‘GOD, IT MUST HAVE BEEN A VERY STORMY NIGHT!’ Dermot exclaimed as he manoeuvred the car around the pools of water on the road that were caused by overflowing ditches. There were broken branches and pieces of debris all over the road too.

‘It was. I couldn’t sleep with the thunder and lightning,’ Cormac answered.

They were heading down the Dublin road from Kilbride, but when they got to the junction at Mulhuddart, there were bollards blocking their way and an orange sign with the word ‘Diversion’ on it. Alongside it was a piece of wood which looked like a bread-board. Painted on it by hand were the words: ‘Road flooded’.

‘Shite!’ Dermot exclaimed as he swung the car to the left and down a by-road. Two miles of twisting country road brought them to another main road. There was a lot of traffic on this road and it took Dermot a good two minutes before he was able to swing out into the line of cars. They were now on the Derry to Dublin road, heading for Dublin. This road would bring them straight past Finglas, Dermot’s old home. As they approached Finglas, the road became a modern highway which hadn’t been there when Dermot had left Ireland. Looking out to each side of the motorway he recognised streets and factories from his childhood years. He suddenly brought the car to a stop.

‘What’s wrong?’ Cormac asked.

Dermot was staring out the driver’s window.

‘Nothing’s wrong.’ Dermot continued to stare. For a few moments Cormac sat twiddling his thumbs. Then he knelt up on the passenger’s seat and, looking over his father’s shoulder, asked, ‘Why are we stopped?’

Dermot pointed, his finger up against the window. ‘Can you see that big chestnut tree over there?’ he asked Cormac.

The boy followed the line of Dermot’s finger and eventually his eyes fell upon what was, right enough, a huge chestnut tree.

‘Yes, what about it?’ he asked.

‘That, my son, is Chestnut Hole!’

‘Chestnut Hole? Like from the book?’ Cormac was getting excited.

‘I’m nearly sure it is – I think so anyway.’ Dermot too was a little excited.

‘Can we go over, can we go over and look, see if we can find Chestnut Hole?’ Cormac was tugging at the door handle on the passenger side of the car.

Dermot smiled. ‘Yeh, come on. Why not!’

Dermot took the boy by the hand and they carefully crossed the dual carriageway. On the far side of the road Dermot lifted the child over a small fence, climbed over it himself, and the two began to trudge across the field.

‘This is exciting, isn’t it, Dermot?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Dermot replied, although he sounded more scared than excited now. As they moved farther into the field the ground became wetter and swampy. Dermot stopped.

‘Christ, we’re going to get ourselves destroyed! Come on, let’s go back.’

‘Oh no, Dermot, don’t go back now, I want to see Chestnut Hole, please!’

Dermot looked at the boy. Then he looked up at the chestnut tree. They were no more than a hundred yards from it. Maybe it was the drink from the night before, but his stomach felt sick, and his hands began to shake. When he answered the boy there was a tremor in his voice.

‘Okay, then, let’s go.’ They went on. They reached the tree in a few seconds, both now up to their knees in mud. It was a good ten minutes more before they found the entrance to Chestnut Hole. It was Dermot who found it.

‘Cormac! Over here, son, I think I’ve found it!’

He waited for Cormac to join him. Then together they scurried through the entrance into the ancient hut. Dermot took out his lighter and flicked it. The hut lit up. In the centre of the floor were the remains of a small fire, and neatly piled in one corner were four candles. It was obvious that Chestnut Hole had now acquired new residents and had become the headquarters of some new Boot Hill Gang of the nineties. Dermot was glad. He picked up two candles and handed one to Cormac. He lit them and they looked around. Memories came flooding back to Dermot and he began to give the boy a guided tour.

‘Just over there,’ he pointed to one corner, ‘is where I had my seat. We had two seats. We got them out of an old Austin Cambridge; one was Buster’s, one was mine. I had mine over there.’ Dermot turned. ‘Buster had his over here. And see where that fire is now? That’s where we used to lay out our mattress on nights when we slept here.’

‘It looks like somebody else has moved in,’ Cormac commented.

‘Yes, it does,’ Dermot answered. They moved the candles around to try and see every inch of the place, and there was no talking for a while.

Then young Cormac, standing in the middle of the hut, took a deep breath and exclaimed, ‘This place is really great, Daddy.’

Not since the day Dermot had taken Cormac from Margaret O’Brien’s house had the child ever, not even by accident, called Dermot ‘Daddy’. The boy hadn’t even noticed it now, but Dermot was nearly floored.

‘Yes, son, there’s a kind of magic here all right!’ Dermot answered, slowly looking around, and the words seemed vaguely familiar to him. Suddenly a thought struck him and he clicked his fingers. ‘I bet the new tenants haven’t found my hidey hole.’ Dermot began to move the candle along the wall looking for the loose brick. He tried one or two; when a brick didn’t budge immediately he knew it wasn’t his hidey hole. When eventually he found it, he started to wriggle the brick out of place. It was heavier than he remembered and it slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground with a thud. Dermot jumped back. Cormac stood on the brick and looked into the hidey hole.

‘Hey! There’s something in here,’ Cormac announced as he delved his hand into the hole. When his hand reappeared, there was an envelope in it. Cormac examined it with wide, excited eyes. Written on the envelope was the name Dermot Browne.

‘It’s a letter! And it’s for you, Daddy.’ He handed it to Dermot.

‘What?’ Dermot was dumbfounded. He squatted, stuck the candle into the soft clay floor and began to open the letter. The envelope was wet and very old and as he tried to pull it open, it came apart in his hands. There was what looked like a note inside. It had been folded in three and Dermot tried to peel it apart gently. By the time he had it fully open it was torn, and between dampness and age most of the words were illegible. But Dermot could make out the beginning and the end of the note. The opening words were:

and the closing words were:

Dermot sank slowly into a sitting position. As he did, his hands came apart and the damp piece of paper broke apart. Between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand he held a piece of paper that read, ‘Dear Dermot,’ and between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand a piece of paper that read, ‘Love, Mammy.’ He didn’t cry.

‘Are you okay, Daddy?’ Cormac asked, concerned.

‘I’m fine, son,’ Dermot answered, and he stood up. He placed the two small pieces of damp paper one into each of his jacket pockets. Then he took the boy’s hand and said, ‘Come on, Cormac, we have to get to the hospital.’

An hour later the new tenants of Chestnut Hole arrived to find two candles burning in the middle of their hut. They were sure the place had been visited by a ghost. They weren’t far off.

Dermot and Cormac, hand-in-hand, walked along the corridor toward Agnes Browne’s room, leaving muddy footprints on the shiny marble floor behind them. As they approached the private room in which Dermot’s mother lay, the door opened and Mark stepped out into the corridor. Dermot stopped. Mark walked towards him. Dermot didn’t know what kind of reaction to expect from Mark, so he was ready for anything. When the estranged brothers were standing face-to-face Dermot searched for a clue in Mark’s eyes.

‘Welcome home, brother,’ Mark said with a smile, and opened his arms for a hug. Dermot fell into his arms. It was a long hug. Both men kept their eyes closed. When they separated, Dermot began to speak.

‘How is me Mammy?’

‘Still in a coma,’ Mark answered evenly.

Dermot looked at the floor. ‘Look, Mark, I’ve been a bit of an asshole –’

Mark interrupted with a wave of his hand. He put his arm around his brother’s shoulder. ‘Look, Dermot, what’s gone is gone, let’s not look back. It’s just good to have you here, it will mean so much to Mammy – it means so much to all of us.’

‘Thanks,’ was all Dermot could say for fear that if he went any further he would surely cry.

‘So, you’re Cormac?’ Mark crouched beside the boy. ‘Well, Cormac, I’m your Uncle Mark, son, and behind that door you’re about to meet more uncles and aunties than you can shake a stick at!’ Mark smiled at the boy and the boy smiled back.

Dermot was overwhelmed at the welcome he received when he stepped into his mother’s room. The gap in his life had been bridged with the solid steel of love. When the welcomes died down, Dermot moved to his mother’s bedside. Agnes’s dark skin looked sallow rather than pale and she looked like she was just in a deep sleep. Dermot took her hand and held it between both of his. Unabashed, he began to speak to his mother, and as he did the family gathered round the bed.

‘Mammy ... it’s me, Dermot. I just want you to know that I’m home safe and sound ... and that I love you.’

It was short and sweet, but the relief that overcame Dermot was incredible. He felt as if a truck had been parked on his chest for ten years and now suddenly somebody had moved it – it was gone! He smiled. All of the Brownes smiled.

Agnes saw the light begin to appear again. Its increase in size was rapid this time. As she expected, along with the light came Marion’s voice.

‘Yoo hoo! Agnes – I’m back!’

‘Howyeh, Marion? I missed you, where were you?’

‘I was out for me jog.’

‘Jog, me arse! Sure, you’d run out of breath jogging your feckin’ memory!’

The two women laughed.

‘Ah, you wouldn’t know me now, Agnes – a body like Brigitte Bardot.’

‘Bridget the Midget you mean?’ And again the two women laughed.

‘God, Marion ... I really have missed you.’

‘And I’ve missed you too, Agnes.’

‘Marion, why can’t I see you?’

‘’Cause you haven’t crossed over. It’s a rule they have here, you have to cross over. It’s a load of shite if you ask me, but there you are, rules is rules! Agnes, if you just put your hand out into the dark I’ll take it and I’ll bring you over.’

‘I can’t, Marion, not yet ... Marion, can you hear children’s voices?’

There was quiet for a moment.

‘No. They must be on your side, I can’t hear them. Now look, Agnes, are you coming or what?’ Marion was getting impatient.

‘Marion, just give me a few more minutes, will you? Just a few more minutes to make up me mind, please, will you?’

‘All right then. See you later, alligator.’ Marion began to sing and her voice faded away.

Once again Agnes was alone in the darkness. Again she heard the children’s voices, but this time louder. Also she thought she could feel something in her hand. It felt like ... another hand, a child’s hand. She tried desperately to open her eyes. Slowly there came a light – not like Marion’s light, this time it was a dim light. The light became a haze and in the haze she could make out shapes. People. As the haze began to clear a little she could clearly make out faces. She looked at the faces. They were all standing around her bed. Mark and Betty with Aaron. Simon and Fiona with Thomas. Trevor and Maria, Cathy and Buster with Pamela. Rory – and Dino! She was glad. Pierre, oh Pierre. This man she loved more than any man she had ever held in her arms. Little Cormac? She could feel her heart begin to shudder, and standing beside Cormac was the owner of the hand that was holding hers. It was another little boy almost identical to Cormac. It was Dermot. But Dermot is a man, she thought. She looked harder, she could see the shape of the man but much more clearly from out of that shape was a little boy holding her hand. Her heart began to sing. The effort of trying to see was tiring her so she sank back into the darkness again, except this time she felt complete. Whole!

‘Her eyes moved.’ It was Cormac who spoke.

‘What, son?’ Dermot asked.

‘I said her eyes moved, Daddy. Granny – her eyes moved. It was just a flicker, but they moved.’

Dermot gently placed his mother’s hand back on the bed, he sat down on a chair and lifted his son onto his lap.

‘Of course they did, son, of course they did.’ He hugged the boy.

‘What do we do now, Daddy?’ Cormac asked.

‘We wait, son. We pray – and we wait.’

It was at three o’clock on the afternoon of 6 December 1992, with, for the first time in fifteen years, every single living member of her family gathered around her, united, that Agnes Browne smiled and became a dragonfly.