Dylan wasn’t in the mood for arguing with Gordon, so he kept his tone light.
‘No, tonight’s my butler’s night off. I never let the butler and the chauffeur off on the same night.’
Dylan was rewarded with a grin from Sammy, but Gordon wasn’t amused.
‘Think you’re smart, don’t you?’
‘Would you prefer if I was stupid?’
‘I’d prefer if you were normal,’ said Gordon. ‘Like the rest of us.’
‘I am normal.’
‘No you’re not. You’re a Jew.’
‘And Jews aren’t normal?’
‘My da says they’re bad news. And they had Jesus killed; it’s in the bible.’
Dylan lowered his kitbag and breathed out, tying to think on his toes. He could normally count on Sammy’s support, but Sammy could hardly be expected to come up with a defence of the Jewish race. He was going to have to get out of this one himself.
‘What has killing Jesus got to do with me?’ Dylan asked, keeping his tone reasonable.
‘The Jews had him killed, and you’re Jewish.’
‘And Britt Ekland is Swedish,’ said Dylan, naming the glamorous film star. ‘Do you blame her because the Vikings killed Brian Boru?’
‘Who’s Brian Boru?’
‘You’re kidding me?’ said Dylan, but he could see that Gordon really didn’t know who he was talking about. ‘Brian Boru was the High King of Ireland.’
‘We don’t care about Ireland up here. We’re British.’
Dylan felt himself losing patience. ‘Well, good for you. But it all happened ages ago. So I’m not to blame for Jesus, or Britt Ekland for the Vikings, or you for whatever your ancestors did! OK?’
Gordon didn’t have a ready answer, and before he could think up something, Dylan dropped the football and kicked it on the volley against the wall of the Nissen hut. The bigger boy wasn’t expecting the shot and he flinched slightly as the ball flew past him, then rebounded off the wall of the hut. Dylan took the ball on the rebound, skilfully tapped it twice on his foot, headed it up into the air, and then caught it in his hands. Sammy looked at him and winked in approval. Dylan resisted the temptation to smile, reckoning there was no point in making Gordon more of an enemy than necessary. Instead he gave Sammy a quick wink in return, hoisted up his kitbag and walked wordlessly past Gordon and into the changing room.
‘Why was the Egyptian girl worried?’
Da tilted his head enquiringly, his eyes slightly glazed as he looked across the kitchen at Ma and Sammy. ‘Well?’
Sammy tried to keep an amused look on his face. With his sisters gone to bed it was up to him and Ma to humour his father, as it often was when he drank too much.
‘I don’t know, Da,’ Sammy answered, in a tone that suggested he was eager to hear the punch line.
‘Why was the Egyptian girl worried?’ repeated Da more insistently.
‘Why was she worried, Bill?’ said Ma.
‘Because her daddy – was a mummy!’
Sammy and his mother laughed dutifully, and Da nodded, pleased with himself. ‘Because her daddy was a mummy!’ he repeated, as though the joke were somehow funnier for being said twice.
Sammy laughed again too, aware that his father’s mood could swing very quickly, and knowing also that today was dole payment day, and that Da had spent too long in the pub.
‘So, how was training?’ his father asked. ‘Buckie put you through your paces?’
Buckie was the nickname for Tom Buckley, the trainer in Sammy’s soccer club, and a colourful ex-paratrooper that Da admired.
‘Training was good,’ answered Sammy, glad of the change of subject. ‘Though Buckie nearly ran us into the ground.’
‘Proper order’, said Da. ‘Hard training makes all the difference.’
Sammy thought this was a bit rich coming from Da, who hadn’t kicked a ball in fifteen years. The back injury that stopped him from playing football had also cost Da his job in a foundry, so that now he sometimes got light casual work, but mostly he lived on unemployment payments.
‘Hard training will make a man of you,’ continued his father, in the voice he used when he felt he was dispensing words of wisdom.
‘I know, Da. I’m not complaining. I’m just saying we could hardly walk by the time we finished. It was OK, though, I got a lift home.’
‘Who gave you the lift?’ queried Da.
‘Dylan’s father.’
Da snorted. ‘Mr High-and-Mighty Goldman, swanning around in his fancy car. You don’t need lifts from him.’
‘He was only being obliging, Bill,’ said Ma.
‘Well I’d be obliged if he minded his own business. We’re not depending on him.’
‘I know, Da. But he was collecting Dylan, and Dylan is my friend, so he just–’
‘Oh aye, Dylan is your friend!’ interrupted Da. ‘Or maybe he just became your friend so we could be guinea pigs for his aul’’ fella!’
‘Bill,’ said Ma softly but firmly, ‘that’s uncalled for.’
‘Is it now?’
‘Mr Goldman is a gentleman, and he’s paid us well.’
‘He doesn’t bloody own us! Nobody buys off Bill Taylor!’
Sammy felt like shouting at his father, but he said nothing, knowing that this was a sore subject. Dylan’s father was a newspaper journalist who also made radio programmes for the BBC and some of the American radio networks. As part of a series he was making on the emerging civil rights movement in Northern Ireland he was paying a fee – he called it a retainer – to have access to families in different parts of the city, so he could find out what life was like for ordinary people in Belfast. Despite working long hours at the mill, Sammy’s mother wasn’t well paid, and when Mr Goldman had politely made his proposal, Ma had insisted that Da go along with it.
It was an awkward arrangement, although if Mr Goldman thought that Da was just barely civil whenever he called, he didn’t show it. And of course Ma tried to make up for Da’s attitude, and willingly gave the journalist insights into how the people of their loyalist area felt.
‘You know it’s not like that, Bill,’ said Ma now. ‘Dylan is a very nice boy.’
‘Oh yeah. “Hi there, Mr Taylor, how are you today?”’ said Da, viciously mimicking Dylan’s American accent. ‘Gobdaw!’
‘He’s my friend,’ said Sammy challengingly, stung by his father’s cruelty.
‘Don’t you dare pull me up, sonny boy! Don’t you dare!’
Sammy felt a bit intimidated but he wasn’t going to back down completely.
‘I’m just saying he’s my friend.’
‘And I’m saying I’m your da. I’m the boss here; I won’t be cheeked in my own home.’
Ma raised her hand appeasingly. ‘The child wasn’t cheeking you, Bill. You’ve always taught him loyalty. Well, he was doing what you taught him, defending a friend.’
His father said nothing, and Sammy watched him, hoping he wouldn’t get even more angry. Instead, Ma’s words seemed to have worked, and his mood swung again.
‘Sure, you’re not the worst, Sammy,’ he said, suddenly reaching out and tossing Sammy’s hair affectionately. ‘You’re not the worst.’
Sammy forced a smile, relieved that Da’s mood hadn’t darkened further, but saddened that his father behaved like this. He suspected that it was to do with not having a job, and even though it was wrong to make comparisons, he couldn’t help but wish that Da was more like Dylan’s father. As soon as he thought it he felt guilty, then Da reached into his pocket and took out a bar of chocolate. He broke off a piece and handed it to Sammy.
‘Here now, get that into you,’ he said. ‘Go on.’
‘Thanks, Da,’ answered Sammy, confused yet again by his unpredictable father, then he slipped the square into his mouth, turned away, and tried to concentrate on the sweet taste of the melting chocolate.
Maeve felt a thrill of excitement as she sized up the opposition. Some runners felt nervous before a race, but sh
e loved the sense of competition and relished the moments leading up to the firing of the starting gun.
Today she was running at her home club of Ardara Harriers, whose track was a circuit around the sports field of a school off the Falls Road. Mr Doyle, the club trainer, took events like this so seriously that it might have been the Olympic Stadium. Maeve watched him now, bustling about the side of the track. He was a small, stocky man who ran a cobbler’s shop and had six children, to whom he spoke Irish in a strong Belfast accent. He had thinning, curly hair that he combed over his balding head, and many people found it hard to believe that in his day he had been a noted runner who had almost made it into the Irish team for the 1948 Olympics.
‘All set, Maeve?’ he asked.
‘Raring to go, Mr D.’
‘Maith an cailín,’ he said. ‘And mind what I told you about being boxed in, all right?’
‘I’ll remember.’
The March afternoon sunshine was hazy and lacking in heat, but Maeve was warmed up and ready to run. She had done all the pre-race exercises that Mr Doyle prescribed, and her muscles felt warm and nicely stretched. She watched now as the other runners – all girls of eleven or twelve years of age – made their final preparations, and she thought about the tactics she had agreed with Mr D. Don’t make your move too soon, and don’t get pushed around by Lucy Coyle.
Lucy Coyle was a fast runner who had a reputation for being rough and unsporting towards her opponents. Maeve didn’t like her and had avoided her in the build up to the race. Coming towards the start of a race Maeve didn’t like chatting too much, but she knew most of her opponents and usually exchanged a few words or a friendly nod.
Today there was only one competitor that she had never seen before, and Maeve watched the other girl now as she peeled off an expensive looking tracksuit. The girl was tall and slim, with pretty features and braces on her teeth. Something about her seemed different to the others, and Maeve made a mental note to be on guard against her, in case she was a top class runner from some distant club.
‘Take your places, please!’ cried the race organiser.
Mr Doyle approached Maeve and spoke in a quiet tone, asking the question he posed to all his runners before each competition. ‘What are you here for, Maeve?’
‘I’m here to win!’
‘No better girl. Go and do it!’
Maeve nodded, then made her way briskly to the starting blocks, eager to be off and running.
Emma was shocked when the girl beside her elbowed her in the ribs. Back in America she had run in races where there had been jostling for position, but this was much more aggressive. Was this normal in Ireland? Emma hoped not, though she had no way of telling, as it was her first race since arriving in Belfast with her parents and her twin brother. She thought about retaliating, but the girl who had elbowed her had accelerated into the lead position and was now a couple of feet in front of everyone else.
Going into the last lap of the one mile race, Emma had felt confident. She could still win, she decided, as the blow to her ribs hadn’t broken her stride. The rough girl who had hit her was heavily built and fast, but Emma was a strong finisher. There was still most of the last lap to go, and the best way to get revenge on the other girl would be to beat her.
Emma was in second place, running just ahead of a curly-haired girl in an Ardara Harriers singlet. Time to make a move. Emma put on a surge, closing the gap on the leader. She was conscious of the curly-haired girl speeding up to stay with her. She closed the gap on the girl who had elbowed her, then moved outside to overtake. This time she was ready to strike back if the girl tried to elbow her again. The other runners had speeded up in response, but Emma’s pace was taking her into the lead. She kept her elbows in tight to her ribs, half expecting a jab that never came. Instead, just as she began to move to the front, she felt a kick to her ankle. Losing her balance, she tripped awkwardly. She tried desperately to stay upright, but her speed sent her sprawling, and she fell heavily onto the grass track.
Emma felt winded by the fall, then she took a blow to her back as another runner tripped over her and fell to the ground.
‘No!’ cried the other girl.
Emma looked up and saw that all of the other runners had managed to stay on their feet and had now streamed past. She felt angry that the lead runner had assaulted her again, but there was no chance of catching her now, no point even continuing the race.
‘Are you OK?’ said a voice.
Emma saw that the curly-haired girl who had been running at her shoulder was the person who had tripped over her.
‘I think so,’ she said, gingerly sitting up.
‘That Lucy Coyle, I hate her!’ said the other girl.
‘Is she the one who tripped me?’
‘Yeah, she’s a right wee cow!’
‘She sure is,’ said Emma.
The curly-haired girl had dusted herself off and risen, and now she held out her hand to help Emma up.
‘Thanks,’ said Emma, rising to her feet a little shakily.
‘Well, we’re out of this race aren’t we?’ said the other girl with a wry grin.
‘Yeah,’ said Emma, ‘and I could have won it.’
‘You could have come second, you mean! I had the race sown up!’
Despite her frustration at being tripped, Emma found herself responding to the other girl’s good humour, and she smiled back. ‘We’ll have to decide that another time.’
‘OK, that’s a deal. My name’s Maeve.’
Emma immediately extended her hand. ‘Emma Goldman,’ she said, shaking hands as they began to walk back towards the far side of the track, where the spectators were gathered.
‘Are you American?’ asked Maeve.
‘We lived in America, but my brother and I were born in England.’
‘You sound dead American, it’s brilliant.’
Emma grinned. ‘Thanks. We were there for four years, so we picked up the accent.’
‘I’m the same.’
‘How do you mean?
‘I’ve picked up the Belfast accent though I was born in Dublin.’
‘How long are you here?’
‘Three years. I’ve lived with my aunt and uncle since my mam died.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’
Emma didn’t want to pry, but her curiosity got the better of her. ‘And what about your father?’
‘Da’s in the Irish army. He goes overseas with the United Nations, so I live with his sister, Aunt Nan, and Da comes up to Belfast as much as he can.’
‘Cool,’ said Emma, impressed by the other girl’s colourful background.
‘So what brought you to Ireland?’ asked Maeve.
‘My dad writes for newspapers and makes radio programmes. He’s here to cover the civil rights movement.’
‘Gosh! I’d love a job like that.’
‘Yeah, sometimes it’s exciting. But a lot of it is politics, and really boring.’
‘Right …’ agreed Maeve, though Emma could tell that the other girl still regarded her father’s job as glamorous. Then Maeve looked her in the eye, suddenly changing the topic. ‘So how come I haven’t seen you at any other races?’
‘This is my first one since getting here.’
‘Yeah? What club are you with?’
‘I haven’t joined a club. I just heard about this race and decided to have a go.’
‘You should join our club,’ said Maeve. ‘Ardara Harriers. I could introduce you to Mr D.’
‘Who’s Mr D?’
‘He’s our trainer. Some people think he’s a bit of a header, but he knows his stuff.’
‘What’s a header?’
Maeve burst out laughing. ‘A head case! But he’s not really, he’s just mad about running, and a bit, well … a bit different. Do you want to meet him? It would be great if you joined.’
Emma was taken by the other girl’s friendliness and enthusiasm, and she smiled. ‘I’d love to meet a h
eader! And I’d love to join too, but I’d have to ask my parents.’
‘Are they here?’
‘That’s them over at the fence, looking worried,’ said Emma as she and Maeve rounded the corner of the field.
‘Why don’t we say there’s nothing to worry about, and ask can you join?’
‘All right. But don’t come straight out with it. They might have to be persuaded.’
‘OK. Let’s persuade them so.’
Emma smiled at Maeve, then made for her parents. Mom always said that every cloud had a silver lining, and today it seemed to be true. Emma was still disappointed about the race, but the silver lining was Maeve, and Emma had a feeling that she had just met a lively new friend.
‘Don’t be disgusting, Dylan,’ said Mom, but she said it with a grin. Emma had to smile too as her twin brother pretended to be a cat, and licked clean the glass in which he had been served his ice-cream sundae.
They were all in Forte’s Ice Cream Parlour as an after-race treat from Dad, to make up for Emma’s disappointment at being tripped. Dad was also indulging his own sweet tooth, of course – he particularly liked ice-cream – but Emma was grateful all the same. She had been really pleased when Dad had invited Maeve along, as a thank you for looking out for her when she fell, and Maeve had been glad to join them after reporting her version of what had happened to her trainer, Mr D, who was planning to lodge a complaint about Lucy Coyle.
Now Emma left aside her own ice-cream and spoke to her parents. ‘Maeve runs with Ardara Harriers, she says it’s a good club.’
‘Really?’ said Dad, then he turned to Maeve with genuine interest. ‘And how long have you been running, Maeve?’
‘About four years, Mr Goldman,’ answered Maeve politely, and Emma could see that her parents were taken with the combination of Maeve’s perky personality and her good manners.
‘I didn’t know anyone when I came to Belfast first,’ continued Maeve, ‘but it’s a great way to make friends, and my Uncle Jim says it has me fit as a fiddle.’
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