Woodstock – Ian Margieson Woodstock. A story by Ian Margieson. Chapter One. Saturday 23rd August 1969. With violins in our sunset, we hung around Orange for no longer than we needed to. After picking up a few supplies, we headed back out to the river. She seemed in a bullish mood, as if the discontent of earlier had left her. Either that or it had been bullied it into submission. We made a makeshift camp on the banks of the Sabine and under the now sinking Texan sun, we lit a fire, made from anything we could find and given ample ammunition by liberal douses of Southern Comfort. The ground was hard and the breeze was warm. On the other side of the river was a barbed wire fence, rusted from rain and shot through with animal fur. This was truly rustic America. The colour of the sky that evening was as sweet as any I can remember, its changing hue seemingly pulsating from somewhere within itself. With bottle in hand, she leaned herself back on one of the big old tyres of the Lincoln while I made myself comfortable on a log. She puffed on a cigarette, blowing the smoke into that of the bonfire, while the embers and splints crackled and sparkled against the twilight backdrop, like tiny pearls taking leave of their captivity. Every now and then, one of us would get up to check the sausages, cooking on a primitive spit and when they were ready, we took feast upon our humble banquet. Nothing tastes better than food prepared outside. For a long time, we didn’t talk; allowing the scene around us to hold its own conversation, but eventually it was her who broke the silence, then my heart. The campfire was our journey’s end, but for me, this was the culmination of a story twelve years and more than three thousand 1 Woodstock – Ian Margieson miles in the making. The winter of 1957 descended upon Belfast with a bleak and desolate solemnity. It gripped the last golden flourishes of autumn tightly within its grasp, until soon; all that remained was the pencilled outline of a once magnificent season. The new Fianna Fail government had budgeted for an end to food subsidies and protest marches were taking place across the city. Unemployment had been rising steadily throughout the decade, with many people refusing to uproot and take the boat of emigration, preferring to stay and fight for what little work there was. Unemployment meant poverty and the coming of winter saw the struggle intensify. For many, winter was so much more than just a black and white image of chimneys and frosty cobble stoned pavements; it was a test of determination, in which only the steadfast would prevail. I had no ideas about any of this though. For me, the only thing on my mind was Christmas cake. I had turned eight years old that April and the most important thing in my life, was beating my two older sisters and older brother home from school. It was the 21st December 1957 and I found myself rushing home through a gale. Elmgrove primary school had closed for the Christmas holidays and I was eager to get home, anxious to warm myself besides the fire, before Sheila, Gail and Michael returned. Until they arrived, I knew that my mother would allow me to sit in my father’s armchair next to the fire in our front room. I knew too, that if she had been baking Christmas cake, it was in my best interest to get home as quickly as possible in case there were any tasty leftovers going begging. Maybe there’d be some cherries or a handful of currants. I ran as fast as my legs would take me. This was my routine every afternoon; the first out of school and back home as soon as possible. My journey took me along Greenville Road, into Clara Avenue and past Conn’s Water, to 2 Woodstock – Ian Margieson my home in Hyndford Street. I had even trimmed the timing down from a quarter of an hour in my first year to just less than seven minutes now. It had been this way since my very first day. On this afternoon though, the wind howled through the streets like nothing I could remember. It stormed along the shop fronts, scooping up newspaper stands and vegetable racks as it went. Its ferocity was relentless. For me though, this merely added to the challenge. I skipped past the debris and leapt over dustbins. Nothing was going to stop me from winning my race. As I turned the corner of Clara Avenue, I knew I was over the worst; just a few more shops, then over the bridge and I would be home. Our house was almost in sight. It felt good to be so close. I could almost taste the cherries bursting in my mouth. Suddenly, from across the road, the branch of a fallen tree came hurtling in my direction. I saw it too late to move out of its path and it struck my thighs hard and knocked me over, the momentum sending me rolling into a shop doorway. As I landed, I hit my head upon the brickwork of the building. Then, as I settled, I lifted my hands up to my face. I remember pulling them away to see them soaked in blood. As I did this, my vision began to blur. I struggled to make out my fingertips and then, in an instant, all was dark. “Laddie, hey laddie are you okay?” Opening my eyes, I heard a gruff voice and then felt someone helping me to my feet. “How are you, son? That was quite a tumble you took there. Can you stand up okay? Will I get you something young fella?” I looked up towards the gentlemen. He looked as old as the hills, with a mop of white hair and a beard to match. He smiled at me broadly, as much with his eyes as with his mouth, the way my mother did in the morning. He looked familiar, but I was sure I’d never met him. Wearing a shirt and tie under a brown cardigan that looked too old to be real, he looked like Father Christmas on his day off. That was 3 Woodstock – Ian Margieson my first impression of him and I liked him immediately. It was one that would never shake off. He was still supporting me by the arm, of which I was glad. My head was throbbing and my legs felt weak, but I managed to thank him for his help, before asking, “Do I know you, sir? I’m sorry about your wall.” “The wall? Oh dear boy, that’s tougher than a wheel string. Don’t you mind that none. Now, will I get you something for your troubles?” I thought for a moment. “Do you have any milk please sir?” “Milk? Yeah sure I do, funny thing for a youngster t’ask for, mind. I keep it on the window ledge, for me tea you know? Let’s just hope it’s not been blown away.” “Blown away?” I asked, still a little groggy from my fall. “Aye son, in the gale. It’s blowin’ for Kansas out there,” he replied. He sat me on a wooden stool, just inside of the door and then made his way to the back of the shop, humming as he went. I sat there and looking down, noticed that I was holding a wet flannel. It was warm. I held it up to the gash on my head and pressed it. It sure was sore, but somehow the warmth dulled the ache just a little. I sat patiently, like children in strange places do, and waited for my milk. Looking around, I realised that this was not a shop into which I had been before. I was not though, nervous or concerned; always a quiet child, I was blessed with a gentle confidence. The front window was quite scratched but through it I could see the familiar sight of hogs strung up outside the butcher’s shop. They were flapping and flying around in the gust and I remember thinking how much they looked as if they were trying to jump down to get away. They were an eerie sight, the sort of things that could crop up in unwanted dreams. My attentions then returned to the shop in which I sat. What first struck me and what I remember vividly to this day, 4 Woodstock – Ian Margieson was how cramped the place was. I was the only person there at the time, but had I not been, there would surely have been room for only three or four folk at most. The shop floor was lined with bookcases, some tall, some wide, but all of them packed full to the brim. These bookcases though, were unlike any I had ever seen before. They were filled not just with books, but also with what appeared to be an oddball collection of memorabilia of some sort. I was quickly drawn to a dark object in a case on a shelf immediately to my right. I had a quick look around and then told myself that seeing as the owner had not yet appeared with my milk, it would be okay to get up and have a little look. Climbing down from the stool, I felt a sharp pain in my thigh, presumably from where I had fallen so gracelessly outside.