This is a literary translation of the 2025 RTÉ Short Story Competition shortlisted story Corrán na Maidine, by Niall Ó Siadhail. The translator is Katherine Duffy.
You can read the original Irish language version, hear it read by Brídín Ní Mhaoldomhnaigh and read more about Niall and his inspiration for the story, on RTÉ Culture here
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You're wearing make-up.
Why wouldn’t you, on a Friday evening in the middle of summer? You’re still young. The crowd parts before you on your way to the station, the city opening up to you. It makes you smile. You’re wearing make-up, and a dress. Your hair in curls. Your handbag on your shoulder. You carry a little parcel, beautifully wrapped.
You float through the station: down the escalator, the sound of the train filling your ears, the doors sliding open obediently as you step onto the platform. Sometimes London is good to you.
A group of girls stands near the doors, ready for a party, glammed-up and raucous, their chatter and laughter ringing out. You find a seat in the middle of the carriage, your arms braced to guard your bag and the gift. You hope Sorcha will like the necklace. It’s a perfect style for her and good quality, but you’re nervous all the same. You twist the ring on your finger, back and forth.
*
Soon you’re standing outside a door, the bell sounding, your heart skipping. Are you in the right place? You’re beginning to wonder when the door opens and- 'Laoise, honey, come here to me!’ Sorcha throws her arms around you and squeezes until you gasp for air. Your head fills with her perfume, and with the long years of talk and fun and tears. ‘Come in, come in!’
In you go and up the stairs, towards a hum of voices and music. Stef is waiting at the top of the stairs. With her new hairstyle, she looks like Louise Brooks. She’s holding a glass of prosecco. ‘He-ee-yy!’ she says, ‘don’t you look great?!’, and reaches towards you with her free arm.
‘I’m wearing make-up’, you say, then laugh, embarrassed at how silly you sound.
‘Is Tommy not with you?’ Stef asks, with that broad smile that shows all her teeth.
‘Oh, he was really looking forward to it, but something came up at work. He’s sick of that job.’
‘As long as the three of us are here, the night belongs to us,’ Sorcha says. You push the present into her hands.
The pleasantries done, the gift accepted and opened, you’re shown into the sitting-room, where the others are gathered. Mike’s there of course, lovely as ever. ( ‘Any trouble finding the house?’ ‘None at all. You’re very close to Camden!’ ‘Right beside it.’) You’re introduced to Sorcha’s friends, three from work, more from a mix of other places, and a couple you met on this same night last year.
‘It’s a pity we won’t have a fire this year,’ you say to them, ‘since the new apartment has no garden.’
‘We will though,’ the man says, ‘they’re going to light a fire on the roof.’ ‘On the roof?!’ Stef winks at you from the other side of the room.
Mike’s playing waiter, filling glasses and passing around finger food. ‘He’ll be the one minding the kids, mark my words,’ Stef murmurs in your ear. She’s perched on the arm of the sofa now. ‘Sorcha’s so lucky. But she’s not...?’ Across the room, Sorcha’s in full flow, telling a long story about her latest exploits in court. A massive cocktail in her hand, she has her audience in stitches. Stef shakes her head quickly, but goes on to say that a big change is coming in her own life. She’s just given in her notice at work. ‘And what will you do now?’ ‘Haven’t the foggiest. I just have to get away for a while. Maybe I’ll go back to Madrid.’ Madrid. You envy how lightly she can make a decision like that, but then she’s not engaged. She hasn’t just bought an apartment. She didn’t set out to do all the normal things, all the things people expect you to do. ‘I love your hair’, you say to her, and she puts an arm around you and draws your head to her shoulder.
*
Later, you’re in the kitchen, looking for ice.
‘Are you the girl from the library?’
The guy in the green T-shirt seems a complete stranger at first, but when you look closely you realise you know him. Those brown eyes, the premature grey in the hair.
‘Archaeology books, am I right?’
‘Spot on! When I’m not in the library, you’ll find me wandering among old ruins and ancient castles.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘I’d say you go to places like that all the time in Ireland?’
It occurs to you that this Englishman probably knows more about the place than you do.
‘Well, I’d love to, I suppose, but we don’t really get the chance, to be honest.’
‘That’s a pity. I’d love to travel every inch of Ireland.’
Somehow, it bothers you that you haven’t ever planned a journey like that. All those beautiful views on the west coast, all the history and lore, the names of the wild flowers. Knowing your own home-place. You can imagine it. But Tommy wouldn’t be interested in that kind of thing. Without thinking, you start to twist the ring on your finger.
Mike walks into the kitchen, thank God. ‘Ah, here you are. Come on out now, we’re going to light the bonfire.’
‘The bonfire?’ says the man in the green T-shirt.
‘It’s St. John’s Eve,’ you tell him. ‘It’s a big deal back home. I’ll be with you all in just a minute.’
You go into the bathroom and take out your phone. No notifications. You send Tommy a short text: How’s your evening going? Great craic here. The girls were asking for you x
You rejoin the crowd on the roof of the building, gathered around a disposable barbecue placed on the floor. Stef hunkers down to light it, coaxing the flames high before she stands up again.
‘Okay!’ she calls out to the crowd. ‘For anyone who hasn’t been here before: you have to jump through the fire three times, then make a wish for the year ahead.’
Then up and over the fire she goes: one, two, three. ‘Your turn, Ní Cheallaigh,’ she calls to Sorcha, ‘you’ve done it before!’
Before Sorcha can move, you’ve pulled your shoes off and you’re leaping over the bonfire: one, two, three. ‘That’s the stuff, Laoise Ní Ghormaile!’ Stef shouts, her voice full of surprise. You’ve surprised yourself, but couldn’t say what it is you wished for. The soles of your feet hurt but you don’t care: you’re feeling wild. ‘Oh, have we got marshmallows too?’
*
‘In here, in here! Come on in!’
The three of you crowd into Sorcha’s room. She has something to say.
‘Ignore the mess please. When I was packing, I found a bundle of photos that I hadn’t seen for ages. I thought I’d lost them but there they were in one of the boxes, and I had to print this one out for you.’ She gives a little framed picture each to you and to Stef. She has a third in her own hand. The same picture in each frame: three girls, still in their teens, sunglasses on bright faces and a beach stretching behind them. ‘Wasn’t Malaga amazing?’
The girls have their arms around you now, in the bedroom. The other two are speaking, Stef’s voice full of emotion, but you’re struck dumb, eyes glued to the faces in the photo, taken more than ten years ago, wondering at how happy and free those girls were, without a care in the world. You’d forgotten that time and space, those feelings. You are suddenly overcome and burst into tears.
The other two are taken aback, and so are you. ‘Oh, honey, come here!’ The three of you crush together, and you try in vain to stop crying. ‘I’m sorry,’ you say, sobbing. ‘There’s nothing wrong, there’s nothing wrong.’ They hold you tightly as you come out of it, the heaving in your chest calming, the catch your voice smoothing out.
‘I’m sorry, this is gorgeous,’ and you press the picture to your heart, ‘and I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch for so long. We’ll have to get together more. I miss you both so much.’ The tears start again but there’s laughter there too. The three of you, crying and laughing, as if you were all back in the Students’ Residence.
You give a startled shout of laughter when you see your face in the bathroom mirror. Panda eyes. You wouldn’t bother fixing your make-up except that there are still other people at this party, and you’ll have to catch a train home soon. But...
Out comes the phone. No reply from Tommy. You call his number but there’s no answer. You could send another text but what would be the point? He’s out drinking or fast asleep. You switch off the phone and put it back in your handbag, beside the framed picture. You’ve decided: you’re not going home tonight. There’ll be a space beside Stef in the spare room.
You go back to the sitting-room where you’re greeted by a chorus of cheers. They’re dancing now, and it’s been a long time, but you kick off your shoes and join them, the music loud in your ears, your heart hammering, joy blazing in your veins.
*
When you wake, morning light pouring into the room through the open curtains, you remember that the days are already starting to get shorter. You need to go. Stef groans from under the duvet but sleeps on. You get up quietly, still wearing your dress, and tiptoe to the bathroom.
You’re wearing make-up, smudged now, under the eyes. No headache yet, but it’s coming. You let the tap run until the water heats up and you wash your face. You could leave straight away but you take your time: foundation, mascara, lip gloss.
There’s no one in the sitting-room. At the end of the night, there were just the three of you: Mike had gone to bed and the other guests had left. The lingering smell of alcohol is sickening, but you locate your shoes and you’re ready to go.
Out on the street a breeze blows, pleasantly fresh on your skin. You head for the tube again, choosing a station that’s closer than Camden. At the gates, a middle-aged man nods at you. The sentence sounds in your head: You’re wearing make-up.
You’re wearing make-up. Simple words but they flared like fire in you yesterday, scorching your bare skin. You believed that you were at fault somehow, whatever that fault might be. You felt the burn of it all night. But now, the sickle of morning has come. The air is clean and your thoughts are clear. A tie can be cut. On the escalator down, you twist the ring on your finger. You slip it off.
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About The Author: Originally from Tyrone, Niall Ó Siadhail is an Irish language writer, translator and teacher based in Dublin. His story Beir an Solas Leat won first prize at Oireachtas na Gaeilge in 2024. He is currently working on a collection of short stories, as well as his first novel, which is about a jazz musician in London.
About the Translator: Katherine Duffy is a widely published poet, short story writer and translator. Rambling Jack, her translation of the novella Seachrán Jeaic Sheáin Johnny by Mícheál Ó Conghaile is published by Dalkey Archive Press; her translations of five stories by Máirtín Ó Cadhain are published by Yale University Press.
