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The Cliff Dive
The summer when I was fourteen, I made pocket money bringing in hay for local farmers and doing odd jobs for neighbors like Mrs. Ryan, a widow up the road. Every Saturday morning, I would cut her lawn and earn 50 pence. It was only a small lawn, but back then 50 pence would buy four bars of chocolate. This particular Saturday morning, when I was pushing my dad’s rusty petrol mower up the road towards her house, I found the normally empty drive occupied by a brand new car with a Dublin registration plate. New cars were a bit of a novelty back then, but the grass would not cut itself and I had two more lawns to do. I pulled the ripcord and the mower spluttered to life. I was making short work of the lawn, racing up and down like a kid possessed, when I noticed her watching me. She was about my age but taller. She had shoulder-length blond hair and was wearing a “Duran Duran” T-shirt, skin-tight jeans and white deck shoes. My heart spluttered like the battered old lawn mower. My cut ended directly in front of her. A cool kid would have said “Hi” or waved or something. I just turned on my heel and started another cut. The sweat was running down my back and my face was as red as a beetroot. Eventually, I got to the far end and was forced to turn back. She was gone. In the space of one strip of lawn I had fallen in love, had my heart broken and wound up alone. It took another ten minutes before the job was finished, but she had not reappeared. I was seriously considering mowing the lawn all over again, when she walked around the corner of the house, a glass of lemonade in her hand and a snarl on her face. She thrust the glass toward me. “Gran said to give you this.” I turned even redder. “Thanks.” 19
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