“Better put Derec Power on right corner-forward because he’s left-handed and it’ll confuse the corner back player.” That was Jack Sheehan, master-tactician and head coach.
Meanwhile, a different battle was going on amongst us boys. Before each game there was the usual wrestling over boots and who should have the least damaged hurley sticks. There were fifteen members on our team and not enough decent hurleys. We’d damaged most of them and St. Pat’s had never been a wealthy club.
I always arrived late and would in variably be barefoot, having forgotten my socks or boots or both.
“That won’t do. Won’t let you on without boots,” Jack said, trying not to panic. He’d look quickly around until his eyes fell on some poor kid.
“Yeah, you. Give yer boots over to Martin here. You know he’s a better player than you. You can be a sub this week.”
The kid turned pale. “But Mam bought me these boots brand new for me to play in . . .”
But Jack was ruthless. Winning meant everything. “Shut up. You’re subbing this week.” Seconds later, he’d swing back again. “And he’ll need your socks as well. Good lad—that’s the Celtic spirit.”
A hurley is like a hockey stick, only with a bigger, flatter curved paddle. It’s bound with metal strips that cut like hell when they hit you. However, in the hands of a gifted player, that hurley transforms from an ugly piece of wood into a thing of magic. It’s a game of grace and beauty as the leather ball—what we call the slitter—goes flying around the field at high speeds.
Great hurling players are mesmerizing to watch. Their wrists flick and roll, graceful as swallows chasing insects. The ball is fast—heart-wrenchingly fast.
A usual Saints’ game went like this. First, our selectors would parley in a corner, backs to us, smoking furiously, swearing and arguing under their breaths. They had to put every decision to a lightning-fast vote. Then Jack read out the team list to us boys and we either groaned or cheered.
“Derec Power, Roger O’Mahoney, Peter Muldoon, Eamonn Wallace, Tony Dawson, Tony Maloney, Shane Higgens, Pa Mullins, Jim McNamara, James Power, Seamus Downes, Peter Sheehan, Andrew Faul, John Murphy, Neil O’Brien, John O’Neil, John Faul, John Bailey, Martin Faul, and Rory O’Sullivan.”
Then we crowded in for our big rousing pre-game speech from Jack.
“Now, young fellas! This is the needle match for the Under-Twelves you’ve all been hanging out for!”
We’d all scratch our heads—had we?
“But,” Jack would say raising a finger at us, “But we’re going to keep to the rules. Remember, you must all be honorable in battle and always do the right thing by the jersey.” He talked about our green Saints jersey like it was the Irish flag. By this stage he was like Michael Collins, urging his troops into battle. “Now here’s the plan. We’re going to fight a hard, clean game. Got that? You’re my Garryowen warriors and you’re going to go out there on that field and do great battle against our enemies.”
Then before we knew it, he was leaving Michael Collins behind and was launching into his most passionate and blood-thirsty speech yet, sounding more like a mighty Celtic chieftain. “We’re going to fight that bloody bastard Claughaun team to the finish! Do you hear me? This is a matter of life or death! So get out there and slaughter those little Claughaun bastards!”
We’d yell our heads off in agreement, promising to slaughter our enemies. It’s impossible not to get a little bit bloodthirsty at a hurling game. It’s a team sport that really resembles a battle, where your hurley is your weapon and the slitter ball is like your enemy’s severed head that has to go flying through your goals to score points.
The Saints had a few hard-core local supporters who turned up to cheer us on. Our favorite, Christy Flynn, always drove his battered old VW van up to the sideline and turned up his cassette player so he could blast Jimi Hendrix. “Up the Saints!” Christy roared out the window. “Kill those Claughaun bastards!”
The smokers among us eagerly bolted over to score a few cigarettes from him before the game.
“Disgraceful! That man’s actually handing out cigarettes to those young boys.” This was from a shocked Claughaun mother. “I’m going to make an official complaint.”
“Oh, fuck off,” drawled Andrew as he passed by, lighting up.
Seven or eight fathers arrived to support the Saints and began cheering for us noisily as the tension started to rise around the field. Somehow the selectors dragged us away from Christy’s van, herding us out on to the field as the ref started blasting away on his whistle.
“Put those cigarettes out instantly!” he bellowed at us.
“Shit, keep your hair on, man,” Christy griped, blowing smoke out his window.
Now the visiting Claughaun team marched onto the field. Unlike us, they wore beautifully laundered jerseys and shorts, their haircuts were neat and tidy, their socks were pulled up to regulation height, and their shoelaces were tied in double-knots as required. They stood politely in a well-ordered line. Their hurleys gleamed with polish and looked suspiciously brand new.
Moments later we much scruffier Saints wandered into position, staring intently at our opponents, poised for the whistle to blow.
Christy screamed from his van and turned up his music even louder so Jimi Hendrix could rage out at us like a deafening banshee.
The ref blasted the start of the game on his whistle, fired in the slitter ball and then, smash! The game of the ancient Celts began in a clashing of sticks.
The game flew by. There were screams of euphoria when we scored, groans when we missed the goalposts, and hisses and vicious curses for any dirty play. At half time we ran over to nick more cigarettes from Christy. Then the whistle blew again and the game thundered on until the last moment of play. We won! We reeled off the field trying not to collapse.
By now my heart was nearly bursting, my lungs heaving. I’d gotten whacked over every single inch of skin until everything hurt, but what else can you expect when you’ve had a heavy piece of ash wood bound with strips of metal bouncing off your head and body for an hour?
Now the best bit of the match—the after-party.
After the game, six of the heaviest drinkers on our team got to run down to the local pub, the infamous “A1 Bar.” There’d always be someone inside willing to sneak us out a secret bottle of Bulmers Cider. It had a picture of a woodpecker on the label, and by God, it sure got you hammered.
For dessert we shared another pack of cigarettes that one of us had managed to pinch from some adult.
Smoking our heads off, swilling back cider, we re-played the best bits of the game. Yes, Sundays after the match were always great craic, which means great fun in Gaelic.
Later that night, Andrew, John, and I returned home, high from our victory, and climbed into bed exhausted. I lay beside them, bruised but at peace. We were loyal comrades, teammates and brothers. I was just drifting off to sleep happily when I heard heavy footsteps on our front porch.
Thud . . . thud . . . thud.
That would be Dad returning from the pub. I heard him banging open the door and walking menacingly up the stairs.
“Is that you, Mick?” Mammy asked sleepily.
As the storm broke and rage dinned their bedroom, Andrew, John, and I covered ourselves with our blankets. Eventually we ran downstairs and outside to the coal shed, covering our ears with our hands, pressing our faces into Major and Rex’s shaggy coats. Anything to stop those horrible noises from upstairs.
The next morning, Mammy refused to say anything bad about Mick.
“But he shouldn’t do that to you,” said Andrew.
“This is my marriage and it’s none of your business,” she snapped. She thrust her hands into the sink and ferociously scrubbed a plate. We walked out, bewildered.
Later that day, Mammy received one of her favorite things in the post—a food parcel from her parents and sister in Germany. Wide-eyed, we watched as she unwrapped it. “Oh! Oh, look at that!” she said, clap
ping like a little girl. The parcel was full of treats from Germany. A packet of little, round ginger biscuits dusted in icing sugar, almond biscuits, rich lemon and lime jam, sauerkraut, tins of rich coffee, jars of Roll-mop fish, and black bread. Best of all: a tin of black cherries and a giant bar of dark German chocolate.
“I’ll bake a special cake later when you’re all in bed,” she said happily. “Now I have some dark chocolate, I can make a lovely Black Forest Cake. It’ll be a surprise when you wake up.”
Of course, I couldn’t wait that long. That night when my brothers and sisters were in bed asleep, I snuck down the stairs as quiet as a mouse and peeked my head around the corner into our kitchen. Sure enough, Mammy was whipping up batter for her cake in her big Pyrex bowl.
“Mammy?” I said softly from the doorway.
She looked up at me, then looked automatically for Andrew and John.
“They’re asleep,” I said. “Can I stay and watch?” I held my breath as I watched her tired blue eyes.
She hesitated, then smiled. “Very well.” She held out the wooden spoon covered in rich chocolate mix. “You can start by licking this for me. I don’t want to be giving myself a fat bum.”
I felt like I’d died and gone to heaven. Unable to believe my luck, I quietly walked across the kitchen floor and took the spoon from her fingers.
She smiled at me. “Sit up there and watch,” she nodded at a chair close by.
I perched on the chair and licked the spoon, watching her. She now had to melt the bar of chocolate, but first she cut me off a whole square and handed it to me. “Shh . . . don’t be telling your brothers and sisters.”
I put the piece of chocolate in my mouth and sucked at its nutty, dark flavor in ecstasy.
“Aha!” said Mammy. “Do you know what’s missing?”
My heart sank. Maybe she didn’t have all the ingredients and she’d have to finish making the cake tomorrow.
“This very good cake needs music,” she declared.
My heart lifted again as she switched on the kitchen radio.
“Ah, vonderful,” she said as the opera, Madame Butterfly, flooded out around us, filling the kitchen with beautiful music. She smiled at me and I smiled back. I watched as she finished the batter, then carefully poured it into the cake tin.
As she slid the cake into the oven, the most famous aria of Madame Butterfly—“Un bel di vedremo”—began its quiet opening bars. Mammy sat in her kitchen chair and kicked off her shoes. Surrendering herself to the music, she leaned back with a deep contented sigh. “She’s singing, ‘One beautiful day we will see,’” she said dreamily.
I let the music wash over me and watched the Black Forest Cake slowly rising in the oven with the smell of chocolate and black cherries wafting around us.
It was just me and Mammy together, her head laid back with her eyes closed, a cigarette between her fingers, looking every bit like a glamorous movie star relaxing between film takes, and both of us silently drinking in the sublime music.
I’d never felt closer to her.
CHAPTER 4
The Railway Culvert
IT WAS A WEEK AFTER I’D ADOPTED RED AND MISSY. THE seven of us had just climbed up the embankment from our hide-out under the railway track and we stood staring in shock.
A person was walking down the line towards us.
Who the hell was that? My heart began racing. It was a young male, swinging a nasty-looking blackthorn stick around in the air with intent. Bloody hell, was it someone come to beat me up? Maybe a farmer’s son sent from nearby?
I froze. The dogs saw the boy’s swinging stick and slunk down the embankment into the blackberry bushes to hide. I was just about to join them when I recognized the boy. Roger the Dodger. Another Garryowen outsider like me.
I knew him a bit from around Garryowen. He wasn’t too bad. I relaxed and waited until he caught up with me, but I kept a wary eye on that stick of his.
He hadn’t changed much since I’d last seen him. He was still short with flaming red hair the color of a fox and had big red freckles sprinkled over his face and watchful eyes that darted everywhere, noticing everything. He really was like a fox.
He’d earned his nickname for being so clever at surviving on the streets. Three years older than me, he was used to sleeping rough every now and again when things got bad at home. His father was extremely violent when he got drunk—even worse than mine.
My mouth started watering when I saw the cigarette he was smoking.
“Hey, Faullie,” he said cheerfully, sauntering straight up to me. To show he meant no harm, he lowered his stick and handed me his precious cigarette to share. “I’ve seen you around here a bit lately,” he said. “From a distance, that is. Where’ve you been staying?”
I took a heartfelt drag and handed it back. “Got a hide-out down here. Have a look.” I led the way down the embankment and proudly showed him my hide-out under the track.
He crawled in after me then straight out again and shook his head. “What the hell are you doing sleeping in that rat-hole, you idiot?” He used his chin to point in a few directions. “Jesus, Faullie. There’s plenty of comfy hay barns around here, so why freeze your bollocks off down in that dismal thing?”
I looked at him with respect. “Hay barns? You’re kidding! They’re always right next to farmhouses. Won’t the farmers catch me?”
“Nah,” he said airily. “You’ll be fine. Done it millions of times before. Just sneak in after dark, then make damned sure you get out early before the roosters really start crowing.”
There was a rustle of bushes. His sharp, foxy eyes widened in amazement as my dogs came creeping out. They padded over to sniff him. He laughed. “Jesus! What’s all this, Faullie? Are you turning into bloody St. Francis of Assisi or something?”
I laughed. “Nah. They’re just my friends. You know—strays.”
Roger scratched his head. “Well, you can’t be taking them around to any hay barns. Look at them all! They’ll be impossible to hide. Stand out like a herd of elephants.” He patted fat Pa whose tail was wagging hard. “First the farmers will have a heart attack to see them hanging around their precious cows. Then when they’ve caught their breath, they’ll run and fetch their shotguns before you can blink. Shoot the lot of them.”
“Yeah, I know, but they’re my friends.” I stroked each of their heads fondly. “I can’t just dump them here. They’ll starve to death or freeze without me.”
Roger leaned over and tapped me on the chest. “First rule of survival, Faullie: Look after yourself first, second, third, and last—and all the other times in between. Believe me, nice guys come last.”
He was only trying to help, but I secretly disagreed. Now that I knew these dogs, I preferred the attitude of the three musketeers. One for all and all for one. I looked around at the dogs. How could I possibly abandon them? They trusted me so much with their lives. I sat down and started rubbing their ears.
Roger the Dodger sat down beside me on the metal rail and handed me another cigarette. He even lit it for me. We smoked in silence. Cigarettes were like peace pipes for Garryowen boys. No one disturbed the moment when a precious cigarette was being enjoyed.
While we smoked, we stroked the dogs as they walked back and forth between us and laughed as they nudged us both greedily for pats.
I looked around at my gang. It was crazy, but I suddenly realized how much these six dogs were beginning to bring out the best in me. They were helping me become calmer, more caring, and affectionate. I was so much happier now! Martin, I thought, do you know what? For the first time in a long time, you actually like yourself.
I glanced across at Roger. Underneath all his tough talk, he was a gentle person. He was patting all the dogs affectionately. “No offense, but I wouldn’t get too fond of them, Faullie,” he warned me kindly. “D’you know farmers lay down poison baits to kill off stray dogs like these? Hide them in their hedges.”
I felt my gut sink. “Yeah, I know that.”
It was one of the scary things I tried not to think about.
Roger looked at me curiously. “Anyway, why aren’t your brothers with you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen the three of you apart before. Had a fight or something?”
I squirmed and suddenly wished I was alone with my dogs again. They never asked me difficult questions. Or made me feel embarrassed or ashamed. Why did humans have to pry so much? “My brothers are still at home,” I said, hunching my shoulders. I didn’t want to talk about them; it made me too upset.
He shrugged. “Fair enough. Anyway, if I were you I’d think about moving into a hay barn soon. Cold weather’s coming and you don’t want to freeze to death.” He patted me kindly on the shoulder. “I’m not trying to tell you your business, but I don’t want to walk along here one day and find your body frozen like an ice-block down in that dismal little hole.” He handed me a cigarette for good luck and disappeared up the embankment, whistling the latest Beatles tune.
I let out my breath once he left and patted the dogs for reassurance. It was so much easier not having humans around. “You lot think I’m great exactly as I am, don’t you?” I asked.
They looked up at me, their tails wagging slowly.
“As long as you’ve got food in your bellies and we’ve got somewhere dry to sleep. You just want me to be calm and happy, huh?”
With these dogs I felt finally free to be myself. However, I was grateful for Roger telling me about the hay barns. They sounded well worth a look.
The first hay barn I decided to risk sleeping in belonged to Padraig O’Rourke. I had a good feeling about Padraig. I’d seen him around the area for a while now. He was an older Garryowen bachelor farmer and was quiet, well-mannered, and, best of all, a bit deaf.
The Boy Who Talked to Dogs Page 5