I shrugged. “Don’t worry about that. Just help Mammy understand I’m happier now and I’m safe.”
An hour later, when they realized nothing was going to budge me, they left reluctantly. “You won’t last long out here,” said John. “You’ll be home soon.”
I watched them walk away together. Yeah? We’ll see about that.
A few days later the dogs and I were walking along the railway line when we spotted two more dogs. They were trotting up the middle of the track towards us. Both groups stopped to stare.
One dog was tall—a red and white patched Foxhound. He had a big noble head with a square muzzle and extremely long, muscled legs. He watched us carefully. Beside him was a much smaller terrier with tangled silky silver hair and a black patch like a saddle on her back. Her feet were tiny, her body long and elegant. A dainty fringe of hair flopped over her eyes in two waves while her ears were feathered with long, silky strands. Her graceful, feathered tail was tucked between her legs. She was clearly terrified. I guessed she was a Skye Terrier and wondered how anyone could have abandoned such a delicate little creature to the streets. No wonder she’d hooked up with something as big as the Foxhound for protection.
Blackie broke the silence, barking ferociously.
“No need for that,” I said peacefully.
Instantly, the two strange dogs bolted down the embankment with my dogs galloping after them, barking their heads off like they wanted to tear them apart.
“Shit! Come back you idiots!” Terrified, I slipped and slithered down the embankment after them. I didn’t want them hurting that poor little terrier. Thick brambles stopped me from going further. I stood helplessly on the edge, listening to my dogs crashing through the undergrowth. They must be chasing the two new dogs through the maze of tracks. The little terrier screamed.
Then there was horrific snarling and squealing. Blackie was clearly savaging her. “Blackie!” I screamed. That bully of a bastard was going to rip her to shreds and there wasn’t a thing I could do because of these stupid brambles.
Then the little thing ran out into the open. Thank God, she was alive. My dogs came crashing out of the undergrowth and rushed at her. She bellied up, urinated in submission, and allowed herself to be sniffed all over.
Furious, I stalked over to them. “You bastards!” I growled, thumping each of my dogs on the back. They ignored me and kept sniffing the shivering little terrier. “You better not have hurt that other poor dog either,” I warned Blackie, pointing a finger at him. Geez, I really hated him sometimes. He could be a real thug picking on dogs much smaller than himself.
There was a rustle in the brambles behind us and the Foxhound emerged. Stiff-legged, he walked into the open as though about to face a firing squad. My dogs bounded over but he stood his ground. There was a lot of sniffing and growling, even some fake attacks, then all the dogs shook themselves and relaxed.
I rolled my eyes, my heart thudding. “Bloody hell!” That had been close. What was it about dog fights that shredded my nerves? I guess it was because any fight among these street dogs could turn deadly within seconds, and there wasn’t much I could do to stop anyone from being killed. I sat down and forced myself to relax, knowing the new dogs wouldn’t come anywhere near me until my energy was nice and calm. My patience was rewarded when eventually the Foxhound and Skye Terrier walked across to sniff me over.
Up close they looked pretty skinny. It was hard to believe such beautiful dogs had been dumped and left to starve. Jesus, humans could be cruel.
“If you two want to join our gang you can,” I said. “What am I going to call you both, huh?” I stroked the Foxhound’s ears. “You can be Red. It’s a good, sturdy name and it suits you, boy.” He was a bit aloof but I understood that. I was a bit wary around new people too. “You’ll come to trust me in time,” I said.
Then I stroked the soft ears of the little Skye Terrier. She was much friendlier and stood between my knees, gazing up at me in gratitude.
Feeling jealous, Mossy growled at her.
“Yeah, yeah. Keep your tail on, grumpy head,” I said unimpressed. I rubbed the little female’s shoulders. “As for you, darling, you’re such a dainty little miss, you can be called Missy.”
I shook my head as I climbed back up the embankment onto the track. “Six dogs? I must be crazy.” I was starting to feel like the Pied Piper. “Come on, you lot.” I set off fast and peered back to see all the dogs trotting behind me, panting, and I couldn’t help but grin.
CHAPTER 3
Always at the Bottom
WHILE I WANDERED THE COUNTRYSIDE WITH MY NEW companions, I would occasionally think about some of the things I missed at home and some of the things I didn’t. Before I ran away, I have to admit our household was usually very chaotic. Yet at other times our house became the most romantic place in Garryowen.
Mammy loved to be spoiled by our father. Whenever he wasn’t away with the army—and he wasn’t drunk—he used to organize different nights of entertainment at our house.
Friday night, for instance, was Dancing Night. After the pub closed, Mammy and Dad would walk home, chatting and laughing, arm in arm. Upstairs in bed we kids would hear them and smile.
Next we’d hear the record player go on and sweet music would swirl up through the house. Andrew, John, and I would tiptoe down the stairs and kneel side by side, hiding behind the couch. The dogs would peek around us out of curiosity. All five of us watched wide-eyed as our parents danced slowly around the living room to Patsy Cline, Johnny Cash singing “Folsome Prison Blues,” or Nat King Cole. All tender songs about love.
That’s when we saw them at their happiest together. On Dancing Night it was like having a pair of glamorous movie stars gliding around our living room. Even I didn’t dare interrupt them. Instead I sat as still as a mouse and watched in awe. When they were like this, it was as though they were surrounded by a special force-field, keeping them completely separate and safe from everything.
Saturday night, however, was noisier because it was Movie Night. My dad would pull the couch out in front of the TV, allotting each of us kids and even Major and Rex a spot on the rug. We could stay as long as we kept our mouths zipped shut. I’d lie between Major and Rex and take turns using each dog as a furry pillow.
We kids always had two shows to watch. One was the black-and-white movie on the TV screen, and the other was the much more interesting show taking place on the couch—the one starring my parents.
These were supposed to be romantic evenings for them, but I guess it was pretty hard to relax with eight kids and two massive German Shepherds sitting jammed around them like eagle-eyed chaperones.
Both Mammy and Dad had their favorite movie stars. Dad liked Gary Cooper, John Wayne, and Clint Eastwood. However, he had to keep his wits about him if Cary Grant or Gregory Peck appeared on the screen.
“Humph!” Mammy would snort, her eyes glued to the screen. Then after a moment she’d snort again. “Mick, why can’t you behave more like Cary Grant or zat nice Gregory Peck? They have such vonderful manners.”
“Aah,” my dad would say, smoothing back his full head of hair so it rippled like waves on the sea. “But have they got my hair? Can you tell me that, Siggy? Have they got my magnificent head of hair?”
“Stop being so stupid,” she’d say. “Manners are much more important than hair.”
Dad would tickle her until she giggled against her will. “Ve have ways of making you laugh,” he said. “And it doesn’t involve manners.”
“Vy I love you I don’t know, Mick,” she said, pushing him away.
My father would just smirk and say nothing, but he’d wriggle his eyebrows suggestively.
“Stop that, Mick. Not in front of the children,” Mammy scolded him, slapping away his adventurous hand.
“Later then,” we heard him whisper into her ear.
Mammy said nothing, but we could see her smiling at the TV screen.
Mammy was like my sisters. She loved to j
ump up and dance to the latest music, and she especially liked Elton John, who sometimes performed on the popular TV show Top of the Pops. Dad was horrified. He refused point blank to get up and dance to those kinds of songs with Mammy.
“Come on, Mick. Get your lazy bum off the couch. Pleeze come and help me do the ‘Crocodile Rock.’”
“No way,” he grumbled, patting Major. “Call me old fashioned but that fella wears high-heeled boots and skin-tight pants.”
“Don’t be such a boring bum,” Mammy said, still dancing, her eyes glued to the screen. “Cary Grant would dance to Elton John,” she said over her shoulder, after a while.
“No, he fucking wouldn’t,” muttered my father under his breath, but he didn’t say it too loudly. Nobody—not even my father—dared to come between Mammy and her dancing.
My parents had a very unusual marriage, but there was no denying that they were crazy about each other.
When both our parents were at work, we eight kids were left alone in the house. I usually got into trouble for driving my brothers and sisters crazy.
When John, Andrew, and I were born, Mammy thought she was only having twins. When they wheeled her back to the ward, she started having contractions again. These pains got so bad the nurses finally realized she had another baby wriggling around inside her demanding to get out. So they hurriedly wheeled her back to the birthing room and I popped out.
When I heard that story, I felt like the unwanted intruder in our family. Even when I was with my triplet brothers, that thirty-minute difference between our births might as well have been thirty months.
No three brothers could have been closer than Andrew, John, and I, but, to be honest, this was the most competitive unit of our family.
“Having you three boys is like having a bloody litter of pups,” Dad would grumble. “Always scrapping and fighting together. Now stop fighting or get outside!”
It was true. We were like pups. We argued over everything that had to be divided up between the three of us—the best side of the bed, the best shoes, the best clothes, the biggest portions of food on our plates, the most milk in our glasses, who got to be in charge of the dogs—everything. Being the runt, I constantly had to wrestle, shove, and push away my brothers just to get my fair share or I’d be left with nothing. Sometimes we even fought over imaginary things. Like when we’d lie in bed side by side, staring up at the ceiling, playing the Cake Game.
“Say someone handed us a big chocolate cake right now,” John said one night. We’d instantly imagine one floating in the air above us. I’d even lick my lips.
“Of course, if we had that cake here right now, I’d have to get the biggest piece,” boasted John, “because I’m the eldest.”
“Well, I’d get the second biggest piece!” snapped Andrew. “Which would be much bigger than yours, Martin, because I’m the second eldest.”
“Oh, yeah?” I shouted, sick to the back teeth of always being the runt. “Well, I’d go and steal that cake before you two even woke up, and that way I’d get the whole stupid lot!”
Andrew frowned. “You probably would too. Why can’t you just make it easier on everyone and accept you always have to come last because you’re the youngest? Then we wouldn’t fight so much.”
They both looked at me curiously. I was so angry, I could only glare back.
“John and I accept our places in the natural pecking order of things. Why can’t you?” Andrew persisted.
“Because you wouldn’t be so happy if you always had to be last like me!” I yelled at the top of my voice.
They stared at me in shock.
“No wonder I always end up stealing stuff! I’m sick of always being the least important person in this whole family!”
“Shush your mouses!” Mammy called out wearily from her bedroom. “No fighting. Have some manners while the rest of us are trying to sleep. I be telling you, please shush your mouses!”
“Or I’ll come in and bloody shush them for you,” growled Dad beside her.
Although we fought a lot, Andrew and John were definitely my best human friends in the world. They always kept a protective eye on me. John was the tough, strong one. I pretended he was like my mini-dad. Because he was a popular boy, he told the other kids in the neighborhood that if they wanted to play with him, then they had to play with me too. He also helped me play sports better.
Andrew was the worrier of our little family of triplets. I used to pretend he was like my mini-Mammy. He always made sure I remembered to brush my hair and teeth and wear a warm sweater. He spent hours trying to help me with my reading and writing.
As for me, I was like their naughty kid. They scolded me constantly for stealing and annoying Mammy. They nagged me to do my chores. Like all families, we triplets had a very rigid pecking order, and unfortunately I was always at the bottom. Another horrible thing about being an identical triplet is that I knew every second of the day what I looked like because I constantly had two more replicas of myself staring back at me.
I knew I had jug ears that stuck out, that I was puny-chested and skinny-legged and had arms like sticks. It was like having two brutally honest mirrors following me around all day. I also knew how I looked when I was confused, silly, or worst of all, frightened. Sometimes I’d stop looking at my brothers for hours at a time just to give my eyes a rest.
My father had his own way of telling us apart. “Which bloody one are you?” he’d say, grabbing whoever was closest by the hair. He was looking for the small, blond patch of hair on the back of my head that made me instantly recognizable. Since I was usually guilty of committing some crime or another, “Which one of you is Martin?” was the constant question on everyone’s lips. Unfortunately, my patch of hair gave me away every single time.
To the rest of the world, I was forever being lumped in with my brothers. Being an identical triplet can be the weirdest sort of hell. Sometimes it seemed like John, Andrew, and I were chained together in a cage with a flashing neon sign that read, Feel Free to Stare at Us Three Cloned Freaks!
Or try splitting a chocolate bar with two of your clones fighting over every inch. We learned the only way to ensure we all got a fair share was to hold each other’s hair while we each took a bite. If anyone tried to cheat and grab more than his share, the other two yanked the culprit’s head back fast.
Sometimes our fights got so intense over the silliest things that we might find ourselves rolling around the living room carpet, punching each other over an extra slice of bread one of us had grabbed and half-swallowed before it could be tugged out again. It was enough to drive anyone crazy.
By far, the worst thing was the way everyone stared at us in public. I’d get paranoid walking with my brothers down the main street of Limerick, trailing after Mammy as she did the shopping. Even on the busiest days, there wasn’t a person who didn’t turn to stare at us open-mouthed as we passed.
I had my own way of blocking them out. The longer they stared, the more I retreated into myself. I’d block out all noise until it felt like I’d managed to pull the whole town down into an imaginary giant fishbowl. The sounds of O’Connor Street would turn eerily muffled, as though we were all underwater. Everyone seemed to gulp and stare at us like dumb goldfish. It was my way of dealing with all those staring eyes, but sometimes it didn’t shut out their whispers, the worst of which came from women:
“There’s that German woman, you know.”
“Siggy, they say her name is. Imagine being landed with a name like that. Sounds like you’re asking for a cigarette every time you call her.”
“It’s hardly surprising there’re three clones of those kids, is it? I mean you do know about Hitler’s secret experiments in the war, don’t you?”
“Why doesn’t she go back to Germany where she belongs and leave Ireland to the Irish?”
There was always a comment about me, usually because I scowled the most.
“I certainly don’t like the look of that one on the end there. He looks lik
e a nasty little bugger if you ask me.”
I tried glaring back but their eyes were steely sharp, and there were too many to stare down.
Funnily enough, all the local businessmen in Limerick knew my mother from her job at the restaurant in the Parkway Hotel. Unlike the women, they treated her like a princess. Out would come the local accountant as Mammy passed by, dragging us along in her wake. He’d grasp her hand and kiss it while we watched on suspiciously.
“Good morning, Mrs. Faul.” He pronounced our surname correctly—Fall, not Fowl.
Out would come the bank manager.
Same thing.
The butcher.
The doctor.
The real estate agent.
The big shop owners.
However, one look at the three of us, glaring like murderous little monsters by her side, was enough to stop them from chasing her too hard.
Not that it mattered. For Mammy, no other man existed on the planet except her beloved Mick. She adored him heart and soul.
Thankfully, there was one place in Garryowen where my brothers and I weren’t regarded as freaks—and that was on the hurling field.
What’s hurling you ask?
Only the most wonderful game ever invented by the ancient Celts. Some say it’s been played for four thousand years, while others claim it was played by the Celtic gods even before that.
My brothers and I came together on the field effortlessly. All our energy and skill rolled into a golden phenomenon that could make that leather slitter-ball do whatever we wanted it to do. We were the heroes of the local Gaelic Athletic Association in Garryowen, otherwise known as the GAA. Everyone yelled and cheered their heads off when we scored.
Of course, there were lots of magnificent, skilled players on our team. Some came from a long line of hurling families and each generation passed its skills and knowledge on to the next.
Each grand weekly match took place on the Gaelic Games playing field down next to the gypsy camp at Rhebogue in Garryowen. There were four adult selectors: Jack Sheehan, Paddy Quilligan, Brendan Reddan, and Viviane Cobb. It was their task to decide which position each team member played. This triggered much smoking of cigarettes and heated words before a match. They took each game deadly serious.
The Boy Who Talked to Dogs Page 4