That familiar clackity- clack of a train wake me. It is a soothing sound, but I have pain everywhere, in my back, in my head. Where am I? Looking out the rain-streaked window, I don’t recognise any landmarks. I see a big, wide river running alongside the tracks. Swans are spooning on the edge where it is calm. Craning slightly, I see a bridge coming up, and there is an old stone fort on a small hill. Suddenly it is dark, and the train is in a tunnel. I try again but can’t remember my name. My brain feels like misty rain. It’s there but with no form.
In the tunnel’s darkness, I see a reflection in the train’s window. It is of an old man with a grey scraggy beard in a great grey overcoat. I see an old black beanie pulled over one hairy eyebrow. A dirty face. I look again, but we speed into daylight and the reflection vanishes. I look at my legs and I see an ugly pair of battered runners. A big black toe sticks out from the remains of the right runner. I wiggle my toe and jump when I realise it is my toe. Ugh.
The carriage has three other people. I ask the person nearest to me, where are we? They turn away with a disgusted look in their eyes. Who am I? I sniff. The smell is powerful. I sniff again, trying to identify the odour. It’s urine, stale sweat, and alcohol. I wonder who smells like that. Dirty tramp. The train whistle blows, and I realise it is my smell. I pull my neck into my coat like an uncomfortable turtle. I scan the floor, looking for answers. Where am I? What am I?
The train stops. The station is a handsome yellow and green brick building. I get up and shuffle to the doors. They hiss open and one other departing passenger quickly scurries away from me and my smell. I step onto the platform, feeling the bumps of the special sensory path through the bottom of my runners. I see a sign. Platform 1. To my right, beside a pretty bunch of late summer flowers, is another sign- Wexford.
‘Wexford’. I say it out loud. Two syllables. It’s not familiar to me. Several passengers leave the train and walk up a ramp and through the station. I follow them. They cross the road into a green area. It looks like a pleasant town. Plenty of people, cars, and bright lights in shops. I see a sign for Whites Hotel. That’s it, I thought. Get to a hotel, get cleaned up, and get some new clothes and food. I start to salivate and realise I am hungry. I wonder what I like to eat.
The hotel is up a slight hill. It’s all glass and light. A revolving door impedes me, as I don’t understand how it works. It keeps stopping. When I push, it completely stops. A guest advises ‘step back from the door’. It revolves and nearly hits me from behind. The entire lobby stares, their coldness in contrast to the warmth of the lobby. Who am I?
I approach the counter. “I need a room, please.” The young receptionist puts his hand over his mouth, gags, and hurries inside. I feel sorry for him, but I need a room to clean up. His colleague, a young and quite pretty lady, deliberately sprays some perfume on a face mask, dons it, and in a very firm voice says, “Sir, are you sure this is your hotel? Do you have a reservation?” She leans away from me and with one finger gesticulates to a security man.
“I do not have a reservation,” I reply as formally as possible. “In my day, one just walked into a hotel and asked for a room.”
“Maybe so, Sir, but the hotel is full. Perhaps the Bed and Breakfast across the road can help you?” She points towards the non-revolving, revolving door. I shudder and use a side door to leave. Where am I?
Rusty nails secure the door of the B&B to its frame. Blue paint peels around the broken panels. I shake my fist at the lying receptionist in the hotel. The cold air bites as I walk past an old stone building with a plaque about slavery. Nothing is familiar. A coffee shop with tables under red umbrellas appears up ahead. The last table has no guests, but an uneaten sandwich is on a plate. I pick it up as I pass. Bright lights ahead attract me. I am hungry.
I eat as I cross onto a cobble-locked street. It is quiet here. I like it. A pavement board sign says coffee upstairs. I look and see the words National OperThat familiar clackity- clack of a train wake me. It is a soothing sound, but I have pain everywhere, in my back, in my head. Where am I? Looking out the rain-streaked window, I don’t recognise any landmarks. I see a big, wide river running alongside the tracks. Swans are spooning on the edge where it is calm. Craning slightly, I see a bridge coming up, and there is an old stone fort on a small hill. Suddenly it is dark, and the train is in a tunnel. I try again but can’t remember my name. My brain feels like misty rain. It’s there but with no form.
In the tunnel’s darkness, I see a reflection in the train’s window. It is of an old man with a grey scraggy beard in a great grey overcoat. I see an old black beanie pulled over one hairy eyebrow. A dirty face. I look again, but we speed into daylight and the reflection vanishes. I look at my legs and I see an ugly pair of battered runners. A big black toe sticks out from the remains of the right runner. I wiggle my toe and jump when I realise it is my toe. Ugh.
The carriage has three other people. I ask the person nearest to me, where are we? They turn away with a disgusted look in their eyes. Who am I? I sniff. The smell is powerful. I sniff again, trying to identify the odour. It’s urine, stale sweat, and alcohol. I wonder who smells like that. Dirty tramp. The train whistle blows, and I realise it is my smell. I pull my neck into my coat like an uncomfortable turtle. I scan the floor, looking for answers. Where am I? What am I?
The train stops. The station is a handsome yellow and green brick building. I get up and shuffle to the doors. They hiss open and one other departing passenger quickly scurries away from me and my smell. I step onto the platform, feeling the bumps of the special sensory path through the bottom of my runners. I see a sign. Platform 1. To my right, beside a pretty bunch of late summer flowers, is another sign- Wexford.
‘Wexford’. I say it out loud. Two syllables. It’s not familiar to me. Several passengers leave the train and walk up a ramp and through the station. I follow them. They cross the road into a green area. It looks like a pleasant town. Plenty of people, cars, and bright lights in shops. I see a sign for Whites Hotel. That’s it, I thought. Get to a hotel, get cleaned up, and get some new clothes and food. I start to salivate and realise I am hungry. I wonder what I like to eat.
The hotel is up a slight hill. It’s all glass and light. A revolving door impedes me, as I don’t understand how it works. It keeps stopping. When I push, it completely stops. A guest advises ‘step back from the door’. It revolves and nearly hits me from behind. The entire lobby stares, their coldness in contrast to the warmth of the lobby. Who am I?
I approach the counter. “I need a room, please.” The young receptionist puts his hand over his mouth, gags, and hurries inside. I feel sorry for him, but I need a room to clean up. His colleague, a young and quite pretty lady, deliberately sprays some perfume on a face mask, dons it, and in a very firm voice says, “Sir, are you sure this is your hotel? Do you have a reservation?” She leans away from me and with one finger gesticulates to a security man.
“I do not have a reservation,” I reply as formally as possible. “In my day, one just walked into a hotel and asked for a room.”
“Maybe so, Sir, but the hotel is full. Perhaps the Bed and Breakfast across the road can help you?” She points towards the non-revolving, revolving door. I shudder and use a side door to leave. Where am I?
Rusty nails secure the door of the B&B to its frame. Blue paint peels around the broken panels. I shake my fist at the lying receptionist in the hotel. The cold air bites as I walk past an old stone building with a plaque about slavery. Nothing is familiar. A coffee shop with tables under red umbrellas appears up ahead. The last table has no guests, but an uneaten sandwich is on a plate. I pick it up as I pass. Bright lights ahead attract me. I am hungry.
I eat as I cross onto a cobble-locked street. It is quiet here. I like it. A pavement board sign says coffee upstairs. I look and see the words National Opera House over the door. My body relaxes and my stomach oozes warmth. I walk in and the two girls at reception look at me with alarm in their eyes. “Coffee,” I say. One points upwards and says, “There is a lift.” The other dives on a phone and punches a number. I guess I am not presentable enough for her.
I walk through a spacious foyer and see two lifts. I hit the call button and go to the first floor. There is no coffee here. A wooden door stands closed in an oak-panel wall. I pull it open. My eyes adjust to the darkness. It is a huge theatre. I burp a sour taste. The vast theatre absorbs the muffled sound. I fold down a seat and my eyes adjust to the beautiful timber shining with a deep-waxed finish. The stage is in dim light far below. The lack of sound is meditative. I feel comfortable here.
A spotlight snaps on the stage, and a young woman appears—singing as she walks. A piano plays accompanying chords. It is spellbinding. They rehearse an Italian opera. I feel my toes curl as the soprano reaches for a note, but it jars. The piano stops. A male voice far below shouts, “No, no. You must hit C sharp. Come on, you can do it!”
“Luigi is a tough director!” The voice behind me is smoky and cracked.
“What? Who are you?” I stammer as I look around at a well-dressed man with a jacket and an open collar. ‘You spooked me!’
“You can see me!” His voice rises a husky octave.
“Yes, of course, I know it is a bit dark but-”
“No one can see me.”
“Why not?”
“Well for a start, I am dead. I died two years ago today. Exactly today. I got up to come down here and lit my first fag of the day and that was it, I simply collapsed and died.”
I peer closely at him, “You look a bit peaky all right. I thought it was just the light. You are quite green about the gills. What’s your name, and how come you are here?”
“James is the name on my official birth record, but they call me Jimmy. At least they used to. Now I am referred to as the ghost of Operas’ past. I was the front-of-house manager here for years. I smoked all my life to help my nerves. I suffered as I tried to teach English to teenage boys who just wanted to read thrillers and seduce girls. I failed to make the cut to heaven, and I just hope to find an empty seat here when the show starts.”
Jimmy peers through the gloom at me. “Who are you? You look bloody scruffy. Who let you in?”
“I don’t know who I am. I was on a train, and I’m here now. Talking to a ghost. I know why she is not hitting the note.”
“You do? How?”
“I can’t tell you how I know. I wish I could explain it to her. She has a fabulous voice.”
“Well,” Jimmy warns, “you better not go near her. If they see you, they will call the Guards, you are just a bum and a dirty old one at that. I bet you stink.”
We listen for a while. Jimmy whispers, “I can leave a note for her. I do that sometimes. I scribble a note and leave it on the floor for them to find.”
Suddenly, a torch snaps on and flashes in my eyes. I blink, blinded by the strength of the light. The holder, a woman, speaks clearly, “You, I found you, what are you doing here? Get out, you stink, come on, get out.”
“I thought it was Jimmy again,” I reply as I stand up.
The torch lowers, and the voice gasps, “Jimmy, Jimmy who? There is no Jimmy here. There used to be, but not anymore.”
“Yes, he told me. He passed away two years ago today.”
“Who are you? How do you know that? You’re right. Today is his anniversary. We all miss him. How do you know Jimmy? Are you a friend of his?”
“No. Well, I don’t know. That’s the problem. But I feel well here. Will you help me, please?”
Jimmy appears again, “That’s Phil, she is fantastic. She took over my role. She is tough, but very kind. Ask her to help you get cleaned up and to see a doctor.”
“Phil, Jimmy says you are fantastic.” Her torch bounces down the steps. Her mouth and her eyes form wide O shapes. “Who told you my name is Phil?”
“Jimmy just did.” I shrug. She will either have me locked up or help me.
“Is he here now?” Phil scans the rows of seats.
“No, he is gone again. We are trying to help the singer hit the right note.”
“That’s enough now. This is ridiculous. You must leave. This is an Opera House. We’ll send you somewhere to get cleaned up. You might be a friend of Jimmy’s, so we’ll get you some help. Come with me. Don’t use the lift. It already stinks to high heaven. It must be fumigated.”

After I had been cleaned up, Dr Stephen came to see me. He examined me and found a bump on the side of my head. The hospital took some x-rays. I had a cracked skull. Further tests showed a mass inside my head. They operated and removed a long clot and some damaged tissue.
I woke up in a hospital gown. Memories trickled back. Dan is my name. Dan O’Brien. It was such a relief to know my name. Over the next few days, more memories returned. Phil came to see me. She brought me a phone. “In case,” she said, “you want to call someone.”
After she left, I opened the browser and went to a banking website. I entered the code and password. Nervously, I pressed the button to show account balances. It was enough. More than enough.
Phil had arranged for the local men’s shop to fit me for some clothes. In a couple of days, I was well enough to get out of bed. Phil visited again and helped me walk. The hospital discharged me, and she booked a room in the Whites Hotel for me. She even got me tickets for the opera. She winked and said I would enjoy the high notes of the young singer. I chatted with Jimmy a few times. She liked that.
I returned to Spain when the Opera Festival ended. My memory still had a sizeable gap. Dr Stephen said it was from the blow I received. I discovered things were not good with my wife and me. Soon after our divorce, I had closed my singing school and left to travel around Europe.
I did one last thing before I left Wexford. I gave a large bequest to the Wexford Opera Festival on the condition that Seat 8 in Row K of the stalls was always empty. Jimmy deserved a good seat.