Potatoes and a Pocket Full of Coins

peice I did for english, I hope it's okay :)

Ross isn’t usually a smiler. But today he smiles at every cyclist, jogger and ice-cream stained toddler he sees as he strolls down the bustling avenues of Dublin city. He grew up on a potato farm just out of the city, with his mother and older brother James, but now he has a small farm of his own. He never married, for Ross is the kind of person who is just content to watch, not join in. Despite being alone and on the wrong side of sixty four, he smiles as the bright silver coins jangle in his pocket, the morning well spent.

In appearance, he resembles one of Santa’s elves, with his round, cheerful face, squashy strawberry nose, twinkling eyes and cheeky grin. He never made it beyond five foot four, and despite being a farmer, he rarely wears clothes that portray his rural background, choosing comfy jeans and woollen jackets over coarse overalls and chequered shirts like many of the men in his neighbourhood choose to wear. Wrinkled and balding, he is kind of man you would expect to play an elderly grandfather on a TV programme.

The old bus gives a grunt, and with surprising agility for a man of his age, Ross leaps onto the side ladder as the bus chugs off toward his neighbourhood. As the bus is passing through the outskirts of Dublin, there is a sound, and look, up there on that balcony, there is a young boy – no older than seven or eight – singing. I used to sing like that, Ross thinks and suddenly he is overcome with nostalgia, and longing for the old days. Yes, life was hard, but it was happy.

He can still remember the warm summer evenings, when their small community would meet in the old barn for food, music and idle chatter. He can remember the cold winters, when he would curl up with his mother and older brother in the big bed, covered in blankets and fighting to keep warm. The autumns, spent playing conkers with the grocers boy and the neighbours sons, golden and brown leaves falling off the trees like snow, covering the forest floor in a cloak of majestic red and gold. There are also things he’d rather forget. Like the time he grew some lettuces in a spare garden patch, and he went around to doors to sell them, but the when the lady answered the door he’d been too shy to say more than ‘would you like these’, so she thought they were a gift, and with a polite thank-you, took them. Then he went home and drew a green car, flying across a purple sky.  There was also the time he had to sing a solo in church, and was so frightened that he had simply apologised to the congregation and fled the church. Ross has always been terribly shy, and it has done more to hinder him than help him.

The bus has finally arrived at his stop, and so, thanking the driver, he hops off and strides up the path to his cottage. He unlocks the door, pulls open the curtains, and the dark room is suddenly bathed in a golden light. “SURPRISE” cry the people situated in the kitchen, and look, there’s his mother, his brother and family, the neighbours and all of his childhood friends. There’s the grocer and the postman, and every single one of them has an identical grin from ear to ear. As they break into a chorus of happy birthday, he wipes a tear from his eye. “I didn’t know you cared” he whispers, as he is enveloped by the sea of arms.