‘Naw I’m not. Naw I’m not,’ he cried, searching my eyes for the truth. The tears began to stream out of him.
‘Aye, ye are, Paul. Wrinkles is what you get when you’re an old man. What are you goin’ to do?’
Paul started crying loudly and me da burst in the door.
‘What are yous boys at? What’s wrong with him?’ he asked.
‘Look at my hands, Da! Our Tony said I’m turning into an old man,’ sobbed Paul.
‘I didn’t, Da, I didn’t. He’s just a wee crier,’ I pleaded.
‘See you, ya wee shite-hawk,’ said me da and he hit me a crack on the ear with his open hand. I started crying as well and me ma came through the door.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph would you look at them two on this good Christmas Eve. Get the two of yous out of that water and get dried for your tea!’ she shouted, and stormed back out of the room.
The smell of the fry wafted in from the kitchen. I dried myself and me da dried Paul, who was still sobbing in between laughing at me getting a whack on the ear.
‘He’s lying, Da,’ I said.
‘Naw I’m not, Da,’ said Paul.
‘Shut up the two of yous,’ Da said, ‘or Santa’ll hear ye’s and there’ll be no presents in the morning!’
The fry was ready by the time we got our pyjamas on. Me da had laid the fire in the hearth in our bedroom ready for us going to bed. Full of excitement after the bath, the wrinkles, the crying and the crack on the ear, we bounded downstairs and into the kitchen, where we all stood around the table – Ma, Da, Karen, Patrick, me and Paul. Colleen was in bed and Glenn was in his cot, too young for Christmas.
The fry consisted of Doherty’s sausages, mince, bacon and a fried egg, with tea, bread and butter.
‘Who wants high tea?’ asked me da.
‘Me, me, me, me,’ we said in unison. There were no low tea drinkers in our house.
He lifted the teapot about a foot above the mugs and proceeded to pour the tea into each of them. They were already milked. The rust-brown tea poured into the cups through the tea-strainer and splashed when it reached near the top, giving the tea a frothy head. This was high tea. Low tea had no suds. Me da loved doing the high tea.
On the worktop near the cooker the Christmas turkey sat on a baking tray with a chequered tea cloth covering it ready for the oven. When it first arrived at the house it was a full bird, without the feathers, but with its head and all. Me ma had sent us all out to the street while my da went to work on it. When we came back in, me da scared us with his arm, which was reddened and bloodied to the elbow. The turkey had lost its head to make way for the stuffing.
After tea we all went back to the sitting room to watch TV. Val Doonican was on. Me ma and da loved Val Doonican. After a while me da went into the kitchen and brought back two bottles of stout and a metal bottle opener, which he placed in the hearth. Then he returned to the kitchen and brought in two carrots and a slice of Christmas cake on a saucer.
‘Are they for Santa and Rudolph the reindeer, Da?’ asked Paul, whose wrinkles had almost gone away by this time.
‘Aye, that’s right, son. That’s who they’re for. Santa likes his stout … Jesus, did ye’s see that?’ he called out all of a sudden, pointing out the window at the dark back yard. ‘Did ye’s see that?’
‘What is it, Da? What is it?’ we all said, jumping up to see.
‘There’s Santa on his sleigh over Anne Street!’ he said. ‘I think it’s bedtime for yous before Santa gets here. If he sees yous up, he’ll just tell his reindeer to drive on down to Gutsy McGonagle’s house and he’ll get everything! C’mon quick, up yous get!’
In silent panic we all took to the stairs, hoping that Santa hadn’t seen us through the window. When we were all in bed, me da lit the fire in the bedroom hearth. There was no draw from the chimney, so he held a double newspaper page over the front of the fireplace until it caught. He placed the fireguard over the fire, turned off the light and kissed each of us on the forehead before going downstairs.
The darkened room was lit by the cosy red-orange glow from the fire. The Doherty children, filled with bathwater, a fry, Val Doonican and the fear of being awake when Santa came, drifted happily off to sleep.
* * *
Christmas morning came early, though not early enough to save me from Paul, who had peed the bed. We woke in the cold and the damp of it, but it didn’t really slow the race – we just changed our yellowy vests and underpants in record-breaking time. When we got downstairs Patrick and Karen were already opening their presents. Me ma and da came down behind us in their nightclothes, rubbing their eyes and yawning. All our names were written on coloured tags attached to the wrapping paper.
My present was wrapped in bright red paper with hundreds of Santas on it. It was a long, thin, rectangular box. I tore off the paper to reveal a ray gun. The box had a picture of a wee boy with a glass space helmet on his head. I opened it and out slid the gun. It had a black butt the same as a cowboy gun, but the barrel was see-through and it had a line of red balls inside about the size of marbles. Our Paul got a large box of Matchbox cars. Everyone got a Mars Christmas stocking; you could see the sweets and chocolate through the white gauze. Patrick had the Spangles out and was eating them. Our Paul started crying.
‘That’s my gun there so it is,’ he cried, pointing at my present. ‘I don’t want stupid cars!’
‘What are ye on about? That’s what Santa brought ye, Paul,’ said me da, looking puzzled.
‘I don’t want them. That’s mine there – the ray gun.’ He sniffled. He was a wild crier.
‘Now, boy, pack it in or Santa’ll come back and take all away again,’ said me ma. ‘Jesus, he’s always cryin’, that boy!’
Paul threw the box of Matchbox cars across the room. They scattered across the floor; some whizzed about the oilcloth. He ran upstairs.
‘Sure, Tony’ll let ye play with it as well, won’t ye, Tony,’ shouted me ma after him.
‘Aye, Paul, catch yourself on there, boy,’ said me da.
‘Paul, come on down, I’ll let you play with it. We’ll go out to the street when it gets light,’ I called up to him from the bottom of the stairs, egged on by me ma.
Paul was sitting at the top rubbing his tears and snotters away with his hands. He was easy talked round and lied to. I was the fount of all knowledge as far as he was concerned.
‘Will ye, Tony?’
‘Aye, c’mon down. It’s Christmas!’
Down he came. ‘Where’s me cars, Da?’
‘It’s not da, it’s daddy,’ said me ma.
‘All right, Eileen,’ said me da. ‘Let it go, it’s Christmas.’
‘Where’s me cars?’ said Paul again, and we all helped to gather the brilliantly coloured cars from the four corners of the room.
Me da gathered up the torn Christmas paper from the floor and put it in the fire where it briefly cast a bright, multi-coloured illumination over the sitting room.
‘Smell them two wi’ pish,’ said Patrick, looking at me and Paul and holding his nose to exaggerate. New pee doesn’t smell that bad. Stale pee does. ‘Mammy, g’won get them two washed. They’re stinkin’!’
‘Aye, I know, Mammy,’ said Karen. ‘They couldn’t go to Mass smelling like that.’
The ray gun was out of the box. It was class.
‘Don’t fire that gun until I get a look at it,’ said me da, taking it off me and going into the kitchen. ‘I have to check it first. Get yous two into the bathroom to get washed. Which one of yous peed the bed?’
‘It was me, Daddy,’ said Paul, red-faced.
‘He comes over to my side to pee so his own side is dry. Bloody dribbly drawers!’ I said.
Me da placed the ray gun above the high press in the kitchen and ushered us into the bathroom. We were made to stand naked in the empty bath while me da wiped us down like horses with a cloth dipped in a basin of hot water and suds. It was nice and warm at first, but in the freezing cold of the bathr
oom it turned icy on our skin.
‘Here’s a towel, son,’ he said to me. ‘Get yourself dried and upstairs and get dressed. C’mon you over here, Paul. You’re next.’
Paul was whimpering in the cold as I ran, shivering, through the kitchen towards the stairs.
After breakfast, me ma and da went upstairs to get dressed. Me and Paul, dressed like catalogue models in our new Christmas clothes, were downstairs with the rest. I grabbed a chair and climbed up to lift down the ray gun from the top of the press.
‘C’mon, we’ll go out to the street,’ I said.
Paul followed obediently in his new clothes. We went across the street towards the waste ground and up the lane towards Moore Street. There was a light covering of snow on the ground. It was freezing cold.
‘What’ll I shoot?’ I asked Paul.
‘Shoot that crow there,’ he said, pointing up. I put the ray gun to my shoulder, aimed at the hapless bird gliding in the grey sky above and pulled the trigger. The ray gun went off with a space whirr and then a bang. The crow didn’t make a sound; it simply dropped from the sky.
‘You hit it! You hit it!’ Paul called out. ‘C’mon to we see.’
We ran around the corner in the direction that the crow fell and came upon the lifeless bird lying sideways on the ground. Its shiny blue-black body was stark against the snow. Paul poked it with a stick and lifted its wing to reveal a bloodied hole underneath.
‘Jesus, Tony, ye shot the crow!’ he exclaimed in delight.
I stared at the dead crow with a mixture of shock, disbelief and pride. ‘That was some shot, hi,’ I said and looked at the ray gun and the wee red balls in the barrel with a new sense of wonder and respect. Then I thought, Is this good or is it bad? And if it’s bad, what’ll happen? Will I get a hiding for shooting an innocent crow? It was hard to say. I didn’t know it could fire like that. It’s not my fault then. We stood for a minute or two poking at the bird. Then we heard me da calling us in for Mass.
Our Paul had no doubts that this was great. ‘That was some shot, hi,’ he said as our house came into view. I wasn’t so sure.
‘Don’t say anything to me ma and da about this, Paul. Right? Ye know me da,’ I said.
Me da, Karen and Patrick were gathered at the front door waiting for us in their new clothes, like it was a fashion parade. Karen had a hat on. Me ma was at the door but was staying at home with Colleen and Glenn.
‘I hope yous boys haven’t destroyed your new clothes,’ said me ma. ‘C’mere till I see yis.’
‘Da, our Tony shot a crow with the ray gun!’ Paul proudly informed the gathering. ‘Ye wanny see it!’
‘Naw, I didn’t, Da. It was dead already. It wasn’t me.’
‘What’s he on about?’ me da said. ‘Give me that out of your hands. I told you not to use it before I looked at it!’ He went back into the house with the ray gun and returned a few seconds later.
Away we headed in the snow, the five of us Dohertys, along Hamilton Street towards the Folly and the Long Tower Chapel on the hill. The chapel was packed to the gills and the Mass was just about to start when we arrived at the side door. A choir of angels was singing somewhere within and, leaning either to the left or right, I could see the three life-size kings standing round the Baby Jesus’ crib with Mary and Joseph and the life-size donkey, cattle and sheep. All I could think was, I killed an innocent crow on Christmas morning.
At long last we heard the strains of ‘Gloria in excelsis Deo’, with its never-ending chorus of Gloo-oooo-oooo-oooo-rias, and knew we’d escape soon. On the way back home there was still enough snow for me, Paul, Patrick and Karen to slide down the steep Folly ahead of me da. Despite him being careful, he couldn’t help sliding down the hill in his shiny black shoes, holding on to the houses to steady himself now and again. On the way back along Hamilton Street, me and Paul went back up to the waste ground to see if the crow was still there. It hadn’t moved. It was dead and I had killed it. I’d killed an innocent crow on Christmas morning.
When we reached the house my da opened the front door and the smell of cooking turkey greeted us. The fire was well-stoked and the sitting room was warm. Me ma was sitting on the black plastic sofa, but she looked unhappy. She had the Quality Street tin beside her. It was full of shiny wrappers.
‘Who ate all the sweets?’ she asked. ‘There’s not one left,’ she added, looking at me da.
No one spoke. The only sound was from the coals shifting in the fire and wee Glenn gurgling in his cot over at the Christmas tree lights.
‘I’ve never seen a crowd like yis,’ she said, turning her head away in disappointment.
I went over and sat down beside her on the black plastic sofa. ‘I took some, Mammy. But I didn’t take them all. I’m sorry.’
‘At least you’re honest, Tony,’ she said, looking at the other three in the line-up.
‘I took some,’ said Patrick, with a shy grin.
‘So did I, Mammy,’ said Karen. ‘It was me who wrapped the tin again in Sellotape.’
I started crying into my hands. ‘This is the worst Christmas ever!’
‘For fuck’s sake, Tony, it’s only a few sweeties!’ said me da from the scullery door.
‘It’s not the sweets, Da. I shot an innocent crow with the ray gun. I shot an innocent crow on Christmas morning!’ I said, still crying.
Me da burst out laughing and went into the scullery and closed the door. A few seconds later he came out again with the ray gun in one hand and his other hand behind his back.
‘You’ll shoot no more crows with that,’ he said, handing me the gun. The red balls had been removed and the barrel was now an empty plastic tube.
‘And here yous go! This’ll shut all your crying mouths!’ he said and produced an open tin of Roses. ‘Happy Christmas!’
And so it was.
10
This Man’s Wee Boy
January 1972.
Armoured cars and tanks and guns
Came to take away our sons.
But every man must stand behind
The men behind the wire.
Me da came back from a demonstration on Magilligan Strand with a record, a single, of ‘The Men Behind the Wire’ by The Barleycorn. He came in the door soaking wet with the record under his arm. Our record player was in the front room, the fancy room with the tin shield covering the window. The light had to be on all the time if you were in the room. We went in and played the record with the sound turned up loud. Me ma and da stayed in the sitting room, where it was warm. After a while I went back into the sitting room as well. They stopped talking when I came in. Me da was sitting smoking a Park Drive. His speckled coat with the black fur collar was draped over a chair near the blazing fire. Steam was rising from it and there were two small puddles on the oilcloth where the rain had dripped down from the ends of the sleeves. I went and sat on the floor near the fire. Me ma and da were sitting at opposite ends of the sofa with an orange-cushioned gap between them.
‘How did you get back from Magilligan?’ I asked after a minute of silence.
‘There was a bus organised,’ me da replied.
‘Why did they organise a protest on a beach?’
‘Because that’s where the internees are being kept. In Magilligan Prison.’
‘They have a prison on a beach?’ That’s some place for a prison, I thought.
‘Your daddy went down to see if he could see your uncle Joe,’ said me ma, looking at me da. ‘Your uncle Joe joined the British Army and your daddy went down to see if he could talk some sense into him.’
‘My uncle Joe’s in the British Army?’ I said in disbelief. ‘Why’d he do that?’ The last time I’d seen him he was living down in Chamberlain Street, behind the Rossville Street flats. Me da took us there one day.
‘I don’t know, son. He didn’t tell anyone. He just left and went to England,’ said me da. ‘The next thing we knew he’d joined the army.’
‘And did you see him the day at Magilli
gan?’ I asked.
‘Naw, he wasn’t there – at least, I didn’t see him. It was his regiment, though. The Parachute Regiment.’
‘Does anyone else know he’s in the British Army?’ I asked, suddenly worried that we would be the talk of the street.
‘What do you mean?’ asked me da.
‘He means are we going to be a laughing stock because Joe’s in the British Army,’ me ma said – a wee bit accusing, I thought.
‘Nobody else knows,’ me da said.
They still didn’t seem to want to talk much so I got up from the floor and went back into the front room to learn the words of ‘The Men Behind the Wire’ with the rest of them. I said nothing about Uncle Joe. For all I knew he was one of the BA who dragged fathers from their beds or who beat sons while helpless mothers watched the blood pour from their heads. ‘Armoured cars and tanks and guns.’ We sang until the words became the new mantra among the families in the street.
* * *
The following Saturday I was sent out to the back yard to get a bucket of coal for the fire. It was getting dark and it was freezing cold, too cold even to play in the street. I placed the coal bucket on the ground beside the hatch of the coal bunker and had just slid the shovel into the hatch when a huge rat darted out between my feet. I let out a squeal and jumped up to squat on the edge of the coal bunker. I could hear its claws scrape on the hard ground as it dashed to the bottom of the yard and escaped out through a wee hole in the back gate. I hated rats. I wished we had a dog like Dandy McKinney. She’d be shaking the life out of it by now and tossing it into the air. I wondered why we didn’t have our own dog.
To be sure that there were no more rats, I lifted the bunker lid to look in. All I could see was black lumps of coal, heaped to a point in the middle where the coalman had dumped it. I had to use my two hands to carry the bucket back into the sitting room. Me da took it off me with one hand, placed it down beside the hearth and set about lighting the fire. The ashes from the night before were shovelled onto a few sheets of the Derry Journal and wrapped up. Then me da asked me to take them to the bin in the yard.
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