by Chris O’Dowd
‘Mmm, look at that big hunky fella,’ murmured Linda, as she watched a burly man hammer at the wall. ‘He sure knows how to handle that sledgehammer**.’
Martin watched the wall-wrecking cluelessly.
‘I suppose they’ll be putting up a big hedge instead?’ he said.
The two ladies glanced at each other, but Debra didn’t have the energy to explain. ‘That’s right, love. They’re getting rid of the ol’ wall so they can make room for the Berlin Hedge.’
Martin sighed. ‘It’s no wonder poor Wall Street is in trouble,’ he said, shaking his head, and wandered off into the garden.
*COMMUNISM - a type of society based on equality - like when your teacher forces you to share your toys with everyone, even Smashy Simon and Billy Breaks-Everything. Everyone is equal and everything is broken.
**SLEDGEHAMMER - a type of heavy hammer invented by Father Christmas to smash up old, broken sledges. Also popular with Dads, who like to swing them around the garden and pretend that they’re Thor.
‘OK, let’s go over this again,’ said Martin, as we paced around the garden, mulling over his problems. ‘I’m a working man now, so I need all the sleep I can get. But I also need time in the mornings to check my face for make-up.’
‘The only solution is to somehow shorten your nine-minute commute to school,’ I told him.
‘But how. . . ?’ he wondered, as he continued to pace.
And then it struck him.
Or rather, he struck it.
Not looking where he was going, he walked right into the back wall.
‘Ow!’ he yowled. ‘Flippin’ wall!’
And then it struck me. Because I was following him. ‘Ouch, me head!’ I yelped. ‘Wait - that’s it! The wall!’
The school wall ran right behind the Moones’ back garden, and I suddenly realized that instead of following the road around the long way, we should just go over the wall! All Martin had to do was hop over it every morning and he’d be there in plenty of time, free of ridicule and rouge.
The only problem was that it was actually quite a tall wall.
A terribly terrifyingly tall wall.
But when I told Martin the plan, he got so excited that he forgot about his crippling fear of heights, piled up the garden furniture and scaled the wobbly mountain of old chairs.
Soon we were sitting atop the wall - halfway there!
But when Martin saw the long drop down into the empty schoolyard below, he gulped, remembering his height-horrors.
‘You think I can make this jump?’ he asked nervously.
‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ I told him honestly.
He frowned, determined. ‘I think I can. I’m a very strong jumper.’
‘Oh, you’re an accomplished athlete, can’t argue with that. I just don’t think you’ve got the balls for a jump like that.’
Martin looked alarmed. ‘What’s wrong with my balls? My balls are perfectly normal.’
‘Yeah, let’s not . . . go down that road. It’s more of an attitude thing, buddy. You’re always a bit “safety first”.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, take your choice of imaginary friend, for example. You gave me my name.’
‘Sean Murphy. An excellent name,’ he said proudly.
‘Most common name in Ireland, but let’s not get hung up on that. You also gave me my middle name.’
‘Caution! Sean “Caution” Murphy. As in, careful who you’re messing with, fool. Caution!’
‘Yeah. Remind me - who is Padraic’s imaginary friend?’
‘Legendary wrestler Crunchie “Danger” Haystacks.’
‘Danger. You hear what I’m saying? Padraic would have already made this jump, carrying Crunchie on his back like a ThunderCat*, no doubt. Whereas here you are, bickering with a man wearing ladies’ shoes.’
Martin sighed glumly. He knew he’d never
*THUNDERCATS - a cartoon about a group of warrior cat-people whose only weakness was being tickled under the chin.
He stood there, defeated. But then suddenly he turned with frustration and karate-kicked the wall as hard as he could.
‘Flip off, wall!’ he yelled.
And when he did this, to our astonishment, he actually kicked a little hole in the wall!
Martin examined the dent, and the plaster crumbled in his hand.
I couldn’t help but chuckle. ‘Lovely man, your dad. Terrible builder.’
Martin picked away more cement, then managed to pull a whole brick out of the wall and found himself looking right into the schoolyard.
An excited grin crept over his face. ‘Maybe it’s time we did some wall-wrecking of our own, Sean.’
I smiled at him proudly. ‘Ya know, it’s not the size of a man’s balls that’s important, buddy.
It’s the direction they’re swinging in.’
We both nodded at these wise words, although neither of us was quite sure what they meant.
But just then the factory whistle rang out in the distance.
‘Ah balls, I’m late for work!’ cried Martin, and we dashed away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
FABIO
We managed to sneak into the factory without anyone noticing our tardiness. I thought Brendan heard us clatter into a broom by the side door, but judging by his crazed feline cursing, it’s safe to assume he thought we were the cat.
That evening, Martin went about his normal duties while also snooping around for any new information. He crept as he swept, keeping an ear open for any fresh intel. But when the break-time bell clanged, we realized we were two hours into our shift, and none the wiser.
During their break, the workers pulled out a football and started to kick it around. As they flicked and kicked it expertly to one another, we saw that their foot skills were almost as impressive as their hand skills.
‘Whoa . . .’ murmured Martin, watching their fancy footwork in awe.
‘I really feel like this is a clue,’ I said. But we were both stumped.
‘Who’s good at football?’ I wondered.
‘Other Alan?’ suggested Martin.
‘Outside of school. I mean, in the world. Who’s good at football?’
Martin pondered this for several minutes.
‘Jonner Bonner?’ he said at last.
I shook my head wearily. ‘Maybe we should just eat some Skiffles.’
‘Now you’re talking!’
Martin made his way to the break room, hoping to outsmart the vending machine once more, but just then a beautiful tune caught his eye. Or rather, his ear. It was coming from somewhere in the belly of the factory. The melody was at odds with the usual bashing and crashing of the machines and general silence of his colleagues. The only radio in the building was tuned to around-the-clock shipping forecasts, so we were perfectly puzzled.
‘Is that . . . music?’ I asked.
‘I was just thinking the same thing, Sean!’
‘Funny how that happens,’ I quipped.
We followed the sound of the secret song along corridors, down stairwells, into musty closets until, finally, we came to the boiler room. From outside we listened to the gorgeous guitar-playing we’d heard above ground. The exotic tune was energetic but slow, cheerful but soulful. And as we stared at the closed door, we were desperate to discover the maker of this marvellous music.
‘Go on, buddy, this is our chance,’ I urged.
Martin tentatively pushed the door open a few inches and shuffled his foot into the gap, trying to be as quiet as he could. We peeked inside.
In the middle of the rusty room, perched on an old fish crate, was a long-haired bronzed troubadour*, eyes closed, lost in his melody. Who was this mysterious songbird? From the side they were slender-looking. And tender-looking. Could-have-been-either-gender-looking. But then he turned his head slightly and we got a better look at this curious canary. His eyes were brown like coffee and rich like banoffi**. His lovely locks flowed over his shoulders like he was stan
ding beneath a chocolate waterfall. Making the spectacle even more delicious, the young man was strumming a guitar that was beautifully carved in the shape of a fish. It was quite the sight.
*TROUBADOUR - a European music maker in medieval times. As they lived before hairbrushes were invented, troubadours would often sing into big turkey drumsticks, pretending that they were microphones.
**BANOFFI - a popular pie made from bananas and toffee. A tasty alternative to ‘potatam’ a grim Irish dessert made from potatoes and jam.
Martin now recognized the handsome man from his fish-gutting exploits above ground. He didn’t know his name, but he’d noticed the other workers applauding his skill and speed on the factory floor. His nimble fingers were clearly designed to delight in different disciplines.
As he finished his terrific tune, he opened his eyes and caught sight of Martin hovering in the doorway. We’d been spotted! Just as Martin moved to leave, the man called out, ‘Fish-Guts! You sneaky peaky, you.’
We feared the worst until his lips slowly curled into a smile like a piece of paper set alight.
‘Sorry, mister,’ Martin muttered. ‘I was looking for . . . the toilet. I need to . . . do toilet things. In a toilet.’
‘Maybe mention you need the toilet, buddy?’ I added, shaking my head.
‘Fish-Guts, I am Fabio. Stop telling toilet tales and come sit with me,’ he said with a smile, as he gestured towards a nearby fish crate.
Fabio was about nineteen. His chin had a dimple so deep you could rest a bike in it, and when he blinked his eyelashes fluttered in slow motion like a hummingbird’s wings in a wildlife documentary. Transfixed, Martin edged on to the makeshift seat beside him.
‘Fish-Guts, I have seen you work. You remind me greatly of someone from my village. My heart skips a beat when I think of them, and seeing you before me now, it sets my rhythm right.’
‘That’s . . . good. What are they like?’
‘Oh, beautiful. With ringlets of soft cocoa hair and a smell of the freshest roses. A ponytail sweeps over the back of the dainty dress they wear like a sleepy kitten’s paw.’
‘That sounds like . . . a girl.’
‘Oh yes, the prettiest girl in all of the village.’
‘And I remind you of her?’
‘Yes, yes. Her rosy cheeks and silly little face. Same same,’ he insisted, pointing at Martin’s own silly little face.
Martin wasn’t sure whether he should be honoured or insulted, so decided to ignore this altogether and push Fabio for more detailed information.
‘And where is this village, Mr Fabio, sir?’
‘Far, far away, Fish-Guts.’
‘Wexford?’ the boy asked.
‘I come from a beautiful little place called Aldeia de Lágrimas e Peixes Mortos.’
‘That’s . . . catchy. And why did you leave, Mr Fabio, sir?’
‘I will sing my story to you, Fish-Guts. Because I like you, I trust you and I love to sing.’
In my little Aldeia, where it never snow-a,
Every single dishy was filled with little fishies,
The ladies sewed us strong lines, we danced until the sunrise,
The best place I ever know-a was my little Aldeia. . .
The sad song went on for quite a while. It was forty-seven verses. I don’t want to bore you with the whole thing so I’ll give you the highlights:
Fabio came from a small fishing village somewhere foreign. It sounded nice. Sand, dancing, food, that kind of thing. They lived off the fish they caught and sang long songs and sold fish to other villages. Everyone was pretty happy, it seemed. There were girls that looked like Martin, instruments carved to look like sea creatures and other general silliness. Then their fish got sick. Some kind of fish- blight, I think. The bay where they sourced their harvest was suddenly empty, and Fabio and his fellow villagers began to get really poor and hungry. This was very sad. Then one day, just as the villagers had decided to pack up their things and leave, a pale man showed up on a jet ski. It was Francie Feeley! He told the fishermen that their expertise was needed in Ireland. He offered to sail them all back on his yacht to the great city of Boyle, where he would secretly employ them in his fish factory. They could send money back to their families until their fish got better and they could go home. Following a big town meeting, Fabio and his friends made the difficult decision to emigrate*. So the men bid farewell to their families and their loved ones and sailed to Ireland, where Francie told them the sun always shone and the streets were paved with prawns.
‘That’s a hell of a song, Mr Fabio! What a voice. Do you know anything by Bon Jovi?’
‘No, sorry, I only know songs about me.’
‘You’re amazing,’ Martin gushed.
‘Hold on, buddy. . . Amazing is going a little far,’ I whispered, still unsure of this foreign fop. ‘He’s slightly interesting. But the long lank songs, the glossy hair, c’mon . . . All a bit much, isn’t it?’
*EMIGRATE - when a man moves from one country to another. When a lady moves, she femigrates, and if they bring their family, they themigrate.
I should have guessed that, as the sole voice of reason, Martin would have stopped listening to me, but I didn’t. By the time I’d uttered my last word, Martin was already trying to noodle on Fabio’s guitar like a nincompoop.
‘Your fish guitar is amazing too.’
‘Thank you, Fish-Guts. I come here to the boiler room and play sad songs whenever I miss my home.’
‘Oh. I miss my home too,’ Martin said sadly.
‘Oh yes? Where are you from?’
‘About ten minutes down the road.’
Fabio chuckled as the break bell clanged to let them know their moment together was over.
‘Wait, Mr Fabio, sir. Where are you from exactly?’
‘Where am I from? The greatest country in all the world!’ declared Fabio joyously.
‘Ireland?’ asked Martin.
‘No. Definitely not Ireland. Think hotter.’
‘Norway?’
‘I’m guessing maybe geography isn’t your strong point, Fish-Guts.’
‘Canada? New Zealand? Old Zealand?’
‘Let me give you a hint. We are the best footballers and fish-gutters in South America. We wear yellow, we have a carnival in Rio, we have rainforests . . .’
‘Scotland?’
‘Brazil!’ Fabio exclaimed finally. ‘We are from Brazil. We are the men of Aldeia de Lágrimas e Peixes Mortos and we are from Brazil.’
‘Cool,’ Martin said coolly. ‘Nice to meet you, Fabio. My name is Martin.’
‘Hahahahha,’ laughed Fabio. ‘Martin! What a silly name. Hahaha. Good one, Fish-Guts!’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EAST V WEST
‘They’re from Brazil?! That’s nuts!’ Padraic whispered, aghast at this new news.
‘Yup, Mr P, it’s Brazil nuts!’ Martin winked, delighted with his pun.
Martin and Padraic were huddled at their desk in the back of Mr Jackson’s classroom. He was banging on about the fate of the Berlin Wall in Germany, but the boys were otherwise occupied.
‘This is huge news, Agent M double-O N E. Do you have any proof?’
‘Well, he told me. And . . . there was a song.’
‘A song?’ asked a confused Padraic.
‘Whisht, Moone!’ their teacher barked, as he flung a nub of chalk in the direction of the boys. ‘Padraic O’Dwyer, can you tell me who funded the construction of the Berlin Wall in 1961?’
Padraic looked to Martin, clueless. Martin shrugged back at him, hopeless.
‘Wall Street?’ Padraic offered.
It seemed like a decent guess to me, but the look on Mr Jackson’s face suggested otherwise. He scowled at the boys before pacing left and right in his teachery way.
‘The anti-fascist protection rampart was built by the German Democratic Republic to keep East and West Germany divided. It seems they didn’t see eye to eye on a number of things, so they threw up the wall to ke
ep them from quarrelling. It’s a great big wall. A strong wall, a tall wall. It’s managed to stay stood for nearly thirty years, but the Germans seem set on pulling it down, so I imagine its best days are behind it.’
‘Why do people want to tear it down, sir?’ Martin asked, pretending to be engaged.
‘I don’t know, Moone. It’s political correctness gone mad. It’s a good strong wall and I for one think it’s a real shame they’re tearing it down. Some people just aren’t meant to live together. It’s like cats and dogs.’
The classroom of clueless boys murmured in agreement.
‘But. . .at our house, my dog and cat live together,’ Padraic said, confused.
‘And I’m sure they’re always fighting, aren’t they, O’Dwyer?’
The class nodded in agreement, going along with anything their teacher said, until Trevor, usually the quietest boy in class, raised his hand.
‘Our cat and dog got married!’ he blurted out. ‘The dog wore a doll’s dress, my mam dressed up like a priest, the whole ordeal. It was a lovely ceremony actually. The cat looked unsure when we stuck a ring on his paw, but they made a commitment, and by God they stuck to it. The mistake we made was sending them on honeymoon. We presumed they’d go into a field for a few hours as a romantic getaway and what have you, but. . . they disappeared for about a week. After a lot of searching, the cat came home but without the dog. My dad went out and found her dead on the road. She was a divil for chasing cars. I don’t know if the cat will ever remarry - he’s heartbroken. Anyway, you live and learn.’
The classroom fell silent. It was a bizarre story, but then Trevor was an odd chap.
‘Well, that just proves my point,’ Mr Jackson finally stated.
‘Does it though?’ I said.
Jonner Bonner stuck his hand up to ask a question. As a bully, he usually only raised his hand to smack someone with it, but clearly the plight of the Germans had grabbed his attention.
‘If the Berlin lads want to hang out with each other, why don’t they go under the wall?’