Working on protection duty as a uniformed guard at the rear of Mountjoy Prison, there was a security hut and gas heater which could be used only in inclement weather and at all other times I had to patrol the 50m in each direction from, the hut. The purpose was to prevent Irish republican prisoners from escaping and prevent others from getting in and assisting in an escape. I was standing near the hut which was backing on to the Royal Canal.
In the distance, I saw a small child come through an opening in the wall on to the canal for pedestrians. The child was young, so I kept him in sight for a while and then he went out of view. There were no circumstances in which I could leave my post. The orders were clear, call for assistance in all situations, so leaving my post by 1m would be a sackable offence at that time.
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It was winter time and the canal bank had pools of water and soft ground. I left my post, in breach of all Garda rules and regulations and sprinted along the banks of the canal to where I last saw the child. As I was in fairly strict training at the time, I may have been close on world record time for the 100m, while wearing full uniform. The boy was wearing his mother’s wellingtons, got stuck in the muck, fell forward on his face into a pool of water and was unable to get up. I caught his coat and lifted him up and his mother’s wellingtons remained stuck in the muck.
The boy screamed and screamed. So what would this now look like to a passerby or the people looking out from the windows of their houses: a Garda out of breath having sprinted over 100m in full uniform including a great coat? I talked to the boy, retrieved the wellingtons and took him to the canal and wiped and washed his clothes and wellingtons, with grass and water from the canal.
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The crying stopped and I carried him to the hut where we could do protection duty together on my beat. I turned on the gas fire and he was soon playing with the Garda radio and wearing my cap. It was almost 30 minutes later a woman appeared through the same pedestrian opening in the wall where I first saw the boy. She looked left and right, put her hands to her head and ran left and then right. I got out of the hut and waved for her to come to me. The woman arrived, running and grabbed her child before I could tell her what had happened.
I relayed the story and took her to the place where her son was stuck, and the wellington tracks were still clear. The mother was pale with fright and was just about able to thank me as she continued to cuddle her son.
In disobeying the rules Frank could have been sacked. Life is strange.
Afterwards one might know what was going on at the time.
The Words of Love project started one morning with a chat in the foyer of the Fighting Words centre in Dublin . Two Fighting Words mentors were talking about the world needing a little more love as they waited for the children to arrive for their workshop. This germ of an idea was developed and writers of all ages were approached to share their thoughts and experiences of love in all its forms; the result was a small, beautiful collection launched on April 14th. Here are a few pieces by participants from the Silverthread writing group who responded to the challenge of capturing the essence of love in words. You can find out more about Words of Love and read more pieces from the project on the Fighting Words website
