With that, me da swung him around again to face Elvis along with me and Paul. Paul was crying hard and shaking by this time.
‘You, boy, turn around,’ he snapped and turned me around. The second oldest boy. We always got it in sequence.
‘You saw what your brother got. D’ye want the same, d’ye?’
‘Naw, Daddy, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t colour him in. I was out playin’ when I came back from school.’
Having an alibi was no good. He was determined and on a roll. He slapped our legs or arses each time he asked one of us a question. I too was brought in front of Our Lord.
‘Swear over the Sacred Heart! Tell the truth!’ he hissed, no longer shouting.
The Sacred Heart was a real heart in Our Lord’s open chest.
‘I swear over the Sacred Heart that it wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. I dunno who did it, Daddy,’ I sobbed, rubbing my stinging arse.
I looked into Our Lord’s eyes for the truth and found only pain. Me da swung me back round to face Elvis. Then he moved on to Paul, the youngest.
‘Daddy, it’s all right. It doesn’t matter. I can get another one,’ pleaded Karen on our behalf, belatedly realising the horror she’d unleashed.
‘Naw, ye cannae. D’ye think twelve shillings will grow on a tree out the Daisy Field, d’ye?’ he roared in response.
She said nothing. There was no point. He grabbed Paul, turned him around and began the process of truth-seeking with him, slaps and all. They were lighter though – you could tell by the sound. Paul cried the hardest all the same and snivelled uncontrollably, barely able to swear in front of the holy picture that it wasn’t him. The interrogation had drawn a blank. Me da was very unhappy.
‘Right, get your clothes off and into bed!’ he roared, pointing to the beds. ‘There’ll be no tea for yous the night. Fuckin’ cowboys, that’s what yis are!’
We quickly removed our clothes, revealing the full array of red patches on our legs and arses. Soon, all that could be seen were our heads, our red ears all the more noticeable on the white pillows. Bright autumn sunlight streamed through the orange curtains. The door was closed and we were left alone in our suffering.
As me da shut the door he added, ‘Not wan of yis better get out of that bed. I’ll be listening out. If I hear any nonsense I’ll be up wi’ the belt!’
Being in bed without our tea and in pain was one thing, but what made the situation worse was that we could hear every wain in the street out playing below our window, and we knew that at least two of us were innocent.
‘Which one of you two bastards did it?’ whispered Patrick from his side of the bed after we heard the sitting-room door closing. ‘It was you Tony, wasn’t it?’
‘Naw, it wasn’t me, Pansy Potter,’ I said in a girl’s voice, mocking him. ‘I’m telling me da that you said a curse. Look at the state of ye – your ear’s purple! Haha!’
After a few minutes of silence, broken only by the occasional snivel, I turned to Paul and said, ‘I bet ye it was this wee shite here.’ I pointed a finger into Paul’s snottery face lying beside me.
He was crying silent tears and barely able to communicate. ‘N-n-n-naw. I d-d-d-didn’t d-d-o it,’ he cried and turned his face to the wall.
‘Ye wee liar, ye!’ I said and swung my leg at him under the blankets. I hit him in the thigh with my knee.
The springs of the bed shook and rattled. We heard the sitting-room door open downstairs and lay stock still.
‘I’ll be up if I hear another thing!’ roared me da from the hall, closing the door again with a bang.
We all let out a sigh of relief. That was close!
Elvis was still on the wall. So was Arsenal. No one had coloured Arsenal in. I scanned the team above my head and guessed who they were from my upside-down position. Charlie George was my favourite. Then there was George Graham and Pat Rice, who I liked because he was Irish; Bob Wilson, the keeper with his friendly face and curly hair; Peter Storey, Frank McLintock, the captain, and George Armstrong. I was converted to Arsenal from Man United after seeing Charlie George score his screamer in the FA Cup Final against Liverpool in May. He lay on the pitch in the sun after scoring it and his teammates had to lift him up. His long hair trailed behind him as he ran and he talked the same way as the English soldiers at the Mex army post.
Paul fell asleep. It was dark outside and the whole street was still out playing – tig by the sound of it.
Patrick was sitting up. ‘I heard me da goin’ out,’ he said and got out of bed.
He went to the window and peeped around the curtains. I followed, feeling safe knowing that me da was out and the two of us stood there in our white vests and underpants with our heads poking through the curtains. Only a few street lamps were lit and all the wains were playing under a lamp post across from us. Someone saw us and pointed up. It was Jacqueline McKinney. We brought our heads back in quickly, affronted to be in bed when everyone else was out. But a wee minute later we poked our heads through again – we couldn’t help ourselves.
‘El-vis! El-vis! El-vis! El-vis!’ they all chanted as soon as they saw us at the window.
‘Fucking bastards!’ shouted Patrick, quickly snapping the curtains shut again. He didn’t care about cursing. After a minute or two I poked my head through the curtains again.
‘El-vis! El-vis! El-vis! El-vis!’
I snapped the orange curtains closed and jumped back.
‘Get into bed, ya eejit, ye!’ said Patrick, who was back in bed again. ‘You got us into this shite in the first place. G’won, admit it. I’ll call me ma up and you can tell her. Me ma won’t hit ye.’
‘It wasn’t me, Patrick. I think it was him.’ I pointed at Paul, who was still asleep.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ was all Patrick said.
We fell asleep licking our wounds and feeling sorry for ourselves. At least two of us were hard done by. When we got up in the morning, Elvis was gone. Arsenal were on their own again up on the bedroom wall.
8
The Rickety Wheel
In early December 1971 the first Christmas tree of the season appeared in the front room of a house further up Hamilton Street, just opposite Paddy Melaugh’s shop. I was on my way home from school, it was almost dark, with a looming grey sky, and the streetlights hadn’t yet come on, and I saw its coloured lights flickering on and off as I passed the shop. The pretty lights glittered in the window, taunting me, and I stopped to look. There was a woman standing behind the tree and she saw me. I set off towards No. 15, checking for more flashing lights and other tinselly signs of Christmas as I went. But there was nothing – at least, there was nothing obvious. Maybe families had their trees, lights and decorations up in their sitting rooms, where they couldn’t be seen from the street. I was bothered that we weren’t the first in the street to have our decorations up, but I quietly panicked when I thought that we might be the last.
When I reached the house the front door was closed. That meant there was no one in and I was the first home from school. I stood on the doorstep in the cold with my hands in the pockets of my dark blue duffle coat with its yellow-coloured wooden buttons. I scanned the line of cottages and houses opposite ours to check for any signs of Christmas decorations. Lena Carlin, our next-door neighbour, turned the corner at the bottom of the street. She was on her way home from work. Lena lived with her brother and Hugh, her husband.
‘You locked out, Tony?’ she asked as she put her key in the door.
‘Aye, Lena, but I’m all right here.’
‘You must be foundered. D’ye not want to come in until somebody comes wi’ a key?’ she asked.
‘Naw, Lena. I’m okay.’
‘C’mon in o’ that. You’re blue wi’ cold.’ She smiled and held the door open.
I went in after her and she closed the front door.
‘C’mon in to the heat,’ she said as she led me into the sitting room.
Her brother, Séamus, was lying on the dull-brown leather sofa with a
purple woollen blanket over him. He muttered a hello as we came in. He had the same dark copper hair as Lena and was wearing a grey and white striped shirt that could have been a pyjama top.
‘He’s wild sick,’ she said looking at him and then at me.
I didn’t say anything. On the floor beside the sofa was a tin bucket that had dark-coloured liquid at the bottom. He was a wild pale colour and his lips were ruby red.
‘I have to go to the shop for spuds. Hugh’ll be in shortly from his work,’ she called from the kitchen. ‘Will you watch him til I come back?’
Jesus, I thought, what if he throws up and dies and me on my own? ‘Aye, okay, Lena,’ I replied, a bit unsure of myself.
‘Are you sure, Tony? I’ll only be a wee minute,’ she said, walking through the sitting room and out into the hall without stopping. She was out the front door without waiting for my answer.
I sat opposite Séamus and watched him as he lay staring up at the ceiling. He looked at me and I turned away towards the fire, which needed more coal and a good poke. It was warm enough, though, which was comforting. All of a sudden he made a noise in his throat and sat up with a start, swung his head over the side of the sofa and heaved a reddy-brown liquid from his mouth with a load groan, as if his tongue was trying to escape. He retched again but nothing came out this time, just noises.
Jesus Christ! I thought, gripping the arms of the armchair. He’s goney die and me here on my own! He stayed in his vomiting position, making more groaning noises as dark brown slabbers hung from his mouth. I was glued to my chair with fear, my heart going like mad, afraid to say anything in case I brought on his death. Jesus, Lena, come back quick! I thought.
Is that blood he’s throwin’ up or what? I wondered, having never seen such a sight before. We stayed in our positions, him half-hanging off the sofa and me stuck to the matching chair. The only sound in the room was his stomach heaving and gurgling, his heavy breathing and the odd groan. Just then I heard the front door; then the vestibule door opened and Lena came back in with a small brown paper bag of spuds in her arms. I hadn’t realised I’d been holding my breath until I let it go as she came in through the sitting-room door.
‘Was he throwing up again, the poor critter?’ she asked as he put his head back down on the pillow. There were beads of sweat on his forehead.
Séamus nodded, and wiped his mouth and chin with his stripy sleeve.
‘He’s a wile sickness on him, the critter. He’s been lyin’ for days wi’ it.’ She had her purse in her hand, which she opened and took out a two-bob coin.
‘Here’s something for you, Tony,’ she said, offering me the money. ‘It’ll not be long till it’s time for the Rickety Wheel. Keep you this two bob for it.’
‘Ach, naw, Lena. You’re okay,’ I said, half-heartedly, hoping for a second offer.
‘Ach, away o’ that wi’ you.’
‘Thanks, Lena,’ I said as she put the silver coin in my outstretched hand.
‘There’s someone in your house now. I saw the door open. You can go on in.’
‘Thanks, Lena,’ I said, realising that my voice was a bit shaky. When I got up I couldn’t help looking into the tin bucket again to see the dark red-brown stuff at the bottom with some splashed on its sides. ‘Churrio! See yis later.’
‘Churrio, son!’ said Lena.
I opened the sitting room door and closed it behind me. The Rickety Wheel! I thought to myself as I hit the cold air outside. I rubbed the two-shilling coin in my trouser pocket. The Rickety Wheel! I cannae wait!
* * *
Over the next few days more Christmas lights appeared in other windows. A few times we took the chance and came down Bishop Street through Bishie country. Nearly all the houses in Sunbeam Terrace, opposite Nazareth House, had Christmas trees in their bay windows. One would be all coloured lights, the next would be white, the next would have flashing coloured lights. Patrick, Paul and I gawked into each of them as we passed until the terrace gave way to the high College wall. This was the dangerous part, as the worst of the Bishies usually hung around here. But our luck was in.
One day, as we were about to get out of the classroom to go home, a loud gunshot rang out somewhere nearby. We all hit the floor, teacher and all. A few more shots rang out and then there was silence.
‘Stay down till I tell yous to get up,’ the teacher said. It was Mr McCartney. Mr McCartney had a mass of sandy hair, a bushy moustache and sideburns covering most of his face. Everyone in the class liked him, not just because he looked different from the other men teachers, who mostly had short back and sides like us, but because he was really dead on.
No one moved for about five minutes. There wasn’t a sound outside in the corridors. Inside, some of the boys were giggling after someone let out a loud fart. Mr McCartney laughed too as he lay with his face on the wooden floor. A few doors could be heard opening out in the corridor and we could hear whispered voices.
‘Okay, up yis get, boys,’ said Mr McCartney.
After we got up and dusted down our coats and trousers we were warned not to go down Bishop Street, for someone had been shot and there was a chance that another gun battle might start. We went down the Folly, and the boys from Bishop Street and Abercorn Road were kept in.
The next morning, me, Patrick and Paul came up Bishop Street towards school. We’d heard that a soldier had been shot at the side of Grant’s shop and that the gunman had shot him from the College wall. We crossed the road towards Grant’s. There was a small pool of blood on the ground where the soldier had been shot. It had frozen over. There were other boys and girls there, but no one touched the frozen blood. We all stepped round it. It was probably bad luck to step on it – like stepping on someone’s grave in the cemetery.
As we turned to go on to school I noticed a small, round hole in the red brickwork just above the frozen pool of blood. It was about a foot from the ground. The soldier must’ve been shot in the leg and the bullet went right through, I thought as I got down on my hunkers and stuck my little finger in the hole. It went in the whole way. As I poked around I felt something sharp and pulled my finger out again to see if it was cut.
‘There’s something inside the hole,’ I said to Patrick and Paul.
I stuck my finger in again and poked about until I was able to get the thing moving. Eventually I poked it out of the hole and into the palm of my hand.
‘Jesus, look at this, hi!’ I said excitedly as I stood up.
It was a bullet head – a shiny brass bullet head that still had blood on it. Other boys hanging out at the shop crowded around wide-eyed to see what it was and made whistling noises of disbelief. I kept it clutched in my hand and we took off up Bishop Street with a posse of school wains in tow.
We went in through the school gate on upper Bishop Street and walked in a crowd towards the playground where the whole school of several hundred boys were running around with their coats on to keep warm. Mr McCartney and Mr O’Kane saw us coming. I could tell by looking at them that they knew something was afoot. I made towards them and the crowd followed.
‘Look what I got, Mr McCartney,’ I said, my hand outstretched. I had an audience surrounding me.
‘What is it, Tony?’ he asked, looking a bit worried and puzzled.
‘It’s a bullet head, sir,’ I said. ‘It’s from the soldier who was shot yesterday in Bishop Street. It went right through his leg. It still has his blood on it. Look!’
Mr McCartney and Mr O’Kane exchanged grim looks.
‘Here, just give it to me, Tony. I’ll take care of it,’ Mr McCartney said, holding his hand out under mine. I tipped the bullet head into his hand.
‘Did the soldier die, sir?’ asked someone behind me. ‘Was he shot dead, sir?’
‘No, he wasn’t,’ said Mr McCartney, looking over our heads towards the school doors. ‘Now, away now and play yourselves! The bell’s goney be rung any minute now.’
* * *
Although our street had become a very dif
ferent place in the space of a year, with shooting, rioting and army raids, us wains all still had to be good for Santa, just like any other year. One day, when we got home, me ma and da had the decorations out of the press and had them laid out in their open tins on the sofa. At last! The sight sent a shiver of excitement through us children and we all hovered and buzzed about the sitting room like bluebottles in high summer.
We used the same decorations as we had in Moore Street. Me da didn’t like putting them up too early in December and we were usually the last in the street, by a day or two, to put them up. It was usually around the fifteenth. Everyone else in my class had theirs up already and it was the whole talk of the class. I just had to pretend that ours were up too, rather than be affronted or left out. But now they were going up for real I didn’t need to keep the lie going.
The decorations were kept in several Rover biscuit tins out of harm’s way – one for the shiny balls, one was for tinsel, one for the Christmas tree lights, and one for the decorations themselves. Every year when we opened the tins there were usually a few shiny balls broken, which might or might not be replaced depending on how many intact ones there were left. The Christmas tree lights rolled up from last year wouldn’t work and needed new bulbs; the paper decorations needed Sellotaping here and there.
The decorations were thin strips of pastel-coloured paper, which we usually pinned into the four corners of the living room ceiling and looped into the centre above the suspended light. The same pattern was repeated from the middle of the walls at the ceiling and looped in towards the light. Me ma and da were up on a chair each in the living room making the loops and I was in charge of handing up the drawing pins.
‘You’re goin’ to like what Santa’s bringing you this year, Tony,’ said me da, taking a pin from my outstretched hand.
‘Is that right, Da? What is it?’
‘Shut up, Paddy,’ said me ma up on her chair. ‘No talk about what Santa’s bringing. He brings what he brings. They’ve all been good. And you’ – she glared down at me from way up high – ‘your daddy’s your daddy, not Da!’
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