Stormclouds

by Brian Gallagher

  Emma switched off the recorder and looked at Sammy. ‘So, enjoy your first recording?’

  ‘Yeah. It was a bit mad, but I’m dying to hear it.’

  ‘I bet I’ll sound daft!’ said Maeve.

  Emma smiled, pleased that she had introduced Maeve and Sammy to their first tape recorder, and even more pleased that she had got everyone to agree to the secret bond.

  ‘OK,’ she said happily. ‘Playback time!’

  ‘What are you up to?’ asked Emma.

  Dylan didn’t like lying to his sister, but he had no choice, so he kept his expression innocent-looking. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So what’s this secret thing you have to do in town?’

  They were at the bus stop outside school, but instead of getting off at their stop on the Malone Road, Dylan had explained that he wanted to go on to the city centre.

  ‘It’s not a big secret,’ he answered. ‘I just need to do something.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll come on with you, then.’

  ‘No. Sorry, Emma, I just …’

  ‘You are up to something!’

  Dylan held up his hands in surrender. ‘OK. Look, I’m doing something I can’t tell you about.’

  ‘Is it something bad?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘So why can’t you tell me about it?’

  Because you’d tell Mom, Dylan thought to himself. Instead he made his voice as persuasive as possible. ‘There’s a reason, Emma. A good reason, but I can’t tell you right now. Just trust me, OK?’

  Emma looked at him appraisingly.

  ‘Please,’ he said.

  ‘All right.’

  Dylan felt relieved. ‘Thanks, sis,’ he said, then he held out his hand and flagged down the approaching bus, eager to be on his way.

  Dylan sat hidden away in the furthest corner of the city library, not wanting to bump into anyone he knew. He had left Emma and travelled on to the city centre, alighting in Donegall Square. He had then walked the crowded pavements of Royal Avenue in the mild April sunshine, excited by the feeling of being on a secret mission.

  And now he had succeeded in finding what he sought. Spread out on the library desk in front of him were books of instruction on the sport of boxing. He had been studying them intently and had made lots of notes, anxious to gain any possible advantage in the coming encounter with Gordon.

  He had originally hoped that the trouble with Gordon might have died down and that the fight might be dismissed as something that had been proposed in the heat of the moment. Instead, Gordon had brought it up after the team’s soccer match at the weekend. The gym that Gordon had suggested for their bout was being renovated, but Gordon had made it clear that he was looking forward to the fight when the gym reopened next week.

  Dylan hadn’t told Emma or his parents about the challenge, and with the other boy insisting on going ahead, there was no way out. But while Gordon was tough and had a bigger, heavier, build, he was also stupid. And boxing was a sport in which someone skilful and smart could beat a scrapper who relied on brute force.

  Dylan looked again at his notes. He had no experience of boxing, but he was athletic, he had quick reactions, and he had learnt a lot about boxing techniques and tactics from the library books. Maybe he would give Gordon a surprise when they stepped into the ring. Buoyed by the thought, he returned to the books, eager to absorb every tip that might help in the fight.

  Maeve felt scared when she saw the photograph on the front page of the Sunday newspaper. It showed a violent clash that had taken place during the rioting in Derry the previous day. A little over sixty miles was all that separated Belfast from Derry, so it seemed only a matter of time before trouble spread to Belfast.

  It was a sunny morning, and Maeve and her aunt and uncle had left Mass in Clonard Monastery. Despite the warm spring air, Maeve felt chilled by the dramatic photographs that covered the front pages of all the newspapers that were on sale at the church gates. The civil rights movement was being violently opposed by some unionists, and things had become so bad that British troops were arriving later today to help support the police.

  Growing up in Dublin, Maeve had never seen a riot. In the three years that she had lived in Belfast she had become used to the tension – and sometimes open hostility – between nationalists and unionists, but never before had she seen it turn into this kind of violence. But while the pictures from Derry were frightening, there were good developments too.

  The twenty-one year old nationalist, Bernadette Devlin, had been elected to Westminster, making history as the youngest person ever to win a seat in parliament. Maeve had been pleased, partly because it was good to see a woman succeed but also because it meant change was possible, however much some people resented it. And there was to be a crucial vote on Tuesday night, when unionists were to decide on the issue of one-man-one-vote – one of the key demands of the civil rights campaign. It seemed obvious to Maeve that this was reasonable, but there was huge resistance to it, and it was uncertain how things would turn out.

  ‘Uncle Jim?’

  Yes, Maeve.’

  ‘What happens if the one-man-one-vote-doesn’t go ahead?’

  ‘There’ll be ructions.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘More protest marches, more attacks on the marchers, all sorts of trouble.’

  ‘I really hope they agree to it,’ said Maeve.

  ‘Then there’ll be trouble on the other side,’ pointed out Aunt Nan.

  They turned the corner of the sunlit road and made for Bombay Street. Maeve normally would have been eager for the Sunday fry-up that Uncle Jim did after Mass, but today she wanted to question her aunt and uncle. ‘Why are people so against the civil rights? What they’re asking for is only fair.’

  ‘That’s life, Maeve,’ said Uncle Jim gently. ‘It’s never been fair.’

  ‘But shouldn’t we try to change things so it is fair?’

  Uncle Jim shrugged. ‘The problem with change is that someone has to lose. If one group is getting the best jobs and the best houses, and then a fairer system is suggested, that first group will lose out.’

  ‘But they’d only lose out on something that wasn’t fair in the first place.’

  ‘Tell that to Protestant workers in the shipyards if Catholics get employed.’

  ‘So what are we supposed to do? Nothing?’

  ‘Not nothing,’ said Aunt Nan. ‘But we can’t be too impatient, Maeve, change takes time. If we start demanding our rights there’ll be all sorts of trouble.’

  Maeve was about to argue, but Aunt Nan held up her hand decisively. ‘We pray for a better world, and eventually God hears our prayers. Meanwhile we get on with our lives, and don’t get caught up in trouble. All right?’

  ‘Right,’ answered Maeve reluctantly. But it wasn’t all right. Dad was serving with the UN peace-keepers in Cyprus, risking his life so that victims of the conflict there were protected and treated with justice. Yet back here in Ireland Aunt Nan was suggesting that people should accept injustice and not kick up too much of a fuss. The talk of Protestant workers made her think of Sammy, whose mother had a job in a mill and whose father had worked in a foundry before injuring his back. Maeve had grown to like Sammy, with his low-key, good natured manner. But why should his parents – or even Sammy himself – have first pick ahead of Catholics like Maeve and her family when it came to getting a job, or a house, or anything else? She said none of this to Aunt Nan, however, and walked on in silence.

  ‘Ready for a plate of rashers and sausages?’ asked Uncle Jim with a playful lilt in his voice.

  Maeve knew that he meant well. ‘Yes, please,’ she answered, as enthusiastically as she could, but her worries hadn’t really been addressed, and she sensed that there would be trouble ahead.

  Sammy wished that he had kept his mouth shut, but there was no going back now. His father stared angrily at him across the kitchen table. Florrie and Tess, the older two of his sisters, were doing their homework, and Ma, knowing the signs o
f trouble, turned to them.

  ‘That’s enough for now, girls; you can go out and play.’

  ‘Thanks, Ma’ said Florrie, and Sammy watched as his sisters immediately left the table and ran happily out to the street.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ said Da, looking Sammy in the eye.

  ‘Bill,’ said Ma placatingly.

  ‘Don’t “Bill” me!’ he snapped.

  Sammy had become an expert at gauging how much his father had drunk, and he calculated now that Da had enough taken to be aggressive, without being actually drunk.

  ‘I was just saying, Da–’

  ‘Don’t say! I won’t have a pup like you talking tripe. Giving me lip in my own home!’

  Sammy had just heard on the radio that the Ulster Unionist Party had reluctantly agreed to change the voting system in Northern Ireland to allow one-man-one-vote. Even though Sammy was against the nationalists, who claimed to be Irish rather than British, he thought that one-man-one-vote was only fair. His mistake, however, had been to say this to Da.

  ‘What am I raising here, a bloody little Taig, is it!?’

  ‘No, Da.’

  ‘Next thing they’ll be demanding jobs, and housing. Our jobs and our houses! Aye, and then it’ll be joining the Irish Free State. Taking orders from Dublin and the Pope in Rome!’

  Sammy said nothing, hoping that if Da got it all off his chest he might eventually calm down.

  ‘And you, talking like a little traitor!’ continued his father.

  ‘He didn’t mean anything by it, Bill,’ said Ma.

  ‘Didn’t mean anything?! A bit of pressure and our politicians cave in, and he thinks that’s OK?! Who’s been poisoning your mind, sonny?’ said Da, drawing closer. ‘Who have you been listening to?’

  ‘Nobody, Da,’ Sammy answered, knowing that his father already disapproved of Dylan, and that if he knew about Maeve he would go berserk.

  ‘Stand up when I’m talking to you!’ said Da.

  Sammy rose and could smell the beer on his father’s breath as he drew in close to him. ‘Do you want the Taigs taking over?’

  ‘No, Da.’

  ‘Do you want to be ruled by a crowd of bogtrotters in Dublin?’

  ‘No, Da.’

  ‘Do you want to be kissing bishops’ rings and genuflecting before the Pope?’

  ‘No, Da.’

  Sammy kept his tone respectful and he hoped that his agreement to all the questions might satisfy his father. There was a pause as Da looked at him, as though weighing everything up.

  ‘You need to decide which side you’re on, sonny.’

  ‘I’m on our side, Da.’

  ‘So you’ve seen sense? That one-man-one-vote is a sell-out?’

  The last thing Sammy wanted was to annoy his father. And all the other answers he had given him were true. But he couldn’t bring himself to condemn one-man-one-vote.

  ‘Well?’

  Sammy could see Da’s anger growing, yet something in him rebelled about being bullied into an outright lie. He hesitated, trying to find some way out, but before he could think of something his father lost his temper and smacked him in the face.

  ‘No, Bill!’ said Ma, quickly rising from her chair as Sammy staggered a little backwards.

  It hadn’t been a full force blow, but his face still stung, and he felt a surge of anger at his father. It must have shown in his expression because Da moved threateningly towards him.

  ‘No!’ cried Ma forcefully.

  She stood directly in front of his father, her normal deference gone as she looked him in the eye. ‘No,’ she repeated.

  Sammy saw his father hesitating, then Ma spoke again, without taking her eyes off her husband.

  ‘Take your gear and go to training, Sammy. Now!’

  Sammy moved quickly to grab his sports bag from the corner, then he crossed into the living room and out the hall door. He ran down the street, ignoring his sisters who called after him in farewell. Reaching the corner, he slowed down and gathered himself, trying to get his thoughts in order. It wasn’t the first time that Da had hit him. And if Ma hadn’t intervened it might have been a lot worse. Trying to look on the bright side, he was proud of himself for not caving in and saying something he thought was untrue. And things usually blew over quickly with Da, who sometimes tried to make up afterwards for his bad temper. Maybe this would be one of those times, Sammy hoped, as he felt his cheek, which was still a bit tender from the slap.

  He crossed Tate’s Avenue and his stinging face made him think of Dylan, and the beating he was likely to take by boxing an experienced and ruthless fighter like Gordon. The fight was scheduled for next week, and Sammy had been agonising about what he might do to save his friend. He had considered going to Buckie and asking him to intervene. But would Buckie do anything? He might think that a bout in the ring was an acceptable way for two boys to settle their differences. And even if Buckie did take action, Dylan might feel humiliated at having to be saved by the trainer. But then again being beaten around the ring and losing would also be humiliating. He wasn’t sure what to do, and he reached the football ground and walked in the entrance gate, hoping to forget his worries for a while.

  Emma tried not to get her hopes up too high. She had trained conscientiously since joining Ardara Harriers, and Mr Doyle had told her he was pleased with her progress. But would he pick her to enter the big under-thirteens’ race that was coming up in a couple of weeks? Maeve claimed that he always gave runners plenty of notice, and both Emma and Maeve had made it their goal to compete for the club against some of the most promising young runners in Belfast. Training had gone well tonight, and Mr Doyle had asked to see the two girls. Surely he was going to give them his decision, Emma thought, as they walked across the grass running track, the lights of the city below them beginning to twinkle in the dusk.

  ‘Hi, Mr Doyle, you wanted to see us,’ said Emma cheerfully. Her mother was a great believer in the power of positive thinking. Dylan claimed that was all just hippy talk, but Emma wasn’t so sure, and she hoped now that sounding confident might work in her favour.

  Mr Doyle turned to her, his expression earnest and his eyes slightly bulging, as usual. ‘Tell me this, Emma, what part of the States are you from?’

  Emma was taken aback and she could see that Maeve was also surprised that the trainer wasn’t talking about the forthcoming race. ‘Eh … we lived in New York at first, and then in Washington.,’ she answered, not wanting to get into the rigmarole about not actually being from the States but being originally from England.

  ‘Washington … it’s a fine city, I’m told.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I saw the news before I came out this evening,’ continued Mr Doyle. ‘And there was a piece from Washington.’

  ‘Really?’ said Emma, trying to sound fascinated, though in fact she had no idea where Mr Doyle was leading the conversation.

  ‘They just announced that more American soldiers have died fighting in Vietnam than were killed in the Korean War.’

  ‘Right …’

  ‘It’s a noble sacrifice in the fight against communism,’ said Mr Doyle with a little approving nod. ‘God Bless America, I say.’

  Emma had seen the massive marches for peace in Washington and she knew that lots of Americans saw nothing noble about the war in Vietnam. She was really tired of people fighting each other, whether in Vietnam or here in Northern Ireland, but she didn’t want to say the wrong thing to her trainer. She struggled to find the right response, then Maeve came to her rescue.

  ‘Yeah, America’s a great country. And it’s produced lots of great runners, Mr D, hasn’t it?’

  Emma had to hold back a smile, so obvious was her friend’s attempt to get the trainer onto the topic of running. If Mr Doyle realised that he had been dropped a hint, however, he gave no sign of it.

  ‘It has indeed, Maeve,’ he answered. ‘And maybe the greatest athlete of them all in Jesse Owens. That lad put manners on Hitler at
the Munich Olympics.’

  Please, not another history lesson, thought Emma. Just tell us if we’ve been picked for the race!

  ‘Right,’ said Maeve, in eager agreement with Mr Doyle.

  Emma looked at the trainer. Behind his odd appearance and unpredictable manner he was actually a nice man. And he had given her useful advice about her stride and on moving her arms less to preserve energy when running. But now she just wanted him to reveal whatever it was he had summoned them for. As if reading her mind, he coughed, then cocked his head to one side.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this under-thirteen race.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Emma, her heart starting to pound as she realised just how much she wanted to be picked.

  ‘You’re well ready for it, Maeve; I’m entering your name.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr D.’

  Emma felt her chest tighten. Did that mean he thought she wasn’t ready for it? Surely even someone as odd as the trainer wouldn’t be so cruel as to pick Maeve and then in the next breath dash her hopes.

  ‘As for you, Emma, I’ve been watching you closely. Very closely. You’ve made good progress. You’ve taken on board what I’ve told you. But we still need to fine tune your stride.’

  Emma’s mouth had gone dry but she forced out the words. ‘So, am I running in the race too?’

  Mr Doyle looked at her as though surprised by the question. ‘Oh yes. We’ve two weeks to do the fine tuning, so I’m entering you too.’

  ‘Cool!’

  ‘Right, that’s settled so,’ said Mr Doyle, then he gave a brisk nod and headed back across the running track

  Emma turned to Maeve, who had a big grin on her face. ‘That’s brilliant, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s great. Just one problem,’ said Maeve, her face suddenly serious.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Will we still be friends when I beat you?!’

  ‘Sure we will – cause you won’t beat me! Race you back to the club house!’ cried Emma, then she set off at speed, delighted at how things had worked out.