A BITTER wind whips the main street, rattling empty cans and making replica snowstorms of discarded paper and plastic bags. Oblivious to the passersby, a couple of junkies are engaged in a shouted, expletive-riddled quarrel.
Theirs is a fast-growing community, and this type of public display has become commonplace, the pattern now familiar. Clenched-fist threats of violent retribution for some supposed transgression from him; denials, apologies, and declarations of undying love from her, and sporadic attempts at mediation from their smattering of identikit companions.
Each summer, the unwilling witnesses to this spontaneous street theatre from among a dwindling influx of holidaymakers drop their heads and scurry past, vowing never to return. Residents have no such option. They are stuck with it.
Most can barely afford to travel to another town, much less up sticks and go live in one. Passing mothers, prematurely aged, on last-minute bargain-hunting expeditions, glance at the squabblers and pull their children a little closer, against the biting cold and the knotted-stomach dread that they might be glimpsing an offspring’s future.
Office workers – mostly out-of-towners, thankful to be domiciled elsewhere – out buying a lunchtime sandwich, nod in the direction of the junkies and mutter to one another, “Jesus Christ, this place gets more like skid row every day”, as if their home towns are faring any better.
Workless men, self-worth corroded beyond repair, travel in knots back and forth to the dole office, unperturbed by the goings-on around them, unable to summon up enough passion to care overly much about anything but their situation. “Talk about fur coat and no knickers,” grunts one, glancing up at the elaborate Christmas decorations strung overhead. “For Sale” and “To Let” signs add extra dollops of colour to a main street growing more gap-toothed by the month. Only the charity shops are thriving.
A previously comfortably off lady exits a doorway, with a bulging Marks and Spencer bag held prominently across her chest. She used to take bags of tat into the charity shop; now she smuggles them out. A while ago, she bumped into an old acquaintance as they both moved, heads lowered, in opposite directions along a rack of second-hand clothes. The embarrassment of each one was slightly eased by the mortification of the other.
A group of street-drinkers are positioned, as usual, along the low wall outside the town centre church, laughing raucously at a joke one of them has made. An old lady smiles kindly in their direction as she shuffles past. Some of them smile back at her: “Hello, missus. Terrible day isn’t it.” She thinks of how much the town has changed over the years, and how hard put her Billy will be to recognise the place when he comes home. He’ll hardly know a sinner, what with most of his chums now gone.
“Lifeboat Billy” they used to call her strapping son. Sure, wasn’t he the strongest swimmer in the town. She wipes away a tear, and wonders what to buy for tea with the few coppers in her purse. Things are so terribly dear now; maybe she’ll just make do with bread and jam again. Never mind, sure she’ll want for nothing when her Billy comes home.
As ever, the roundly despised traffic wardens are out in force, searching for prey. They make eye-contact with no one, waiting only for a motorist to commit the tiniest parking infraction, and no mercy is shown. It is a town noted for a lack of free parking space, and the meticulousness of its wardens. Those visitors whom the junkies and street-drinkers do not drive away, the traffic wardens surely will.
Suddenly, two youths in hooded tops and multistained, light grey tracksuit bottoms are being chased down the street by an angry-looking young woman. “Hand it over,” she demands, when they give up flight. The taller one reaches inside his trousers and, with a sheepish grin, proffers the snatched bottle of white wine. Did he imagine he wouldn’t be noticed standing in the lunchtime queue at an upmarket sandwich bar? The young proprietor retreats quickly, as it dawns upon her how much of a chance she has just taken. What if a knife had been pulled?
A passing garda and his rookie colleague witness the final act of this little drama from the warmth of their patrol car. The experienced officer doesn’t recognise the young woman, but knows the culprits well. They both come, as modern parlance has it, from “troubled backgrounds”. What youngster doesn’t, nowadays? “We’ll talk to her, but she probably won’t want to press charges,” he says, without hint of an opinion either way. He learned long ago that to survive in this job you cannot afford the luxury of emotional engagement: despising or pitying come at too high a price.
A long line of taxi drivers sit stone-faced, waiting for a miracle, as Fairytale of New Yorkplays in the shopping centre. Snatches of the ballad carry on the bitter wind, along the main street, and over the heads of the people.
It seems a fitting lament to the slow, agonising death of a recession-hit town.