A Son Called Gabriel

by Damian McNicholl

  I explained that they were at an impasse, allowing my eye to travel pointedly toward the crumpled towel concealing the peroxide bottle.

  He shot a glance at the towel, part of which was now damp. “Go back and keep them on the subject. I’ll be down in a jiffy.” He nearly ripped my arm out of its socket as he escorted me out of the room. “Quick, or they’ll have made up their minds not to let you go.”

  He arrived downstairs within minutes, just as Mammy was expressing a fear that if she let me go out to this dance, it might open the sluice gates and become a regular occurrence. Martin’s bangs were the brightest I’d ever seen. They were platinum. He’d tried to tone it down by splicing the strands with his normal dark blond hair.

  “I’m tired of this,” I said. “I’ll be a fifth-former soon and you’re treating me like a child. Connor’s allowed to go. I’m tired of never getting to do anything.”

  Auntie Celia approached. “Martin, you’ve kept the lemon juice on your hair far too long. I keep warning you about that.”

  Father stared at Martin as if he were an alien.

  “Auntie Eileen, anyone who’s anyone is going to see the Indians,” said Martin. “Let him go.”

  Mammy hemmed and hawed, but finally relented, though she emphasized twice that it was just for this one occasion.

  With that settled, Martin whisked me upstairs to show me his new jacket. It was made of royal blue and canary yellow plaid and was gorgeous.

  Connor came into the room as I was trying it on and Martin readjusted his bangs, checking every few seconds in the mirror and moving his head from side to side.

  “I really think I might have overdone the lemon juice this time. What do you think, Gabriel?”

  “You definitely have,” said Connor.

  “Shut the fuck up, you,” Martin said.

  “It matches the yellow panel in your jacket nicely,” I said.

  Connor laughed as I walked up to the vanity and peered in the mirror. The jacket was dead slimming; my backside didn’t show at all. But it made my plum button-down shirt look extremely dowdy. In fact, it looked depressing.

  “I can’t go tonight,” I said. “I’m wearing rags.”

  Connor jerked his head rapidly at me behind Martin’s back to signal I should follow him. He left, and I waited a few seconds before following.

  “My room’s got the double bed, so you’ll be sleeping in my room after the dance, dummy,” he said.

  I decided my depressing shirt would suffice.

  Entry to the Fortress Inn ballroom was an adventure. After crossing a pebbled courtyard surrounded by thick, crumbling walls, we arrived before a massive arched Gothic-style door and passed through into a room with gilt ceilings and a creaky wooden floor. Maybe a formal drawing room in its day, the space had been regal once, but now looked scruffy and reeked of stale smoke. At its east end, we passed through a pay kiosk and turnstile and went down a flight of concrete steps, which jarred my sense of romance about the place further, and then we entered a cellar containing the cloakrooms, juice bar, and a snack area. Another flight of concrete steps swept up to the ballroom.

  Martin wouldn’t take off his jacket, even though the place was boiling and packed with people. Overhead lights struck a great revolving glitter ball comprised of hundreds of tiny mirror squares in the center of the ceiling. Condensation trickled down large mirrors running along the two longest sides of the room. At the front of the ballroom was the stage where the band, clad in brightly colored Indian outfits and trailing head feathers, was singing, “Son, don’t go near the Indians,” as they whooped and danced about with tomahawks.

  Parallel to one set of long mirrors ran a three-deep wall of women with highly glossed lips and perfect hairdos. On the adjacent dance floor, a line of men jostled one another as they filed past the women. After observing for a while, I saw how the system worked: if a man spied a woman he fancied, he’d extend his hand toward her and she either clutched it or continued chewing gum and ignored him. Jealousies broke out among the men now and again, when two extended hands to the same woman, though this was always resolved by just a dirty look or a shove or two.

  “I want to dance,” Martin said. “Let’s ask some women.”

  Connor declined, because he was waiting for Rosellen to arrive and was afraid she might see him in the line and get mad. Martin and I got in the line of men, which moved in fits and starts. About a quarter way up the room, Martin asked someone to dance and was accepted.

  I struggled to both stay in formation and scrutinize the women as I continued my advance. The women scrutinized each man’s face, some whispering behind their cupped hands amongst themselves. The whole scene would have been comical if I hadn’t been so anxious to find a partner and prove to Martin I was as successful as him. Finding myself near the end of the queue, I grew desperate. I spied a young girl smiling and extended my hand. To my cringing dismay, her smile vanished and she regarded me brazenly for an instant before lolling back her head to look up at the ceiling. Utterly jellified inside, I closed my eyes and allowed my body to be propelled forward by the hard, jutting stomach of the man behind me.

  Near the stage, I stood watching the band but heard not a note as I analyzed what had gone wrong. I didn’t know whether to blame my horrid shirt, the two yellow pimples on my face, or the ugly goose down sprouting above my upper lip. One thing was for certain: I had to get a bright plaid jacket. And fast.

  I managed only to recover fully from the embarrassment when, later in bed, Connor began telling me what he’d done with Rosellen in the secrecy of the car park.

  A week later, I pleaded with my mother to be allowed to go to the Fortress Inn again. She complained vociferously, but gave in. With some anxiety, I walked the gauntlet to the strums and croons of Philomena Begley and her Rambling Men. I spied a good-looking girl halfway along the line and, after a quick look about to make sure no one I knew was watching in case I got rejected, extended my quivering hand. She accepted and I floated onto the dance floor with her.

  Dressed in a flared lemon skirt and black nylon blouse that highlighted her ivory skin, her short dark hair glistening as if dipped in oil, a cloud of pale freckles on either side of an impish nose, she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. We smiled at one another politely as we danced, looked about the room a little, smiled again, looked about some more. The music stopped. When another number didn’t commence, I realized the previous song had been the end of a set and the band was taking a breather.

  Gritting my teeth, I slid my arm gingerly around her waist. Martin had told me the end of the set was a critical moment: if a girl liked you, she didn’t flinch and everything stayed good; if she hadn’t yet made up her mind, she behaved like a nervous filly, shuffling a little but staying; and if she hoped to catch something better during the next set, she’d flee back to assume her position in the three-deep wall of women.

  “I’m Lizzie,” she said. “How old are you?”

  I was prepared for this question. Martin had told me this was another critical moment—too young, and they walked. Lizzie stopped chewing her gum as she awaited my response. A girl’s age was so damned difficult to guess.

  “I’m sixteen, going on seventeen.”

  “You are? Me, too.”

  She slipped her arm around my waist. My eyes darted about, scanning the crowd for Martin, Connor, anyone from school, but there was no one to witness my victory.

  The next set was slow and we started waltzing about the dance hall. It was really more of a shuffle. Presently, I spied Connor dancing with Rosellen and winked. He nodded only slightly. My cousin liked to act cool when with his girlfriend. Minutes later, I saw two fifth-year boys at the back of the room and steered Lizzie toward them, taking pains to ensure I wasn’t acting too obvious. As we danced by, I rested my chin on her shoulder, stroked her glistening hair and gave them a cursory nod. One boy stopped chewing his gum. They watched like bemused cattle. As I ran my hand slowly up and down Lizzie’s back, sh
e pulled back her head and smiled. She was the same age as these boys, I only a little over fourteen, yet it was me who had her in my arms. After the set, I asked if she’d like a cola. She said she would and we walked down the concrete steps to the café hand-in-hand. Every follicle in my scalp tingled.

  “I’m dying for a fag,” she said, after we’d finished our drinks. “My brother’s got some in his car. Do you want to come out with me?”

  We went outside and searched for the car, walking up and down between rows of vehicles whose roofs glinted in the moonlight. Finally, we drew up to a rusty contraption with a piece of hay bale twine holding its hood shut.

  “What do you want?” her brother said. He was snogging in the backseat.

  “Give me a fag or I’m getting into the front seat to court my new boyfriend.”

  “Like hell, you are.”

  Grumbling, he fumbled in his pocket, then handed an entire packet and a box of matches to her. She took out two cigarettes. After lighting one, she placed the other carefully into her skirt pocket and led me to the other side of the fort, where couples were leaning in embrace against its thick stone walls. Above, the upper branches of two massive sycamores stretched over its battlements, while the mottled trunks of others glowed dimly within the dusky park stretching down to the river.

  “God, what I wouldn’t give to know the histories of the chieftains who stood behind these battlements in its heyday,” I said.

  “What’s a battlement?” she asked.

  “The notched walls above us.” I pointed upward.

  Her eyes drifted up. “Oh, those. I hate old forts and castles. They should just knock down this pile of shite and make a bigger dance hall.” She took a long drag of the cigarette and looked up at the stars as she expelled its smoke. “You want a puff?”

  To decline didn’t seem manly. I took the cigarette, trying to hold it skillfully between thumb and forefinger and pointing its lighted end toward my palm like I’d seen boys doing at school. As she observed, I took a massive drag, threw back my head and inhaled deeply as I looked at the stars. Suddenly, they blurred. My chest felt as if a car had driven over it. I couldn’t breathe. I coughed like an old consumptive, so much that I doubled over to catch my breath.

  She stooped and picked the smoldering cigarette off the ground. “You’ve never smoked before?”

  I tried to answer, but the smoke snagged in my lungs made me cough violently again. I shook my head. After a few moments, the coughing stopped, but the sour aftertaste remained.

  “You’ve got to take it slowly. Like this.” She demonstrated.

  I tried again and this time it was a little easier. It still tasted vile, but I didn’t cough. We chatted, sharing the cigarette until it was finished, and then Lizzie leaned into the wall and looked at me expectantly. Nervously, I slung my arms around her shoulders. She put her arms around my waist and drew me closer. I put my lips to hers and we kissed as the percussion from the drums throbbed through the walls. Her lips were dry and thin. She forced my lips apart with her tongue and wiggled it about inside until she found mine. I opened my eyes and saw hers were firmly closed, which made me feel peculiar, as if I was a voyeur drinking in the planes of her face while she stood unaware. I wished to withdraw my mouth, though instinctively knew it would be rude. Closing my eyes, I pushed my tongue against hers, all the while thinking about the smoke and warm saliva exchanged between us. The kiss was nasty and I was relieved when she withdrew her mouth.

  “You’ve French-kissed before, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Another French kiss ensued, which proved no less horrid. By the fourth one, however, I’d acclimatized, but by then, she wanted to return to the dance hall.

  We’d danced only two sets when the band stopped playing and asked everyone to stand for “The Soldier’s Song.” (The Fortress Inn was a Catholic dance hall, so the Irish national anthem was played.) The custom was to stand rigid and not talk during its rendition, but I turned to Lizzie and asked if I could see her again, though I didn’t know if I’d be allowed to attend another dance. After she agreed and the Anthem ended, we left for the juice bar, where I borrowed a pen to exchange addresses, though I had to be vague when she pushed me for an exact date.

  As my mother had feared, those initial nights at the Fortress Inn proved indeed to be the opening of the sluice gates. As it was now summer vacation, it proved not as difficult to persuade her to let me attend and we reached an agreement whereby I was permitted to go on alternate Saturdays and stay overnight at Auntie Celia’s.

  Despite the dismal Ulster economy, worsened by a successful militant Protestant strike that destroyed the power-sharing experiment and resulted in the British re-imposing direct rule, Father’s business grew. Consequently, he had money, and he always gave me three or four pounds to spend at the dances.

  Caroline grew annoyed that I was permitted to attend dances regularly. Although just thirteen, her large breasts made her look much older and, thus, she felt she should be allowed to go, as well.

  But Mammy wouldn’t hear of it. She was scared the older boys, or even grown men, might take advantage, which infuriated my sister. She accused our mother of hypocrisy. When our parents visited relatives at night, they left both Caroline and I jointly in charge of James and Nuala, signifying that Caroline was old enough for that large responsibility. So why couldn’t she go to the dance?

  On one occasion after this argument, when my parents were out, Caroline kept picking on Nuala and I told her to stop. It spun out of control when she called me “fat arse.” I was extremely sensitive about my backside. Boys at school teased me about its size and Caroline knew it. I hit her sharply across the face before fully realizing what I’d done. Later, I apologized profusely and she took full advantage of my remorse by insisting the only way to forgive the attack was for me to ask Mammy to let her attend a dance.

  The following Saturday, I asked, promising Mammy I’d not let Caroline out of my sight. To my amazement, she agreed. Because Caroline would attend the dance, Father decided to pick us up afterwards, which was a terrible downside. I couldn’t stay at Auntie Celia’s. I grew extremely nervous that the sluice gates had opened permanently for my sister, too.

  Caroline and Lizzie liked each other instantly. The three of us danced together the entire evening, except for the slow dances when Caroline was obliged to join the three-deep wall of glossy-lipped women. Toward the end of the night, Caroline insisted we join Martin and Sabina, his new girlfriend who worked in a factory shop, for a cola. A few minutes later, I signaled to my sister that we had to leave because I didn’t want Lizzie to witness the spectacle of Father picking us up and he was already parked in front of the dance hall’s main gates.

  Caroline climbed into the front seat. I was glad—I didn’t wish to sit shotgun with him.

  “Did you enjoy your first dance?” Father asked my sister.

  “I’m definitely going again, Daddy.”

  Father made no attempt to drive off. “I don’t know about that, my girl.” He peered over his shoulder and winked at me. “Did your big brother look after you well, or was he too busy consorting with the ladies?”

  I looked at him dourly. Father winked and acted jovial only when it suited him. His jokes angered me. They were always on his terms. I was finding it impossible to talk to him about anything. Any conversation between us was plastic as hell. Sometimes, I had to ride in the car with him alone and we’d travel for miles in a smothering silence, the occasional rattles of the car my only amelioration because the radio was broken. I’d close my eyes and will the journey to end.

  The driver of a car behind us who was waiting to exit honked his horn.

  “I looked after her,” I said, “and you’re blocking the gate.”

  Unfortunately for Caroline, that night proved to be her only outing. I was back to spending alternate Saturday nights at Auntie Celia’s, where Connor and I would discuss his exploits with Rosellen in the warmth of his cozy double
bed.

  One evening, a few weeks before the new school year was due to begin, Connor suggested at the dance that we take the girls for a stroll to the river at the bottom of the sycamore-pocked park. The idea appealed greatly, because it was such a warm night, but Martin wasn’t interested. This didn’t please Sabina, who repeatedly hinted how fun a walk along the river would be. Martin wouldn’t renege and told us to scram.

  The moon was almost full and lit up the mottled tree trunks as we made our way to the river. Couples murmured from where they lay on the grass behind trees with the widest girths. At the bottom of the park, we helped the girls climb over the barbed-wire fence and then followed the bank until we came to a quiet clearing, through which I could see the river’s shining blackness. Its rippled water had been transformed into a blanket of sparkling diamonds. Here, we separated without any exchange of words, Connor and Rosellen taking one corner, where they sank to the grass, and Lizzie and I to the other.

  Following Connor’s example, I pulled my girlfriend closer after we lay down. The grass was soft and cool, and all was perfect save a cluster of gnats that began to feast on my neck and face. Our first kiss was noticeably different. Lizzie thrust her tongue into my mouth as before, but there was an added urgency now. Her hands slipped down the back of my jeans and fished out my shirttail.

  “Isn’t it nice to be outside?” she said, as her nails crossed my bare back and scraped its flesh.

  “It is lovely, isn’t it?”

  “You can stroke me, too . . . if you like.”

  Connor and Rosellen were locked in an embrace and he was on top of her now. I pushed Lizzie gently on her back and eased myself on top of her. Her legs spread open quicker than a well-oiled barn door. As Lizzie’s eyes were closed, I stole another glance at Connor and saw one of his hands was dipped inside Rosellen’s blouse. I kissed Lizzie and allowed my hand to travel along her neck and down to her right breast, which I squeezed, immediately feeling the coarse fabric of her bra beneath her satin blouse. She emitted a low sigh and thrust her hips gently upward. Her fingernails dug into my scalp.