Stormclouds

by Brian Gallagher

  When Maeve had invited him on the daytrip he had eagerly accepted, but he had told Da that the trip was with Dylan and his family. What would Da say when he discovered that was a lie? And that Sammy had a secret friend who was a nationalist? He had thought of asking Mr Kennedy not to bring him home. But he could hardly say to Maeve’s father: ‘Thanks for looking after me, but don’t bring me home. It’s a problem that you’re a Catholic.’

  His mind was running in circles as he tried desperately to think of a way out. He had to find a way, because Da would kill him for telling a lie. And he would really go mad if he found out the Kennedys were nationalists, and that Mr Kennedy was in the Irish army. His reverie was suddenly cut short as a nurse approached with a chart. ‘Sammy Taylor?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right, Sammy, let’s get you X-rayed.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he answered, anxious to get the procedure over with and to know if his ankle would be all right. Sammy rose to follow the nurse on his hospital crutches, and Maeve’s father winked at him, while his friends wished him good luck. He nodded in reply and tried for a smile, but his stomach was in a knot as he wondered, yet again, what he would tell his father.

  ‘Thanks for everything, Mr Kennedy’ said Dylan as he stepped out of the car, just around the corner from Sammy’s house.

  ‘I’m not sure about this, Dylan,’ said Maeve’s father from behind the driver’s wheel.

  ‘Please, Mr Kennedy. Let me talk to Sammy’s dad, it’s definitely the best way,’ said Dylan as persuasively as he could.

  They were parked on Broadway, near enough to Sammy’s house for him to walk there on the crutches, but not in direct view, lest Sammy’s father might look out the window. The good news was that Sammy’s ankle wasn’t broken, just badly sprained. But although Sammy had been enormously relieved when the doctor had discharged him, he had confided to Dylan that he would be in big trouble when his da discovered that he hadn’t spent the day with the Goldmans, but with Maeve and her father.

  Dylan had realised at once that with a father so prejudiced and unstable, Sammy could easily end up getting a beating. After Sammy’s loyalty in confronting Gordon Elliot, Dylan couldn’t leave his friend to his fate, so he had done what Sammy couldn’t do himself, and had discreetly explained the situation to Mr Kennedy. For once, being Jewish had been an advantage, and Dylan had pointed out to Maeve’s father that the whole Catholic/Protestant issue wouldn’t arise if it emerged that Sammy hurt his ankle while out with a Jewish friend.

  Back at the hospital Mr Kennedy had very reluctantly gone along with Dylan’s reasoning, but now that the moment had come he looked dubious,

  ‘Please, Mr Kennedy,’ said Dylan. ‘If you just drop Sammy here I’ll bring him in.’

  Maeve’s father still looked uneasy.

  ‘Sammy’s suffered enough today,’ said Dylan, ‘none of us want to see him in more trouble.’

  Mr Kennedy hesitated, then breathed out. ‘All right then,’ he said. ‘And mind that ankle, Sammy. Keep it raised as much as you can.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Kennedy, I will. And thanks for a great day out. Sorry I spoiled it.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, son. Just mind yourself.’

  ‘Good luck, Sammy,’ said Maeve, and Emma gave him a thumbs up sign.

  Dylan picked up Sammy’s rucksack as well as his own, then tapped the roof of the car in farewell as Mr Kennedy started the engine.

  ‘OK, Sammy,’ said Dylan, his heart starting to pound at the thought of facing his friend’s father, ‘let’s do it.’

  Sammy nodded and gripped his crutches, then the two boys started for the house.

  ‘Damn it all, will I ever get some peace?! Why can’t you be careful, and not land me with doctors and hospitals and God knows what?!’

  ‘It wasn’t Sammy’s fault, Mr Taylor,’ said Dylan. ‘If anyone’s to blame it’s me.’

  ‘And how’s that?’ asked Sammy’s father aggressively.

  They were in the living room in Ebor Street, the setting sun casting a mellow golden glow through the window. But there was nothing mellow about Mr Taylor, who had sent Sammy’s sisters out of the room, in what Dylan felt was a worrying move.

  ‘Please, Bill,’ said Sammy’s mother now, ‘you don’t have to bite off Dylan’s nose.’

  ‘Maybe I do! He’s just said it was his fault.’

  Dylan realised that Sammy was about to speak up, and he needed to get in first before his friend got into more trouble. Mr Taylor was frightening, with his red face and staring eyes, but Dylan recalled how Sammy had been willing to fight Gordon with him, and he knew he had to be brave.

  ‘I don’t blame you for being angry with me,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have gotten Sammy to race down the hill,’ he added inventively, ‘it was my fault, not his.’

  Lying with a fluency that surprised himself, Dylan had explained that his own father had been called to the office in an emergency, causing the picnic to be cancelled, but that he had persuaded Sammy to take the train to the seaside at Bangor, where Sammy had sustained the injury.

  Mr Taylor had asked how Sammy had travelled from the train to the hospital, and from the hospital to Ebor Street, and Dylan had explained that he had used his pocket money for taxis. It was one of the advantages of being viewed as a rich American that nobody had questioned this.

  Mr Taylor drew nearer to Dylan now and glared at him. ‘If you were my son I’d give you what for!’ he growled.

  ‘Bill,’ said Mrs Taylor.

  ‘I’m not talking to you, Rose, I’m talking to this fella,’ he snapped. He turned back to Dylan. ‘Aye, a proper hiding I’d give you!’

  Dylan felt that this was bully behaviour, and before he knew what he was doing he said, ‘It’s well I’m not your son then.’

  He saw the flash of anger in Mr Taylor’s eyes. ‘Maybe your own father needs to do it then. Maybe I’ll have a chat with him.’

  ‘I’ve already admitted it to him,’ said Dylan, ‘and I’ll be punished. But my father doesn’t beat me.’

  He hadn’t told Dad, but now he would have to explain the circumstances and hope his father would approve of his acting to protect Sammy.

  Mr Taylor seemed briefly taken aback, and to Dylan’s relief Sammy’s mother spoke up.

  ‘Well, I think the best thing is for Sammy to get himself off to bed now. Thank you, Dylan, for getting him safely back to us.’

  Dylan had been offered an exit line, and now that Sammy would be safely in bed he decided to move quickly. ‘See you, Sammy. Hope your ankle is better in the morning.’

  ‘Thanks, Dylan. See you.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Taylor, Mr Taylor.’

  Sammy’s father didn’t respond, but his mother gave him a quick conspiratorial wink. ‘Good night, Dylan,’ she said.

  Dylan nodded briefly in acknowledgement, then he crossed to the hall door, stepped out onto Ebor Street and breathed an enormous sigh of relief.

  ‘Men on the moon, what will they think of next?!’ said Mr Doyle as he walked back along the running track with Emma and Maeve after training.

  ‘Well, they haven’t actually landed yet,’ said Emma.

  ‘Sure they’re taking off next month. I saw it on the goggle box,’ answered Mr Doyle.

  Emma glanced at Maeve and grinned. Only someone as old-fashioned as Mr Doyle could refer to television as “the goggle box”.’

  ‘Travelling from Florida to the moon!’ The trainer’s Belfast accent became stronger when he was animated, and he looked at Emma in the dusk of the summer evening, his eyes slightly bulging. ‘The moon! When I was young, going to the sea in Bangor was an expedition.’

  ‘Well, the moon is a bit further than Bangor,’ admitted Emma with a smile. She found Mr Doyle entertaining, they had just had a satisfying training session, and life was good right now.

  It was eleven days since Sammy had injured his ankle, and to everyone’s relief he had made a fast recovery. Dylan had told their father the whole st
ory, and Emma hadn’t been too surprised when Dad agreed, with a little persuasion, to back up Dylan’s story to Mr Taylor. Normally Dad insisted on truthfulness, but he knew first-hand how unreasonable Sammy’s father could be, and he had gone along with Dylan’s tale to protect Sammy. The one negative thing was that three days ago Maeve’s father had gone back to the army in Cyprus, and Emma could see that tonight Maeve was a bit subdued. Emma’s thoughts were interrupted when Mr Doyle suddenly stopped in his tracks.

  ‘Mother of God, look at that young fella!’ he said, indicating a boy who was walking along the top of the boundary wall on the far side of the running track. ‘Get down off that wall, you wee pup, ye!’ shouted Mr Doyle, moving away from the girls at speed, and making for the offending boy.

  ‘You wee pup, ye!’ said Emma, accurately mimicking the trainer.

  Maeve smiled, and Emma continued enthusiastically. ‘We have to use Mr D for our documentary, Maeve, he’d be brilliant.’

  After much discussion, Emma and Maeve had agreed to make their documentary on the subject of accents. What with Mom’s American accent, Dad’s English one, her own and Dylan’s originally English but now American accents, and Maeve’s Belfast accent with an underlay of Dublin, they already had a range of voices to explore.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose we could ask him,’ answered Maeve.

  Emma could see that her friend lacked her usual sparkle and she put her hand on her arm.

  ‘I know it’s tough,’ she said gently.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘With your dad gone back. I know you really enjoyed having him here. He was lovely, so I understand how–’

  Maeve’s eyes welled up with tears, and Emma stopped mid sentence. She squeezed her friend’s arm. ‘Sorry, Maeve, I didn’t mean …’

  ‘It’s OK.’

  But Emma could see that it wasn’t OK, and that tears were rolling down Maeve’s cheeks.

  ‘Let’s sit down over there,’ she said, guiding her friend to a seat around the corner from the changing room. They sat down together on the creaky wooden bench, and Emma put her arm around Maeve as the other girl dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘I just wish … I just wish he hadn’t to go back,’ said Maeve.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘It’s like … it’s like people are always leaving me. First Mam, and now Dad…’

  The tears were rolling freely, and Maeve snuffled, then tried to dry her eyes again.

  ‘I’m sorry, Emma. I’m sorry for being …’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Emma soothingly as she stroked her friend’s hair. ‘It’s OK to cry, Maeve, better to let it out.’

  After a moment Maeve gathered herself and looked at Emma with tearstained eyes.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. Aunt Nan and Uncle Jim are great. But it’s not the same as your own father. And I’ve been remembering things from when Mam was alive and the three of us were together.’

  Maeve rarely spoke of her dead mother, and Emma asked softly. ‘What was she like?’

  ‘She was really funny. She could always make me laugh.’

  ‘That must be where you got your sense of humour.’

  ‘Maybe,’ answered Maeve, trying for a wan smile. ‘Though I didn’t laugh for long time after she died.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘And having Dad here for two weeks was brilliant, just brilliant. But then when he left…’

  ‘I know.’

  Maeve composed herself a little and spoke more strongly. ‘Don’t mind me, Emma, I’m just feeling a bit sorry for myself. I’ll be fine.’

  Emma squeezed her shoulder. ‘Of course you will. But till you are, friends are there to help each other, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So if you feel down and want to talk, tell me. You don’t have to pretend you’re OK, not with me. Is that a deal?’

  ‘That’s a deal. And Emma?

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Thanks You’re … you’re the best friend I ever had.’

  Now it was Emma’s turn to feel tearful. ‘Thanks, Maeve’, she said softly. She quickly wiped her own eyes and smiled ruefully. ‘What are we like?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I feel better. Will we head back before Mr D finds us?’

  ‘OK,’ answered Emma.

  They stood up, and Emma felt deeply touched by the compliment that Maeve had just paid her. Then the two friends made for the changing room, walking arm in arm in the dark blue of the summer dusk.

  ‘Her and her exhibition!’ said Sammy’s father. ‘As if we’d go to that!’

  Sammy was in the kitchen with his parents, and an invitation to Mrs Goldman’s art exhibition had come in the post.

  ‘I think it was nice of her to ask us,’ said Sammy’s mother.

  ‘Nice of her?!’ Da snorted. ‘And her young fella after nearly wrecking our Sammy’s ankle!’

  It was three weeks now since Sammy had twisted his ankle and he wished Da would let the matter drop. ‘I’m back training and all, Da,’ he said reasonably. ‘My ankle is fine.’

  ‘It mightn’t have been! It could easily have been broken. And she thinks she can act like nothing’s happened and ask us to her “art exhibition”.’

  ‘In fairness, Bill, Dylan was very apologetic about the accident,’ said Ma.

  ‘That was big of him.’

  ‘Sammy is grand, it all worked out OK.’

  ‘I still don’t know what they’re at, inviting us to something like that.’

  ‘We’ve had dealings with Mr Goldman, they’re just being friendly.’

  Sammy was tempted to say that the Goldmans were simply generous and inviting by nature, but he said nothing, not wanting to annoy his father.

  ‘Our dealings are business,’ said Da. ‘Goldman is always going on about that. So why pretend that someone you do business with is your friend?’

  ‘It’s probably because Sammy and Dylan are friends,’ suggested Ma. ‘Anyway I think it would be interesting to go.’

  Da looked at her in disbelief. ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘Come on, Bill, it would be something different.’

  ‘Put it out of your head, we’re not going to be made laughing stocks of.’

  ‘How would we be laughing stocks?’ asked Ma.

  ‘Talking rubbish with a crowd of arty types? We’d look well!’ said Da with a bitter laugh.

  Sammy rarely sided with his father against Ma, but a part of him thought Da had a point, and that they might be uncomfortably out of their depth at the art exhibition.

  ‘We don’t have to pretend to be anything we’re not,’ said Ma. ‘But I’ve never been to anything like this. It might be really nice.’

  ‘Is there something wrong with your hearing, woman?! I’m not going, so forget it.’

  ‘All right then,’ said Ma, ‘you don’t have to. But I’m going.’

  Sammy was really surprised. Normally Ma pleased his father to keep the peace. Occasionally, though, she made a stand – he just hadn’t expected it to be over an art exhibition.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ said Da.

  ‘I’m not being ridiculous.’

  ‘Of course you are!’

  ‘What’s ridiculous about accepting an invitation?’

  ‘To go without your husband to something where you’ll know nobody?’

  ‘I’ll know Dylan, and Mr Goldman, and Sammy.’

  Sammy had been asked by Dylan’s mother to help out at the exhibition, but he had never expected that his own mother would be on the guest list. He could see that Da was angry, but his mother had a determined look on her face and she didn’t flinch when Da drew nearer to her.

  ‘Are you trying to defy me?’ he asked.

  ‘No. But you won’t come. And I’ve a right to go out if I want.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve a right, have you?! It’s not enough to listen to the Taigs, we’re going to have civil rights at home too!’

  ‘I’m not arguing with you, Bill,’ said Ma calmly. ‘But I’m accept
ing the invitation.’ Before Da could say anything else, Ma turned on her heel and went up the stairs.

  ‘See you later, Da,’ said Sammy.

  He made for the door, knowing that it would be a good idea to get out of Da’s way right now. Sammy opened the hall door and headed down Ebor Street where a game of soccer was in progress. It was just what he needed to calm his buzzing head, he thought. On the one hand he was delighted that Ma had won a battle and stood up to Da. But Ma was a factory worker, and there wouldn’t be many other people at the exhibition who worked in a mill. Would she stick out like a sore thumb and be really sorry that she had gone? Sammy didn’t know, and as he reached the boys playing football at the corner of Kilburn Street he hoped she would be OK, then put his worries aside, greeted the other boys and joined in the game.

  ‘I have a question,’ said Emma.

  ‘This is going to be silly, I can tell,’ cut in Dylan.

  ‘Don’t be such a spoilsport,’ Emma told her brother, and Maeve smiled, enjoying the banter between the twins as the group of friends relaxed in the Goldmans’ back garden.

  ‘What’s the question?’ asked Sammy.

  ‘How did Noah see the ark at night?’

  ‘Please say you didn’t get this from Mom’s joke book,’ said Dylan.

  ‘Don’t mind him, Emma,’ said Maeve with a smile. ‘How did Noah see the ark at night?’

  ‘Flood lights!’

  ‘Aw please!’ protested Dylan, but even as he said it he was smiling.

  ‘I think that’s pretty good, actually,’ said Sammy.

  Maeve laughed happily at her friend’s joke. She still missed her father, but it was several weeks now since he had gone back to Cyprus, and she had taken Emma’s advice and carried on as best she could.