The team greeted me with a rousing cheer. “Excellent, Martin! Have a seat. What a great game, eh? Want a drink?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said cheerfully, accepting the bottle. I took a swig and then passed it on to the teammate sitting next to me. Laughter and talk flowed around me and I loved it. Dogs be damned, it was time to enjoy myself.
We sat around celebrating for hours, passing around the bottle and then another, all the while swapping stories and having a great craic. I was in heaven. I was just about to tell another funny story when the boy beside me stood up.
“Ah well, that’s it for me, boys,” he said. “School tomorrow and it’s getting late.”
Everyone else started standing up too and gathering their things.
I sat bolt upright and looked around in shock. “Hey! Where’s everyone going? I thought we were having fun.” I felt all my old panic return. Why am I being left behind again?
“Sorry, Faullie. Bit tired. Was a great game. See you next week at training, eh?” the team captain said.
Watching the other boys walk away, the truth hit me like a cold slap in the face. The rest of the team had homes to return to and I didn’t. Suddenly the hay barn and the dogs didn’t seem enough. I quickly arranged a smile on my face and replied, “Yeah, no problem. See you at training next week. Bye.”
“I don’t want to go back to the barn,” I suddenly said aloud after they’d left. Trudging reluctantly to Tom Clancy’s barn, I gave myself a stern talking-to. “What the hell are you whining about, Martin? You love the dogs. They’re your family now. And the barn’s not so bad.” As I crawled through Tom’s hedge, heading across the field in the moonlight, a voice inside me said, Be honest. The dogs are beginning to bore you.
My stomach started churning again. On the one hand, I felt like I was betraying the dogs in the worst possible way. On the other, I couldn’t stop thinking of all the things I was missing out on because of them.
The cows were lying down in the field, their big sleek backs shiny in the moonlight. “It’s okay, girls,” I murmured as I passed. “Only me.” I’d come through these fields so many times, they knew me well.
Tonight had been a sharp reminder of how much fun humans could be. What I missed most in my life was having interesting, intelligent human conversation about everything from history to politics. I wanted to share funny stories and jokes with boys my own age. I wanted to meet girls.
By the time I reached the barn I was extremely restless and irritable, like I didn’t quite fit in my own skin any more. As I climbed the wall struts to the loft, my frustration rose with every step. I looked around as I lit the usual forbidden candle. “Shit, this place is a dump.”
The dogs came rushing out of the hay to greet me. I looked at them sullenly as they swarmed around me, jumping up, licking me, and nudging me for pats.
“Yeah, great,” I muttered. “Just what I’m in the mood for.” Once upon a time I would have thought the dogs were being wonderfully affectionate. Now I knew better. “Aaaagh! Why are you dogs so obsessed about your stupid game? Who cares about who’s in charge! Leave me alone for once!” I snapped. I barged past them and sulkily sat down in the hay with my back against the wall folding my arms. They wouldn’t stop pestering me, so I lifted my chin, turned my head away, and yawned. In other words, It’s okay. I’m still in charge. I’m calm now and nothing’s wrong. Go away and relax. No need to keep testing me.
All of them laid down, but each dog kept a wary eye on me.
I pulled a layer of thick hay over myself and shut my eyes tight. With a sigh, I opened them again. Poor dogs, I was the center of their universe. They hated it when I was angry or tense. I yawned loudly and blew out the candle. “Go to sleep now. I’ll be fine in the morning.” Their tails wagged in the hay. I had to face the truth. I was surrounded by dogs who loved me, but for the first time their love felt suffocating.
In my new mood of restlessness, I went to Brendan Mullins’s slaughterhouse to feed the dogs the next night. As I stood handing out the chunks of stinking meat outside the fence, I considered the evening’s options. Well, Martin, you can return to that bloody barn with the dogs and go crazy with boredom or you can go stay at a friend’s house. It was beginning to dawn on me that I had options; I could do whatever the hell I wanted! I threw the last chunk of meat to Blackie and said, “Sorry dogs, but I’m out of here. Going visiting for once.”
Curious, the dogs stayed glued to my heels as I headed down the railway line. I’d already made up my mind where I’d stay that night. I’d recently made friends with the Bourne family, especially with their son, Neil. He’d offered me a couch to sleep on many times, and I finally felt like taking him up on his offer.
I left the dogs on the railway line, sternly ordering them home. I couldn’t stop the stupid butterflies flittering about inside my stomach as I walked down into Garryowen.
The Bournes lived in a gracious Edwardian-style house with a fanlight window above the big front door, and a portico flanked by pillars. I’d had no idea it was so nice. “Must be bloody rich,” I murmured under my breath.
As I rang the doorbell, I remembered that Neil had told me their family once had money because their father had been a businessman in America. His widow had returned to Garryowen and lived there with her three sons. From our few meetings down the street, I knew the Bournes were true eccentrics. For starters, they were passionate socialists. They thought how I lived with the dogs in the barn was “marvelous.” And that my decision to live rough was “a powerful statement against all capitalist pigs.”
Personally, I thought they were a bit barmy.
The door swung open wide. “Hell-o, Martin. Please do come inside.” It was Mrs. Bourne wearing a silk kimono. She held a cigarette holder with an unusually fat hand-rolled cigarette jammed in it in her languid hand. There was a brimming glass of gin in her other hand. As usual, she was utterly charming. “This way, darling. Follow me. The boys are in the drawing room trying to light a fire. Not having much luck I’m afraid.” She led me through rooms graciously appointed with high ceilings, beautiful windows swathed in lavish curtains, silk-covered chairs and sofas, and watercolors and lovely oil paintings of landscapes dotting the walls.
I noticed a few odd touches like the poster of Che Guevara above the fireplace. There were others of John Lennon, Martin Luther King, Jr., Jimi Hendrix, and Led Zeppelin scattered about the house.
Everything else looked expensive but shabby. There were swathes of cobwebs hanging from the ceiling corners and chandeliers. On every flat surface were empty bottles of cider and gin glasses. I was used to dirt, of course, but not in a place of such affluence. Mammy would have had an instant heart-attack.
Neil and his brothers John and Rory were huddled around the fireplace. I shivered suddenly because the room was freezing, colder even than it was outside.
Geez. It’s warmer in my hay barn, I thought. So much for enjoying a night of luxury sleeping in a real house.
The boys looked up with welcoming smiles. “Hello, Martin!” said Neil. “Great to see you! Come and help. The fire’s being an utter bastard of a thing.”
They had upper-class accents and wore nice clothes, which were a bit shabby like the rest of the house. Neil handed me a bottle of cider.
Now we’re talking, I thought happily.
Neil grinned back. “It’ll help you stay warm. Maybe you can help? We can’t get this fire going at all.”
I looked at their pathetic attempt. All they had was one small measly lump of coal. The poor thing was spluttering away, failing to light properly.
“Sorry,” laughed Neil, “Charlotte didn’t pay the gas bill so they’ve cut us off.” He grinned up at his mother. “Bought your weekly stash of gin and smoke-lolly instead. Didn’t you, darling?”
Mrs. Bourne raised the fat cigarette and glass of gin and smiled wolfishly. “When life’s so short, live damned hard,” she drawled.
It took me a moment to realize Neil was actually c
alling his mother by her first name. Charlotte. Mammy would have clipped me over the ear if I dared address her like that. I looked at the boys, confused. “Er . . . what’s smoke-lolly?”
“Marijuana,” said Neil over his shoulder as he fiddled with the coal. “We buy it from the bikers in Garryowen.”
His brother tossed a paper bag over to me. “Here. Roll yourself one.”
I looked down at the bag bewildered. I had no idea what to do. Neil rolled me a joint, then his mother held out her slim gold Dunhill lighter. I thought it couldn’t be too bad if Mrs. Bourne was smoking it. I took a few sharp puffs then breathed in deeply.
Ugh! It was like smoking lawn clippings. I grabbed the cider and guzzled it down before I coughed to death. My head swam around muzzily. Did people really do this to relax? The floor tilted weirdly so I collapsed into the nearest chair. Che Guevara reeled above me, smiling down weirdly.
No one else noticed. They were too busy rolling joints as they stared at the lump of coal and made suggestions about how to get it lit. No one could agree.
“I’ve got the munchies,” said Mrs. Bourne decisively. She turned to Rory. “Be a pet, darling, and throw a potato in the pot for dinner.”
“Sorry,” Rory countered. “No can do. You forgot to pay the gas bill, so no gas.”
John blew smoke rings in a thoughtful way. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t we put the potato inside the kettle? Then put the kettle on the embers. Surely it’ll cook that way.”
Neil shook his head. “No can do. This damned lump of coal won’t light, so the kettle won’t boil.”
I giggled. This family sure loved the phrase, “No can do.”
“The problem is,” I said, speaking carefully because my lips felt so numb. “You have only one piece of coal. You’ll need more than that to make a decent fire.” The three boys and Mrs. Bourne turned to look at me with respect.
She raised her glass to me. “You are so profoundly right, Martin. I hereby declare you to be a true intellectual. Welcome!”
The three boys raised clenched fists in the direction of the poster of Che Guevara. “Well done. Take back the power!”
I had no idea what they were talking about but suddenly felt an intense craving for food. “Do you mind if I grab something to eat?”
Neil smiled happily and punched the air. “You do that, Martin. Take back the power!”
I stumbled into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was nothing to eat on any of the shelves. Literally nothing. Then I tried every cupboard and all the drawers. There was no food in the house except for three raw potatoes. This is crazy. Come to think of it, everyone under this roof is bloody crazy.
I lurched back to the drawing room. “Gotta go home,” I mumbled. “Feed my dogs.”
The Bourne boys smiled and punched clenched fists into the air, surrounded by clouds of pungent smoke. “Take back the power!”
“You do that, pet,” drawled Mrs. Bourne.
Neil looked at me with completely stoned eyes. “That’s the way, brother. Don’t give in to the machine!”
As I stumbled through the darkening streets of Garryowen, I thought of house I’d just left and the charming, well-mannered, but definitely eccentric Bourne family who lived in it. I wouldn’t have survived a single night there. It’d been like watching civilization crumbling very slowly into chaos. My mind started to clear a fraction as the cold night air swirled around me. “Wow, dogs, all is forgiven. I’m not sure I’m ready to live with humans just yet.”
A few days later I picked up my wages for delivering coal and felt like a treat. “How about we all get some fish and chips?” I asked the dogs. They wagged their tails in excitement. They knew what those words meant.
I was no longer worried about surviving in the real world after seeing the eccentric Bourne family in action. Surely, I couldn’t do any worse than they did. Ever since Brandon had found me a job, I knew I could get work and buy food with my wages. I could probably even live with people if I tried.
But what the hell was I going to do with the dogs? I looked at them as we walked swiftly. “Am I going to be manacled to the lot of you until you eventually die off one by one?” I grumbled. They just grinned back at me and waited patiently at the railway bridge while I headed into Garryowen.
I got a huge parcel of fish and chips from the shop and paused to scoff a few down in peace before I returned to the dogs and their greedy, pleading eyes. They could still play me like a violin.
“Mmmm, Mr. Ford, you’ve really outdone yourself today,” I said as I took a bite of one golden chip. I have to say that I felt pretty damned pleased with myself. Look at you, Martin. Eating delicious food, and all paid for with your own wages.
A local tramp trudged past, pushing an old wooden cart with bicycle wheels. It was Old Tommy. He wasn’t really all that old; he just looked it. He grinned at me and wriggled his bare fingers at me in a wave. They were yellow with tobacco stains and grubby with dirt.
“Evenin’, Martin. Enjoyin’ your dinner?” he asked cheerfully. “Just off to get mine.” He winked. “Out of the trash, back of the shop.”
I smiled politely but as soon as he turned the corner, I hurried off, clutching the newspaper parcel to my chest. Oh God. Was that going to be me? Was I going to end up Old Marty, the eccentric tramp with his weird pack of mongrels?
Tommy looked happy enough but there were other tramps around Garryowen who didn’t look happy at all. They were old bowed men who drank too much and never stopped muttering to themselves. The thought terrified me. It was time I got serious about my future.
My best friend Brandon was concerned too. “Come on, Martin. Don’t be silly. Weather’s starting to get cold again. It’s time to move back home,” he said one morning.
We were on our way to fetch the cart and Neddy.
I grunted. I usually told him not to bother nagging, but for once I listened. Seeing Old Tommy had shaken me badly.
“Come on,” Brandon urged. “You know it’s the right thing to do. Your dad’s off the drink now. Going to AA meetings.”
I grunted again. Word was going around that Mick Faul was still off the drink and back to being his original, charming self.
Brandon clapped me on the back. “I’ll shut up, Martin. But this is the truth. You’re killing your mother by staying away like this. You’ve got to go home. And Bobby wants to talk to you,” he told me.
Bobby Mack was a man I respected more than anyone else in Garryowen. He’d once been on a hunger strike in support of the Irish cause and been to prison for his beliefs. He was considered a hero in our area. Once he was released, his hunger strike had ended.
I hesitated. I knew that Mammy and he were friends. “Okay,” I said reluctantly. “I’ll go.”
When I went to see him, Bobby’s mother, Mrs. Mack, opened the front door and took me through to the living room. “Martin’s here, love,” she announced to Bobby.
Bobby was watching TV. He looked up at me blinking. He was going blind because of the time he’d spent in prison. His body had never really recovered.
Mrs. Mack showed me to an armchair. “Sit down, Martin, dear. I’ll bring you in some tea and sandwiches.”
I glanced down at myself. Hell. I was as grubby as a scare-crow, and her armchair was spotless, so I remained standing. I didn’t want to mess up her nice furniture. Bobby was looking at me with a gentle smile.
“How’s it going, Bobby?”
“Very well, Martin.” He certainly didn’t look it. He was badly hunched over and his shoulder blades stuck out. You wouldn’t believe he was once more than six feet tall. His once thick, brown hair was mousey and sparse. His big, elegant hands were like twisted dead things sitting on the arms of his chair. The only parts of him that still lit up with his old spark were his face and kind, brown eyes.
“That’s grand,” I said awkwardly. It was always a bit of a shock seeing Bobby.
“Turn the TV off and have a seat, Martin,” he said. “Mam doesn’t mind a bi
t of dirt.”
I sat down and could feel his lovely calm energy enveloping me, even though part of me wanted to fight it off. I hated the feeling of being tamely steamrollered by everyone into moving back home again. It was hard for me not to fight back at any pushy behavior when I’d been bullied my whole life. “Well,” I said jauntily. “I know why you’ve called me here. Should I stay and look after the dogs, or should I go home? Guess I should respect your opinion, Bobby.” To be honest, I was a little upset with him. I’d hoped he’d be more supportive of my stand for independence. I thought he’d understood my need to live rough with the dogs. After all, he’d gone to prison standing up for his own principles.
His brown eyes looked into mine, and with a jolt of surprise, I saw there was still a core of steely strength in him. He leaned forward. He might have seemed weak but he still had plenty of fight in him. “Martin, are you willing to listen to some well-meant advice?”
I jiggled impatiently. “Sure.”
“How you’re treating your mother is a disgrace. You should be ashamed of yourself because of how worried she’s been over you.”
I stared down at my feet in shock. I hadn’t expected this and was hurt and confused by the judgment in his voice. Suddenly all I wanted to do was get up and run straight out the door.
Before I could bolt, his mother bustled back into the room. She was holding a big silver tray and had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to make a nice morning tea for me. There was a plate of neatly cut triangle sandwiches and a large orange and poppy-seed cake. On the tray was a teapot of fine porcelain, along with linen napkins, two cups, and pretty little plates. “Come on now, Martin. Don’t let me down. I’ve made a little lunch for you. Please stay and eat.”
I wasn’t that much of a monster, so I pasted a smile on my face and stayed where I was as she bustled around us, pouring out the tea, arranging the food on a little plate for me.
The Boy Who Talked to Dogs Page 19