‘And we went without meat,’ added Aunt Nan proudly. ‘Fasting and abstaining, it was called.’
Maeve thought this sounded a bit extreme. She didn’t mind skipping meat for a day. In fact, she had gorged so much on steak the previous Sunday at Emma’s barbecue that it only felt like balancing things out. But forty days of fasting and abstaining?
‘I’m not being cheeky, Aunt Nan,’ she said, ‘but why all that fasting?’
‘To atone for our sins.’
‘But we don’t do it any more.’
‘No, they changed the rule,’ said Uncle Jim. ‘Thanks be to God!’
‘Jim,’ said Aunt Nan reproachfully.
Maeve’s aunt was more religious than her uncle, and so Maeve posed her question to her now. ‘I’m glad they changed the rule,’ she said. ‘But why did they? Have people not as many sins to atone for now?’
Aunt Nan looked slightly taken aback. ‘I’m sure people today have as many sins – probably more. But the Church decided that God is so merciful we only need to fast and abstain for two days during Lent. Though, of course, you should make other sacrifices instead.’
‘Right.’
‘What brought all this on?’ asked Uncle Jim.
‘I was just thinking about different religions,’ said Maeve. ‘Emma’s mother decided to be a Buddhist, so she doesn’t have to worry about any of this.’
‘Well, we’ll see where that gets her on the Last Day,’ said Aunt Nan.
‘Mrs Goldman’s a really nice woman. I’m sure she’ll get into heaven,’ answered Maeve.
‘I’m not even certain what Buddhists believe in,’ mused Uncle Jim. ‘Well, apart from believing in Buddha.’
‘Emma said it’s about being at one with the universe, and Karma, and all that.’
‘Who’s Karma when he’s at home?’ asked her uncle.
‘It’s not a person, Uncle Jim. I think it’s like … like fate, or luck.’
‘I hope they’re not filling your head with notions,’ said Aunt Nan. ‘Your dad trusted me to bring you up as a good Catholic, and if these people are leading you astray…’
‘It’s not like that at all,’ said Maeve quickly. Her aunt and uncle approved of her friendship with Emma, and had been impressed by the fact that Mr Goldman wrote newspaper articles and did broadcasts on the radio. But that agreement could change very rapidly if Aunt Nan thought Maeve’s faith was at risk. She needed to put her mind at rest at once. ‘Mrs Goldman never even mentioned Buddha to me. Emma doesn’t think she’s that serious about it really.’
Aunt Nan frowned. ‘Well, not being serious about her religion is hardly to her credit.’
‘Yeah, if you’re going to be a Buddhist you might as well be a proper one,’ said Uncle Jim.
This whole conversation was heading in the wrong direction, Maeve thought with alarm. She loved being friends with Emma Goldman. She had really enjoyed the barbecue and the family’s glamorous American ways, and it had been great fun competing in the putting competition with Dylan and his friend Sammy, despite the disagreement about the IRA and the UVF. Maeve couldn’t risk not being allowed to stay friends with Emma. Time to distract her aunt and uncle. ‘No one talked about religion at the barbecue,’ she reassured them. ‘But Mr Goldman said something that was really interesting.’
‘What was that?’ Uncle Jim asked.
‘He’s doing articles for the Guardian newspaper, about next week’s election. And he thinks Bernadette Devlin will get elected.’
‘Really?’ said Aunt Nan.
Bernadette Devlin was a twenty-one year old nationalist, and a passionate campaigner for civil rights. If successful in the Westminster elections she would be the youngest Member of Parliament in history.
‘That would be one in the eye for the other crowd,’ said Uncle Jim with gusto.
‘Wouldn’t it just?’ said Aunt Nan.
Her aunt and uncle began discussing Bernadette Devlin, and Maeve breathed a quiet sigh of relief, hopeful now that she had distracted them – and eased the threat to her friendship with Emma.
‘You’re just a stupid show-off!’ said Gordon as the team trooped into the changing hut after training.
Dylan was stung and he turned to face the other boy. ‘What’s it to you?’
Gordon drew nearer, his manner threatening. ‘What’s it to me?’
‘Yeah,’ answered Dylan, unwilling to back down.
‘This is my club. You don’t belong here; you’re just a blow-in Yank!’
‘You can’t even get that much right,’ said Dylan.
‘What?’
‘I’m not a Yank, I was born in England.’
‘I don’t care where you were born! You don’t fit in here. And if you pull a stunt like that in a real match I’ll break your face!’
Dylan had done a fancy move to wrong-foot the goalkeeper during the seven-a-side game that ended training. Emma and Maeve had come in the car with his mother to collect him, and maybe their presence had caused him to show off a little. But he had scored a stylish goal, and Buckie hadn’t complained, so he wasn’t going to apologise to Gordon. Besides, taking exception to the fancy move was only an excuse. Gordon just didn’t like him, and if it wasn’t this, it would be something else that he would use to start an argument.
‘Take it easy, lads,’ said Sammy, ‘Buckie will hear you.’
‘He won’t,’ said Vic Balfe. ‘He’s putting away the nets.’
Vic was the goalkeeper that Dylan had wrong-footed, and also one of Gordon’s friends, and it was obvious that he wanted trouble. Dylan realised that Sammy had been trying to use Buckie to defuse the situation. Now, though, there was no way to back down from Gordon’s threat without losing face.
‘I’ll play soccer any way I please,’ said Dylan, forcing himself to sound unworried. ‘And you can like it or lump it.’
Gordon suddenly pushed him in the shoulder. ‘Maybe I’ll lump it then!’
Dylan managed to keep his balance, but before he could react Sammy spoke again.
‘Come on, lads, this is stupid.’
‘Stay out of it, Sammy, this is between me and him,’ said Gordon.
Sammy looked to Dylan, and even though Gordon was intimidating, Dylan felt that he couldn’t let his friend fight his battles for him.
‘It’s OK, Sammy,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll handle this.’
‘Will you now? Let’s see you try.’
‘Have a scrap here and Buckie could suspend the whole team! We’re not having that,’ said Sammy.
Buckie was really strict about discipline, and Dylan thought that this was a clever argument by Sammy to prevent a fight.
‘Fine,’ said Gordon. ‘We’ll do it in the gym.’ He drew closer to Dylan and pointed his finger aggressively. ‘Three rounds in the ring, Yank. Unless you’re chicken? Well?’
‘Fine,’ snapped Dylan. ‘Three rounds it is!’
‘Move the rabbit’s ears, Sammy, you’re the expert!’
Sammy fiddled with the small aerial that stood on top of the family’s television, its two slanting prongs earning it the nickname ‘rabbit’s ears’, and the distortion on the screen lessened. He shifted the aerial a little more, then suddenly the black and white image on the television screen became much clearer.
‘Da-dah!’ said Sammy playfully, and Ma laughed.
He liked Friday nights. Da always went to the pub, and when Sammy’s sisters were in bed he was allowed to stay up watching television with his mother. Ma’s favourite programme was ‘The Saint’, starring Roger Moore, and Sammy’s favourite was ‘Thunderbirds’, but on Friday nights they watched any light entertainment that was on, and Sammy enjoyed it when they relaxed together.
Now the fire was burning cosily, and they were tuned into a variety show, with Louis Armstrong singing his hit from the previous year, ‘What a Wonderful World’.
‘I love that song,’ said Ma.
‘Me too’, agreed Sammy. He didn’t normally like the old fashioned jazz
that Louis Armstrong did, but ‘What a Wonderful World’ somehow seemed to suit his rasping style, and the song had been massively successful.
His mother rarely sang aloud, though if really pressed, her party piece was ‘Softly, Softly’, which had been a number one hit for a local Belfast woman, Ruby Murray. Sammy watched now as she happily hummed along with Louis Armstrong, then she looked at him and grinned.
‘I know I’m a bit of a frog,’ she said, ‘but it’s a lovely tune. Pity people don’t heed the words,’ she added ruefully.
‘Yeah,’ said Sammy, ‘it is.’
Even though it was just a pop song, ‘What a Wonderful World’ was a kind of plea for tolerance. Sammy wished there was a bit more of that going around. He thought of the incident with Dylan and Gordon and wondered, yet again, if there was some way he could save his friend. Gordon was an accomplished boxer, and Sammy feared that Dylan would end up getting hurt if he went ahead with the boxing match. But Dylan had accepted the challenge, and his friend would have no standing in the soccer club if he backed out now.
Sammy wondered why Gordon disliked Dylan so much. Certainly Dylan was different to the other boys on the team. Why should it be a problem, though, that someone came from a different group to your own? But Sammy knew it was a problem, whether in Wanderers soccer club or in Belfast in general. And he was honest enough to recognise that he wasn’t immune to it himself – he had enjoyed taunting the nationalist boys after his escape from them on his bike.
It was all the more reason, he thought now, why he would love to study medicine and find out how people’s minds worked. But though that was just a dream, lately he had been thinking about it more frequently.
‘You’re a million miles away, Sammy,’ said Ma with a smile.
‘Sorry.’
‘What’s running through that head of yours?’
‘Just … just thinking about the football club.’ It was only a white lie, but he wasn’t sure if Ma fully believed him.
She looked at him sympathetically. ‘You’d tell me if there was something you needed to talk about?’
‘Yeah.’ Sammy hesitated. Part of him wanted to tell his mother of his dream of being a doctor. But while she wouldn’t make fun of him, she might think he was getting notions about himself. Or maybe she would want to back him to the hilt, and would try to raise money they couldn’t afford for books and college expenses. He wasn’t sure what to do. It would be good to share his dream with someone, and this was a perfect opportunity. He hesitated, but before he could make a decision he heard the sound of the hall door opening.
‘There you are!’ said his father, his speech slightly slurred by drink as he entered the cosy front room.
Sammy knew at once that the moment for confiding in his mother was gone. In one way he was disappointed, in another relieved. Before he could think about it any further his father flopped down into the armchair.
‘What’s this rubbish?’ he asked, indicating the television.
‘Just a variety show,’ said Ma. ‘I’ll turn it off.’
Sammy hated the way Ma gave way to him like that, although he understood that it made sense not to cross Da after he had been drinking. His father wasn’t quite drunk now, but his eyes had the glazed look that told Sammy he had had a fair bit to drink.
‘What’s the news, Da?’ he said, aware that his father liked to be thought of as someone with the latest word on what was happening in Belfast.
‘Same as every night lately. Bloody Taigs losing the run of themselves!’
‘Bill,’ said Ma in mild reproach.
‘Well, they are. Marching and demanding their rights? Who do they think they are?’ Sammy said nothing, but he thought of Emma’s friend Maeve. He had never told his parents about socialising with a Catholic girl, and even though he had argued a little with Maeve about who planted the bombs at the water reservoirs, he had liked her lively personality.
‘We’re going to have to put the Taigs in their place,’ continued Da. ‘And there’re plenty of lads willing to do it.’
‘Please, Bill,’ said Ma. ‘Don’t get mixed up in trouble.’
‘We’re not the ones causing the trouble!’ said Da argumentatively. ‘But there’ll be blood on the streets; it’s only a matter of time.’ Suddenly Da’s mind shifted and he looked enquiringly at Ma. ‘Have you anything cooked for me at all?’
‘Yes, I’ll heat it up now,’ she answered, and Sammy could see that she was eager to move off the topic of trouble. But though he discounted most of what Da said when he had been drinking, this time Sammy wasn’t so sure. Tension was in the air, and something told him that his father might be right about blood on the streets. He hoped that he was wrong, but he felt a tiny shiver that told him otherwise.
‘Hi there, popsters!’ said Emma into the microphone, as she imitated the style of the disc jockeys she heard on the radio. ‘We’ve got some groovy sounds for you tonight, but first, an interview with one of Belfast’s coolest chicks, Maeve – the Rave – Kennedy!’
Sammy and Dylan burst out laughing, but even though Maeve was laughing too she put up her hands in protest.
‘I can’t do an interview, Emma, I wouldn’t know what to say!’
‘Say the first thing that comes into your head. Then it’s more fun when we play the recording.’
It was Saturday night and they were in the living room of Goldmans’ house. Emma’s parents had dressed up to go for a meal in a posh restaurant, and Emma and Dylan had invited Maeve and Sammy to keep them company while their parents were out. In the last year or so they had persuaded their parents that they didn’t need a babysitter any more, and Emma still loved this new freedom. Later her mother would drive Sammy and Maeve home, but for now they had a couple of hours without adult supervision, and Emma was determined to make the most of it.
As soon as her parents had left she had taken out Dad’s tape recording equipment. She would erase the tape later without telling him, and put everything back before he returned home, but right now she was enjoying making a mock programme.
Exaggerating her own American accent, Emma held the microphone out to Maeve. ‘I’m here in the Belfast pad of rock star Maeve Kennedy. Put down that double whiskey, Maeve, and tell us about your new album.’
Maeve grinned and lowered her glass of lemonade. ‘Well, we’ve just spent six months in the studio, and we think it’s our best record yet.’
Emma was pleased that Maeve was entering into the spirit of things and she kept a straight face as she asked her next question: ‘Are the rumours true that you’re no longer writing songs with…’ Emma hesitated briefly as she tried to think up a name for a rock star. ‘With Ricky Romarro?’
‘Ricky and I are still good friends,’ answered Maeve without missing a beat. ‘But we want to … we want to do our own material.’
Emma was impressed at how well Maeve had improvised and now she turned to Sammy and held out the microphone.
‘So, artistic differences, ladies and gentlemen. Tell us your side of it, Ricky.’
‘What?’ said Sammy, taken by surprise.
‘Sorry,’ interjected Dylan. ‘As Ricky’s manager I don’t want him talking to the press; he’s been misquoted too often.’
Emma was glad to see her brother coming up with such a good line. He had seemed a bit preoccupied in the last couple of days, but this was more like his normal self.
‘Ricky’s fans have a right to know,’ countered Emma. ‘So tell us, Ricky. Has your time in LA caused a break-up with your writing partner, Maeve Kennedy?’
It was obvious that Sammy wasn’t as natural an actor as Maeve, but he made an effort to sound convincing. ‘Eh, Maeve and I … we’ve …we’ve made some good records together. And eh … well, just because we were on opposite sides of the Atlantic doesn’t mean the band won’t still tour.’
‘But you’re not writing together?’
‘Not at the moment,’ answered Sammy.
‘And you no longer share a villa in Sp
ain with Maeve Kennedy?’
‘No comment, I must insist!’ said Dylan.
Sammy shrugged as though his hands were tied. ‘Sorry, that’s personal. No comment.’
Emma could see that Maeve was knotted up with laughter at this turn in the conversation, and her mind went back to when her parents had left, and she and Dylan had been alone with Maeve and Sammy. Emma had detected a slight wariness between the other girl and boy. She remembered the argument about who had placed the reservoir bombs, and had decided to confront the matter of her friends’ differing backgrounds.
‘We ought to have a rule,’ she had said.
Sammy had looked quizzical. ‘What sort of rule?’
‘A friends’ rule. So we’re not affected by all this stupid stuff that’s going on around us.’
‘What stuff?’ asked Maeve.
‘Politicians fighting each other. And Protestants looking down on Catholics, and Catholics hating Protestants. Let’s have a rule that when we’re together nobody’s Jewish, or Catholic, or Protestant. We’re just friends. And we leave the cranky stuff out of it. What do you say?’
Maeve nodded. ‘I’ll agree to that.’
‘Sammy?’
Sammy seemed to consider it, then he too nodded. ‘OK.’
‘Great,’ said Emma. ‘Dylan?’
‘What about Buddhists?’ asked her brother, half seriously. ‘Can we let Mom join if she stops being a Buddhist hippy?’
‘Of course not, this is just for us. And we can make it a secret bond between us, like blood brothers.’
‘Without the blood, please!’ said Maeve.
Emma held out her hand. ‘Let’s all shake on it then.’
Each of the four reached out, and they all clasped hands.
That had been a few minutes earlier, and it had brought everyone closer and relaxed enough to record the joke radio programme. Now Emma continued in her role of interviewer, ‘OK, folks, Ricky Romarro and Maeve Kennedy, still in the same band but not writing together. And selling their villa in Spain, according to our source. That’s all for tonight, folks. This is Emma Goldman signing off from our Belfast studio.’
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