the window. The house was set back a little with a matching low concrete wall shielding it from the road. It was difficult to make anything out from this distance but Eamon could not see any movement in the house. There was a playful plume of white smoke emanating from one of the chimney stacks and getting carried off into the abyss by the whipping wind.

Louise had suggested he try the farm first and Eamon liked that idea. He continued on slowly down the narrow bóithrín at a quarter the speed suggested by the sign at the top of the road.

Over the cattle grid, the yard spread out before him, playing host to three different sheds. The gaps between the sheds were large enough for heavy machinery to pass through unimpeded. Eamon stopped his car in the middle of the yard and killed the engine. From here, he could be seen from the house, most parts of the expansive yard, and even some of the surrounding fields. The last thing he wanted to do was surprise this seeming recluse. Keeping things slow and very visible were ideal for him.

He opened the car door and swung his legs out. In front of him was an immaculate stack of round bales wrapped in the distinctive black plastic. They were pert and uniform, clearly from this year’s stock and had been stacked with care. Beside them, again neatly arranged, were a bale handler, spike, and shear grab. To the left of the bales was a slatted shed, the doors wide open and the shed empty of animals. Eamon hadn’t grown up on a farm but even he knew sheds like this were used in the winter. The shed would likely be filled with cattle in the next few weeks.

Eamon turned towards the next shed and saw a figure emerge from between the two. He stood quite tall and broad, wearing what looked to be suit pants tucked into wellington boots that cut his calves in half. He wore a tweed jacket over a nylon jumper with a shirt collar sticking out. A peaked flat cap hid a surprisingly full head of hair, complete with an impressive set of sideburns. He walked with a gentle gait, head held high in the air and hands crossed behind his back. Beside him ambled a black and white sheepdog who made no sudden move to close the distance. Neither did his owner.

As the two men got closer, Eamon broke the silence.

“Hello there, I am sorry to drop in unannounced like this.”

“Are you Harry’s replacement?”

“Harry? No. No, my name is Eamon Quinn. I’m a local County Councillor and I’m hoping you might be able to help me.”

“I’m sorry, the man who sells me nuts for the cattle retired. I haven’t met his replacement yet. To be fair, you have a more delicate constitution than a man who sells animal feed.” The man moved a hand from behind his back and extended it to Eamon. “Tim Walsh. Eamon Quinn, you said?”

“Yes, sir. I think my father took your Council seat after you retired.”

“He did. I am sorry for your loss. I can’t say I knew the man but I understand he did right by the people of this town.”

“That’s not always an easy thing to do, I am starting to understand.”

“It is surely difficult. Half the people don’t know what they want, and they are the rational ones.” Walsh allowed the corners of his mouth to curl ever so slightly upwards. “What can I do for you, Councillor?”

“Please, call me Eamon.”

“You’re a pillar of this community now, Councillor, better you get used to it.”

Eamon could feel himself blush and looked quickly at the ground.

“Yes, sir,” he continued. “I was hoping to talk to you about Black Acres?”

If Walsh was surprised, his face did not betray him.

“The open bog that closed my gob.” He nodded slowly. “I see the Council has revived the old plans to rewet and develop it for tourism. Talk of a wind farm too?”

“Yeah, big pressure from Brussels to get our carbon emissions in check. This is seen as an easier win than going up against the farmers directly in other areas. There’s some pushback from the locals but Leinster House are more than happy to let us deal with that.”

“It’s a noble effort. The bog is a sacred place and people are afraid of change.”

“I can’t say my generation has any great love for the bog. It feels like hardship. I’m sure you spent your fair share of time hunched over in Black Acres?”

“Every summer of my childhood. I worked for a man named Larry Reynolds, turning and footing turf. The work was back breaking. We were paid a pittance but we learned how to work. By God, we did.”

“I know you were a Councillor twenty years ago when a similar project failed. What happened?”

“The people needed turf. There was no other argument needed. We were ahead of our time and there was outrage. I wore a younger man’s clothes and thought I could take on the world.” He looked wistfully into the distance. “I ended up getting broken down by it instead.”

“Most new houses don’t have any use for turf now. All the plants are closed. It might be delayed but we’ll get your dream over the line this time. There’s no reason not to.”

“People will always find a new reason. The vast majority of people are good and all want the same thing. We just seem to find wildly different meanings held within, and choose different paths in how to get there.”

Eamon thought on this for a second before speaking.

“Funny you say that. The reason I am here is because I got a letter. It’s vague but I don’t know how seriously I need to take it. Did any especially crazy people oppose the development last time around?”

“Crazy letters were the order of the day back then.” He did his half smile again as he continued to stare out towards his land. “We weren’t all online then and no one hid behind their keyboards. I got crazy letters alright and people shouted at me as I walked through the town but I always knew who they were.”

“So no one you can think of who might write an anonymous, cryptic letter?”

“I wish I could help you but that just wasn’t the style back then. I knew my enemies and they knew me.” He snapped back and fixed his gaze on Eamon. “I wish you the best of luck, Councillor. You are a steward of our land now and have a big say in what happens next. Never underestimate the weight of that responsibility.”

With that he put out his coarse, meaty hand which Eamon shook before getting back into his car and driving away.

---

Pulling out of Walsh’s yard, Eamon realized he didn’t have his official Council notebook. He turned the car for home. He wanted to make sure he was showing up at Mrs. Daly’s as official as possible. As he rounded the bend before the village, the graveyard came into view. He pulled in quickly and stopped the car. He hadn’t been to see his father for a few days. He had also promised his Aunt that he would water the new flowers and woe betide him if he didn’t do that.

Closing the gate behind him, he entered the graveyard and started the short walk up the slight incline. He stopped at a fresh mound of recently disturbed earth that housed his father’s coffin. A temporary wooden cross bearing the name Quinn was erected at the head of the grave and Auntie Ange’s vibrant new flowers inhabited the sole vase that was submerged slightly in the center of the mound. Eamon cursed softly as he realized that he forgot the bottle in the car.

He stood still for a few seconds and inhaled deeply before looking around in all directions. He was alone.

“Hi Daddy,” he began, aloud, “Sorry it’s been a few days since I stopped by. Your old job and all your bosses have been keeping me busy. They’re so fucking demanding,” he laughed.

“I actually talked to the man who held the job before you today. He seems wise. He’d definitely still be able to do the job, but it wore him down.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It’s only been a couple of months but it’s already wearing me down. If there was more than one Mrs. Daly, I’d have already given up.”

He paused again as if not to overburden his father with all of his issues all at once. “Tim Walsh today told me that I was a steward of the land now. That feels like a big weight to carry. I’m not sure I’m built for this kind of responsibility.” He made an attempt at rearranging the flowers in the vase.

“I don’t have your personality. That gravitas a politician exudes when he enters a room. I don’t have it. I’m not you!”

“I don’t think I ever will be you. Thanks for the chat, and sorry I broke down in front of you again,” he added with a laugh that led to a snot bubble emerging from his nose before promptly dying on his upper lip.

He ran his hand across his top lip to wipe away the snot bubble and sniffed at the same time. The smell that filled his nostrils caused him to stop wiping, stop crying, stop breathing for a moment.

---

Eamon’s car rounded the slight bend in the road and he flicked on his right indicator. The little lay-by that mainly existed as a place for the turf cutter to park already had a car parked in it. Eamon knew who it was going to belong to.

He parked up snug beside the already parked car and got out. It was empty. As he entered through what was essentially a gap in a wildly overgrown hedge, the flat expanse of bogland spread out like a cloak before him. Whoever gave it the name Black Acres definitely did so in winter. The purple heather and mossy banks that were so prevalent in summer disappeared into a gray, miserable mess of nothingness.

Black and drab as it was, his eager eyes fixed on a figure in the middle of a bank three bog holes over. He was perfectly vertical with his hands clasped behind his back, staring off at some fixed point far in the distance. He didn’t quite have his back to Eamon but he certainly wasn’t in his line of sight. At the man’s feet lay a black and white dog.

Eamon turned up the collar of his tweed wool coat against the angry wind that was whipping its way across the open moor unencumbered. He pressed on, his head steeled against the gusts that were ebbing and flowing in their ferocity.

Eamon crossed a makeshift bridge over a bog hole that had been filled with gravel and approached Tim Walsh from the side. The dog lifted her head briefly but that was the extent of her movement in recognition of Eamon. He stopped a couple of yards shy of Walsh and looked out across the bog at the same horizon.

The silence that extended between them was cut only by the wind whistling through the browning heather. Walsh finally broke the silence.

“That wind is relentless. You’d notice it more here than elsewhere.” Walsh adjusted his cap so that it sat tighter on his head. “No other distractions.”

“I didn’t know it was going to be so cold out here or I’d have put on the hat and gloves.”

“You haven’t spent the time here.”

Eamon was looking at Walsh now, who was still staring straight ahead.

“I like this spot,” Walsh continued. “This was Packie Ryan’s bank. He told me one day that he had been wanting this bank for years. It’s the most alone he could feel in all the world, he said.” Walsh took a deep breath and exhaled without parting his lips. “A couple of months after I retired from the Council, Packie took a heart attack while he was footing his turf in this very spot. There was no one else around at the time and he died.”

“Jesus,” a whisper from Eamon that left his lips and was carried away immediately by the wind.

“I took over this bank after he died and I’ve been cutting my turf here ever since.”

Eamon was still struggling to find the words that would allow him to get a question out.

“You’re wondering why I sent the letter.” It wasn’t a question and Walsh didn’t wait for an answer. “Time has a way of clarifying things.” He paused again. “This bank belonged to Packie Ryan’s family as far back as the valuation books go. Your grandparents’ grandparents might have turned turf back just over there when they were little. That’s your bank, isn’t it?”

“I… I don’t know. I..” he hesitated again, “I never had to save the turf.”

Walsh’s face betrayed no emotion. He breathed deeply a couple more times as if in a meditative state. “Progress is inevitable. When I was a young fella, like yourself, I thought it was the same as improvement. Thousands of people across hundreds of years have come here summer after summer to put in days of backbreaking work to sustain themselves, their families, their tribe.” He sucked his teeth now as if to steady himself. Eamon, for his part, stayed silent. “People died here, we know that. They laughed and fought, and bonded with each other, and came seeking solitude or to find company. This land, these acres, they’re sacred.” Walsh’s tone had not changed. It was measured but not practiced. There was clear passion bubbling beneath but not bursting through.

“This is not a museum. It’s not an amusement park. It’s a living breathing thing.” Walsh finally broke stance and turned to look Eamon directly in the eyes. “You don’t get to choose what you inherit. You inherit it first and then it is yours to decide what to do with it. I’m not ready to give this up yet.”

He tipped his cap lightly, resumed his hands behind his back and strolled back in the direction of his car, the dog following closely at his heels.