My Nutty Neighbours

by Creina Mansfield

  I heard about the competition, too. Everybody who belonged to Dimbrook was agreed that they needed juvenile members. Time and time again they’d say there was only one talented young player: the famous Andy Donaldson. I didn’t react when they mentioned their ‘star’, just noted the details, like marking out the biggest, toughest player in the opposing team. The one to beat.

  ‘There’s only Andy playing off single figures,’ one old fella told me. I tried to look unimpressed, but a single figure handicap was some opposition. I practiced more.

  At rugby training the following day, even though I’d lived on junk food for two weeks and was dead tired, I discovered that my body wanted the workout. I’d jogged around the pitch before the stragglers in the B team had tied their shoelaces. I was twice round and lapping some of them again. Then when we got down to practice moves, I tackled more rapidly and more vigorously than any of them. When I’d first been relegated, they’d singled me out for booting and winding. Only Abbas acted as if I was on the same side, but now they backed off. The thing is, if they think you’re unbeatable, you are unbeatable. It’s true what Sullivan says: all sports are games of the mind. I pulverised them.

  Then home, and to golf. I was planning to have a bath before I set out for the range. The bath water was running and I was just peeling my trousers away from my knees – mud and blood had glued them together – when I heard a splash. I rushed into the bathroom, or tried to: with my trousers around my knees, I didn’t get as far as the doorway before I fell over. I struggled up and ran. One of the kittens was thrashing about in the water, its mouth gaping as it struggled to keep afloat. I hauled it out, grabbed a garment off the towel rail and wrapped it around the tiny drenched body. As I held it, I felt the pounding of its heart. It must have been terrified. Cats hate water. M bounded up the stairs, as if he knew one of his pack was in trouble. He leapt up onto the bed where I was using the jacket as a towel and took over the drying. As the fur dried and the markings became clearer, I recognised Tiger. I’d saved Tiger from drowning. That seemed like a good omen for my golfing future.

  Welcome Home

  ‘Look at that view. Dad, look at that–’

  ‘I’m driving, Davy.’

  ‘Mum, look at that view. You won’t get a view like that in Dublin.’

  ‘It is Dublin, you cretin!’ said Ian, safely out of my reach with Mum in the back seat. It was Saturday morning and they were going to visit Helen. I was ready to play rugby. I was still on the B team and there had been no news from Dimbrook or Frank Lynch, but I was coming round to seeing the advantages of living in the wilderness.

  I wound down the window. ‘Smell that fresh air! That’s the mountains …’

  ‘Whata you doin’? Planning a career with the tourist board?’ asked Ian. ‘And close that winder. It’s freezing back ’ere.’

  When we got closer to Dublin, I pointed out the litter, the traffic and how people on the streets were too busy to give the culchie nod. Silence.

  I had a new plan of action. My problem list had changed: now I wanted to make sure that we stayed living at The Haven. Helen’s complaints about having to drive once again between Dublin and Kildare were threatening to uproot us all, and just when I had begun to see country life in a new light. There were benefits, advantages, certain attractions that I just wouldn’t have in Dublin: the golf club nearby, the fresh air, the space for M and the kittens to play, my attic room and Andrea. The list wasn’t necessarily in that order! Of course, the moment I decided I was actually happy was the moment my parents decided maybe another move would be a good idea. I just couldn’t win: when I complained, they told me to get used to it; when I got used to it, they started to complain. I wasn’t going to give up without a fight, though. No way. At every opportunity I reminded them of all the reasons they moved to the sticks in the first place. And I would continue to do so until they saw sense.

  Rugby was at the opposing side’s school. Dad dropped me off and I went into the changing rooms, charging myself up for the game ahead. The school was nearly as strong at rugby as St Joe’s, but when their B team lined up, I almost laughed aloud. ‘Okay, we can take them,’ I assured our captain. They looked like a bunch of invalids, knock-kneed, pale-faced, not fit enough for ten-pin bowling, let alone rugby. I could have selected a stronger team from the patients on Helen’s ward at the hospital.

  The game started. We took the ball and – give a few minutes here and there – we kept it. We ran, weaving in and out like we’d been trained to do, while they stood like statues, as if waiting for some signal to start that never came. Whether they were tired, mesmerised, or just out-classed, I don’t know. I was too busy scoring tries to work it out. We hit touch so often, we lost track of the score. Finally it ended, with the score a very satisfying 52 to 3. That was one of the biggest wins we’d ever had and it was made all the sweeter when we heard that our A team had lost to them 9 to 14. Cahill hadn’t scored a single try.

  After showering and changing, I set off for the hospital, where I was going to get a lift home with Mum and Dad. When I got there, they were celebrating the fact that Helen had been told she was ready to go home. She looked a lot better. The cuts on her face were healing up and she’d had a hairdresser friend visit her to give her a short, trendy haircut, so she no longer looked like a freak. She was sounding more like her old self, too.

  ‘I think Helen’s developed a phobia about driving. She says she dreads the thought of getting behind the wheel again,’ Mum said.

  ‘It’s the rest of us who should have a phobia about that,’ I muttered. Everyone but me seemed to have forgotten that we knew before the accident that Helen was a bad driver.

  ‘It’s that road, it’s so winding. It’s not safe,’ Helen complained.

  ‘Yeah, but you knew it had bends in it when you were driving on it. They didn’t just appear, did they?’

  ‘That’s enough, David,’ said Mum.

  ‘Okay, bendy roads.’ I slapped my wrist. ‘Naughty bendy roads …’

  Helen was going to be discharged the next day. She wanted Sullivan to collect her, so as we drove home Mum talked about having a little home-coming celebration.

  ‘At least we’ve got to know our neighbours because of all this,’ Dad said. ‘Now we have some people to invite,’ which was true.

  ‘It’s really important to have good neighbours, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘In Dublin everyone is so busy, too busy to care, but we’re lucky having neighbours who take the time and are considerate. Don’t you think?’ Mum and Dad exchanged a look and said nothing. I may have to modify the plan of action!

  The next day a prolonged, plaintive, high-pitched cry of pain woke me. It was blood-chilling. It was Ian playing the violin. Mozart and Tiger leapt from the bed and started scratching furiously. I think Ian can reach notes only animals can hear because they go frantic when he’s playing. The wailing went on.

  ‘Shut up!’ I shouted. ‘Shut up!’ But the damage had been done. I was awake, on my only day of rest. My muscles were aching, but I remembered it was because I had shouldered my way to the touchline again and again in the game the day before, so I didn’t care. What a scoreline: 52 to 3! When the headmaster announced the teams’ results on Monday, that would sound a hell of a lot better than the A team’s lousy 9 to 14. I slid down the banisters to breakfast; there were smells of cooking coming from the kitchen.

  Mum was mixing chocolate cake mixture and talking on the phone, her head on one side. Obviously, she was informing the whole universe about Helen. She was saying, ‘Yes, she’s had a terrible time of it lately.’ She’d been saying this to everyone. I wondered whether, when I ran my first car into a ditch, it would count as having a terrible time.

  A whole bunch of people were being invited to welcome Helen home. It was going to be the first time The Haven had been full. Ian was composing a special piece of music to mark the occasion. I reckoned I’d stay for ten minutes, then make my getaway. I had M to walk and golf to practice. Hell, if th
ey all stayed too long, I might even go and do some homework!

  By midday, Dad was arranging drinks and glasses on the sideboard in the dining room and Mum was wearing her party gear: don’t ask! Bang on time, the neighbourhood arrived. I guess they’ve never heard of being politely late. The farmers were in their idea of ‘best’ clothes – thick tweeds and polished brogues, their wind-battered complexions making them look flushed and strangely excited. There were fellas in suits who travelled into Dublin during the week together with their wives who had disturbingly loud, braying voices. Baseball Cap turned up and stood by the makeshift bar, eating peanuts. Then, sailing up in their convertibles and garishly coloured vehicles, the Beautiful People arrived. With their fake tans, fiercely styled hair and long, pointy nails, they began air-kissing and shrieking Darling! at one other. It was The Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The neighbours looked on, appalled. I beat a retreat after a fella with a ponytail threw his hands in the air and cried out, ‘So this is little Davy!’ Who did he expect to meet in the Stirling home – Lawrence of Arabia?

  The kitchen was full of food, the chocolate cake decorated with Welcome Home Helen and Mum was about to pick it up and carry it through to take pride of place on the dining-room table, when I heard Ian hissing at me from the doorway. He gets dead furtive when there are guests in the house.

  ‘Davy. Get out ’ere. I want a word wiv you!’

  ‘Me?’ I was standing by the kitchen sink, licking out the remains of the chocolate cake mixture.

  ‘Wot’s the idea?’

  ‘What idea do you mean – the idea of gravity? Evolution? Baked bean pizza?’

  ‘Wot do yer fink you’re playing at?’ He came into the kitchen, holding up a jacket. ‘What did you do to this?’

  I shrugged. ‘Nothing. You don’t think, sorry, you don’t fink I’d wear anything of yours, do you? I’ve got more taste.’ Then I recognised the crumpled jacket he was holding up like it was exhibit A. It was what I’d grabbed when I’d fished the kitten out of the bath. ‘Hang on, Ian. It was an emergency. I–’

  ‘Oh right, now comes the great excuse to explain why you’re not to blame, why you’re not in the wrong. Because you couldn’t be, could you? No, you’re baby David. Never put a foot wrong. Butter wouldn’t melt … That was my jacket and you had no right.’

  That was it! I grabbed the jacket and threw it to the floor, then went for him. I held him in a headlock as he waved his arms about and squealed like a piglet. We knocked against the furniture. The back door opened and Sullivan stood there, with a figure in shadow behind him. The smile disappeared from his face as Helen’s Welcome Home cake crashed to the floor.

  Oops!

  Mum didn’t help by leaning backwards against the kitchen units, her hands gripping the top and a convincing look of horror on her face – as if we’d been about to set upon her. When the cake crashed down, she rushed towards it, but Ian and I froze for a second, me staring at Sullivan and Ian craning his neck to give Sullivan a ghastly smile. Finally, I let go of Ian’s neck.

  ‘Hello.’ Sullivan’s eyes were cold as he looked at Ian and me. ‘I came in to make sure there was somewhere Helen could rest,’ he went on, giving me a murderous look, as if he thought I’d been planning to beat her up, too. I remembered the question he’d asked me in History class, the one that resulted in my ‘Why I must concentrate’ essay: can you give examples of violence being counterproductive? I was sure my headlocking Ian wasn’t going to do me any favours.

  We had an audience by this time. Hearing the noise, some of the guests had trundled through. Some were staring at Sullivan, some at the debris of cake. Then the figure behind him came into view. It was Andrea. She bent down to help Mum, who was scooping lumps of chocolate cake onto a plate.

  ‘Let me help you with that, Mrs Stirling.’

  Sullivan started to help too, and some of the guests joined in.

  Ian and I both got the hint and bent down to help as well, which meant there was a crowd of us scrambling to pick up a few crumbs, crumbs which M, Mozart and Tiger were hoovering up the straightforward way – by eating them.

  Finally, Sullivan stood up. ‘Helen’s waiting in the car.’ Some of the Beautiful People whooped with delight, but to me the words sounded like an accusation. They followed Sullivan back out to the car. Ian, scowling, muttered, ‘I’m gonna play her in.’ I was left with Mum and Andrea.

  Shock news about Tiger

  I was looking anywhere but at Andrea. Mum had her I have survived an ordeal face on, but she began to chat away. I knew what she was doing – letting me know that, although she carried the heavy burden of sons who were out of control, she, at least, knew how to behave. She laid on the charm with a trowel, sounding even more English than usual.

  ‘How nice of you to come to our little party. You’re a friend of David’s, aren’t you? We’ve been so worried that he’s lonely since we moved here.’

  ‘Helen’s waiting in the car,’ I reminded her. I didn’t know what I was going to say to Andrea, but I sure didn’t want Mum painting a picture of me as some pathetic baby.

  ‘Oh! Do excuse me.’ She gave me a howcan you do this to me? expression before leaving. I knew I’d get her brawling like a couple of hooligans lecture when she got me on my own.

  There was silence, broken only by M greeting Andrea and the kittens jumping on the table to get a closer look at her. From outside came the sound of Ian’s frenetic fiddling.

  ‘Want to come through?’ I asked. It was meant to sound hospitable, but came out sulky. Andrea nodded, following me through to the sitting room. At the same time, Sullivan came through the French windows with Helen in his arms, the Beautiful People all around, like some sort of bizarre procession. One ankle was in plaster with her foot and painted toenails sticking out. For once, she wasn’t wearing high heels. Sullivan had to twist to manoeuvre around the furniture and I could tell he was doing it with extra force because he was annoyed. I got out of the way, but tried to look as if I was ready to assist, hoping helpful brotherly manner would counterbalance the prone to violent outbursts impression.

  Helen had her arms around Sullivan’s neck and when he put her down on the sofa, she kept them there for a while. Beautiful People tapped their hearts as if to say how romantic, but this is not how you want to see your rugby coach! I realised that during Helen’s convalescence he would be around a lot. It would be like being under constant surveillance, my own CCTV following me around.

  Ian put his violin on the piano and announced, ‘This is in honour of your return. I’ve composed it specially.’ The Cockney had gone down the Swanney again.

  Crash went his hands on the keys, followed by frenzy, his fingers tumbling over each other. It was like a nervous breakdown translated into sounds. It went on for ages, long enough for me to decide that the next time I was in hospital, my special request would be that he celebrated my return with a deep, abiding hush. But the others seemed to like it, Mum and Dad smiling proudly and Andrea looking as if she was really listening. When he’d finished, there was applause. The guests seemed to be getting into the party spirit, some of the locals even managing to speak to the Beautiful People.

  Then Dad made a speech – as if our eardrums hadn’t suffered enough. It was along the lines of, Thank you all for coming. Appreciate sympathy and support at this difficult time. Much loved daughter. Not her fault she’s a lousy driver – no, just kidding about the last bit. Not that I was listening. Andrea was standing by my side and I was hoping against hope that the Stirlings wouldn’t show me up any further.

  Dad got his round of applause, then said cheerfully, ‘Bring in the cake!’

  Mum said hurriedly, ‘Food is set out in the dining room, everyone.’ Then, with a look to me that meant You owe me, big time, she added, ‘David, perhaps you could show our guests the way.’ There was no perhaps about it. I led them through, gave them plates and cutlery and generally did a good impression of a waiter. I was hoping that Andrea wouldn’t leave, but every cha
nce I got to check, she was chatting to Helen. Baseball Cap was still lurking in a corner, shovelling food in as if he hadn’t eaten for a month.

  Finally, I was free to get back to Andrea. She was laughing at something Helen had said. She looked up when she saw me and said, ‘I’ve got some news for you. Your application to join Dimbrook – it’s been accepted.’

  ‘Yes!’ I’d have punched the air if she hadn’t seen me punching my brother earlier. It was the news I’d been waiting for. Now there was a point to all the practicing I was doing. Soon, I’d get out on a real golf course. ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, well done,’ said Sullivan, sourly.

  ‘Excellent news,’ enthused Dad.

  I was hoping that gave me an excuse to leave the party, so I said to Andrea, ‘Do you want to come to the range?’

  ‘Can’t, thanks, but I’ll see you at the club sometime.’

  ‘Show your friend out,’ ordered Mum. That’s the trouble with having guests, it induces chronic instruction-giving in parents. It’s all part of their attempt to prove to the outside world that they’re bringing you up properly. By now I was ready for a bit of parental neglect.

  I led Andrea out through the kitchen. The kittens were on the work surface, enjoying the remains of a raspberry pavlova.

  Andrea picked one up. ‘Aren’t they cute? What’s his name?’

  ‘That’s Mozart.’ I picked up the other one, feeling that the conversation had taken a turn for the better. ‘And this is Tiger.’

  ‘Hello, Tiger,’ she said as she picked up the kitten and pressed him against her cheek.

  ‘I named him after Tiger Woods,’ I explained. Free of parental scrutiny, I just couldn’t stop. ‘Four times Open champion. He wasn’t winning until he reworked his swing. It’s flatter and wider.’ She did play golf after all, so she should be able to follow. ‘The intention was to produce a longer, more consistent path through the hitting zone. It didn’t work at first. His start to the season was shaky, to say the least. Then, at Augusta, it all came together. The low point was a putt for eagle that rolled off the thirteenth green …’ I stopped. She looked a bit perplexed. I thought she was going to ask a question.