Stormclouds

by Brian Gallagher

  ‘You’ve a lovely balanced stride all right,’ said Mrs Goldman, ‘we reckoned you were Emma’s main rival in the race.’

  ‘Got that one wrong, Mom’, said Dylan chirpily, ‘the Phantom Foot Tripper was the real rival!’

  ‘You don’t have to sound so pleased,’ said Emma.

  ‘Hey, if you hadn’t been tripped we mightn’t be eating ice-cream!’

  Sometimes Emma found her twin really annoying, but she kept her impatience in check, concentrating instead on how to persuade her parents to let her join Maeve’s club.

  ‘I’d love to really get back into running,’ she said, keeping her tone casual. ‘Maybe I could join Ardara Harriers?’

  Her father raised his eyebrows. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, then looked enquiringly at her mother.

  ‘I’m sure it’s a fine club, honey, but I don’t know if you’d have the time. What with school, and tennis, and ballet.’

  Emma had anticipated this and had her answer ready. ‘But you only have to train once a week, Mom. You can do more if you want, but the junior club night is just once a week.’

  Her mother nodded non-committedly, and Emma felt she had to do more.

  ‘And it’s not that far a drive from our house over to the Falls Road.’ It was a very different part of the city, of course, with terraced two-up, two-down houses where Maeve lived, and detached suburban mansions in her own neighbourhood. But although Mom was from a rich New York family she wasn’t snobbish, and Emma hoped that the location wouldn’t be a problem.

  ‘It’s not the distance, Emma,’ answered her mother, ‘it’s just I don’t want you taking on too much.’

  ‘You could always drop the ballet,’ suggested Dylan.

  ‘I like ballet.’

  ‘It’s pretty silly though, all that prancing on your toes.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to do it!’ Emma looked across the table to her father. ‘And Dad, you said it was good for Dylan to meet Sammy and other boys from his neighbourhood in the soccer club. I just want to do the same.’

  Dad shrugged. ‘There is that,’ he said, without actually agreeing to her proposal.

  ‘What’s your soccer club, Dylan?’ asked Maeve.

  ‘Wanderers. It’s near Windsor Park.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘I’ve heard of it,’ answered Maeve, ‘but that’s a very loyalist area, so we don’t go there much.’

  Emma watched with interest as Maeve turned from Dylan to her parents. ‘Maybe if Dylan is getting to meet boys from there, it would be good for Emma to meet people from my area?’ she suggested reasonably.

  Emma thought that this was a brilliant argument, and she felt like cheering Maeve for sensing that her parents wouldn’t want to appear to discriminate against any group.

  ‘Well, when you put it like that …’ said Dad, and he looked to his wife.

  ‘And I’d watch out for her, I promise,’ added Maeve.

  Mom laughed and raised her hands in surrender. ‘OK, OK, I know when I’m beaten!’

  ‘So I can join?’

  ‘You can join.’

  ‘Thanks, Mom!’ said Emma, hugging her. ‘Thanks, Dad.’ She turned to Maeve who smiled and winked. Emma smiled back, then happily returned to her strawberry ice-cream, sure now that she and Maeve were going to be really good friends.

  Sammy happily kicked a can as he walked along Ebor Street. His father had been given some temporary work, so the atmosphere at home today was happy. In a typical mood swing, Da had even promised to bring home sweets for Dylan and his sisters, Florrie, Ruby and Tess, after work this evening. Of course Da could easily forget, or his mood could change again, but Sammy had learned to live for the moment, and for now things felt good as he walked towards the football ground in the weak March sunshine.

  Even though he wished that his father was more predictable – like Ma, whose affections he could always count on – part of him was fascinated by the idea of mood swings and how people’s minds worked. He was aware that there were doctors who studied these things. He thought that it would be great to figure out why people behaved the way they did, and find ways to help them and make them happier. But although he would love a job like that, it was probably just a dream. Boys from his neighbourhood didn’t become doctors. Instead they left school at fourteen or fifteen, with the lucky ones perhaps getting an apprenticeship, or a permanent job in one of the big factories or in Harland and Wolff’s shipyard.

  Sammy had never told anyone of his secret dream for fear of being ridiculed. Instead he protected himself by keeping his guard up, and appearing to everyone as the Sammy Taylor they thought they knew – tough, friendly, and a skilful but fearless full back for Wanderers football club. He crossed Tate’s Avenue, lost in his thoughts, then he picked up his pace a little and approached the gates of the club, kitbag in hand.

  ‘Mr Taylor. Good of you to join us!’

  Sammy looked up to see Buckie, his trainer, looking at him with a hint of a grin.

  Sammy knew that he wasn’t late, but Buckie had been a sergeant in the paratroops and he had never lost the habit of keeping his charges on their toes. But he was fun too, and with his muscular build, drooping moustache and longish hair he cut a distinctive figure.

  ‘Mr Buckley. Happy to join you,’ Sammy said playfully.

  ‘Cheeky wee bugger!’ said the trainer, pointing at him.

  Now that Buckie had raised his hand Sammy noticed that his right fist was bandaged. The other man saw Sammy staring, and he raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Never seen bruised knuckles before?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Sammy, then his curiosity got the better of him. ‘Been in a scrap?’

  ‘Nothing as lawless as a scrap,’ answered Buckie. ‘Out on duty with the Specials. Had to put manners on a couple of Taigs.’

  Buckie was a part-time policeman with the B Specials, a force that Sammy knew was almost exclusively Protestant, and that had a reputation for its rough treatment of Taigs, the local word for Catholics.

  ‘All these civil rights protests,’ said Buckie. ‘Just an excuse for the hooligans to take to the streets.’

  ‘Right,’ agreed Sammy, hoping the older man would give more detail.

  ‘Well, last night we showed a couple of them who owns these streets!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Aye’ said Buckie, and he was about to elaborate when he seemed to think better of it. ‘Anyway, along with you and get changed.’

  ‘OK,’ answered Sammy, a little disappointed not to get more detail.

  He carried on across the bumpy pitch and entered the draughty changing room where the rest of the boys were putting on their football gear. Gordon Elliot was lacing up a boot and he returned Sammy’s greeting a little curtly. Sammy used to get on well with Gordon, but there had been a coolness in the centre forward’s manner ever since Sammy had become friendly with Dylan. Sammy could never understand why being friendly with someone new should affect those you were already friendly with – it wasn’t like friendship was something that had to be rationed. But if Gordon disliked Dylan that was his problem, and Sammy wasn’t going to be bullied by Gordon, or anyone else, in deciding who his friends were.

  Moving down the dressing room now, he reached Dylan, who was pulling a football jersey over his head. Dylan grinned and pointed at Sammy. ‘Hey, Sammy, I’ve a good one for you.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Hear about the mad scientist who kept dynamite in his fridge?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He blew his cool!’

  It was a really silly joke, but Sammy found himself laughing along with Dylan, and he suddenly realised how much he had come to like this colourful, English-born but American-sounding boy. He changed quickly into his own football gear, then a voice boomed out.

  ‘All right, Ladies!’

  The players looked up to see Buckie standing at the doorway, his hands on his hips.

  ‘Let’s be having you,’ said th
e trainer, ‘last one out does twenty press-ups!’

  The boys stampeded for the door, and Sammy and Dylan laughingly jostled each other as they made for the pitch, each one determined not to be last.

  ‘Aunt Nan, are you heartbroken?’ Maeve said it with mock seriousness, and indicated the evening newspaper on the kitchen table. ‘It says here that thousands of women are broken-hearted because Paul McCartney got married today.’

  ‘Will you go way outta that,’ said her aunt with a smile as she put away the crockery after their tea.

  ‘Well, you told me Paul was your favourite Beatle,’ said Maeve.

  ‘He’s nice and polite, I’ll give him that.’

  ‘Nothing to do with being the best-looking Beatle?’ queried Maeve.

  ‘Have you nothing better to do than torment me?’ asked her aunt.

  ‘I’ve training – but tormenting you is more fun!’

  ‘No, you’ve got it all wrong, Maeve,’ said Uncle Jim, who had been sitting in the armchair puffing on his sweet-smelling pipe. ‘Forget your Paul McCartneys; Bing Crosby is the singer I had to compete with when I met your aunt.’

  ‘Bing Crosby?’ said Maeve. ‘Sure he’s ancient!’

  ‘I beg your pardon!’ retorted Aunt Nan, ‘he’s nothing of the sort.’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Uncle Jim, ‘still has a soft spot for him!’

  ‘You’re both hilarious,’ said Aunt Nan, then she indicated the newspaper. ‘Who did he marry anyway?’

  Maeve picked up the paper and read aloud. ‘McCartney, 27, married Linda Eastman, eldest daughter of a wealthy American family.’

  ‘Good man yourself!’ said Uncle Jim.

  ‘She’s a professional photographer from New York,’ continued Maeve, ‘and it says the groom wore a grey suit and a yellow tie, and the bride wore a beige dress and a daffodil yellow coat.’

  ‘A beige dress?’ said Aunt Maeve. ‘What ails her?’

  Maeve considered for a second. ‘She’s probably a fashion leader.’

  Uncle Jim nodded as though he were serious. ‘In fairness, the yellow overcoat sounds good. Might get one of those myself!’

  Maeve laughed, and Aunt Nan looked at her husband.

  ‘You’re a right-looking article without a yellow overcoat,’ she said, but Maeve knew that Aunt Nan was amused.

  She liked moments like these when the three of them were together, and when her hard working uncle and occasionally strict aunt were relaxed. She would have liked to linger, and maybe get Uncle Jim to reveal more about her aunt being taken with Bing Crosby when she was young, but she had arranged to meet her new friend Emma at the Ardara Harriers grounds. Reluctantly she put the newspaper aside and rose from the table.

  ‘I better get my gear,’ she said.

  ‘I whitened your runners,’ said Aunt Nan, ‘they’re beside your bed.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s great,’ said Maeve. ‘But I still think you’re heartbroken!’

  Before her aunt could reply Maeve laughed and ducked out of the room. She ran up the stairs, slipped the newly cleaned runners into her sports bag, and descended the stairs again. ‘Bye!’ she cried.

  ‘Bye, Maeve,’ answered her uncle from the kitchen.

  ‘Don’t forget to bless yourself!’ called her aunt, and Maeve quickly crossed herself from the holy water font on the wall beside the front door, then exited onto Bombay Street.

  She made her way past rows of terraced houses, smoke rising from the chimneys and hanging in the early evening air. The light outside was fading and the house interiors looked cosy as Maeve glanced in through front windows and saw coal fires and warmly lit rooms. She passed by the imposing edifice of Clonard Monastery, then reached the Falls Road and headed towards the sports ground.

  She hoped that Emma would show up tonight as arranged, and that nothing had happened to make either Emma or her parents change their minds. After the ice creams in Forte’s the previous week, Emma’s mother had asked for Maeve’s telephone number, in case any problem arose. Maeve had been slightly embarrassed to have to explain they didn’t have a phone, though in emergencies they had access to one of their neighbours who did.

  She had heard nothing however, and now Maeve turned in the gate to the Ardara Harriers grounds. There was no sign of Emma. Several of the other girls in the club were already there and Maeve exchanged greetings with them, then suddenly her heart lifted when she saw the slim form of Emma coming in through the entrance. She was wearing a stylish, light blue tracksuit, and Maeve saw the other girls looking at her curiously.

  ‘She’s a friend of mine who’s joining,’ she explained. ‘Be nice to her, girls, OK?’

  Before anyone could respond, Maeve saw Mr D intercepting Emma. She hurried to join them, wanting to be sure that the trainer wouldn’t say anything to put Emma off before she even began.

  ‘Hello, Emma,’ she said, ‘hello, Mister Doyle.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Emma with a warm smile.

  Behind the braces her teeth were pearly white, Maeve noticed, then Mr D turned around.

  ‘Maith an cailín, Maeve,’ he said.

  Maeve could see that Emma was bemused. ‘It means “good girl”,’ she explained. ‘Mr D likes to slip in a bit of Irish now and then.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I? Isn’t it our native tongue?’ he said, looking at Maeve with the slightly bulging-eyed looked that helped to make him appear eccentric.

  Maeve could have argued that for the vast majority of people in Ireland English was their native language, and that it was only in the scattered Gaeltacht regions that people were native Irish speakers. Instead she nodded in agreement. ‘No reason why you wouldn’t speak Irish, Mr D, I’m sure Emma loved hearing it.’

  She looked at Emma and winked, and the other girl proved quick on the uptake.

  ‘Yes, it sounds fascinating. Like, a really musical language.’

  Maeve could see that Mr D was pleased and she smiled at the trainer. ‘Emma has come from Washington to live in Ireland, so I asked her along tonight.’

  ‘Ceart go leor,’ said Mr D. ‘You’re welcome, Emma.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I saw you run in the race last week. Good acceleration, but you need to work on your technique.’

  ‘Right,’ said Emma.

  ‘Maybe you could help her, Mister D, the way you’ve helped me,’ suggested Maeve.

  ‘Maybe I could,’ answered Mr D. ‘Then again maybe I couldn’t. It all depends on you,’ he said, turning his bulging gaze to the other girl. ‘Are you prepared to really work on it? Do you want success?

  ‘Sure I do.’

  Maeve watched as the trainer stared appraisingly at Emma. Suddenly he nodded as though satisfied with what he saw.

  ‘Fine then. Join Maeve, and we’ll start training in five minutes.’ Before Emma could respond, the trainer turned away and moved off briskly.

  ‘Wow,’ said Emma with a grin. ‘He’s eh … he’s kind of different, isn’t he?’

  Maeve smiled back. ‘I told you he can seem a bit mad. But he’s a good trainer, he’ll speed you up if you do what he says.’

  ‘OK, count me in.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ Maeve put her arm around Emma’s shoulder. ‘Welcome to the Harriers!’

  ‘Aw come on, Dad!’ said Dylan, ‘not another recording!’

  ‘You’ll thank me when you’re older,’ answered his father laughingly as he came into the Goldmans’ dining room and began filming Dylan, Emma and their mother with his cine camera.

  The lunch was to celebrate St Patrick’s Day, and Mom had set a delicious-looking apple pie on the table, but Dylan felt that his father overdid the family films.

  ‘When I’m pushing up the daisies,’ said Dad, ‘you’ll play these reels and–’

  ‘No I won’t!’ interjected Dylan.

  His father ignored the interruption and continued in a mock tragic voice. ‘And you’ll cry bitter tears that you weren’t nicer to your saintly father while he lived!’

&
nbsp; Dylan’s mother laughed. ‘Dad is right; it’s good to record stuff. And hey, it’s St Patrick’s Day, and we’re in Ireland, we have to mark the occasion.’

  ‘Couldn’t we mark it by going to a movie, or bowling or something?’ suggested Emma.

  ‘We can do those things any time, honey,’ Mom answered.

  Dylan watched as his mother now turned from Emma and struck a dramatic pose, while his father filmed.

  ‘Ready for my close-up, Mr DeMille,’ she proclaimed.

  Although part of him thought it was corny to be filming these family occasions, Dylan still enjoyed his mother’s sense of fun and Dad’s wacky humour, even if he didn’t admit it to his parents. And in many ways he was lucky. They lived in a large house on the Malone Road, there was no shortage of money, the lunch table was laden with food and sunshine flooded in from the landscaped back garden, filling the room with warm golden light. Deciding to be more positive, he smiled as his father panned the camera and Emma pulled a face.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Dad, ‘glad I got that.’ He switched off the cine camera and put it down on the table.

  ‘Here, before we eat – a Patrick’s Day joke,’ said his mother. ‘Why did St Patrick drive all the snakes out of Ireland?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He couldn’t afford the plane fare!’

  ‘Mom, that is so lame,’ said Emma.

  ‘Why did the leprechaun cross the road,’ continued his mother unabashed.

  ‘Why did the leprechaun cross the road?’ repeated Dad, in the style of a comedian’s assistant.

  ‘He wanted to reach the crock of gold faster!’

  ‘Mom, this is cruelty to children,’ said Emma, but Dylan thought the joke was so daft that it was sort of funny.

  Mom raised her glass. ‘Here’s to St Patrick. Like the song says, it’s a great day for the Irish.’

  ‘But that’s the weird thing,’ said Dylan. ‘It’s not that great a day here in Belfast. Not compared to New York last year.’

  ‘Well … that’s a little bit complicated,’ said Dad.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘In the States, people are happy to be Irish for the day,’ explained his father. ‘But in Belfast some people feel being Irish would make them seem less British. So they don’t make a fuss about St Patrick’s Day. They don’t see it as part of their culture.’