We present another story from the RTÉ Short Story Competition shortlist 2025 -- read Feeding Time by Sinéad Troy below
____________________________________________________________________________
The first sight that will greet the swarm of weekend shoppers at the village centre will be your disproportionately looming head. Thanks to some digital resourcefulness, your weather-beaten visage is considerably smoother and less weather-beaten than in reality.
The image eventually selected is one of you staring down the lens of the camera wearing a congenial half-smile. No teeth. This is apparently perceived as being more trustworthy. You are wearing a tie, but not a jacket, meant to demonstrate a balance between approachability and a respect for formality, which, according to the party's witless PR Consultant, is your specific brand. Supposedly, floating voters find formal dress distancing and it was this alleged insight that informed the party’s slogan for this election cycle: 'standing with you, working for you.’ Emphasis on the word ‘for' which is italicised and underlined.
Your face, and the tag line that accompanies it, are emblazoned across the roll-up banners that are placed on either side on the stand, and on the stacks of leaflets that overwhelm your makeshift table. Posters are ubiquitous throughout the village, hovering over harried pedestrians.
Fiona asks you if you are ready.
‘No,’ you tell her. ‘But sure, there’s no preparation for what will come next. I’ll just to have to jump in…’
‘Well then jump away, people are beginning to trickle into the shops now. One other thing: Does the name Liam Kenny mean anything to you?’
You consider this and try to conjure a face to go with the name.
‘Nothing comes to mind,’ you tell her. ‘What’s the context?’
Fiona hesitates slightly.
‘It's nothing to worry about,’ she says. ‘He’s probably an aul crank, but he’s left a few comments on a couple of your social media pages. The same message. The man has no followers, so the posts aren’t getting any traction, but it sounds like he’s had dealings with you before. Are you sure you don’t remember?’
‘Let me see the posts.’ Fiona presents her phone and, anticipating your eyesight limitations, zooms into the screen.
Liam Kenny himself does not appear in his own profile pictures. In one, he is represented by a spaniel and on the other by a hydrangea bush. Such gentle pleasing images are at odds with the tenor of his message that reads in urgent capital letters:
‘Minister MacEvoy is a craven disgrace who puts his poisonous party before the people who need support. This man hates women, and hasn’t achieved a single thing in Government. He ruins the lives of people. He should rot.’
The message is identical on both posts and is spelt correctly. The message is as vague as it is vitriolic and you are at a loss to know what it refers to.
You tell Fiona not to worry, that he is likely someone who is unhinged. ‘I haven’t a notion what it’s referring to. Are you going to reply?’
‘Not directly, but I’ve reposted the story about the women’s shelter directly underneath his comment. I really don’t want to engage any more than I need to…’
This is not the first time that Fiona has assisted you in a campaign, but you notice a greater certainty with how she conducts herself. Her main responsibility is managing your ‘socials’ as she refers to them, in addition to knocking on doors and distributing leaflets.
She is as ambitious and tenacious as you were at her age. When your son Gavin was born, you indulged in fantasies about the kind of man he would become. He would be the embodiment of everything that you valued in a person, but Gavin proved to be more of a passenger in life than a driver. Happily, your son’s unrealised potential materialised in your only daughter instead, an outcome you hadn’t predicted. Next year she will begin her postgraduate degree in legal studies and you recognise the same steeliness that you have, and that you are certain will lend itself to politics.
'The hates women bit bothers me, I can’t think what it’s referring to…’
It is then that you see an elderly man you recognise approach you steadily with a walker.
The curtain rises and you dutifully put all thoughts of Liam Kenny out of your head.
‘Feeding time at the zoo,’ you murmur to Fiona, and she smiles.
Joe speaks slowly with a soft wheeze between each word.
‘God bless you Sean, you have my vote anyway. You can be sure of that …’
‘Fair play to you Joe. I am very grateful for your support. How are you getting on? Is there anything that I can help you with?’
‘Not a thing, sure hasn’t God been good to me and I hope he will be to you too.’ Joe speaks slowly. God bless you now and keep you safe.’
You say a ‘God bless you’ back but the words feel strange on your tongue. It is not something you say naturally.
This is what it’s like when canvassing though. You are obliged to tell people what they want to hear. You say God bless you to Joe and in an hour's time, you’ll be telling a young mother that, yes, religion has no place in schools, and then later you’ll tell another old dear that it’s a shame that people have lost their faith.
Most people politely acknowledge you for a moment before ploughing on past you. Others keep their eyes downcast in avoidance. Some roll their eyes theatrically and mutter profanities. A few people are apologetic, telling you that it’s nothing personal but that they wouldn’t vote for your party. You don’t allow yourself any brusqueness or defensive body language. Keep smiling. Keep repeating the greatest hits.
It strikes you how little the general public are aware of political matters outside of their own interest. Complaints about you or your party are seldom specific and tend to be based on broad generalisations. There are plenty of specificities that they could get into, but these decisions were made on behalf of your constituents using sound rationale and they remain a matter of public record. You would happily discuss these choices with anyone who asked, but they seldom came up in conversation when campaigning.
Even the dependable party men and women seem to have a fuzzy understanding of what you stand for. You struggle to recall this yourself at times. Ultimately though people want reassurance about whatever is bothering them.
Yes, it’s terrible that your 40-year-old son can’t afford to move out and still lives at home.
Yes, it’s appalling how widespread racism and xenophobia have become in society.
Yes, we should ensure that we provide housing and welfare for our own communities as well as Ukrainian refugees.
Yes, I see how your neighbours’ extension might devalue your house.
Yes, yes always yes.
You see him for the first time in the afternoon. You weren’t actually expecting him to appear physically in front of you. A few hours ago, he was just a shadowy nobody venting into the chasm of the Internet.
He is small in stature and has a puffy ruddy face offset by a large bulbous nose. His askew presence is instantly unsettling.
Fiona is stunned into worried silence.
‘Is she your daughter?’ he asks in mildly slurred speech.
Your voice is steady and your tone is neutral.
'That is no concern of yours. If you don’t have an issue to raise, I’m going to have to ask you to step aside.'
'You want to see my daughter?' he asks.
You hear Fiona’s voice.
‘Dad, this is Bill Kenny, Lisa Kenny’s dad.’
Bill Kenny doesn't resonate with you any more than Liam Kenny did but the name Lisa Kenny rings clear as a bell.
‘Would you like to see my daughter?’ He asks again. 'I’d love for you to see her, I’d love for you to find her the way that I did.'
His voice betrays him and dissolves into tears with one heaving rasp. This man is Lisa Kenny’s father. Lisa was in Fiona’s class throughout her schooling. During their Leaving Cert year, she accused another student of raping her at a party. The boy’s father was a donor of your party. He asked you to write a character reference for his son when the case went to trial a few years after the event. You agreed to this request, and the case was subsequently declared a mistrial due to a hung jury.
Liam or Bill is not being entirely coherent. You hear the rapid beating of your heart within your chest as if it is trying to escape you.
You see it then. The grey rectangle in the crowd. One and then another. You are being watched. A semi-circle of rubberneckers forms around you.
‘I wanted to come down here to tell you in person that you are a low-life, you thought that defending that animal was more important than protecting a girl the same age as your own... Lisa didn’t kill herself, you did. You and people like you… She was exhausted, broken…'
Fiona tries unsuccessfully to intervene.
‘Bitch!’ he spits at her vehemently.
You are mindful of being watched. You must react carefully.
‘Bill I am so sorry. I know who you are and what you are referring to. I didn’t know that Lisa has passed. I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear it. I am a father too. I know who its lime to watch someone you love suffer.’
He looks at you with naked searing hatred. He has no interest in your excuses, but other people, especially those recording you, will.
‘Bill, I know nothing that I can say here now will ease your loss. Is there somebody we can call for you?’
He looks at you as though you have urinated in front of him. He swallows and simply says: ‘I want you to feel ashamed,' before spitting on the ground and walking away. A trail of mobile phones document his exit.
You handled that well.
That’s what everyone tells you afterwards. Everyone who knows you says it to you.
Fair play to you, you handled that well!
Videos circulate online and Fiona makes you aware of some pious criticism from social media commentators about the #MeToo movement and the justice system, but in the real tangible world, your peers and colleagues are sympathetic to your being placed in an uncomfortable and unwinnable position
What could you have done differently? You didn’t know the circumstances of the alleged assault and you didn’t want to know. You were obliged to pay someone a favour. You didn’t look beyond that. Bill’s question about shame bothers you as you're aware that you have never felt shame in the same way that others do. To you it seems like narcissism. Just bloody get on with it, you want to scream at people. Keep looking forward.
Things return to normal and you successfully secure your seat in a landslide victory. Back home, after the count amongst your family and closest friends. Fiona raises a glass to you.
'To Dad, who never gives up and always keeps his cool, and to absent friends… Bill Kenny’s stunt helped us more than he ever intended. Sláinte. Here’s to many years of feeding time at the zoo.'
Fiona’s cheery callousness sinks your heart like a stone. The cheers and laughs obliterate your intrusive thoughts.
You need to feel the shock of night air on your skin. You move outside, into the front garden. The stillness is unbearable to you and for the first time in your life, you feel shame. You are ashamed of yourself, ashamed of the children that you have raised, ashamed of turning a family’s tragedy into your personal victory. Your poster hangs on the lamppost in front of your home. You are confronted with your own image who smiles smugly and mockingly upon you.
____________________________________________________________________________
About The Author: Sinéad Troy is from Dublin and is currently working on a novel. She was shortlisted twice for the PJ O'Connor Radio Drama Awards on RTÉ Radio 1, and contributed a monologue to the Abbey Theatre's Dear Ireland series in 2020.
Listen to the RTÉ Short Story Competition 2025 stories nightly on Late Date from Monday 13th October (full broadcast schedule here). Tune into Arena for interviews and updates, and join us for the live Arena/RTÉ Short Story finale in the Pavilion Theatre in Dún Laoghaire on Friday 24th October -- tickets are on sale here
