I looked at Blackie, and he just growled deep in his throat. “Yep. Guess that’s a no.” Having no wish to get my face ripped off, I went back to Mossy, my first test subject.
“Let’s see what you think of being hugged, boy.” At first he enjoyed it—or seemed to. He leaned against me, looking up with a really soppy expression on his face.
“Well,” I said in surprise. “Maybe I’m wrong.” I kept hugging Mossy gently, but then he started getting restless within my arms. When I didn’t release him, his play got rougher. A few times his teeth grazed my neck and ears as he kept whipping his head around playfully. He bumped my nose hard. Worse, he licked me without warning right between the lips so his tongue slid right inside my mouth. Ugh! I gave up. Exhausted, I flopped back in the hay, blew out the candle, and pulled a thick layer of hay over me like a blanket. My mind was whirling.
What about all those cute TV ads? And all those Hollywood movies where people hugged their dogs? I’d grown up with those images. The dogs had looked so unbelievably happy—or were they? I tried to remember their expressions exactly. Were the dogs on the screen grinning with happiness? Or were they actually panting from stress or grimacing to show how uncomfortable they felt?
Another thought hit me. Had they actually been trained to sit still and accept being hugged by human actors? It was crazy but all my instincts were whispering I was right—that dogs think of hugs as fight holds. Playful or serious, it wasn’t a sign of affection to them like it was for us humans, yet we still kept hugging them. Poor dogs, I thought just before nodding off. What else are you trying to tell us?
CHAPTER 7
Outsiders
MY INTERACTIONS WITH THE DOGS HAD ME THINKING QUITE a bit about my past interactions with people. Why did humans seem to have such a hard time understanding and accepting each other? Why was my family always treated like outsiders just because my mammy was German? All these questions made me remember the day local hostility for us finally boiled over during an international soccer match.
Mammy was watching it with us kids on TV. We all cheered when her beloved West German team won. “That vas vonderful!” she laughed. “Such skilled, beautiful playing. Vell done, Germany! There will be such a party there tonight!”
Our father was away on transport maneuvers with the army, and our older brother and sisters were out somewhere else. For once we younger kids were ecstatic to have her to ourselves.
Suddenly from outside the house came loud chanting. “Nazis! Nazis! Nazis!” Boys were walking towards our house, shouting abuses. Everyone in Garryowen who’d been watching the important match was furious that their favorite team had lost. As Mammy was the only German in our neighborhood, the local kids must have decided to make her their target.
It didn’t help that the sports commentators had been openly derogatory about the West German team, whipping up public outrage. Andrew, John, and I knew how much Germans were still disliked even though World War II was in the distant past. Kids devoured comics and everyone knew who the good and bad guys were. Good guys were instantly recognizable. They had strong jaws and straight gazes and American or British accents. Bad guys had cruel eyes and German accents. We three were fiercely protective of Mammy and her German blood. How could we not admire her? She held our world together with her heart and soul, struggling every day with tasks that would fell ten men.
The yelling outside grew louder. “Nazis! Nazis! Nazis!” Fourteen boys had gathered across the road and sat on the low wall opposite our house. “Nazis go back home!” one boy yelled then howled. The others cheered.
“Please,” Mammy begged. “Ignore them. If we stay inside, they’ll get bored and go home.”
The voices got louder and more raucous. “Hey! Nazi bitch! Why don’t you go back to Germany and take your creepy Hitler kids with you!” One stone then another hit our house. Our sisters ran to Mammy and hid in her arms. More stones followed. The chants grew louder and fiercer. We glared helplessly through the window at them.
“Please don’t go out there! They’ll hurt you!” begged Mammy.
We looked at her.
“Don’t listen to them. I’m not a Nazi. You know how much I hate them. They destroyed our country, our culture. That’s vy I left Germany as a young woman—to escape the shame and horror.”
A big stone crashed against our front door.
“Come out and fight us, you freak clones!” yelled one kid, louder than the rest.
John, Andrew, and I looked at each other. As usual it seemed like the whole world was out to get us. We’d protect Mammy and our sisters. How dare those cowards stand out there in a crowd and yell abuses at our poor mother. Would we stay inside and hide? No way. “No one threatens Mammy,” said John quietly. We nodded, our secret motto running through our minds. If we fight, we fight to the end. No one gets left behind.
We were gone before Mammy could stop us. We ran to the coal shed where our hurling sticks were stored then raced back through the house, banged open the front door, and flew over the threshold, launching ourselves right into the rabble of fourteen yelling, jeering kids. Right in front were Malarky, Ger, and Nane, three of the worst bullies on the Garryowen estate.
Smash! I felt my hurling stick make contact with Malarky’s shins. He grunted with pain and doubled over. Crack! My hurley flew upwards, making fine contact with his head. Fuck! Someone landed me a good punch on the cheek, so I jabbed him in the eye with the end of my stick.
The battle grew in ferocity, reaching the point that everything was happening so fast, all we could do was stay on our feet and do as much damage to our enemies as possible. John and Andrew were making their hurleys sing. As usual when we fought together, we fought well. There’s nothing like having two courageous brothers fighting at your side, knowing they’re just as staunch as you are.
By the time the battle died down, everyone was exhausted, but it was clear we triplets had won. We were standing—our enemies were not.
Malarky, the bully leader, crawled to his feet. “Come on,” he ordered his two bully friends. “Let’s get out of here.” He spat on the ground in my direction and slunk off. Ger and Nane got up and followed, all three nursing bloody wounds as they limped away. “I’ll get you, Faul!” Malarky yelled over his shoulder at me. He was fuming because I’d made him look like a hopeless fighter. Me, the stupid, skinny kid at school and the runt of the triplets, I had flogged him in front of everyone.
“Cowards!” screamed Andrew after the three boys.
They yelled back threats but we just laughed, so they kept walking.
The rest of us—the remaining eleven boys and we three triplets—sank down on the footpath. We were panting hard, wiping bloody noses and cuts, and wincing as we examined our battle wounds.
A little mongrel belonging to Seamus O’Keefe wandered over and licked his bleeding nose. The boy was lying flat on his back on the pavement. “Piss off, Mickey,” he croaked in exhaustion.
A door slammed open down the street. Without warning, Mr. McGowan marched straight up the pavement towards us, his eyes shooting sparks in all directions. He was a neighbor who usually wouldn’t say boo to a goose. He glared at each of us. “Why are you kids trying to murder each other?” he snarled. “Fools! You should be fighting the English, not each other. We’re all Irish here—and don’t you bloody forget it!”
Dazed, we watched him stomp back down the pavement towards his front gate and disappear inside, the front door slamming behind him.
Michael from next door hung his head in shame. “Sorry, Faullies. Please apologize to your mam for us.”
The other boys nodded in agreement. “Sorry,” each said.
Michael shook his head ruefully then held out his hand. “Friends?”
John, Andrew, and I looked at each other. “Yeah,” said John taking Michael’s hand. “Friends.” He gazed around fiercely. “But you’d better tell everyone to leave Mammy alone. She’s not some Nazi and neither are we.”
We all shook hand
s warily, Celtic honor restored.
Only those three sly cowards had slunk off without apologizing.
Next morning we found a big blue swastika that Malarky, Ger, and Nane had painted on the front of our house in the middle of the night. It seemed we now had three more enemies to worry about.
We triplets weren’t the only outsiders in Garryowen, of course. Outsiders fascinated me because they had such different opinions from everyone else. Their unusual way of looking at the world always opened new doors in my mind.
The best known outsiders in Garryowen were the gypsies who lived at Rhebogue. My brothers and I loved wandering around their camp. The old gypsy ladies were just as fascinated by us. “You three are very special. Do you know that?” they said, cupping our faces and kissing us gently on the foreheads. “There you go, loves—a kiss for each of ye. You’re now under the protection of the gypsies.”
They were different in other ways. They smoked wooden pipes and sat in old car seats pulled up around the main camp fire. Some families still lived in traditional brightly painted wooden caravans; most had modern caravans pulled by station wagons.
What you noticed most about the gypsies was their gold. In their teeth, hanging from their wrists and necks, and worn on every finger. Most of this beautiful jewelry was also studded with precious stones—diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. It was like they’d gone on holiday to Aladdin’s cave and brought back enormous handfuls of treasure as tourist souvenirs.
Boy, I had fierce arguments with those ten thieving fingers of mine, but even I was too scared to steal from the gypsies. It was said if you stole gold from a gypsy then you were cursed for life. Ha! The last thing I needed was more bad luck, so my fingers left the gypsy gold alone.
I really liked and respected their head man, Charlie Clarke. He had ringlets which fell in grey clouds to his shoulders. His face was like a piece of worn leather. He was in charge of everyone in the gypsy camp and all the animals too. He was always tough on me about not annoying the camp animals with endless pats. “Leave that dog alone,” he’d say. “Can’t you see how much you’re annoying it? Look at its ears. It’s telling you how much of a pain in the arse you’re being.”
Charlie Clarke’s gypsy camp was such an enticing place to flirt with danger. For a long time my thieving fingers absolutely craved to borrow one of his gypsy horses. Late one night, I finally persuaded John and Andrew to sneak out and steal three of Charlie’s horses for a midnight ride.
“Come on, it’ll be great fun,” I said, sitting on the end of the bed.
My brothers stared at me in dismay. “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Andrew at last. “Charlie’ll skin us alive.”
John shook his head. “You’re crazy. Go back to bloody sleep.”
“Ha! Are you scared . . . or are you coming?” It was our own private taunt, and it always worked.
Reluctantly, my brothers joined me in pulling on shoes. Still in our pajamas, we shimmied down the pipe outside our bedroom and belted down the road towards the gypsy camp.
“Isn’t this great?” I whispered gleefully.
We snuck past the camp hoping the gypsy dogs wouldn’t start barking. A real Irish mist was rising from the grass, touching us all over with its soft, damp fingers.
My blood sang through my body as we entered the field where the horses were kept. We couldn’t see a thing, so we had to feel our way forward with our feet and our outstretched hands.
“Listen,” I murmured softly, “or we’ll never find them in the dark.”
“I can hear one over this way,” hissed back John. “That’s mine.”
“I’ll grab this one over here,” whispered Andrew, moving off.
I kept tramping forward into the pitch-black darkness, my hands stretching out in front of me, my ears straining. I knew there must be at least nine horses grazing somewhere in the field. I heard a sharp snort and before I could blink, hooves thundered straight for me in the pitch dark.
We must have spooked the horses. Now they’re stampeding right for us.
In a flash, I remembered how Charlie Clarke stopped the horses and sent his familiar words out into the darkness, “Bewisht. Halt. Woo-stand. Stand with ye, hosses. Stand and be gentle there.”
On either side of me, I heard my brothers taking up the same steady refrain. Together we held our ground, which was shaking beneath our feet.
This is it. We’re gonna die.
Then there was the deafening sound of the huge horses skidding and sliding towards us. My heart kicked back to life when they stopped. Jesus, that was close! I felt the delicate touch of their upper lips moving over my body as they tried to smell who I was.
It was then that I remembered Charlie Clarke’s words of wisdom. “It’s the ultimate truth test when ye blow into a hoss’s nose,” he’d told me countless times before. “Y’know why? ’Cause the smell of yer breath doesn’t lie.” He’d pointed his pipe at me. “A hoss can smell exactly what yer intentions are—whether yer kind or cruel. It can always smell the truth in yer heart.”
I blew gently into the horse’s nostrils, trying to feel as calm and kind as I could. “Whist, hoss. Stand with ye,” I said again. On either side of me, I could hear Andrew and John also settling the horses. “You ready?” I called out softly. If we were safe, the adventure was back on again.
“Ready,” was their reply.
I’d ridden plenty of gypsy horses but never at night and never without Charlie’s permission. I grabbed a handful of shaggy mane and hauled myself upwards. For a moment my nose was full of mist-damp shaggy mane. Then my leg swung over its back and I was up.
We didn’t need saddles, bridles, or reins. Not after all the times we’d ridden with the gypsy kids. They’d taught us how to balance ourselves bareback. I wrapped my fingers tight in the horse’s mane, dug my heels in its huge sides, and bit back a whoop as it lurched forward.
The huge horse went into a slow canter and then got steadily faster until we were galloping wildly across the field in the pitch dark. What did we care about falling and breaking our necks? Not a damn.
My heart sang. The horse snorted happily beneath me as its huge hooves ate up the ground. My brothers and I were like Celtic warriors two thousand years ago, heading out on a raid to steal our enemies’ cattle.
All I wanted was to throw back my head and howl. This was much more exciting than hurling!
Then out of the mist a man appeared. A torch shining upwards illuminated his face eerily. It was Charlie.
The horses skidded to a halt, just as terrified as we were. Everyone knew how forbidden it was to ride Charlie’s horses without his permission. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his face. I’d never seen him so expressionless. He didn’t even have his blackthorn stick with him; instead, he was carrying his dreaded whip.
“Get off that hoss,” he said softly. The quieter Charlie got, the scarier he became.
I slid straight off the horse’s back, desperate excuses already pouring from my mouth. “Hiya, Charlie. You won’t believe this but we just found these horses being chased up the road by a real mean dog and . . .” As soon as my toes touched the ground, the horse took off as fast as its legs could carry it. It was no fool.
Charlie was tapping that whip in the palm of his hand. “You’ll have to lie better than that,” he said calmly.
Now my brothers joined me, standing in front of him, lying our heads off about rescuing the horses from a savage dog.
“Right,” he said when we finished talking. “You know the deal.” His whip lashed swiftly and furiously over us until we were hopping in agony, yelping in pain. God, he knew how to make that whip sting. At last he stopped. “There you go. It’s done.” He brought out his pipe and smoked while letting us cry in peace until he said calmly, “Enough.”
We rubbed our eyes with the back of our sleeves.
He looked at each of us keenly. “You know those hosses have to work hard tomorrow. Can’t have ye three young fools racing them
around, exhausting them. Especially in the dark. Idiots! If they’d fallen and broken their legs, they’d have to be shot. Happens easy as that.” His fingers snapped sharp as if breaking a twig. “Problem with most people when it comes to animals is that nobody thinks of the consequences.” Charlie gave us a steady look to make sure we understood, then jerked his chin in the direction of the estate. “Go on with ye. Get home and we’ll not talk of this again.”
We crawled into bed painfully that night. I heard my brothers next to me sigh in exhaustion and settle down to sleep, but I kept picturing those magnificent gypsy horses tripping in the dark and breaking their legs. For hours I lay unable to sleep, Charlie’s words ringing in my ears.
“Nobody thinks of the consequences.”
Jack McNamara was a completely different character than the gypsies. He was an eccentric outsider living on the Garryowen estate who fixed lawn mowers for a living. He taught me to ask questions about everything. He was extremely proud to be Irish. His house was filled floor to ceiling in every room with thousands of books.
“What are all these stupid things for?” I asked, wrinkling my nose at their moldy smell.
He smiled grimly and made a grandiose gesture at the bookcases. “Inside these books is everything about how to bring down the British Empire.”
I looked at the books, unimpressed. “You’re crazy, Jack.”
“Aha! Scoff, boy, but believe me, the answer’s somewhere in there.” He patted a book like it was a loyal dog. “Yep. One day I’ll find out the answer in these history books and wham! That bloody bastard British Empire will come crashing down and release Ireland from its colonial grip!”
He was fascinating to listen to. He told me about the downfall of the Assyrian, Babylonian, Egyptian, Phoenician, Persian, Chinese, Indian, Mongol, Greek, Minoan, Mayan, Etruscan, Roman empires until blah-blah-blah, my ears were ringing.
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