That’s when Mammy went a bit psycho. Her English always fell apart when she lost her temper, but now she was practically screaming gibberish. It certainly wasn’t any sort of English or German I’d heard before. She desperately hunted for the tape recorder all the while screaming at the top of her lungs. She slapped Dad around the head and chest in frustration and as he started laughing, we kids decided it would be a good idea to run for our lives.
Mammy on a good day was a calm, efficient whirlwind of activity. She believed in a clean house and flew around at full speed, sorting and washing clothes, dusting, vacuuming, and sweeping until my head spun just watching her.
She always put on music as she cleaned. She loved symphonies and opera but when she cleaned she liked to listen to marching music.
While everyone else in the family busily helped Mammy, I stuck as close as I dared to the record player, the one thing in the house I was absolutely forbidden to touch on pain of death. Entranced, I would become lost in the music. Even though I was also forbidden to touch her precious records, I’d take off the marching record and replace it with a symphony recording. As soon as the music started, I’d climb on a chair and start conducting with a wooden spoon.
Major and Rex would sit staring at me in bewilderment. What the hell are you doing now, you crazy kid?
Not only did Mammy do mountains of housework around our house, she also worked long hours at the Parkway Hotel, managing the restaurant. When she came home after the evening shift, she always brought spare food from the restaurant kitchen.
Well past midnight, we’d hear her little Volkswagen pull in and would jump out of bed and race for the kitchen like a herd of elephants. We’d explode through the kitchen door and there would be Mammy, setting out all the carefully wrapped parcels in silver foil on plates at the table. Major and Rex circled her legs, licking their lips, their eyes glued to hers.
In each foil parcel was a different type of food. There was cheese cake hidden inside one and Steak Diane in another. Pickled onions, Tiramisu, pasta, salmon, roast pork, baked potatoes, chicken and mushroom pie. You name it, it ended up on our kitchen table, wrapped in silver foil.
Mammy always brought home two special packets of meat scraps and bones for Major and Rex. These she’d place on the floor near the sink so they could scoff the lot down.
That done, Mammy would kick off her high heels, light a cigarette and watch contentedly as we devoured the food. My older sisters would take turns making her cups of tea.
“Thank you,” she’d say gratefully as they handed her the steaming cup. “That is vonderful. Just what I need right now.”
In moments like these that little devil of mischief would give me a prod. The easiest way to get my mother’s attention, which was something I craved so desperately, was for me to cram as much food into my mouth in the most repulsive way I could. “Yuck,” I’d tease her. “Whatever this stuff is, it’s disgusting.” I’d grab more food off the table and wave it over my sisters’ hair.
“Stop it!” they’d squeal.
“Stop it!” Andrew and John hissed, punching me in the ribs, furious I was making Mammy angry. “Why do you always have to spoil things?”
Even Major and Rex looked at me in disapproval, knowing I was annoying their beloved mistress.
However, nothing could stop me now I had the stage to myself. I kept waving the food around like it revolted me. “Yep. This stuff is dis—gus—ting!”
Mammy was outraged. “Shush your mouse!” she said furiously. “Stop being so rude! Shush your mouse!”
Later in bed, Andrew and John punched me for annoying our poor, exhausted mammy. I rolled up in a ball and took their roughing up silently because I knew I deserved it. I didn’t care. It was worth getting Mammy’s attention for a few precious minutes, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. Mammy loved me, of course. If only I didn’t have to share her with so many other people, I often thought.
“Why don’t you just run away and leave the rest of us in peace?” Andrew hissed in the darkness at me.
“You spoil everything,” whispered John angrily.
CHAPTER 2
Irish Weather
ANDREW’S WORDS TURNED OUT TO BE PROPHETIC. WHEN I finally did run away from home a year later, it didn’t take long before I hit my first big obstacle: the bloody Irish weather. Try living rough when it rains all the time. Two weeks after escaping out my bedroom window, I found myself walking along the railway track outside Garryowen. It was hard not to feel sorry for myself.
Drenched to the skin, teeth chattering with cold, I trudged through the worst kind of driving rain searching for dry firewood. All the stupid sticks I’d collected so far were dripping wet. Useless.
I shut my eyes. Why couldn’t Ireland be sunny like Australia, the Caribbean, or California? I tried to summon the last scraps of my optimism. “Go on, Martin,” I said grimly, spitting out rain. “Pretend you’re walking along a tropical beach and it’s so hot, you’re just about to stretch out and sunbathe.” A gust of wind battered against me as rain poured down harder. Nope—not even my optimistic imagination could work in this filthy weather.
In the two weeks since I’d run away I’d come to hate rain. It was a complete bastard of a thing to deal with. Since I couldn’t stay dry for very long, my hands were becoming strangely white and wrinkled from constantly being wet. My feet were becoming large, clammy, over-sized white prunes. My woolen sweater was slowly melting into my skin like soggy pasta. It was impossible to stay dry, even if I’d any spare clothes to change into.
Since there was obviously no dry firewood to be found out here, I kept trudging along the railway track to my secret hideout. This was a concrete culvert running under the tracks like a mini tunnel. At last I came upon it, shoved the wet firewood under my arm, and carefully skidded down the embankment to the entrance. I glanced around, then ducked and crawled inside the arched tunnel.
The place looked just as gloomy and dismal as ever. The dampness leaked down the walls in streaks. Bits of concrete were crumbling off the ceiling. The ceiling was so low, I couldn’t stand up. However, it was dry down here, thank God. One thing I’d started doing since I’d run away was talking aloud to myself. “Jesus, it’s lonely living on my own.”
I dumped the wet firewood in a corner and gripped my stomach as a ferocious pang of hunger ripped through me. Luckily, I knew where there was something hot to eat. It was just a matter of dodging past a suspicious mother of a farmer and sneaking inside her farmhouse kitchen.
Taking a deep breath, I moved off fast in the direction of Stevie Murphy’s farm. It wasn’t long before I was crawling through a gap in his hedge, then under his barbed wire fence and slogging across his field. One of his cows turned to stare at me, slowly munching a mouthful of grass.
“Easy for you,” I said. “Wish I could eat grass too.”
Stealing food was always the most dangerous thing I did. I was terrified of getting caught because the farmer would be sure to call the Gardaí. Soon I was hiding under a window of the Murphy farmhouse. I popped my head up to peek inside. From my foraging raids around the district, I knew Stevie usually was out working at this hour before lunch while his mother, Mrs. Murphy, went shopping in Garryowen.
Yep. My eyes spied my target straight away. As usual, Mrs. Murphy had left a big pot of stew simmering on the stove. But was she still inside? That was the question.
Bugger it. I was too hungry to care. I’d do a fast raid in and out.
Chickens and ducks scattered in outrage as I ran for the kitchen door and pushed it open. The delicious aroma of Mrs. Murphy’s stew hit me like a magic spell. I wobbled on my feet, nearly fainting. I grabbed a spoon, lifted the lid, and my nose sucked in the incredible smell as my spoon plunged into the rich gravy and lifted it to my lips. I vacuumed it up, swallowing in ecstasy.
So meaty, and full of potatoes and carrots. Rich with herbs and onions and leeks. Just enough salt. “Amah! Heaven!” I groaned out loud and took anot
her spoonful. The warmth spread right down to my toes.
Mrs. Murphy was a divine cook—that’s why I kept coming back to her kitchen. But I knew I’d better get out before she caught me. I found an old plastic container and quickly filled it halfway. I took one last lingering sniff before I closed the plastic lid. Then I spotted a loaf of homemade soda bread on the kitchen table, cut off a generous slice, and shoved it under my sweater to stay dry. Now I had a feast to bring back to my hide-out.
As I hurried out, I sent the chickens and ducks flying again. It was starting to rain once more, but I didn’t care. Not with Mrs. Murphy’s dinner to look forward to.
Back at the culvert, I swallowed half the stew straight down without pausing. I dunked the bread until it was drowning in gravy, then gobbled that up too. When I finally stopped to catch my breath, I glanced down to find some stew still left. Good. I was panting hard and feeling marvelous.
“Thanks again, Mrs. Murphy. That was grand,” I said into the gloomy silence. “Worth ten stars at least. In a second I’ll finish off the rest.”
Then there was a low whine.
I looked up and blinked. How weird.
A Springer Spaniel sat in the tunnel of my hide-out. A little male, maybe five years old. Rich red-liver patches on white with a speckled chest and funny feathered feet.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked. I could do with the company but was in no mood to share my precious food. Especially not Mrs. Murphy’s magical stew. I looked him over warily. He was a mess. Sopping wet, flecked with mud, bits of bramble twigs tangled in his coat. So skinny you could count every rib. His big, brown eyes fixed on me as he sniffed the air hopefully. His feathered, stumpy tail wagged uncertainly against the concrete floor.
I glared back and held the container close to my chest. “Bugger off. This is mine.”
His tail wagged slower in despair.
I scowled back, guilt making me nastier than usual. “Go on. Clear off. Find your own food!”
His ears drooped and he started shivering.
My conscience prodded me. Go on, you stingy bastard. You’ve got to give him something. Maybe he’ll bugger off then. “Fine then, have some,” I snapped. “But then you can leave.” I’d have to be made of stone to refuse him. I scooped some of the stew onto the concrete floor. One scoop, two scoops. I glared at him again, saw those pitiful ribs, and very reluctantly chucked down a third scoop.
He darted forward and started licking the stew up off the floor, his tail wagging madly, his long, floppy ears dragging on the floor. Within seconds he’d licked the concrete clean and looked up at me. If his eyes melted any more, they’d slide right off his blasted face.
“No fucking way,” I growled.
Our eyes locked in a battle of wills. Pleading angelic spaniel versus monster-hearted, hungry boy.
I shook my head fiercely, drank the dregs as fast as I could, and banged the empty container down on the floor in irritation. Jesus! Those eyes of his were like weapons of guilt.
The dog went totally frantic. He dragged the container all over the concrete floor as he licked what was left, his ears spilling everywhere, falling over the sides. After a few minutes, I picked up the container and put it out of reach. “Okay, you’re just licking off plastic now.” I tapped the ground, and after some hesitation he padded nervously over. I let him sniff me and at last he let me touch him. I stroked his neck and shoulders and untangled some of the brambles. His ribs made me wince. “You must be living rough too. Are you an unwanted stray like me?”
He touched me with his nose gently and didn’t move as I ran my hands again over his wet, silky back. He was like an otter, though a very skinny one. He clearly loved having his long, silky ears stroked. I laughed. “You are like me, aren’t you? Just want a bit of affection.”
He licked my hand.
Once again a dog was working its magic on me. When I got up to take a piss outside, he followed me. When I crawled back inside the tunnel, he was still glued to my side.
“What am I going to call you, boy?” I asked, stroking his long, soft ears. “You’re sticking to me like glue, but I can’t call you, ‘Glue.’ That’s too ugly a name for a grand little fella like you.” I thought for a moment. “What about Mossy? Because you stick to me like moss to a stone. Yeah. I like that. Mossy. What do you think of that?”
He licked my hand gently, thumping his little stumpy tail on the floor.
I nearly cracked my jaw yawning when the sleepiness swept through me in a powerful wave. It had been a big day. I propped my back against the concrete wall and wrapped my arms around my knees to keep warm. Something bumped against me and I looked down. Mossy was turning in a circle, curling himself up to lie in a tight ball against my leg. He settled down and gave a deep sigh.
I smiled. It felt wonderful having a dog at my side again. For the first time since I’d run away I didn’t feel alone.
Mossy’s growling woke me. I was curled on my side and he was curled warmly against my stomach. His growls reverberated up through my belly.
I sat up, my heart racing. Who was it? A farmer? Some weirdo? The Gardaí? Shocked, I stared as a massive black snout poked its way through the tunnel. Two orange eyes glared at me. I caught a glimpse of the rest of its body. The thing looked like a grizzly bear!
Mossy jumped to his feet, barking in outrage. The snout disappeared. Heart pounding, I crawled after Mossy as he bounded down the short tunnel to the entrance. Side by side we stopped and peered outside. It wasn’t a grizzly bear. It was a dog. A massive beast of a male dog. A Newfoundland, I guessed, which was pretty rare in Garryowen. He had an enormous head with dirty-orange eyes that stared at me unblinking as he pissed on a bush. The same one I always used, the cheeky bugger.
Mossy barked again and I looked around in shock. Two other dogs were wandering around the clearing too, sniffing everywhere around the entrance of my culvert. One was a wire-haired mongrel terrier. He was white and had a long pointy nose that was tufted with comically short, incredibly frizzy hair. He was mesmerizing to look at, especially the funny way he moved like a clockwork toy. He had dark, merry eyes with plenty of spirit and little V-shaped ears cocked high on his head with the tips folded down like origami. In fact, he looked game enough for anything. At that moment he was busily sniffing the ground, zigzagging everywhere.
The last dog was a big-boned black Labrador. He was waddling around, oblivious to everyone else, nose glued to the ground. He quickly found any scraps of rubbish I’d tossed outside since I’d moved in, even eating the paper.
Beside me, Mossy bristled. He couldn’t believe these three unwanted invaders were wandering so casually around his new territory. “Woof!” he barked, outraged.
Before I could blink, the three strange dogs charged straight at him. I froze, certain they were about to rip him to shreds. Luckily Mossy went belly up and pissed himself in apology. I held my breath as they carefully sniffed him over. These three strange dogs fake-attacked him a few times to teach him who was boss, but each time he squealed loudly until they dropped their aggression. More relaxed, they took turns standing over him in a dominant pose, making him wait while they loomed over him. At last they glanced over their shoulder and bothered noticing me.
“Holy hell,” I said in amazement. “What on earth am I going to do with you three rogues?”
First I had to name them. Since the black Labrador reminded me of a local kid I knew who never stopped looking for food, I gave him the boy’s name: Pa. The massive Newfoundland’s coat gleamed so jet black in the rain I named him Blackie. As for the white terrier mongrel, I’d always liked the name Fergus so that became his.
My little pack was growing: Mossy, Pa, Blackie, Fergus and me.
A few days later my brothers snuck up and surprised me dozing in my hide-out. John stuck his head in through one end of the tunnel while Andrew stuck his head in through the other. Perhaps they were trying to stop me from escaping. “Hey!” they called. “Martin!”
The
dogs thought we were being attacked on all sides and went berserk. I launched myself at Blackie and just managed to grab him around the neck before he leapt up and tore Andrew’s face off.
“Leave!” I screamed.
My brothers had their angry faces on. “Who do all these dogs belong to?” demanded John. “And when the hell are you coming home?”
“Mammy can’t sleep at night worrying about you,” added Andrew. “She was crying all through dinner last night. Come back home before you kill her with worry.”
I glared back at them both stubbornly. “I’m not going back,” I said. “I’m living in here until I’m old enough to leave and get a job overseas.” Andrew and John stared at me as though I’d gone mad. “What?” John stepped up close to me, more angry than I’d ever seen him. “Enough, you’ve got to stop this. We promised Mammy this morning we’d bring you back, and that’s what we’re going to do even if we have to drag you home.”
“No. I’m happier here than at home. I like living with these dogs.” I rubbed Blackie’s ears. “This is my new family.”
Blackie growled low in his throat. He hated having his ears rubbed and even more, he hated it when I held him around the neck, but I couldn’t let him go in case he ate both my brothers.
They looked at the dogs then around my gloomy chamber with distaste. “Don’t be stupid,” said John. “Of course, you can’t stay here.”
I let Blackie go and stood up to shove my brother hard. “Don’t ever fucking call me stupid again.” Then I turned to Andrew. “You either.” It was the first time I’d ever stood up to my brothers face to face. They stared in shock. The dogs started growling uneasily.
I felt as if I were deliberately cutting the invisible cord connecting us, finally ending our bond as identical triplets. I no longer was the little brother they could effortlessly boss around.
Andrew, ever the peacemaker, tried to calm things down. “Shit, Martin, you can’t live like this. You’ll freeze to death when the weather turns cold.”
The Boy Who Talked to Dogs Page 3