My Nutty Neighbours

by Creina Mansfield

  I headed over for class. Surely the two most miserable words in the English language are ‘school’ and ‘Monday’, when you put them together it just gives you a shiver down your spine. But at least I had rugby practice to look forward to at the end of the day – that was pretty much all that was keeping me going at the moment.

  After rugby, I was walking to the bus stop when a car pulled up beside me. It was Sullivan.

  ‘Want a lift?’

  I looked around. If anyone from my year saw me getting a lift from him, I’d be risking seeing the inside of a dustbin, face first. A bunch of sixth years stared, but this was like The Godfather: Sullivan’s offer was one I couldn’t refuse.

  ‘Err, okay.’ The plus side was that I’d be home at least an hour earlier than if I’d taken the bus.

  We drove along. He didn’t talk and I wasn’t going to.

  We’d got out of Dublin and were driving fast down a country lane, but Sullivan had just his right hand on the wheel. He sort of turned to me with what he probably thought was a friendly smile, but which looked uncannily like Hannibal Lecter after a good meal.

  ‘How’s the golf going? Helen said you played on Sunday.’

  It got me the way he said Helen, as if using her first name stuck in his throat because he was talking to me. I was calling her Helen way before he came on the scene.

  ‘I lost.’

  ‘Well, you can hardly expect to win at this stage. Golf is like chess, you have to lose the first fifty games.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll remember not to take up chess.’

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to play until I was at university. You’re a lucky fella, Davy.’ Hearing him call me Davy was like hearing Mum use a swear word. We drove along with just the noise of the windscreen wipers.

  ‘Who were you playing?’ he asked finally.

  If I said a girl, a ‘young lady’ he’d met, he would laugh.

  ‘Andy Donaldson, the juvenile champion.’

  ‘Oh, okay then, no disgrace there.’

  I reckoned he was actually trying to be friendly. I kept waiting for him to ask me whether I’d been anywhere near Hannigan’s Bar last week, but he turned the subject to football and then we were home, me with an extra hour to my day.

  I had a snack, took M for a walk and then took my clubs out into the garden to drive some balls. I was replaying every shot of the Sunday game. If I hadn’t mishit the first ball, I reckoned I would have played a better round. That had thrown me, though I had made a partial recovery after the fifth hole. There were some cracking shots in amongst the 103. The advantage I had was strength. Andrea’s shots were deadly accurate, but she couldn’t hope to drive the ball two hundred yards. I could. If I could combine accuracy with power, I was made. I took my pitching wedge and started bombarding the garden shed with balls. Each one made a sharp cracking noise. Then I stood with my back to The Haven, driving the balls out, across the rough grass.

  I had a hundred practice balls and I’d used nearly all of them when Mum called me in for tea. Sullivan’s car was still in the driveway, but hunger was calling me in. The light was fading as I swung one last time. Crack! The depth of the noise told me I’d hit a powerful shot, but I’d hit it to the side, what they call a shank. The ball flew over the hedge into the lane beyond. I heard a weird sound, then silence.

  I hesitated. Were my eyes playing tricks in the twilight? I thought I had seen a shape bobbing along above the line of the hedge and now it was no longer there. No, I must be seeing things. I gathered up my clubs and made for the back door, but turned back again. I dropped the clubs and ran towards a gap in the hedge. I peered through. Lying on the ground, his old bicycle beside him, was Baseball Cap. My blood went cold. I squeezed through the hedge, went up and shook him.

  ‘Hey! Are you alright?’

  No answer. He was lying in the middle of the lane. If a car came around the bend, he would be flattened in seconds. So, even though I’d heard you shouldn’t move injured people in case they’ve got spinal injuries or something, I grabbed him under his arms and hauled him to the side of the road. I was hoping maybe he’d fallen off his bike because of a back problem, or poor eyesight, or a pothole, but there was a glowing red mark on the side of his head – right about the size of a golf ball. His baseball cap hadn’t saved him. He slumped against the grass verge, still silent. My heart was beating madly. What if I had seriously injured him? Thoughts of Helen’s brain surgery and how awful we all felt about it ran through my mind. This old fella didn’t deserve that when all he was doing was cycling home.

  I ran for the house. Mum, Helen and Sullivan were at the kitchen table. I was breathless. ‘Mum, you know that old fella who calls you Missus? I think I’ve killed him!’

  Mum let out a little yelp.

  Sullivan leapt up. ‘Show me!’

  We raced towards the lane. At first all I could see was the bike. Baseball Cap had rolled into the ditch and was groaning. Was I glad to hear that groan! Then I saw it: the golf ball was lying in the ditch near him. I knew he’d seen it, and I knew Sullivan had seen it.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ asked Sullivan, pulling at the side of Baseball Cap’s eyes. I’d seen him carry out the same procedure on rugby players. Thank God he was better at first aid than at dog handling.

  Baseball Cap muttered something as Mum arrived on the scene. ‘He’s alive, thank goodness. Davy, don’t frighten me like that.’

  Me frighten her?

  ‘We’d better take him to hospital, just to be sure,’ said Sullivan. ‘You stay with him while I get the car.’ By the time he’d brought the car into the lane, Baseball Cap was able to climb in. The nearest hospital with an A&E department wasn’t far away, so we sped off.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Baseball Cap. ‘I was cycling along …’

  Sullivan gave me a look, but neither of us answered. At the hospital I learnt Baseball Cap’s full name. He was Declan Murphy, sixty-three years old, born in Ballykrieg and lived his whole life there – that is, the whole of his life he’d lived so far. I was still hoping I hadn’t ended it prematurely. They sure want to know a lot of information before they treat you in hospital. Even I could diagnose his complaint: a large red bump on the side of his head that swelled by the second as I looked at it. But when he finally came out from behind the curtain, Baseball Cap was pleased.

  ‘Just slight concussion. They told me to go home and take two Paracetemol.’

  Two Paracetemol? I needed more than that after what I’d just been through. Concussing people brings on a headache, I can tell you. But was I relieved! As long as Baseball Cap wasn’t going to sue me, I was in the clear. Though he’d been friendly enough since Helen’s accident – what with his Missus and gifts of Guinness ads – there was a nasty side to him that I’d seen when I’d first found Nutters Lane. In the back of the car he was quiet, as if brooding on something. If he got at me about hitting him, I hoped Sullivan would be on my side.

  After a silence of ten minutes, Baseball Cap spoke. He leaned forward until he was just inches from Sullivan’s face.

  ‘Here, youse like Brendan Sullivan.’

  ‘I am Brendan Sullivan.’

  ‘They said youse was courting the Stirling lass. We were debating in The Feathers – how long did youse play for Ireland?’

  ‘Two seasons.’

  ‘I was at Lansdowne when you scored the winning try against England!’

  ‘You’ve got a good memory,’ I chipped in, but Baseball Cap was off, giving a confused and inaccurate account of Sullivan’s short, but illustrious international rugby career. We were back in Ballykreig, nearly home free at Nutters Lane before he returned to wondering just how he’d been knocked from his bike.

  ‘I was pedalling along. Not a car in sight. There was a noise, like a whistle … can you shed any light on it, boyo?’ No, I most certainly could not!

  We’d pulled up outside his cottage, just along from Frank Lynch’s. Baseball Cap got out and Sullivan strode up to the front door.<
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  ‘No earthly good you going there. That door hasn’t been opened in years,’ said Baseball Cap. He led us along the corridor formed by the bungalow wall on one side and the line of sheds on the other. He pushed open the back door and waved us in. We would’ve gone in – if there’d been room for us. The kitchen was full of junk, crates, boxes, more wooden Guinness is Good for You ads. The mantelpiece was crowded with photos of the same smiling woman – Baseball Cap’s dead wife, I guessed. We stood in the doorway.

  ‘My bike …’

  ‘We’ll get that back to you,’ I promised, ever helpful. You can’t say I don’t give good service when I knock someone out. But it was Sullivan that Baseball Cap was focusing on.

  ‘They’ll not believe it when I tell them in The Feathers, that you’ve been in my home,’ he said.

  ‘Would you like an autograph?’ Sullivan offered.

  ‘You’re the man.’ Baseball Cap was clearly delighted and, after he had unearthed a pen lying under piles of papers, he handed it to Sullivan. ‘On here,’ he said. He thrust forward one of the Guinness ads.

  ‘What shall I write?’

  ‘To Declan. Best wishes … very best wishes …’

  He could have with love and kisses if it were up to me, so long as he forgot what I’d done. We headed for the door, Sullivan striding ahead. I was just walking towards the door when Baseball Cap called me back.

  ‘Here, boy, you forgot something.’

  ‘Pardon me? I didn’t bring anything in with me.’

  ‘No, you left it behind in the lane.’ From his pocket he took the golf ball. I couldn’t say a word. I looked at it, then at him: how many kinds of trouble was I in? But Baseball Cap started to laugh. Had he lost it completely now? Was I about to be murdered where I stood?

  ‘You look a bit shook, boy, are ye alright there? Here, I took up the ball so your mother wouldn’t see it.’ He handed it to me and I stared at it in my hand, still unable to speak. ‘I know you think I’m long past it, but I was young meself and I got into a few scrapes in my time. It was just an accident, and we’ll leave it at that. Anyway, I got an autograph out of it for the lads in The Feathers, so you did me a favour really.’ He laughed again, and I backed away slowly.

  ‘Thanks, I … it was really good of you not to tell.’

  ‘Go on out of that and get yerselves home.’

  I turned for the door again, to find Sullivan standing there smirking at me. ‘Well, I’ve never seen you lost for words, Stirling. It was worth it for that alone.’

  ‘Alright, alright, let’s just go.’

  We left Declan Murphy gazing at Sullivan’s autograph. We went down the corridor of wood and corrugated iron. I looked through an open door to one of the sheds. Inside was a carpenter’s workbench. Piled high in every corner were more old wooden ads. ‘What are all these?’ I asked.

  Sullivan took one look. ‘Imitation antiques,’ he said.

  ‘What! You mean he’s a forger?’

  ‘My God, Stirling, you really don’t like to think well of people, do you? No, he’s not a forger. Not quite. He’s not breaking the law, just making loads of brand new bits and pieces look old.’

  ‘Sort of the reverse of what Helen does for a living,’ I said.

  Sullivan laughed. ‘They put all those “old” advertisements in pubs to make them look authentic. I was in one quite recently like that, with my mother. A place in Dublin called Hannigans.’

  We were halfway down the front path when he said this and I stopped as abruptly as Baseball Cap when I’d hit him with the golf ball. ‘Your mother?’ I said. ‘Your mother?’I thought of Canary Woman. Her hug. Their kiss. Just the sort of hugging and kissing I was always stressing to my Mum not to dish out in public.

  Sullivan was looking at me as if I was concussed. ‘Yes, David, my mother. What’s the matter? Didn’t you think teachers had mothers?’

  ‘No … it’s just that … your mother?’ This was turning into a day of one shock after another: I needed to sit down.

  ‘How many more times? Yes, when I was with my mother.’ Obviously he hadn’t seen me the other night and was baffled by my sudden, inexplicable interest in his relatives. I started walking towards the car again.

  When we were back in the car, his tone changed. ‘You got away with it this time,’ he said, ‘but be more careful in future when you hit a golf ball. You could have really injured that man.’ I knew I should have walked home; I had almost escaped without a lecture. Mum would be at home, freaking out. She probably had me tried and convicted of Grievous Bodily Harm by now, in fact she was probably baking me a cake with a file in it to spring me out of jail. And he hadn’t finished yet.

  ‘I know you think I’ve been a bit hard on you lately. It hasn’t been easy for you at school, has it, having your rugby coach dating your sister?’

  ‘Too right.’

  ‘If I’ve seemed hard on you sometimes, it’s been because I’ve had to ensure that there’s no question of favouritism.’

  ‘Mission accomplished.’

  ‘Precisely.’ He went on, ‘And try to think before you act. Luckily, Declan doesn’t seem to be too bothered how he was concussed. It was fortunate he was a fan of mine.’

  ‘Yeah, what were the chances of that?’

  Sullivan allowed himself another little laugh. ‘You are one cheeky …’

  And I laughed too.

  Yummy!

  ‘I’ve got some news.’

  ‘I’ve got some news.’

  ‘Mine’s important.’

  ‘Mine’s important.’

  Helen and I were in the kitchen, eyeballing each other, like we were about to fight a duel or something. A dead mouse lay by her feet, which Tiger had brought in and dropped by her as a ‘gift’. She was sitting at the table, her crutches parked beside her. That’s Helen, not the kitten. She was turning into a killing machine. That’s Tiger, not my sister. Fortunately, Helen hadn’t looked down so far. She’d been odd enough recently; she was bound to freak out at the sight of the harmless dead body beside her.

  If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought Sullivan had been cheating on her and that, for the first time in her life, my sister was going to be the Dumpee, not the Dumper. But I’d done some checking and knew for sure that Canary Woman was his mother, like he said. I’d searched the Internet and found some pictures of him when he was on the Irish side, and there was Canary Woman in one of them, gazing at him as I’d seen her look outside the pub – adoringly. She was fit too, for a woman her age. Of course, that was another advantage of playing rugby: there were always some yummy-mummies about! I was relieved for Helen, and for myself. You have to tell her. Fortunately, I didn’t. No scene where Helen went crazy and I had to give an account of what I’d seen as if I were a witness in a court of law. One less problem for me to deal with. And some good news to deliver, too – if I was ever allowed to spit it out.

  ‘Great news. I’m playing in the A team for the Schools Challenge Cup semi-final.’

  ‘Great, we’re all thrilled for you,’ said Helen dismissively. ‘Now, I’ve got some real news. Life-changing, earth-shattering news.’

  I’d have left there and then if I hadn’t been hungry. I stayed, though I had a sinking feeling I knew what the news was – Helen engaged, loads of her beautician friends coming round, oohing and aahing about some ring, grief at school again as Sullivan and I came closer to being related. My nightmare of being a pageboy in a kilt was looming large once more.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘let’s hear it.’

  ‘Right,’ said Helen. ‘It’s all arranged. I’m going to university.’

  Mum looked as surprised as I was.

  ‘With an IQ of 167 …’

  ‘Hang on, Sis, it was one hundred and fifty-something last time we heard.’

  ‘Whatever. It’s still amazingly high,’ said Helen, ‘and I’m wasting it. I’ve applied and been accepted. I’ll be at UCD by October.’

  Mum clapped her hands together
with delight. ‘Wonderful! What have I always said?’

  ‘So, you’re not getting engaged?’ I blurted out.

  Helen laughed. ‘What? At my age? With a genius IQ? I don’t think so.’

  From now on, she was going to be insufferable. I had said goodbye to the musical prodigy when McFeeble went back to London, now I had an at-home genius to contend with.

  ‘Well, that is news,’ I said. ‘Oh, and by the way whiz kid, there’s a dead rodent next to you.’ She emitted a scream that travelled over the green fields …

  I thought I’d see if I could find Andrea. She might be interested. At home, my news had been trumped by Helen’s. I knew that when Dad came in, he too would want to hear every detail of her plans and news of my forthcoming game would disappear down the plughole.

  I had waited for the team lists to go up that Wednesday with increasing anxiety. I told myself again and again that I’d earned my place on the A team, that with my Games report it was in the bag, but still a nagging voice inside me said it wouldn’t happen. One thing was for sure: never again would I take my place on the team for granted. It had been hell being demoted, but at least the accusations of favouritism had stopped; Frazier hadn’t uttered so much as a snide remark in weeks. Maybe, just maybe, it had been worth the pain. But I didn’t really think so until the lists were posted and I saw my name on the A team. I was back! The semi-final was on Saturday. There would be one practice session with the team before we were fighting for our survival in the only competition we still had a chance of winning.

  I took M for a walk. Funny, how I’d once thought Frank Lynch was a dognapper. People do things differently in the countryside, I suppose. They’re odder, but friendlier. I guess M had wandered into Nutters Lane and Frank, realising he was no stray, had taken him in. That wouldn’t happen in the city. Country neighbours, I had decided, were my kind of people!

  I tried the driving range first and, sure enough, there was Andrea, a bucket of balls beside her, practicing her chipping. I told her about the game on Saturday. She paid more attention than I’d got at home, but since I had never owned up to being dropped from the side, I couldn’t expect her to be pleased I was in the A team. She held M on the lead for a while, to let me have a go at chipping. She gave me a few tips about my grip and because I was still on a high, I let her.