A Son Called Gabriel

by Damian McNicholl

  “I’m sure I know every kind of rock and stone that’s to be found in Ireland, Uncle Harry.”

  Father and Dessie roared like idiots. Martin’s lips tightened.

  Next morning, Auntie Celia stood alone on the street outside her shop.

  “Harry, he’s resigned,” she said. “What did you do to him?” She giggled, then thought better and killed it. “He told me last night he wasn’t going back to work, but I didn’t ring you because I thought he was tired and would change his mind. This morning, he was grafted to the bed. I couldn’t get him to budge.”

  “That’s quite all right, Celia,” Father said.

  Auntie Celia stuck her head halfway inside the side window and smiled at me. “Gabriel’s hardier. Martin says it’s his allergies.” She withdrew her head. “Between you and me, Harry, I think he doesn’t want to admit the work’s too much for him.” She smiled. “Would you take Connor in his place? That chap’s breaking his father’s and my hearts.”

  “What’s he done?” Father asked.

  “He’s hanging out with the wrong sort and won’t listen to us.” Auntie looked up and down the street, and then put her head closer to the car window. “Somebody told me they saw him with chaps who’re suspected of being in the IRA,” she said, her voice lowered. “They broke the windows of the Orange Hall with stones.”

  “Can’t blame them for that,” said Father. “The bastards can use their sashes to plug the window holes.”

  Auntie Celia’s eyes widened. “Jesus, the police could catch him. He’ll be accused of being in the IRA and jailed.”

  “Young fellas like Connor get up to a bit of mischief,” said Father. “He won’t get into real trouble.”

  “Harry, that’s easy for you to say. Gabriel doesn’t gallivant with the wrong sort.”

  Father’s face was inscrutable as he regarded me and then looked back at Auntie Celia. “I must be going. Lost time is lost money. If I need Connor, I’ll let you know.”

  My luck changed two weeks later. Father began a road repair project on the outskirts of Castlebenem, a pretty Protestant village in the heart of rolling countryside, and I was sent there to labor. Castlebenem was also horse country. Girls and boys my age, smartly dressed in jodhpurs and white shirts, rode by with poker-straight backs and upturned chins.

  It didn’t trouble Father’s workers that these people looked down on us. They didn’t know any better. But it irked me something fierce. I didn’t want to be seen in that light, so I made a point of trying to befriend one girl who usually smiled as she rode by. Of medium build, she had straw-yellow hair like ABBA’s Agnetha, but she wasn’t as good-looking. Her hair framed an oval, country-red face. Her feet looked mannishly large in the stirrups, too.

  Indeed, when Father’s workers first saw her approach, the girl garnered much admiration and wolf-whistles, until she drew closer, whereupon they picked up their shovels and began working again.

  The next morning as she approached, I braced myself to speak. “That’s a lovely horse you’re riding.”

  The horse’s chestnut thighs came to a halt.

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s a lovely horse. What’s its name?”

  “Stroller.”

  The horse’s velvety flanks quivered for no reason other than its progress had been impeded.

  “Isn’t that the name of a famous show jumper? I’ve seen him jumping on TV shows.”

  “I named mine after him.” The girl’s eyes narrowed for a moment, undoubtedly because she was surprised a laborer would know anything about show jumping. “I’m Fiona McFarland. Who are you?” After introducing myself, she stood on her stirrups and swept her eyes over the gawking workers. “This seems like awfully hard work.”

  Her accent was English, like that of a BBC announcer, and she didn’t look so plain to me anymore. At the same time, I wondered if there is an unwritten rule that horsy girls resemble their horses, in the same way many dog owners resemble their dogs.

  The beast’s flanks stopped quivering and he chaffed at the bit and snorted. I was sure he sensed my nervousness. When he began to reverse, she yanked the reins.

  “I’m only doing this work for the summer,” I said, and upped the ante. “I’m still at school. My father has the contract to do this job.”

  The horse continued reversing. While I took several discreet steps farther into the ditch in case it lunged forward, I considered if I should repeat what I’d said in case she hadn’t heard.

  “He’s a trifle frisky this morning,” she said, in reference to the horse. “I’m a student, too.”

  “Where?”

  “Granderson College.”

  Granderson was a prestigious coeducational Protestant school about four miles from mine. The Saint Malachy’s junior and senior rugby teams played there, but because we specialized in Gaelic football and rugby was a Protestant game, they were superior and always thrashed us soundly.

  “You sound English.”

  “I went to boarding school in England for a time. But I beseeched Mummy to persuade Father to let me come back home. Last year, he relented.”

  Only filthy rich Protestants attended boarding schools in England.

  “Are you boarding at Granderson?”

  “Not for much longer. I hate it. I can’t ride every day.” She looked over her left shoulder as someone started up the steamroller. “I’ve told Mummy I’ll take A levels there, but only if they agree to my commuting daily.” She laughed, and the rich tinkle was instantly absorbed by the screech of the great rollers crushing and flattening the road’s surface. “I’ve had enough of cold dorms and bossy monitors.”

  I laughed to indicate agreement, wondering at the same time why the hell I was, as I knew nothing about cold dorms and monitors. “So, you’re starting A levels next term, too?”

  “No, I’m sitting O levels this coming year, but you’ve got to work on parents a few years in advance, don’t you think?” She glanced over her shoulder again.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Father approaching. I stepped from the ditch with alacrity, thrust my shovel into a pile of gravel, and began spreading it about. Fiona kicked the horse gently in its sides and started away.

  “I see the boss is coming,” she said, not looking back. “Cheerio for now.”

  “Talking to a horsy lady, eh?” Father asked. He watched as the horse broke into a canter.

  “What of it?”

  “Who’s her people?”

  “McFarland.”

  “Jasus, you go straight for the top drawer. The McFarlands are big people ’round here. Her father owns every blade of grass you set your eyes on hereabouts.” He laughed. “Well, get back to your work. Lost time is lost money.”

  I loathed the way Father referred to rich people as “big.” Knockburn people were always referring to wealthy people as “big” people; in so doing, they subconsciously categorized themselves as little people.

  From that morning, if Father was not in the area or was at another job site, Fiona stopped when she rode by and we’d chat snatches at a time. Father asked Connor to help out for two days, as one of his laborers was ill, and I even introduced him to Fiona on the first day.

  “She’s dead ugly, Gabriel,” he said, after she rode away. “The horse is a beauty, though.”

  “Fuck off,” I said.

  The day was hot and sunny and our arms and necks glistened with sweat as we smoothed the roadbed in preparation for tarring. During the lunch break, Connor went down to a narrow river surrounded by tall gorse. Five minutes later, he called out that I should join him. I found him scooping water and splashing it over his face and bare chest. His dark pink nipples were stiff from the cold water. Off in the mid-distance, Father’s workers talked and guffawed as they ate their lunch.

  Sitting beside Connor on the smooth rock, I took off my T-shirt and splashed water over my torso.

  Without warning, Connor reached over and momentarily squeezed my crotch.

  “Hot w
eather makes me so fucking randy,” he said, touching his own crotch. He touched me briefly again and chuckled. “You as well, eh?”

  My entire body tingled with excitement.

  “Come on, Gabriel.” His voice was husky. “Let’s fool around like we used to do.”

  Connor was a fake. He still had the same desires. Just as I was about to comply, I thought about him rejecting me that night and about Fiona.

  “We mustn’t do this,” I said, rising but still not really wanting to leave.

  “For fuck’s sake, it’s just a bit of fun. You’re feeling as randy as me. What’s the harm?”

  “We ended that caper.” I hopped off the rock and started back to the worksite. He caught up with me as I reached the fence.

  “Are you suggesting I’m a homo?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I’m no fucking homo. Understood?”

  “We’re both not homos,” I said.

  He didn’t return to work the next day.

  Road repairs progressed quickly due to the long stretch of excellent weather. By the beginning of the fourth week of July, the crew had moved three miles outside the village. Late one Tuesday morning, Father arrived in a great hurry from his factory site and informed me that he was running late and had to take our foreman to a meeting with the Department of the Environment in Belfast.

  “I want you to keep an eye on the men,” he said. “If you see them skiving, don’t be afraid to tell them to get back to work.” He winked to reinforce we were bound in a secret conspiracy. “You’re the boss’s son, so keep ’em hard at it. Lost time is lost money.”

  I didn’t want to be in charge. As it was, the men were already suspicious of me because of who I was. Often, conversation stopped abruptly if I came into the vicinity, and the recently employed or more nervous workers would scatter like town pigeons. I needn’t have worried, though, as all that was required to keep the spades and picks busy were periodic walks about the construction site. But I was very self-conscious about doing so and always pretended I was looking for something.

  By four-thirty, Father still hadn’t returned. Already two of his laziest workers were consulting their watches, traces of fret already on their grimy faces. I wasn’t worried. He always got back from meetings before knocking-off time.

  At five o’clock, as I was about to make one final patrol, a girl called out my name. Fiona waved as she cantered across the field and entered a paddock containing red and white horse jumps. I watched her for several minutes and then scrambled down the low bank, climbed over the barbed-wire fence, and ran up to her.

  I drew up to Stroller and patted his sweaty neck. “I didn’t know you practiced around here.”

  “This is our home farm,” she said. “Our house is over there.” Following the direction of her extended arm, I saw the red-brick chimneys and slate roof of a house rising above a copse of trees in the near distance. “I’m practicing for a gymkhana outside Londonderry next week.”

  Even though she was Protestant and I knew Protestants said “Londonderry” instead of “Derry,” it riled me. I avoided asking where exactly the show-jumping event was taking place because I’d have to say “Derry” and she might get annoyed at me for the opposite reason.

  “Could I have a go on the horse?” I said.

  “Your father must be away.” She grinned as she dismounted.

  “There’s only half an hour of work time left and I’ve always wanted to try riding him.”

  Fiona took off her riding hat and placed it on my head. It fit perfectly. For the first time, I realized we were exactly the same height and, now we were eye to eye, I also noticed her nose was a fraction off-center and her irises were far more green than blue.

  “You’ve got an audience,” she said.

  Five of father’s employees leaned on shovels by the roadside watching us.

  “Give her a good, hard riding,” one of them shouted.

  The others laughed coarsely.

  “The amazing thing about double entendre is these people think it’s only they who get it,” she said. “What shallow lives those men lead.”

  I sniffed. “Very shallow.”

  After struggling in a most undignified fashion into the saddle, I adjusted the riding hat and peered down at her. It was surprising how high I was, and more than a bit frightening. Fiona took the slack of the reins and led me around the paddock.

  “Could I try on my own?” I asked after a bit.

  “Well, okay—just grip the reins and dig your heels into his sides gently. He’ll start walking.”

  It was a treat, one of those occasions where I felt like a god. I was in supreme control, though admittedly my feet wouldn’t stay in the stirrups. The combination of the creaking saddle, the horse’s docile power, and the coarse, oily touch of its mane was exhilarating. After five minutes, I tried a canter, but my buttocks slammed into the saddle until Fiona showed me how to move in rhythm with the horse’s pace. Every time I thought I’d finally mastered it, I’d suddenly forget the rhythm and be back to arse-slamming.

  “You catch on quickly,” she said, after I finally succeeded.

  “I want to try one jump.”

  “That’s not such a good idea, Gabriel. It requires a lot of skill. The next step is usually to try galloping.”

  “Just one jump.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “A really wee one.”

  She walked up to a jump and regarded it for a moment. She removed two crossbars so that it stood only eighteen inches high and looked at it again.

  “What exactly must I do?”

  “Just canter toward it and the horse will know. Remember, your buttocks will rise up off the saddle as you go into the jump.”

  After lining up the horse, I sized up the jump and then smacked my heels into his rubbery sides a few times until he broke into a canter. On the approach, I imagined I was in a major competition and the jump was four-feet high. Because I knew the men were watching, my body tingled with pride. It didn’t matter that the horse was definitely in charge. I clutched the reins and watched the clumps of chocolate mane rising and falling on his bobbing neck. The horse began to ascend; I saw white cotton clouds; my arse rose up off the saddle. And then all became tangled confusion. My foot slipped out of one stirrup, my torso swayed backward and then listed to the side, and I began to fall. Somehow, I cleared the jump with one foot fully in its stirrup. I slid some more, finally hit the ground, and was dragged across the grass.

  The horse stopped abruptly. Looking toward the beast’s front, I saw Fiona had grabbed the reins. I set about freeing myself with as much dignity as I could muster.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Father shouted from the roadside. Like an idiot, I jumped up and started brushing grass stains off my dirty jeans.

  “Not a scratch.”

  “I really shouldn’t have let you jump. You’re very persuasive. I was awfully silly.”

  “Don’t think anything of it. It’s me who’s foolish trying to be Eddie Macken on my first try.”

  “Come here,” Father called.

  “I was left in charge of his men.” I started away quickly. “Thanks for everything. I’ll see you again.”

  Father’s fury gave strength to my legs and I sprinted out of the paddock and across the field.

  “This is what you do when my back is turned?” he said. “Get into that bloody van.”

  “Aye, you’ll not be representing Ireland any time soon wey a performance like that,” one of the men said. “What do you say, Harry?”

  Father didn’t reply. I was getting the silent treatment.

  As I sat at the dinner table that night, Father said to my mother, “What do you think I caught him doing this afternoon?”

  Nuala was already seated and Mammy was setting down a lamb casserole.

  “I go off to Belfast and leave him in charge, only to come back and catch him on top of a bloody horse.” He regarded me murderously.
“Aye, we’re making money when he’s acting the gentleman and all my workmen are leaning on shovels watching him.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” I said. “It was almost quitting time.”

  My mother’s face remained impassive for a moment longer, and then she laughed.

  “What the hell are you laughing at?” Father pulled a chair out roughly and sat. “He’s fucking useless.”

  “I’m not useless and you’re overreacting. I’ve been doing a damned good job. All you want me to do is watch over the men and snitch on them when they’re not working. That’s no job and I’m not a bloody snitch.”

  His eyes widened simultaneously with his mouth. “I’ll take James to work instead. I’ll ask him when he comes home from football practice. That’s exactly what I’ll do. He’s sensible.”

  “Harry!” Mammy said. “He made a mistake.”

  “Why don’t you take James? You’ve always made it clear you prefer him, anyway. You’ve always treated us differently.” I leaped off my chair, jabbing my index finger at him. “I’ve never been good enough in your eyes.”

  “That’s enough of your backchat,” Mammy said. “Don’t talk back to your father.”

  “I’m not talking back to him. I’m telling him how things are. It needs to change. Uncle Brendan understands me far better and he was in Kenya when I was growing up. He listened and knew what to do when I needed help.”

  As soon as the words were out, I knew I’d gone too far. My mother’s gape confirmed it. The momentary silence filled with enough energy to light up every home in Knockburn.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  Father’s chair squealed, and he lunged at me. “Don’t you fucking well talk to me like that. Who do you fucking well take me for?”

  I dodged his grasp and ran around the table He gave chase. It was surreal. Caroline watched from the sink, her hands covered in soapy bubbles. Nuala grasped a gold crucifix around her neck that I’d bought for her at a church mission. The chain had turned a dull orange within two weeks of its purchase and Mammy said it was made of cheap tin, but Nuala never took it off. I dashed toward the door and somehow Father’s foot connected with my arse before I reached it. It didn’t hurt and I didn’t stop.