Stormclouds

by Brian Gallagher

  ‘No mercy!’ said Buckie, ‘I want you to play the opposition off the pitch!’

  Dylan liked the atmosphere of drama in the dressing room before a match, and today the coach had everybody hanging on his words.

  ‘Last year these lads beat us on a dodgy penalty decision, so we owe them one. Get out there today and run them into the ground! Don’t give them a minute to settle. Let them know that they’re playing on our home ground, and that they’re in for a pasting!’

  With his tall, athletic build and his drooping moustache Buckie reminded Dylan of the gunslingers he had seen in Western movies. The coach stood commandingly at the entrance to the dressing room, the air heavy with the smell of wintergreen, and Dylan admired the way that Buckie could inspire the players. Every boy on the team would give his all today, partly for fear of the coach’s disapproval, but mostly because the players wanted to please him.

  ‘So, who are we?’ asked Buckie.

  ‘Wanderers!’ cried the boys.

  ‘And why are we here?’

  ‘We’re here to win!’

  ‘All right then, go out and do it!’

  There was a babble of excitement as the players headed for the door, but Dylan stopped when Buckie pointed at him. ‘A quick word, son,’ said the coach.

  Dylan wondered if he had done something wrong. Surely if Buckie was dropping him he wouldn’t wait until just before the team took to the pitch?

  ‘You too, Gordon,’ said the coach, and Gordon held back also, a look of enquiry on his face.

  ‘I believe the pair of you are planning a scrap?’ said Buckie.

  Gordon went to speak, but the coach cut him off. ‘Don’t bother denying it. And don’t argue with me, just button up and listen.’

  Dylan was taken aback, but before he had time to get over his surprise Buckie continued.

  ‘I’m not having this,’ said the coach firmly. ‘I’ve worked hard to build a raggle-taggle gang of young fellas into a team. You two aren’t going to upset that and cause division. If you don’t like one another you can knock lumps off each other in training. But you’re not splitting my team into two camps. So put this fight out of your heads, it’s not going to happen.’

  Dylan couldn’t believe his ears. Despite studying the books on boxing there was a good chance that he would get hurt by an experienced boxer like Gordon. And now, thanks to Buckie, there was a way out without losing face. Gordon looked put out by the coach’s intervention, so Dylan made sure not to let any relief show on his face.

  ‘Are we crystal clear on this?’ asked Buckie. ‘Dylan?

  ‘Yeah, OK.’

  ‘Gordon?’

  The other boy was still disappointed, but nobody would dare defy Buckie, and Gordon reluctantly nodded. ‘Yeah, all right.’

  ‘Good. Subject closed, I never want to hear about it again,’ said the coach. ‘Now get out there and take it out on the opposition. Go on!’

  Dylan headed for the door, amazed at what had happened, and trying hard to keep a smile off his face.

  ‘Sammy, you look like a boy who could knock back another Coke!’ said Dylan’s mother, looking enquiringly at Sammy across the table of the city centre Wimpy restaurant.

  ‘Well …’ said Sammy politely.

  ‘“Well” definitely counts as a yes! And, Dylan, I don’t have to ask you, do I?’

  ‘That’s right, Mom, you don’t!’

  ‘Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead!’ said his father with mock drama. ‘Let’s all have another.’

  Dylan smiled as Dad called the waiter and ordered. He was happy to be here with his parents and Sammy, to mark the football team’s victory. Emma was off at her ballet, but Dylan’s parents had both come to see him playing in the game and had then invited Sammy along to the celebratory meal. The match had been a thrilling three-two victory for Wanderers, and Dylan had scored the second goal for his team.

  All in all it had been a good day, starting with the unexpected cancelling of the fight by Buckie. It was something he would never have expected from the coach, and he wondered again how Buckie had heard about the boxing match. Of course, lots of the boys on the team had been talking about it, and it could have come to his attention that way. The other possibility was that Sammy had gone to him. If that were the case things were more complicated. Dylan couldn’t deny that he was relieved not to have to fight Gordon. But he didn’t like the idea of Sammy thinking he couldn’t look after himself. Still, if it had been Sammy, he had been acting as a friend. Better to leave it for now and just enjoy the celebrations.

  ‘You’re a really good full back, Sammy,’ said his mother now. ‘You played very well today.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Sammy modestly.

  ‘No, I mean it. You’ve got real talent.’

  Dylan had sensed Sammy being a bit overawed by his parents at first, but over time he had relaxed with them, and now he smiled.

  ‘Well, sure you’ve talent too, haven’t you? Dylan told me you’re great at the painting.’

  ‘My God! A son praising his mother! What next?!’

  Sammy smiled. ‘He said you’re going to have – what do you call it – with the paintings?’

  ‘An exhibition.’

  ‘Yeah, an exhibition. And that your stuff is pretty good.’

  ‘Wow! This could turn my head.’

  Dylan lowered his hamburger and looked playfully at his mother. ‘But to be fair, Mom, you’re still terrible at telling jokes!’ Dylan turned to his friend. ‘You should have heard what we had to listen to on St Patrick’s Day.’

  ‘Here we go, reinforcements!’ said Dad as the waiter arrived with a tray of drinks. He slipped the waiter a tip, then turned back to the others. ‘And seeing as everyone else is ego-tripping, what wonderful things has Dylan told you about me?’

  Even though Dad was obviously kidding, Dylan saw that Sammy felt he had to answer positively.

  ‘He said the radio people love your work, and that you’re planning a big story for the newspapers.’

  Dad grinned wryly. ‘I’m not sure about “loving” the work, but I’m in the right spot at the right time. The one-man-one-vote was a really big story, as you can imagine.’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Sammy, nodding agreement and looking suddenly serious.

  ‘And there’s more to come,’ added Dad. ‘It looks like the Prime Minister here is certain to resign. Great stuff for a newsman, though maybe not so good for Northern Ireland.’

  ‘Do you think there’ll be even more trouble?’ asked Sammy.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘But tonight’s a night for celebration,’ suggested Mom. ‘So let’s leave our worries aside.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Dylan, glad that his mother had rescued the conversation from taking a gloomy turn.

  ‘So,’ she said brightly. ‘What’s on the lawn all summer in Ireland?’

  ‘Aw, Mom.’

  ‘Pattie O’Furniture! What do you call an American drawing? Yankee Doodle!’

  ‘Mom!’ cried Dylan, even though as he said it he was laughing. Dad might be right about trouble looming, but tonight he would enjoy himself, at the end of a surprising, eventful day.

  Maeve tore open the envelope excitedly. She was having breakfast with Uncle Jim and Aunt Nan, and the small kitchen was bright with early May sunshine. Already it was promising to be a beautiful day and the letter with the bright red Cypriot stamp had lifted her spirits further. Maeve loved hearing from her father, and his letters from the exotic location of Cyprus brought colour and excitement into her life.

  ‘Great news!’ she said, lowering the letter and looking to her aunt and uncle. ‘Dad is coming home on leave!’

  ‘Good,’ said Uncle Jim, ‘always delighted to see Mick.’

  ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t bring you a bottle of the local firewater like last time,’ said Aunt Nan, but though it sounded like a complaint, she said it with a smile, and Maeve knew that she would be pleased to see her brother again.

&n
bsp; ‘He’ll be back in Ireland for two weeks, it’ll be brilliant!’ said Maeve.

  Although she got on really well with Aunt Nan and Uncle Jim, it was exciting when her father came home. Of course the down side was that it was sad when he had to go back, and sometimes Maeve wished that he didn’t spend so much of his time overseas on UN peace-keeping duty.

  He had explained to Maeve that it was an important job that he was good at, and the only thing for which he was qualified. That had been several years ago when she had first gone to live in Belfast. Maeve had been upset at the time, but her father had revealed that he and Aunt Nan had been raised in an orphanage, and that they had made a vow that when they grew up they would take care of each other’s children if anything ever happened to either of them. So when Maeve’s mother had been killed in the car accident it was decided that she would live with Aunt Nan, and that Da would visit Belfast as often as his life as a soldier allowed.

  Maeve thought it was strange now that he was serving with the Irish army as a peace keeper in Cyprus, when the peace here in Belfast was threatened by all the trouble that was brewing. But there was nothing she could do about any of that, so she would just enjoy spending time with her father. She would introduce him to her new friend, Emma, and she hoped he would like Emma as much as she liked Mr and Mrs Goldman.

  ‘When is he coming home?’ asked Aunt Nan.

  ‘Later this month. It would be great if the weather stays good, we could all go on picnics,’ said Maeve.

  ‘I might be free for lots of picnics,’ said Uncle Jim.

  Maeve picked up on the downbeat tone of his voice and she looked at him. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Sorry, Maeve, that just slipped out. I don’t mean to dampen your plans.’

  ‘But what do you mean about being free for picnics?’

  Uncle Jim hesitated, then shrugged. ‘There’s no point lying to you. They’re talking about possible lay-offs in work.’

  ‘Really?’ said Maeve worriedly. Uncle Jim was a good carpenter and a conscientious worker, and it didn’t seem fair that his job should be in danger.

  ‘It might come to nothing,’ said Aunt Nan. ‘Business could pick up over the summer and everything might be fine.’

  ‘I really hope so,’ said Maeve.

  ‘Nan is right,’ said Uncle Jim brightly. ‘Don’t worry your head; it’ll probably all work out fine.’

  ‘Right,’ agreed Maeve. But although she had made herself sound cheerful, and was still looking forward to seeing Da, a little of the good had gone out of the morning.

  ‘Have you heard the latest, Sammy?’ asked Da, a smile playing about his lips as he entered the kitchen.

  It was Friday night, but Da hadn’t gone out drinking yet, and for now he was good humoured and sober. It was over two weeks since the night when Sammy’s father had slapped him in the face, and lately they had been getting on quite well. As often happened after Da lost his temper, he had seemed regretful the next day, and tried to make amends by being friendly. Sammy hadn’t been sure how to respond. Part of him was relieved that Da was in better form, but part of him resented the fact that his father could lash out at him, then act as if it hadn’t happened. If, one day, he got to study human behaviour, then maybe he would understand better. Usually, however, he went along if Da was in good spirits, so now he responded positively.

  ‘No, Da, what’s the latest?’

  ‘St Christopher has been sacked! These Papists, they’re a joke! All the Taigs with their St Christopher medals on the dashboards of their cars – wasting their time!’ said Da with a laugh.

  Sammy didn’t know much about the Catholic religion but he had sometimes heard his father mocking the way Catholics had favourite saints to whom they prayed for favours. Even to a Protestant like Sammy, however, St Christopher was known for being the patron saint of travellers. It did seem strange that the Catholic Church was demoting someone whose face had appeared for years on the dashboards of countless cars, but Sammy had heard on the radio that the Church had dropped a whole series of people from its list of saints. ‘How can you be a saint one day, and not be the next?’ he asked.

  ‘Exactly!’ said Da with a grin. ‘And what happened to all the prayers the Taigs said to St Christopher, now it turns out he wasn’t a saint?!’

  Sammy smiled, even though he didn’t fully share Da’s disdain for Catholics, especially since he had become friendly with Maeve. Wanting to distract his father from the topic, he posed a different kind of question. ‘What’s going to happen now we’ve a new Prime Minister, Da?’

  After the one-man-one-vote was very narrowly passed by the Unionist Party, Terence O’Neill had resigned as Prime Minister of Northern Ireland, to be replaced by James Chichester-Clarke. Sammy didn’t know if this would improve matters or make them worse, but he saw at once that his father was unimpressed by the change.

  ‘It won’t do anything for us. Chichester-Clarke,’ said Da derisively, rolling the double barrelled name on his lips. ‘A lot he cares about folks like us!’

  Sammy was sorry now that he had brought politics into it and changed Da’s mood. His mother and sisters had gone out for a walk, however, so there was nobody else here to lighten things.

  ‘Would you say Mr Chichester-Clarke carried a St Christopher medal, Da?’ he said jokingly.

  He was rewarded with a wry smile from his father. ‘He might be an upper-class twit, but at least he’s more cop-on than the Taigs.’ His father suddenly flicked his head as though dismissing a topic that was beneath him. ‘Anyway, I’m going down to The Grapes for a few pints. Tell your ma I’ll be back about nine for my dinner.’

  ‘OK, Da,’ answered Sammy, as his father nodded and made for the front door.

  The talk about religion made Sammy aware again of how angry his father would be if he knew about Maeve. It was bad enough in Da’s eye that he was friends with Dylan. Had it not been for Ma insisting that they needed the fees paid by Mr Goldman, Da would probably have banned him from being friends with a boy who was both Jewish and middle class.

  Thinking of Dylan, his mind went back to Buckie stopping the boxing match. Did Dylan suspect that he had gone to the trainer and tipped him off? In the last couple of weeks Dylan had never mentioned it, and Sammy hoped that he never would. He wasn’t sorry that he had acted to save his friend from a beating, though he feared Dylan might be angry that he had gone behind his back. But what else could he have done? And if Dylan asked him outright, should he lie? Could he lie? He didn’t know, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.

  Emma accelerated when she heard the bell sounding for the final lap of the race. She was at the back of the leading group of four runners who had pulled ahead of the rest of the field. Time to make her move. Ahead of her in third place was Maeve, in second place was Lucy Coyle, the girl who had tripped her that first night in Ardara Harriers ground, while the leading runner was a dark-haired girl from a running club in Stranmillis.

  Maeve was making her move also, and was starting to overtake Lucy Coyle on the outside. Emma had learnt her lesson the last time, and she was ready for any dirty tactics from the other girl as she tucked in behind Maeve.

  Sure enough, Lucy tried to elbow Maeve as she went past her, but Maeve blocked her with her elbow, then forged ahead. Increasing her pace to keep up with Maeve, Emma drew level with Lucy Coyle. This time, however, she didn’t wait for Lucy to try to elbow or trip her. Instead, Emma took the other girl by surprise, giving her a quick jab with her elbow as she powered past her.

  For a brief moment Emma exulted in having paid back Lucy Coyle, then she concentrated again on the two runners in front of her. Maeve had closed the gap on the leading girl, and as they neared the next bend Emma saw her friend speed up again to overtake the runner from Stranmillis.

  Emma could hear the roars of the spectators, with Mr Doyle’s unmistakeable voice to the fore as he urged on his two competitors. Normally Emma could count on the support of her family too, but tonight Dad was co
vering a civil rights meeting and Mom had taken Dylan to his soccer training. Not that Emma needed her family present in order to be motivated. She really wanted to win this race and show Mr D that the time he had spent refining her running technique hadn’t been in vain.

  The girl from Stranmillis tried to accelerate after Maeve, but Emma sensed that the dark-haired girl had little more to give, and as they came around the bend she overtook her. Maeve was about a yard ahead, but Emma felt strong, and she gave another spurt that brought her to just behind her friend’s shoulder.

  She was aware of how much Maeve wanted to win this race, and it seemed a pity that one of them had to be disappointed. If it hadn’t been for Maeve she wouldn’t have joined Harriers, wouldn’t have met Mr Doyle, and probably wouldn’t have improved to the point where she had a real chance to win. Still, now they were competing with each other, and one of them had to succeed at the expense of the other.

  She sensed that Maeve’s pace was slackening ever so slightly, and she accelerated again. To her delight she found herself level with her friend. Now they were approaching the final bend, and the cheering was reaching a crescendo. Emma could see the finish line in the distance and although her chest was pounding as she gulped in air, it was as if time slowed down in these final moments. She saw Maeve glancing over at her as they drew level, and even in that glimpse she recognised the fear in Maeve’s eyes that victory could be snatched from her.

  Emma felt a stab of guilt, knowing that it was Maeve’s friendliness and generosity that had drawn her into Ardara Harriers. And although Emma got on fairly well with the other girls in school, she hadn’t become close to any of them the way she had with Maeve. Would it put their friendship in jeopardy now if she won a race that she knew Maeve desperately wanted to win? And was winning worth more than their friendship? On the other hand, a real friend wouldn’t hold it against you if you won fair and square. Would she?

  They sprinted neck and neck into the home straight. Emma suddenly dismissed all thoughts from her mind and simply ran flat out. She felt herself drawing ahead of Maeve, then the finishing line seemed to be flying towards her and she thundered across the line, raising her arms exultantly in victory.