by Graham Jones
5
The day Michael selected for his next visit was windy and freezin and sunny and our dog Planet looked like he had been poured onto the mound beside the entrance as he lay watchin the grass and his very own fur get blown all over the place. I was makin sausage and ketchup sandwiches for an endless number of takers and keepin an eye on my little nephew Jason who was drivin his electric scooter around.
Mobile phones had been jumpin like beans non-stop that month, what with disappeared travellers reappearin and first cousin engagements and what have you. Every family in Ireland who had anything to do with us, many families in Manchester and three across the rest of England knew the latest gossip, had recycled it many times and all but discarded it. Things were startin to quiet down. It seemed like Michael had never been gone and that Gull and Mairead were already in their autumn years. In fact, we had even been treated to a brief argument after they came home from the chipper one night.
Life went on.
I was removin frizzy, carroty rope from one of Jason's black plastic wheels when Michael appeared in front of me.
'Hi,' I wiped my hands on my dress and looked up at him.
'Howaya?' he nodded and did some eye contact.
There was a calmness to the interaction that made me feel we were past the beginnin of gettin to know each other again. Still, I found myself foldin my arms in mild discomfort while standin up.
'Remember you were sayin your game can't be about horses?' I asked.
'Yeah,' he smiled.
'Well,' I washed my teeth with my tongue and glanced aside. 'I have another idea for ya.'
'Really?' he asked.
I looked back at him and saw that false type of interest social workers and their brethren display.
'Yeah,' I nodded. 'Come with me.'
We walked towards the entrance of the camp.
'Where you takin me?' he asked.
'I want to show something,' I said quietly. 'It wasn't here in your day.'
Immediately outside, a bunch of the lads were doin something to Shane's truck. The cab was lifted so the front of the truck was dippin toward the ground and they could get underneath. Think they were takin turns attemptin something with a wrench.
'Aaahh,' Francie said in reply to Shane. 'Believe me. I know a good thing. Any good things around here I'll find them.'
Myself and Michael nodded respectfully as we passed.
'I know,' Paddy murmured. 'You'll be overpaid for it.'
As Michael and I walked around the front of the cab and crossed the back road we found Trigger tied to a staked metal pipe with blue rope, balancin on the slope of grass. His head dippin as he looked through rubbish and branches for weeds at the very edge of the road, muzzle brushin off tarmacadam while hind leg tripped over rope. The wind blowin his white fluffy spiked mane around a little and swayin that long, combed white haircut of a tail. He had some dark blotches on his tummy and I rubbed him there while climbin past.
As we walked those first yards together, in the moments before it was natural to chat, I noted my feelins durin this third visit of Michael's were quite banal. Of course he had eventually returned, I grinned. Like a line of string giftwrappin a life I lived for nobody. Soon he might even bore me, too. Just to tie the knot.
We heard the truck engine roar to life and glanced back as sunny smoke started goin to heaven. Francie and Shane were now swingin the blue, rain dotted cab down into place again. Then everyone except Joe climbed inside and drove past us for the main road, shoutin as they went.
'Make an honest woman out of her!' Paddy howled.
As we walked across the grass, buses groaned by on the dualer and the odd plane approached to land.
'How's work?' I asked.
'Gettin busy,' he nodded. 'It's all about bein ready for Christmas.'
'Wow,' I jutted my eyebrows humbly in the hope of flatterin him a little today. 'Must be so interesting?'
He looked at me like he wasn't sure how to take that.
'Yeah,' he shrugged. 'These days videogames are all the rage, Christine. They used to make games out of movies but now it's the other way around.'
I nodded slowly.
'Do you find it scary?' I asked. 'Like Ape says. What if everything becomes a game?'
'That's happened,' he shrugged as we started to veer. 'There's sites where you become a character and actually walk in and out of shops and even buy things - you can live like that.'
He was watchin a couple of Holy Child girls walk by in their black socks, grey skirts and navy jumpers. Their hair tied up and one of them clickin away on her mobile. The speed at which the two girls moved was incredible.
'Kids are the ones I feel sorry for,' he nodded vaguely in their direction.
Two blue-sweatered schoolboys followed the girls a while later, though with much less speed and determination. Hands in grey pockets, stopping and swirlin. Kickin and examinin the pavement.
'Where are you takin me Christine?' Michael asked as we descended the green and walked past Auntie Mona's abandoned trailer which was a tomb of woodcuttins nowadays.
'The gym,' I said.
'VIP Fitness?' he looked back because that was the other way.
'No,' I said.
I skipped over the faded, stringy hay and then up and over the fence of chocolate brown corrugated iron. Then we jumped down onto thick wires and zillions of really thin ones - stridin across them until we got to ferns that preceded the gym.
The door was long gone which meant we just approached a gap in the concrete structure. It looked darker than I remembered inside, but that changed once we entered.
The place was little more than shiny cream walls, a tiled floor with a square of seventies carpet in the middle and two families of weight apparatus ignored for more than one winter. Half the equipment sat on a section of tiles that were raised at the far end, while slouchin blue punchbags hung on either side of the entrance.
Michael circled the bags, unsure whether to dig or hug.
'The room we used to put the vegetables in,' he said slowly.
'Yeah,' I nodded from where the equipment was.
'Mmm,' he said.
I inspected the raised tile section and after a moment's hesitation sat down beside a weddin cake of dusty purple barbells.
'You hear about Big Blessed John and Scoby Maughan?' I asked in a contrived way.
'No,' he stupidly hugged one of the bags and stared at me.
'They had a fight,' I smiled.
'What?' he yelped. 'How old are them lads?'
'Fifty odd,' I said. 'Anyway... I was thinkin maybe you could make the game about bareknuckle.'
He looked upwards, where his bag's rope was tied around a rafter only available because that part of the ceilin had been peeled away by the lads.
'Yeah?' he said, again like a social worker.
I knew he wasn't takin me seriously so kicked junk away from my reclinin leg - some lad's scaled silverblack trainer, a Steve Collins newspaper article and framed Republic of Ireland soccer photo.
Remember I told you about Michael's great grandfather Joe, who was in that old photo with his wife and with whom Patsy manipulated the potatoes? Well, Joe's cousin was one of the great legends of the twentieth century. King McDonagh. Awarded six white horses and a new caravan when he won that title and - the story goes - never even willin to take off his jacket. He believed no man was good enough that he needed to take off his jacket to beat him! A knockout artist. Died in 1963 at the age of 63 and 10,000 people attended his funeral - a lot of them settled people because in Kerry we had a deep connection with the locals for many years goin back. He could have been challenged. If someone had been willin. Nobody was. Had his last fight before he died and won. Died of a heart attack, although not because of the fight. There was a man. King of the Travellers! A fightin man. There's no real king today. Don't let anyone tell you there is. It's purely speculation. Whomever different families think is the best man. I could name three or four, to be honest.
&nbs
p; 'Barney Joyce,' I said.
'Barney?' Michael smiled. 'What about Joseph?'
'Joseph's dead and gone,' I bit my lip. 'John Paul Quinn you would have to put on the list. Paddy McDonagh, your third cousin. You could base the game on all of them Michael. It'd be brilliant!'
'Seriously?' he asked, even though it was his own family. 'That little shit is boxing?'
'He's in jail at the moment,' I said. 'But he's gettin out... I think it's this month.'
'He anything like the King was?' Michael asked. 'How old is he?'
'Thirty one or thirty three,' I said. 'Six foot seven and twenty stone weight. Comin out this month and gonna be fightin... he wants to fight John Paul Quinn. John Paul is kind of the King at the moment.'
'Oh yeah,' Michael said doubtfully.
'If ya know what I mean like,' I let a deep breath do what it wanted. 'Because he's unbeaten. He hasn't fought now in eight years but he's still the King.'
Michael nodded.
I was seriously thinkin it might be possible to make the game about boxin and hoped he was doin the same. Made me feel uneasy the gym was in such poor condition, though. Not just rubbish but smashed tiles, food and scattered bar bells everywhere - monuments to how the lads had squandered their conviction.
The fights normally take place up the road on stones. On a grounds. In a site. Places like that. Sometimes just a cul de sac. You get two referees. They're called fairplay men. Even if you're fightin tomorrow mornin you have to get someone to show fairplay. Can't be just anybody. Has to be someone with a name, who can fight or at least is respected among the travellin community. Someone who has a dangerous family basically. There's normally two fairplay men. Sometimes it's one representin each side. Sometimes the two of them just agree, neutrally, they're reffin for both. Y'know?
In the last fight I saw, both fairplay men were very nice fellas from the Quinn Ward* family. That's one of the most famous families. One of the most dangerous fightin families. Both the lads fightin agreed those two fairplay men were acceptable.
Fairplay means makin sure that it's bareknuckle. Fists only. No headbuttin, no elbow, no kickin, no nothing. Of course, you will get that stuff the odd time. There may be a disqualification. It's not incredibly strict. There's some leeway.
'You'll get an odd headbut and a hit in the break these days,' I shrugged. 'But generally speakin the game is just as beautiful as it's always been.'
Michael squinted at me - surprisin indeed that one traveller had to sell bareknuckle to another.
'What do you think?' I asked him.
I meant to remind him that if someone goes psycho, it's not bareknuckle at all. There's no skill there. That was the problem with violent videogames. It was just people wanderin around aimlessly, punchin and shootin.
'You could actually have fairplay men on the screen,' I grinned. 'The player would know not to mess around with them because they're dangerous enough guys and so on. Sometimes the game would last a few minutes. Sometimes much longer. But it's not a stupid disagreement at a weddin. It's a refined sport!'
'Who fought last?' Michael sighed.
'Peto McGinley and Jimmy McGinley last Christmas,' I replied without missin a beat - like Michael's new secretary of boxin or something. 'Two cousins. Shameful enough to say, they were each fightin their own cousin.'
He was studyin me, realisin I had rehearsed this.
'One of them, can't remember which, was disrespectin family,' I said. 'Callin the other's mother and aunts names. His own aunts. Givin out to his grandfather. Sayin he wanted to fight his grandfather a few years ago.'
The younger cousin came to an age where he could give it back and so the two lads went for an hour and a half. Everyone rushed in and begged them to draw for peace sake. Because at the end of the day if one of them had won it wouldn't have been peace. Do you know what I mean? That would have only made it worse. They just got a lot of frustration out. It was a draw. Fair enough result.
'They'll walk by each other now and wave,' I toyed more with the junk at my foot. 'They were happy enough to get out of it.'
'Many there?' Michael asked.
'About two or three hundred,' I shrugged.
That was an awful lot for a fight. It was prearranged. Sometimes you got spur of the moment fights and only two or three people would be there. Two lads suddenly want to fight and it'll just happen. The lads in question might not be trained or fit. Will just go out and throw their best. Walk off down the road behind a tree and come back an hour or two later and that will be it.
'In truth,' I said to Michael. 'It all lead back to one cousin fightin one trainin buddy. Peto shouldn't have been trainin with him, because he knows that's their enemy. He started talkin. Sayin he'd do this and that to other people. Jimmy picked him up on it. Said he'd fight him right away. That he didn't have to be fit. He didn't care. But Peto said no, he wanted twelve weeks. Jimmy said fair enough, you can have your twelve weeks. That was how they got to Christmas.'
Lookin around I couldn't shake a feelin of loss because when the lads first made that place a gym it was so tidy and they had all the stations in for watchin the World Cup. Now I feared it had merely been a waitin room for gettin into the drugs business. Sure, one or two lads who were serious used VIP Fitness these days or might be found in the boxin club - but it didn't bode well that none of the really young ones were in here. That everything was still.
'Jimmy boxes,' I yawned. 'And if the DVD of his fight with Peto is ever sent into the IABA he'll be in shit.'
'Who are they again?' Michael asked.
'Irish Amateur Boxin Association,' I started drummin the raised section between my legs. 'He'd be banned from boxin like.'
Amateur boxers are not allowed use their fists on the street. It's a traditional thing for us, however and we shouldn't be prevented from doin it. But if you do bareknuckle in your own time and in your own community while you're also doin boxin at a national level, you can be banned. If the IABA finds out. We all know lads it's happened to.
'Tell me about Big Blessed John,' Michael smiled.
'Big Blessed John,' I tried hard to sound like one of the boys. 'Back at fifty four years of age. Fightin Scoby Maughan!'
'Another legend,' Michael sneered. 'He's about the same age, isn't he?'
'Scoby's fifty two,' I said. 'We couldn't believe this, Michael. All we knew was all talk about Big Blessed John.'
'Well,' Michael said. 'He never would have been caught on video, obviously.'
It was all talk, all hearsay, but everyone knew Big Blessed John was great. He was one of the best ever. But for a young girl like myself or people who'd never seen him it was so excitin. My grandfather saw him many times. We couldn't believe it. Big Blessed John was fightin. Jesus Christ. We're gonna get to see for ourselves!
'What was he like?' Michael asked.
'Believe me,' I kicked away that dusty trainer. 'At fifty four years of age he impressed the young fellas an awful lot... we can only wonder what he would have been like thirty years ago.'
'Yeah?' Michael looked at the ground. 'You wouldn't have liked to get in front of him I'd say.'
'He was punchin the head off Scoby Maughan,' I grinned. 'Now, it wasn't a fair fight. The fella showin fairplay was one of the Quinn Wards who hate Big Blessed John's family and the Nevins hate the Maughans too. They're showin fairplay? Nah. Big Blessed John bit Scoby at the end of it. He bit him! After givin your man a dog's beatin. So they disqualified him.'
'But everyone knows who won the fight,' Michael sighed.
'Big Blessed John,' I nodded. 'He was everythin we thought he was gonna be and at fifty four!'
'What was it over?' Michael asked.
'He'd been drinkin at Joseph's funeral in Manchester,' I said. 'Came back to discover the Maughan's had sent him a challenge on DVD.'
'The fuckin challenges are on DVD now?' Michael asked.
'Sometimes,' I nodded slowly. 'It can be sent from one part of Ireland to another that way. Y'know
? On this DVD they were callin him names. They were all on there. Scoby Maughan. His son Hussy Maughan. His son Trevor Maughan. I haven't a clue what his other son's name is. All windin him up. Big John, you think you're the greatest. You're not the King. There was a King. Years ago. King McDonagh. He was the King. All due respect to him and his family. But I'll bate you any day.'
Michael threw his eyes to heaven and for a moment I didn't know how to take him.
'It's just a thing goin on years,' I yawned. 'Do you know what it is? It's the Sunday World. They were goin out to travellers and gettin their statements off them. Big Blessed John was sayin I am the greatest and all. Suppose Scoby felt his position as a fightin man was bein eroded. That it was his role as a fightin man to pick him up on it.'
'No arguments lead up to it?' Michael asked.
'No,' I smiled. 'It was just who's the best!'
'Well,' Michael sighed. 'Scoby Maughan... in my opinion and a lot of people's opinions? was never a great fighter at all.'
'I know,' I nodded. 'But he could take a beatin.'
'That's it,' Michael said.
'Really tough,' I nodded. 'But was never a great fighter.'
'Never,' Michael pinched the thigh of his jeans and pulled them out from his legs a little. 'My brother told me he was an entertainer. How before the fight he'd be out messin with his son. Shadow boxin. Everyone would be lovin it. Laughin at him. Smilin and laughin and jokin. Yeah. How many were there?'
'Suppose there were two or three hundred again,' I said. 'It's after becomin a money thing over the last four or five years, see Michael. They're gettin recorded. Banged onto DVDs. Sold. Big Blessed Joe versus the Maughans. Five, ten quid out in the market. People are into it. What do you think?'
'Yeah?' he sighed. 'Again, the problem is there's loads of videogames about boxin.'
Neither of us said anything for a moment or two.
I wondered again what the bastard was up to - why he had come back - as he slowly walked over and sat down beside me.
Abruptly leant forward and began kissin me on the mouth.
I kissed him back, at first.
Almost immediately his hand was creepin under my t-shirt, though, which didn't feel right and so I stood up.
'Michael,' I said. 'What are you doin here? Why have you come back? Is it for me? Because I'll tell ya right now - I'm not goin through that shit again.'
'I better go find somewhere to live,' he muttered and stood up himself. 'Can't couch surf forever.'
Then simply walked out the door.
*The Quinn Wards were called that over smugglin one time. They were actually just Wards, but told the police they were Quinns. Now we all call them the 'Quinn Wards'.