The Reflective Piece
The Stranger Who Shot My Family is a real account of my journey between my English home (where I’m from) and my Irish home (where I live now) in the Summer of 2017. I was travelling with my daughter, then 15. While we were in England the Manchester arena attack had taken place, among other threats and terror related events. As is becoming so normal now, the media was full of the ‘badness of strangers’ and the general mood of the nation was distrust and fear.
In the wake of those terror attacks across England, my daughter and I struck up a conversation with a stranger who was travelling the same way as us. I wanted to share my story of this meeting – this stranger.
When I wrote this piece, it was to say stop being afraid. I don’t want my children to live in a world of fear and hate. I want them to know that there are so many more people in this world who are friends than who are enemies, I want them to remember that every friend we have now was a stranger once. I wanted to remind people to talk to that stranger, take that chance. Smile at someone, strike up a conversation. This is what this story is for.
The Stranger Who Shot My Family
Waiting in Holyhead, my daughter spotted a guy with tattoos and a trench coat. ‘Looks like Bono,’ she’d said. I hadn’t seen him.
Boarding the bus from terminal to boat, I followed a guy with a camera. ‘Him,’ my daughter said, nudging. Clustered up front of the bus, he spoke to the driver as I spoke with my daughter. We eavesdropped on each other’s conversations and struck up the quick friendship of strangers crammed together on public transport.
‘You local?’ he’d asked. Been home, going home, we’d answered – between our two worlds of family in England and home in Ireland. His down-under accent gave me questions too: Visiting someone? First time here?
‘Looking for roots,’ he’d answered, ‘no real plans.’
We saw him again later; nice cameras get my attention. Tourist, I’d thought, amused, noticing him across the aisle drinking the obligatory first-time-to-Ireland Guinness, as we’d dozed in our quiet corner.
‘Ask him to stay’, my daughter had hissed, already smitten. Lazy, penned in by a group of German speakers who’d invaded our quiet space as we’d slept, I didn’t move. ‘Later,’ I’d said, ‘if we see him again.’
Waiting to disembark, we noticed him by his absence. ‘Foot Passengers Wait Here.’ He’d turn up.
He did. ‘Dublin first, mate’s sister’s house, then heading to the midlands, no fixed abode’, he’d said.
‘Midlands,’ we’d said. – ‘That’s us,’ we’d said. Another eavesdropper, watching us pat pockets unsuccessfully as we offered a bed for the night, lent a pen.
‘Come and stay, we’d like you to,’ I scribbled my number, email address, on a scrap. He gave me a business card: Sculptor, photographer, gallery owner – mutual interests sealed the deal. ‘Do come,’ we said again, meaning it.
Home, later, he emailed me – may he really come? he’d asked. Will you murder us while we sleep? I’d asked, safety consciousness arriving late to the party. No, he’d replied, will you? No. That’s settled then, I’d said, come crash at our place – you’re very welcome.
Friday, he’d arrived, late, with dented fender and insurance excesses to pay.
‘When I’d said crash here…’ I greeted him with laughter and familiarity. My husband loved him too; welcoming with food and wine. We ate, drank, talked long into the night. He’d planned to stay just one night, but we kept him for another. The day in between the nights, we showed him our part of the world. Late the second night, my daughter spun balls of fire on chains in the ruined abbey nearby. He shot her, over and over, glowing and ethereal, as his camera flash-lit the ruins of ancient stones. I watched, close and enthralled. Magnetised.
He left at dawn. We hugged goodbyes, still pyjamaed and sleepy, lingering as if we knew each other. Next, we will visit him in his country, this stranger; my friend.
