ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME

The summer of 1961 was a jumpy one. No matter where you were there was trouble brewing. The French headache in Algiers had left Africa and spilled over to France itself. The Russians and the Americans were increasingly hostile toward each other, their uneasy Cold War heating up over the refugee problem in Berlin, Castro's guerrillas were making life rough for Batista in Cuba, and the long standing struggle between the Communists and the Diem government in Vietnam was dragging on. Even the deceptively calm green meadows of Ireland weren't immune to trouble. The on again off again fight between the Catholics and the Protestants there, occasionally erupted violently in her cities to the north. Of course, that was hardly new. Every Irishman learned at his father's knee that the fight had been going on for more than 100 years and no one expected it to end any time soon.

For one young child, the world's many troubles meant little. The daily struggle for survival was a far more immediate and pressing concern. In fact, on this particular summer afternoon, survival was a literal struggle. He dodged the missile agilely and burrowed into a pile of peat at the rear of the shed, just as the pitchfork wobbled past his ear. Lucky for him, his tormentor had already drunk one pint too many and it spoiled his aim. Priam Mc Gonagle bellowed, "May hell's fire consume you boy! Where have you gone then? I knew you were a lousy one when the Father pressed me to take you in. You ungrateful whelp..." He peered into the gloom. Unable to locate his target, he broke off his tirade. "Ah, hell," he muttered, "boy ain't worth the sweat I'd take to swat him. Just let him try to get in the house this night." He stomped toward the house muttering as he went, "Last time I let Father Jonas talk me into taking in..."

From the safety of the shed the child waited, mentally counting the steps between the house and the shed. When he was certain his tormentor would have reached the house, he crept out of his hiding place. He bounced up and brushed the peat off his trousers. He was small for his age. Although he was nine, he looked no more than seven or so. His black hair was shaggy and he kept having to brush it out of his eyes. His eyes were his most singular feature. They were large and so blue they glittered like gemstones. He no longer remembered the names or face's of the family into which he had been born, only that the current family, like many others before it, had no true claim on him.

The boy often found himself in trouble, for he always seemed to do something to annoy the adults with whom he lived. Today's transgression had been nothing more than a failure to anticipate Mc Gonagle's return from his daily visit to the local pub. The ensuing argument between Mc Gonagle and his wife inevitably ended with him as the target of the man's rage, so he usually contrived to be out of sight at the appointed time. He reached into his pocket and smiled a secret smile. He would not remain in range any longer. Father Jonas to the contrary, he was sure he'd fair better in the city. He never once looked behind him as he ran across the meadow to the road.

The jeweler held the piece up to the light. "Pretty fine gold," he admitted.

"How much you gonna give for it?" asked the boy.

Charlie Ferrin eyed the boy suspiciously, "Where'd a lad like you get a fine bauble like this? An orphan lad doesn't usually come by family riches." He shook his head, "I'll not pay a penny for stolen goods boy."

"It's not stolen! It belonged to me mum before she died."

"Oh ho, a family heirloom is it now?" Ferrin chortled. "Sure and the Mc Gonagle's will be happy to learn they got a genuine heir living under their roof."

The child's eye's filled with tears. "Oh please don't tell anybody! You'll spoil the surprise," he pleaded.

Ferrin leaned back, thumbs hooked in his vest, enjoying the boy's performance immensely. "Now don't be getting all weepy eyed, my boy. What surprise might that be?"

"Father Jonas, he says to thank the blessed Virgin for people like the Mc Gonagle's so I want to do something nice for the Missus. It's her birthday, and the Mister hasn't had too good a time of it, so I thought I'd spend my own money..." He paused, judging he'd gone far enough to convince the man of his sincerity.

"I'll give you two Quid Son, that ought to be enough to buy something fine."

The child nearly ruined his performance with his outrage. "The gold alone is worth three times more than that," he protested.

"I've heard you were a clever one," Ferrin remarked with a satisfied grin. "I'll give you four Quid and not a penny more. And if I were you, I'd put some distance between me and Priam. He'll be after your hide for sure if he finds this missing." He shoved the money at the child. "Now get on with you, before I change my mind and turn you in to the copper's for the thief you are!" he said roughly.

The child shivered. It was getting colder by the minute. He counted what remained of his small cash fund. Not enough left to buy a flop for the night. He walked on for another block. The park it'd be then. He'd have to look sharp to avoid being picked up by the coppers. If only it weren't so cold! He stopped in a pool of light created by the marquee of a small movie theatre. A short time later hidden in the darkest corner of the balcony, he watched in awe as Humphrey Bogart created Michael O'Leary - and he took for himself the first name he'd ever had that hadn't been forced upon him purely for someone else's gratification.

The End