“Only homos do that. Are you calling me a fucking homo?”
“No.”
“Have you thought that way when you wank?” he asked.
“Jesus, no way. Only homos think that sort of stuff.”
“We’re both all right, then.”
We climbed into bed. Connor switched off the light and I lay cold and wooden beside him. The clock’s tick in the hallway began to accuse me. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Ho-mo, ho-mo, ho-mo. Sporadic traffic passed up and down the streets. Happy girlfriends and boyfriends driving by in cars. My world was ripped and torn.
Tick-tock, ho-mo, ho-mo, tick-tock, ho-mo, ho-mo, ho-mo.
Connor’s breathing settled into rhythmic slumber. I wanted to stop the clock but I couldn’t—Auntie Celia would hear me try to open its casing.
Ho-mo, ho-mo, ho-mo, ho-mo.
I’m not a homosexual, my mind screamed. I turned on my side and stared at the dusky glow of the wallpaper, its sheen like ice. I’d never initiated things. Connor was the one who always started things between us.
Ho-mo, ho-mo.
Now he didn’t want to do it anymore because he was scared he’d be homosexual.
HO-MO, HO-MO.
I lay on my back and passed my fingers over the cold sweat on my chest. I took a deep breath. Another surge of warmth swept over my body.
I experienced a fierce urge to bang my head against the wall. I wanted to cry and bang my head hard to stop the thoughts. But banging my head was useless and crying was feminine and I’d still have to get up in the morning and go on.
I sat up and watched Connor’s contented breathing. Up and down, pause, up and down. How can he be so selfish? I wondered. Nothing would be changed in the morning, except he and I would arise and never touch each other again. I could stand it no longer. I had to get up.
I rose very gently, but still felt dizzy; I thought I’d faint. With my hand on the wall, I took a few slow breaths and went into the hallway, now silent and dark as mortal, mortal sin. I felt my way along the wall, passing the clock, passing Auntie Celia’s room, where I could hear Uncle Frank snoring. I went into the bathroom.
Switching on the light, I looked in the mirror. I despised the image gawking back at me in the stark brightness. Falling on my knees before the toilet bowl, I knelt and prayed and beseeched God to come and help me. I prayed and beseeched for ten minutes, making up the prayers and pleas as I went along.
And He came, just like He’d come to me so long ago. He was my maker, my one true friend. His soothingly masculine voice spoke inside my head. He stopped the whirling thoughts. He told me I was good, that I was not to be so hard on myself, that I was His child.
Twenty-Two
As I came up the lane toward Granny’s yard, I saw her laughing and blinked rapidly to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. She stood by her turf stack with a bunch of soldiers. One of them removed pieces of turf from the stack and placed them in the cardboard box she used to carry them. Another soldier saw me and set his mug of tea down fast. He grabbed his rifle off the ground, pointed it at me, and ordered me to put my hands in the air.
“It’s okay, Corporal Ingham,” Granny said. “Gabriel’s my grandson.”
The man’s shoulders relaxed and he set the rifle back down on the ground. “Nice to meet you,” he said, and extended his hand when I drew up to them.
I shook it weakly and stared at Granny, who had a plate of homemade tea scones slathered in rhubarb jam in her hand.
“The boys were hungry from patrolling in the mountain,” she said, with a shrug.
A squawking sound filled the air as three of Granny’s hens ran out of the coop.
“Jesus, I mustn’t have closed the damned door properly,” she said. “If they get out, I’ll never catch them.”
The soldier placing turf into the box sprinted across the yard and slammed the henhouse door shut. He chased one of the two escaped hens, catching it as it was about to dart underneath Uncle John’s car.
“Help him, Gabriel,” said Granny.
I ran to the coop and opened the door. About five-ten, like me, with broad shoulders and cropped sandy colored hair, the soldier had no rank stripes on his uniform, which meant he was a private. His skin was tanned and he looked as if he should still be attending school.
A plump, speckled hen drew closer. I grabbed it when it started pecking the earth and put it back in the coop.
“The other one’s gone around the side of the house,” said Granny.
We walked across the yard and I let the private take the lead when we reached the corner of the house.
“Where do you think it is, mate?” he asked.
His eyes were turquoise and sparkled in the sun. I found it hard to look away.
“Let’s check by the haystack,” I said, pointing to a large one in the middle of the first field. “There’s always plenty of insects near hay.”
We climbed the barbed wire fence and walked across the field.
“My name’s Richie,” he said, and held out his hand.
I didn’t want to shake a British soldier’s hand, but I couldn’t stop myself. His grip was firm. Tingles ran up my spine. I couldn’t stop those, either.
“I’m Gabriel. Are you a private?”
“You’re sharp as a glass shard, mate,” he said.
“You look too young to be in the army.”
“I’ll soon be eighteen,” he said, glancing toward the house. “I fudged a wee bit on the form.” He winked. “Only by a few months.”
I’d never met anyone who’d lied on an official government form.
“Your gran’s a nice lady,” he said. “Mine lives in Wales.”
“You’re Welsh?”
“Mum was. My Dad’s English and I grew up in London. You ever been there?”
I shook my head.
“You should go. I think you’d love it.” He smiled so mischievously, I couldn’t help smiling back.
The hen came around the haystack and Richie dove toward it. He missed and two feathers billowed in the air. His forehand had white-gray hen shite on it. I couldn’t stop laughing at his disgusted face as he wiped his hand on the grass. He laughed, too. The hen ran, its wings flapping, across the field. When it reached the hedge separating the field from the bog, it flew over and disappeared.
“Mr. Fox will dine well tonight,” said Richie.
“We’d best not tell Granny.”
“You got that right, mate.” He winked. “Our secret, right?”
Father drove up as Granny and I watched the soldiers walk in single file across the heather. After climbing out of the car, his eyes followed Granny’s toward the departing soldiers. He watched for a long moment and then his gaze fell on the empty tea mugs in my hands and the plate with one uneaten scone in Granny’s.
“You made tea for those bastards?” he asked, glaring at Granny.
“What of it?” she said.
His eyes widened. “Making tea for English scum isn’t on—it could also get you shot.”
Granny started toward the house. But then she stopped abruptly and turned back to Father.
“Those lads don’t want to be in Ireland any more than we want them here,” she said.
“They’re scum.”
Granny shook her head and took two steps toward Father.
“Harry, darlin’, you’re confused. Our enemies are the Unionists. They’re the ones discriminating.”
I nodded vigorously.
“You know that wee lad who helped you catch my hens?” Granny said, looking at me.
“Richie?”
“Aye, him. He’s a Catholic.” Granny turned from me to look at Father. “So put that in your pipe and smoke it, Harry.”
Darkness encroached on the silvery sky as I held the sides of the ladder Father had propped against a telephone pole alongside the public road, about fifty yards from our house. Standing at the top of the ladder, Father fastened the Irish tricolor flag to the pole. There was no breeze a
nd he stretched it out and admired the bars of green, white, and orange.
“That’ll show them soldiers the sort of people who live ’round here,” he said.
Father Cornelius raised his bushy eyebrows behind the heavy, black-framed glasses as he stood near my desk and regarded me. He held my term paper high in the air for a moment before opening his fingers and allowing it to drop on my desk like a piece of garbage.
“Your essay hinted at promise in the first few paragraphs, but, as usual, didn’t deliver by the end. You really are going to have to pick up your socks.”
Next, he addressed Martin, who sat beside me. “This shows promise, though I’m cognizant of the fact you’ve had the benefit of a repeat year to reach the passing standard.”
“Fucking homo,” I muttered, as the priest walked away.
My cousin was too busy salivating over the juicy comments to reply. Pani heard and sniggered as the priest approached Paddy Flanagan.
Father Cornelius was vice-head and we’d had him for English literature for three months now. The British Army had arrested Mr. McGovern, our regular teacher. He was imprisoned on a ship on Belfast Lough, accused without a shred of evidence of being a member of the Official IRA.
“Nice effort,” the priest said to Paddy, who grinned dead cheesy.
It stung like hellfire that someone like Paddy Flanagan was getting more “nice efforts” in English literature than me, but I knew I’d show everyone what I was made of when I took the O level examinations. I’d cram like hell, pass every subject, and show everyone I was both a terrific actor and student.
Father Cornelius knew I was a good actor already. Sometimes he came in to watch the evening rehearsals, and he hadn’t been reticent about coming up on the stage afterward on two occasions to tell me that I made a very convincing Viola. I’d acted dead cool while he’d praised me in front of the other cast members, but inside I’d basked in the glow.
“I really think I’ll become an actor,” I said, after I’d finished my last bite of sausage. It was a week and a half before opening night and I was mostly happy with my performance. The only glitches were a few lines that wouldn’t stick, no matter how many times I went over them. “They’ve got the Lyric Players in Belfast and I think I’ll apply to them instead of university.”
“As if they’d take you,” James said. He rose from the table and laid his plate in the sink. “They only want good-looking people.”
Caroline and Nuala giggled. James examined his face in a mirror that our mother kept on the windowsill. He squeezed a creamy pimple. Since puberty struck, my brother was obsessed with his oily facial skin. I’d even caught him sneaking into Caroline’s bedroom behind her back to slather her astringent lotion on it, though he might as well not have bothered.
“You couldn’t be an actor with those horrible pus spots,” I said.
He looked over his shoulder at me. “Daddy, what do you think of our Gabriel becoming an actor?”
“I’ll ‘actor’ him.” Father wiped milk from his mouth with the edge of his hand. “Fit you better you were helping me. Luksee, if you want pocket money this summer, you’ll have to work for it. I’m not dishing out cash for you to go dancing or run ’round the country with that clown of a cousin of yours and get nothing in return. I’ve got a job starting this summer and you can help out. Why should I take on another man and pay him when you’re available?”
“Gabriel will go gladly,” said my mother.
There was no point protesting when both parents agreed on something.
“You can hire Martin, too,” she said. “They’ll be company for each other.” She nodded at me. “Yous’ll have more money for spending when yous go on holiday with Tommy in Bundoran.” She chuckled. “Martin will be glad to work alongside you. I’m sure Celia pays him very little when he helps out in her shop.”
That was true. Martin was forever complaining she paid him peanuts.
“Martin and his flat feet and stumpy legs is no use to me on a building site,” said Father. “I need strapping men.”
“Try him out,” she said.
“How much will you pay?” I asked.
“After deduction of living expenses, I’ll give you twenty pounds.”
“I don’t have to pay living expenses—though if I must, then you’ll have to pay me the same rate as you’re paying your other employees.”
Father laughed before taking a gulp of milk. The manner in which he drank tea or milk at home infuriated me. It was uncouth.
“You drive a hard bargain, Gabriel. Aye, we’ll make a businessman out of you yet.” He laughed at his wit. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll pay you twenty-five pounds a week.”
“Mammy, I want twenty-five pounds a week for doing chores,” Caroline said.
“Harry, that’s far too much,” said my mother. “What would our Gabriel need so much money for?”
“I’ll be doing men’s work,” I said.
“I’ll give it to them.” Father took another noisy slurp, then wiped his mouth. “But I want a decent day’s work, and there’ll be no boss’s son favors. You’ll be treated the same as my other men.”
After being excused from the table, Caroline and I went to my bedroom where, instead of studying, she complained about the wages issue for a while, and then agreed to listen to the lines of the play that I was having difficulty with. This time, I recited them perfectly. Thereafter, I crept out to the hallway and phoned Martin to learn if he had any interest in working for Father. At first he was very hesitant, grilling me about whether the work would be hard or dirty and if the workmen were friendly—until I told him what our wages would be. He hung immediately up to tell Auntie Celia he was quitting work at her shop.
Twenty-Three
As I watched Martin and Pani file out of the room, I didn’t feel cocky like I had minutes earlier, when I’d nudged Pani and we’d sniggered aloud at a double entendre in the Shakespeare text a boy had been reading aloud. Father Cornelius, seated at his desk, kept me waiting while he read something. I wished there was another class lining up at the door, but the stairwell was as noiseless as inside the room. Downstairs, a door banged shut. Father Cornelius walked to the door, closed it rudely, and returned to his desk, where he continued reading. Teachers were masters of creating horrible silences.
“Come here, Harkin,” he said, after two excruciating minutes.
I rose from my desk and went over to him.
“Why are you trying to ruin yourself?”
“I’m not, Father.”
“Don’t think I haven’t observed your fondness for crudity in class. You’re obsessed with baseness.” He looked fiercely into my eyes and I looked away like an admonished dog. “I’ve checked into your overall performance and, aside from a favorable comment from your drama teacher, it appears your grades are as bad as your sense of humor. Judging by how you performed in your mock exams, you’re going to fail your O levels. You’re going to fail, just like your cousin. Do you really want that, boy?”
“No, Father.”
I’d done badly in my mocks and the priest was probably one of seven teachers who’d wanted to speak to my mother at a parent-teacher meeting held a few weeks ago. Thankfully, she hadn’t attended. She and Father argued when he refused to accompany her and, accusing him of shirking his responsibility, Mammy decided to retaliate by not going, either.
“Stand erect! Spread your feet and place your hands by your sides.” His black-brown eyes ran with searing deliberateness up and down my body. “Every cell of my being wants to send you to Father Rafferty, boy.” He paused until the echo of the emphasized word was devoured by the silence. “Do you know what that means?”
“Yes, Father.”
“What does it mean if I march you to his office now, boy?”
Priests at Saint Malachy’s addressed us as “boy” at such moments in order to ram home their absolute power. His stressed use of that word rendered me insignificant faster than any stinging whack with a strap on my ha
nd could.
“That I’ll be thoroughly punished, Father.”
“Perhaps suspended, too. Do you know why? I’ll tell you why. I’ll tell you exactly. Other teachers have written in the Burgundy Book that you’ve been troublesome all year. Troublesome and impertinent.” He paused again, to let it sink in that he’d been checking the Burgundy Book. “Is there a reason for this disruptive behavior, Gabriel?”
Gabriel! Suddenly I was Gabriel again. He’d terrified me, but the second chance was now coming. Immediately, I transported myself outside the classroom. I imagined running down the stairs toward my next class.
“I’ve been a bit silly and I’m sorry, Father.” I made sure my tone dripped with apologetic meekness.
“When good boys of your age behave badly, there’s usually something behind it. Do you have problems or confusions?”
A hot body flash culminated in my face; I could feel it. “I . . . I haven’t got problems or confusions.”
He sighed. “As I said, the only people with good words to say about you are Mr. Casey and your physics teacher. The former said you were an excellent Viola. However, that’s an extracurricular activity. I don’t have to tell you the Examination Board doesn’t take prowess as a budding thespian into consideration.” His brows rose and he looked at me quizzically while placing his pale hand on the table. The black hairs on its back stood out in relief. I was struck by the hand’s largeness. For no logical reason, I thought his hands more resembled a farmer’s than a priest’s.
“I will apply myself diligently from now on, Father Cornelius. Now if I could—”
“How did it feel to play the part of Viola?”
“It was a challenge.”
“I’ve often wondered what effect it has on our boys to be compelled to play female roles. Did it feel strange in any way?”
“It was just a role.”
“Of course, of course. But how did it feel to dress in women’s clothing?”
A Son Called Gabriel Page 22