Ahoy for Joy by Keith Reilly

couldn’t find as neither
lough
nor
craic
were listed. This rankled her rather proper nature, but she still chuckled at the challenge.
    The next day she took the note with her to school. Her English teacher was able to help with the word
lough
and invited her to accompany him to the school library where he opened the big atlas and laid it out on a study table. The map of Ireland was littered with the word
lough
. There was Belfast Lough of course, but also Strangford Lough, Lough Neagh, Lough Erne, Lough Ree and Lough Derg.
    â€œIt means lake or estuary,” the teacher remarked, watching intently as Anna broke into a broad smile. “But can you pronounce it?”
    Anna tittered engagingly, “Oh no, not another
o-u-g-h
!” she exclaimed.
    â€œIt certainly is,” said the teacher. Anna took a breath.
    â€œWell, it could be like rough, so
luff
. Or it could be like though, so
low
. It could even be like bough, so
bow
, but rhyming with cow! Oh dear, how can you tell?”
    â€œWell,” said the teacher, “I can tell you this. It’s none of these!” He stopped to let the girl think, enjoying the interest she was showing in his subject. It was students like Anna who made teaching worthwhile for him and he always experienced a little vocational thrill when someone became involved over and above the standard curriculum.
    â€œI’ll give you a hint. The same word is used in Scotland, but they spell it differently there. Have you heard of
Loch
Ness?”
    â€œLike the Loch Ness Monster?” Anna had read a short story about the legendary creature just last year.
    â€œYes, yes indeed, so Lough is pronounced like Loch? Yes, yes, yes, now I’ve got it!” He couldn’t help with
craic
though, but suggested that it too may be of Irish origin or else some form of colloquial slang.
    And so, Anna did write. A few days later a letter with a stamp marked
Nederland
arrived at the Coglan home. Michael thought his heart would stop as he opened it and Anna’s enthusiastic text, full of joy and light lit his heart once more. She
loved
his poem and maybe one day she would love
him
too. He read the chatty text with its natural rhythm and casual tone and saw her face once more in his mind’s eye. For Michael who instinctively mistrusted his own emotions, there was now at least an objective validity in letting himself feel for her. Fear took another knock as love pushed its way a little further into his mind.
    A regular correspondence quickly developed between the two young people. Each, communicated in their own way with Michael, buoyed by the success of his first poem, writing further texts, sometimes interlinked with clandestine messages, puns or plays on the language. Anna loved reading his work, deciphering the words and phrases, which was in no sense easy, English not being her first language. This was a fact for which Michael made little allowance. But she applied herself and would write back with questions or suggestions about what he might mean. Sometimes Michael would confirm her thoughts, other times he would gently tell her to think again.
    After a while there was a steady flow of poetry coming from the pen of Michael Coglan. Letters usually arrived on Tuesdays or Wednesdays, having been posted at the weekend. Anna would arrive home from school and take the envelope to her room before opening it excitedly and reading the new contents. He made her feel wonderful, she being the exclusive recipient of his work. There were poems covering diverse aspects of life, everything from the glories of the Irish countryside that he brought to life in her bedroom to the perils of riding a bicycle in the city. Some were serious and thoughtful pieces, while others were full of subtle humour, sarcasm and irony. He wrote other short texts, intense descriptions of mundane activities like men working on the road, using words to create the slouches and mannerisms of the workers he had