Stormclouds

by Brian Gallagher

  Mr Doyle ran onto the track, his face creased with a smile as he gave her a hug, ‘Maith an cailín, Emma! Maith an cailín!’

  ‘Thanks, Mr D!’ she said delightedly.

  She turned round to seek out Maeve and she could see at once the disappointment on her friend’s face.

  ‘Well done, Emma,’ Maeve said, offering her hand.

  Emma reached out and shook it. ‘Thanks, Maeve, and well done coming second.’

  Maeve tried for a smile but looked crestfallen, and Emma sensed that she had said the wrong thing.

  ‘I’m just going to get my top, see you in a bit,’ said Maeve, before turning away and making for the changing room.

  Emma’s delight at winning the race was fading, and she wondered if she had made an error in coming into Harriers as the new girl and winning a race that meant so much to her friend. But wouldn’t a friend worth having accept that in a race the fastest girl ought to win?

  She saw Mr Doyle approaching again, his face still wreathed in a smile. She smiled in return, telling herself that everything with Maeve would work out. Yet in her moment of victory, she couldn’t help but feel a little deflated.

  ‘Dylan, hang on a second, will you?’

  Dylan stopped, surprised by the friendly tone of Gordon’s voice. It was a sunny evening in May, and Wanderers had just drawn an exciting match with a team from Woodvale. All the other boys were making for the Nissen hut that served as the pavilion, but Dylan hung back now, curious to see what Gordon wanted.

  It was three weeks since Buckie had stopped their boxing match. The other boys on the team accepted that the trainer had intervened, and nobody had blamed either Dylan or Gordon for the fight being cancelled. But although they hadn’t fought, they hadn’t made peace either, and Gordon had been as unfriendly as ever.

  So what was going on now? Maybe the other boy had decided that it would be better for Wanderers if everyone on the team got on together and played for each other. And if Gordon was willing to let bygones be bygones then Dylan would do the same.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said encouragingly

  ‘I need to tell you something,’ said Gordon, drawing nearer. ‘In private.’

  ‘OK,’ answered Dylan, and he remained on the pitch as the other boys began to enter the pavilion.

  Gordon waited until everyone was out of earshot, then he turned to Dylan and looked him in the eye. ‘You better stop trying to show me up,’ he said.

  Dylan was taken aback. Now that there was no-one around, Gordon had dropped the friendly tone and spoken aggressively.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Dylan asked.

  ‘All these fancy runs you’re doing. Up and down the wing, in and out of the box, who do you think you’re impressing?’

  ‘Well, Buckie for one, seeing as he picks me each week!’ snapped Dylan, annoyed that Gordon’s earlier tone had just been used to fool anyone overhearing him.

  ‘It’s not your job to waltz in and out of the box,’ said Gordon, ‘I’m the centre forward.’

  ‘What are you afraid of – that I might score more goals?’

  ‘I’m not afraid of anything, but you should be.’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘You better back off and let me play the way I always have.’

  ‘You play your way, I’ll play mine,’ said Dylan.

  ‘No, you won’t. I’m sick of you showing off and getting in my way. You better cut it out if you know what’s good for you.’

  Dylan felt his anger rising. ‘Or what?’ he said.

  Gordon drew nearer, his voice low and threatening. ‘Or you might have an accident in training. Last year Robbie Musgrave broke his leg on the training ground. Awkward tackle. He was in plaster for six weeks and out of the game for eight months.’

  Dylan felt a chill run down his spine at the thought, but he was careful not to show any fear. ‘You won’t bully me,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah? Going to run squealing to Buckie again?’

  ‘I never went to Buckie last time!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, really.’

  ‘Someone did.’

  ‘Not me.’

  ‘Then how did he know about the boxing match?’

  ‘You set it up in a room full of people. Anyone could have yapped about it.’

  ‘Like your little pal Sammy. Did he save your yellow skin?’

  Dylan hesitated, trying to come up with a retort. But the problem was that Sammy might have gone to Buckie.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ continued Gordon. ‘Everyone knows I’d have beaten you. And don’t bother squealing to Buckie again, I’ll deny everything.’

  Gordon drew closer till their faces were almost touching, then he spoke menacingly. ‘Tell anyone about this and you’ll end up in plaster. And no-one will ever prove it wasn’t an accident. Do the smart thing if you know what’s good for you.’

  Gordon turned away and walked off, and Dylan stood on the pitch, a bit shaken and unsure what to do.

  ‘Fair play to you, Maeve,’ said Mr Doyle, ‘you unearthed a good one in Emma!’

  ‘Yeah …’

  ‘A cracking runner. And you did well yourself. Only half a yard behind her, to give Harriers first and second place – well done.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr D,’ said Maeve, ‘it was great for the club.’

  It was the week after the race and they were standing on the running track before training began. Maeve felt a little nervous about meeting Emma tonight. She had been really disappointed in the aftermath of the race and, looking back, she realised that she should have congratulated Emma more on her win. Then last weekend she had travelled to Strabane to visit Uncle Jim’s relations, and she hoped that Emma wouldn’t think that she had been sulking and avoiding her.

  ‘Talk of the devil!’ said Mr Doyle now.

  Maeve looked around to see Emma approaching them.

  ‘Hi, Mr Doyle,’ she said.

  ‘Emma, maith an cailin.’

  ‘Hi, Maeve.’

  ‘Emma.’ Maeve felt slightly uncomfortable.

  Mr Doyle briskly clapped his hands. ‘All right, girls, timed sprints in ten minutes. Don’t forget your stretching.’

  ‘OK, Mr D,’ said Maeve as the trainer headed off to the far side of the track. Maeve hesitated, then decided to take the plunge. ‘I’m … I’m sorry about last week, Emma.’

  ‘Sorry for what?’

  ‘For … for not behaving better when you won. I wanted that medal, but you won fair and square. I should … I should have been nicer,’ she finished awkwardly.

  Emma looked at her, and Maeve hoped the other girl would accept her apology. To her surprise, Emma grinned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I would have been the same if it was my club and a new member got a medal I wanted.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Probably worse!’

  Maeve smiled, relieved at this unexpected turn of events. ‘So we’re friends?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And I wasn’t sulking at the weekend. I really had to go away to Strabane.’

  ‘No problem. How was it?’

  ‘Kind of boring,’ answered Maeve, ‘meeting all these old uncles and aunts. It would have been far more fun making radio programmes with you.’

  ‘Talking of radio programmes, Dad found out I’ve been using his tape recorder.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Maeve looked nervously at Emma. ‘Did he find the recording we made?’

  ‘No, I rubbed that out. But he knew I’d been using the equipment.’

  ‘Did he go mad?’

  ‘No. I thought he might, but he was kind of cool.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Not to go behind his back again.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But he said I should make a proper programme.’

  Maeve looked at her friend in surprise. ‘Really?’

  ‘He suggested a short documentary.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Anything I l
ike. We could work on it together if you want?’

  ‘Yeah! Brilliant! Would my name be mentioned at the end?’

  ‘Of course. Co-produced by ‘Maeve the Rave’ Kennedy!’ said Emma in her mock dramatic voice. ‘So will we think something up, and give it a go?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Great. Now we better get stretching or Mr Doyle will be on the warpath.’

  ‘OK, stretching it is,’ said Maeve happily, excited by the idea of a radio programme, and glad they were still good friends.

  Sammy hoped that there wasn’t going to be a row. He was sitting at the kitchen table with his father and Mr Goldman, and he recognised the signs that Da’s anger was simmering. Normally Ma made a point of being present when Dylan’s father called to the house in his role as a journalist. She would always serve tea and try to keep the atmosphere pleasant, but tonight she was tending to a neighbour who had taken ill. Sammy guessed that Mr Goldman was smart enough to know that Da resented his presence in their home. Journalists needed first hand local information, however, and clearly Mr Goldman was prepared to put up with some hostility to get the views of a working-class Protestant family. And in fairness to Mr Goldman, he was always polite and agreeable, even when Da’s manner was surly. Sammy and Dylan being friends through the soccer club should have made things easier, but instead Da took exception to being paid by the father of his son’s friend.

  Dylan’s father was always discreet in his handling of the payment. Sammy suspected that Mr Goldman sensed Da’s discomfort, and so was at pains to ensure that it didn’t look like a handout, but instead was presented as a professional fee. It even came in a sealed envelope with a typewritten address. Despite all this, Sammy could see that Da’s resentment was rising now.

  ‘More tea, Mr Goldman?’ Sammy asked, hoping to ease the tension.

  Dylan’s father smiled at him but shook his head. ‘No thanks, Sammy, I’m fine.’

  ‘Or some more brack?’

  ‘If he wanted more brack he’d help himself, Sammy!’

  ‘Sorry, Da,’ said Sammy, not wanting to do anything to make matters worse.

  ‘Thanks for the offer, Sammy,’ said Mr Goldman. ‘It’s delicious brack, but I’m trying to count the calories these days.’

  Once more he smiled, and Sammy couldn’t help but wonder why Da couldn’t be more like Mr Goldman? OK, he hadn’t a well-paying, interesting job, and he hadn’t been to college like Dylan’s dad, but surely you didn’t have to be wealthy or well educated to be polite? Sammy felt guilty for thinking ill of his father, but he couldn’t help it.

  ‘So, Bill,’ said Mr Goldman, turning back to Sammy’s father. ‘To return to what I was saying. Of course I take your point that working-class Protestants have suffered harsh conditions for years. But what about the view that they should blame their political masters, rather than fellow workers who happen to be Catholic?’

  ‘What are you suggesting? We should be friends with a crowd of Papists?’

  ‘I’m not actually suggesting anything,’ said Mr Goldman. ‘I just want to know your view.’

  ‘I’ve nothing in common with Taigs. I’m a loyal Ulsterman; I stand for Queen and country. They’re a crowd of traitors who kow-tow to the Pope and want us in the Irish Free State!’

  ‘And the fact that working-class people of both camps want better working conditions and better housing?’

  ‘I don’t give a fiddlers about their housing or working conditions! Let the government improve conditions for us, the people loyal to the Crown, loyal to Ulster!’

  Sammy thought that there was no point getting angry with Mr Goldman, who was only asking questions as part of his job. The journalist was calmly writing down Da’s responses in shorthand, but Sammy could tell that his father somehow blamed Mr Goldman for raising the issue of both Catholics and Protestants suffering poor conditions in many areas of Belfast.

  ‘Put that in your newspaper! Aye, and you can say that Bill Taylor said it!’

  ‘Thank you for your frankness, but my sources remain anonymous.’

  ‘Your sources?’ said Da derisively, and Sammy sensed that his father’s ugly mood was such that he was eager now to pick a fight. As though aware of this, Mr Goldman clicked shut the point of his pen and put away the paper on which he had been writing.

  ‘I think we’ll leave it at that for now. Thank you, Bill, as ever, for your honesty. And thank you, Sammy, for the tea and brack.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Sammy, as the journalist rose.

  ‘And my best wishes to your mother.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll tell her,’ said Sammy, rising to compensate for the fact that Da had rudely remained sitting at the table.

  ‘Cheerio, Bill,’ said Mr Goldman.

  ‘Bye,’ said Da, curtly.

  Sammy saw Mr Goldman to the door, where the older man shook hands warmly.

  ‘Goodbye, Sammy, and we look forward to seeing you at the next barbecue, if not sooner.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Goldman. All the best.’

  The visitor nodded in farewell, then stepped out the front door. Sammy knew that he didn’t park his fancy car on their street, but left it instead up on Tate’s Avenue, not wanting to draw attention to his being with the Taylor family. But his discretion counted for nothing now, and Da sneered when Sammy turned to the kitchen.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Goldman! All the best, Mr Goldman!’

  Sammy was hurt by his father’s mimicry. ‘I was only being polite,’ he said.

  ‘What are you making out?! That I wasn’t?!’

  The smart thing would be to back down now, but his father had been rude – really rude.

  ‘I’m talking to you, sonny,’ said Da.

  ‘I know,’ snapped Sammy. ‘I was nice ’cause you weren’t!’ Sammy didn’t know how he had found the courage to tell the truth, and now his father rose and rounded the table, making for him

  ‘Don’t you give me lip, boy!’

  ‘I’m not, Da,’ said Sammy. ‘But I haven’t done something wrong by being polite.’ Sammy half expected a blow but he wasn’t going to back down now, and he would take a beating if necessary.

  Instead Da mocked him again. ‘More brack, Mr Goldman! More tea, Mr Goldman. What were you like?!’

  ‘Ma always taught us to be polite, and to make guests welcome. I was only doing what she said.’

  His father stared at him, but Sammy sensed that Da found it hard to challenge the training that Ma had drilled into all her children.

  ‘Just because your mother wants Goldman’s money doesn’t mean we’ve to dance attention on him. He’s not a normal guest. He’s not a friend.’

  Sammy wanted to answer that his son Dylan was his friend, but he said nothing for fear that Da might then ban him from seeing the other boy. And that would be worse than a beating. Although he had other friends on his road with whom he played football, and kick the can, and other street games, his friendship with Dylan had opened up a more glamorous and exciting world. He couldn’t bear to have that snatched away. But there was a real danger now that in a flash of anger his father might ban him from seeing Dylan. He had to win Da over, and he swallowed hard, then spoke in a conciliatory tone. ‘I’m sorry if I sounded cheeky, Da. I didn’t mean to.’

  His father looked at him for what seemed an age, then he nodded. ‘All right. We’ll let it go this time. Clear up the table here, then do your homework.’

  ‘Yes, Da,’ said Sammy, secretly angry at the injustice of it all, but relieved nonetheless that he had probably just saved a friendship.

  Maeve felt a thrill as the train sped across the estuary at Malahide. The sun sparkled on the dancing waves of the broad stretch of water and, looking out the carriage window, she couldn’t see the bridge that carried the railway, so that it seemed like the train was magically suspended while crossing the shimmering blue sea.

  She was excited also to be meeting her father, who had arrived back in Ireland last night on an army flight from Cyprus to Dublin
. He would be coming up to Belfast to spend most of his holidays with Maeve, but she had persuaded Aunt Nan to let her travel the one hundred and six miles to Dublin to greet him. It meant that they could have a couple of days together in Dublin and that Maeve could be reunited, if only briefly, with friends from her native city.

  Maeve had accepted that Belfast was her home now. Her Dublin friends kidded her about how she had picked up the Northern accent, but part of her would always be a Dubliner, and she was looking forward to shopping in Henry Street with her father this afternoon, and maybe visiting Dublin Zoo tomorrow.

  This was the first time that she had made the train journey alone between Belfast and Dublin. It had taken a bit of persuading, but eventually she had convinced Aunt Nan and Uncle Jim that at twelve years of age she was capable of travelling by herself for a couple of hours. Nevertheless her aunt and uncle had accompanied her to Great Victoria Street Station, instructed her not to talk to strangers, and seen her onto the Enterprise, the gleaming diesel train that ran between the two cities. Aunt Nan had given her wrapped ham sandwiches, two slices of apple tart, and a bottle of milk with a screw cap, all of which made Maeve feel like she was setting off on an adventure.

  She had brought along her Enid Blyton book, The Secret of Moon Castle, and later a boy of about seventeen had joined her carriage at Dundalk, bringing with him a transistor radio tuned to Radio Luxembourg. Obeying her aunt’s instruction not to talk to strangers, Maeve hadn’t spoken to him, but she had happily sung under her breath when two of her favourite songs, ‘Jumping Jack Flash’ and ‘Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da’, were played on the transistor radio.

  Now Maeve felt her pulses starting to race a little as the train sped through the suburbs of Dublin, making its way towards Connolly Station, where she was to meet her father. She loved reunions with him, and he always brought her some kind of present from his travels abroad. But she was usually a little nervous too. Apart from the risk of him being killed or injured, Maeve was conscious that things could change when people were apart. Supposing he met someone and wanted to get married again? Would she be expected to leave Aunt Nan and Uncle Jim and live with a stepmother? She was probably worrying needlessly, she reasoned, and Dad had said nothing about any other woman, but still there was always a trace of anxiety until they were reunited and got back into their usual routine.