Paperboy (13 page)

By four o'clock that afternoon, I just wanted to get out of there and get home to do my papers. At least my talents were appreciated at work, even if they were overlooked at school. As I left the school, it was already getting dark. It was raining, as usual, so I had to put up my blue duffle-coat hood. It wasn't properly waterproof, but it was so thick the rain didn't come through. I walked to my bus stop with my schoolbag over my shoulder, holding in one hand my guitar in its faux-leather case and, in the other, my violin case. It was just me and my instruments at this bus stop, where you could catch a bus into the city centre and, from the City Hall, take another bus up the Shankill. Most of the other thespians had gone to the Antrim Road bus stop. Patricia Thompson, for example, just had a short direct bus route home to her detached house – when her daddy didn't collect her in his Rover, that is. It wasn't fair.

After more than half an hour standing in the rain, during which time I was distracted by angry thoughts about Miss Baron and what would happen if Patricia Thompson broke her leg or if her minister were to receive an anonymous letter and didn't allow her to dress up as a boy, I realised that my bus was late. Sometimes the bus was late because of the Troubles, but it usually came within an hour, once the bomb-disposal men had had the chance to blow up the suspect device in the hijacked milk van in which it had been planted.

Another half hour passed, during which my mind wandered from time travel to meteorites to Agnetha. Then I realised that the bus was very late indeed. In fact, I knew that by now I would not make it home in time to collect my papers from Oul' Mac at the van. At this stage, I wasn't too concerned, however. I could still be home within an hour and deliver my
Tellys
a little late. I could blame the Provos; everyone would call them bastards, and everything would be okay. I searched in my pockets among the chewing gum and marbles for the two-pence piece I retained for such emergencies, and then I picked up my violin and guitar and calmly walked around the corner to the red public telephone box, in order to call home and ask my big brother to collect the papers.

It was only once I had managed to squeeze inside the phone box with both instruments and my schoolbag that I discovered it had been vandalised, and I had to awkwardly extricate both myself and my luggage in a reverse movement with my duffle-coat hood still up, restricting my rear view. I daren't leave my guitar or violin outside or, I was sure, they would be nicked for Smithfield Market or a bonfire. I walked down the road to the next telephone box, and it had been vandalised too. Then on to the next, and the next: they were all broken. Every telephone receiver had been torn from the wall and the words ‘Brits Out' scrawled everywhere. I knew these were British Telecom telephones, but I had never realised that a telephone box could be an instrument of British oppression. Maybe they were bugged, like in James Bond? Maybe if I did get through, 007 would be listening to my every word, in case I was a Russian spy hiding plutonium in my violin case?

As I considered several possible James Bond plot lines, eventually, about a mile later down the road and halfway to the City Hall, I found an intact telephone box. By this stage, I was very wet and exhausted from walking and manoeuvring in and out of countless telephone boxes, weighed down with my schoolbooks and musical burdens. I was starting to panic. If only I had had my own blue police telephone box – my very own TARDIS – I would be able to travel through time and space like the Doctor and be home before I even left for school that morning. Unless, of course, I pressed the wrong button and landed on the planet Skaro and had to battle the Daleks who were trying to take over the universe.

I was starting to think I might have to ask my big brother to do my papers that night. I knew that he would charge me double-time, which would mean less money to buy ‘Love Is' cards for Sharon Burgess. I put my freezing fingers into the cold stainless-steel holes of the telephone dial and rang our home number. My mother answered quickly, and I immediately dropped my two pence into the money slot, hoping it would work properly this time, because often it didn't.

‘Are you all right, love?' Mammy asked excitedly. ‘The buses are all off! The UDA are burning them all to stop a United Ireland, and Paisley says we're going down the Dublin Road! And you and your brother aren't home from your drama and his rugby, and it's terrible! And the roads are all blocked with barricades, and your daddy can't even get the car down the road to collect youse, and youse'll have to walk home the night in the dark. And I'm worried sick, and they'll pick on you with your violin, and your father's up til a hundred …'

‘Mammy, I'm going to be late for my papers,' I interrupted, realising that my two pence would only give me a few precious minutes before the pips went and I was cut off. ‘Can you go round and get my papers from the van, and I'll do them when I get home or, if I'm not home in time, ask …'

Beep-beep-beep-beep. I could hear the pips and then the line went dead. The conversation was over. I hoped my mother had got the important message. I wasn't too worried about walking home in the dark, and I knew I wouldn't be going anywhere near the Dublin Road, but I didn't like the suggestion that I would be picked on for carrying my violin, and I just hoped Mammy would collect my papers and my big brother would deliver them when he got home.

I walked for streets and streets into the city centre and then for miles and miles up the Shankill, towards home in the dark in the rain in a duffle coat with a guitar case in one hand, a violin case in the other hand and a schoolbag over my shoulder. I must have stood out, but no one picked on me. In fact, no one paid me any attention at all. There were much more interesting sights to behold: burning buses, barricades blocking the roads, tartan gangs with petrol bombs, police and soldiers in riot gear with guns pointing in every direction. The public-transport network was being torched to save Ulster. My concerns were insignificant in relation to these cataclysmic events, but my feet were sore.

As I reached the top of the Shankill Road, there was a further delay. Due to several riots on the main road and adjoining streets, not only were vehicles being prevented from going any further, but so were pedestrians. The RUC had blocked off all the roads and the pavements, and so I could go no further. There was only one way up the Shankill to my home and that was up the Shankill! There was no alternative route: I was stuck. It was nine o'clock, and I had long since given up any ambition of delivering my own papers that evening, but at least my big brother would have carried out substitution duties fairly adequately. Unless of course my mother had done them – but she had sounded much too distressed to be thinking about my papers.

I stood quietly among a gathering crowd of similarly stranded pedestrians waiting for the all-clear. I was wet and tired, but mainly bored. Some of the others were talking excitedly about the drama that had unfolded throughout the day. They seemed to be enjoying it all, in fact. I was just bored, however. Then several Elvis fans with tattoos began to move among us, whispering important information in privileged ears. While the gathering crowd speculated about a rumoured IRA invasion and how Paisley would save us, I just stood and dreamed of being Scott Tracy on
Thunderbird 2
– although not with puppet strings.

Suddenly, I was struck across the back of the head and my duffle-coat hood fell down. I turned around to see if I had been picked on by a violin-hating Loyalist, but I got a huge shock, because standing there behind me in the stranded crowd was my big brother with his schoolbag and rugby kit. With muck from a scrum still on his face, he exclaimed, ‘Look at the state of you, with a guitar and violin and a duffle coat! What are ye like, ya big fruit?!'

I was glad to see him too. But then it dawned on me: if he was here and hadn't made it home yet either, then no one would have done my papers! Unless of course my parents had done them, and that was unlikely. I began to realise that I was in big trouble. The perfect paperboy had fallen! I imagined the raised voices of forty-eight angry customers against one errant paperboy. I pictured one extremely angry Oul' Mac and one deeply disappointed Mrs Mac. I was doomed. This was the stuff of instant dismissal. It was gross misconduct. My career was at an end. When I explained the situation to my big brother, he wasn't reassuring.

‘Oul' Mac'll kill ye!' he said, as the RUC finally let us through the site of the now-quelled street unrest.

The two of us arrived home just after ten o'clock, to be greeted by jubilant and relieved parents. My mother opened the front door tearfully and hugged us very tightly. During this embrace, all I could do was look over Mammy's shoulder at the pile of forty-eight fresh
Belfast Telegraphs
with the white cord uncut around them. They were just sitting there sullenly, undelivered. I felt sick. I dropped an instrument from each hand, knowing that tomorrow I would have to face the music.

I slept remarkably well that night, however. The exhaustion of my mammoth trek home outweighed the anxiety provoked by the prospect of facing Oul' Mac and the sound of shooting outside. The next day at school, I developed a clever plan. If I wasn't sacked instantly, I would deliver Wednesday's paper and Thursday's paper both together! If anyone asked, I would blame the rioters from down the Road, and Oul' Mac would never hear about it, and I would survive.

Sure enough, when Oul' Mac arrived with the Thursday night Sixth Editions, there was no mention of my misdemeanour. I knew as soon as I saw him that he wasn't angry. His cigarette ash formed a long drooping protuberance from his mouth – this was not the cigarette of an agitated man. I was relieved: obviously no one had complained. My customers must have assumed that Oul' Mac had not been able to get the papers through the barricades the previous night. This had happened before, when the roads had been barricaded to keep us British, and for most people it was worth the sacrifice.

I gathered the Thursday
Tellys
into my paperbag as usual, but then I ran around the corner to our house, where I added the Wednesday night editions into the bag. I thought my shoulder would break under the strain, but this was a minor discomfort, compared to the potential trauma of being dismissed at such an early stage in my career. And so I began to deliver two newspapers to every house. I tried to fold them into one to take the bad look off them, but together, they were too thick to fit through the letterboxes.

As I proceeded on my paper round, a series of doors began to open behind me. A third of the way up the street, half the doors were open. It was like when a band marched up the street – except not such a happy occasion.

‘That's last night's, son,' said one bemused customer.

‘What are you playing at?' said another.

‘Where were ye last night, love?' enquired another.

It wasn't going well. My plan had backfired. By trying to deliver Wednesday with Thursday, I had revealed to the street that there having been no paper on Wednesday was my fault and was not down to the rioters. Mr Black, of course, dealt the final blow.

‘That's yesterday's paper,' he said viciously. ‘Did no one ever tell you in your grammar-school education that a daily newspaper is worthless the day after it is published?'

‘Sorry, I was late home last night after school drama club and the riots,' I foolishly attempted to explain.

‘Don't give me that, wee lad,' Mr Black replied, scornfully. ‘You can take yesterday's paper back now. I don't want it and you can tell Oul' Mac I'll not be paying for it, so you can stick it up your arse.'

This man would have tested the restraint of the most resolute pacifist paperboy.

At that moment, a short queue developed in front of me, all of them dissatisfied customers returning Wednesday night
Tellys
, reminding me that they would not be paying for these. I was receiving as many newspapers back as I had delivered. My paperbag was now as heavy as ever. This was a disaster: the issue of who would be paying for the undelivered papers immediately brought Oul' Mac back into the equation, and I knew it was only a matter of time before someone phoned the newsagent's shop to complain. I never found out who it was, but I assumed it was oul' Mr Black who had betrayed me.

The next evening, Oul' Mac arrived in the van as usual. As he stopped, he put the handbrake on more aggressively than usual, it seemed. I could feel the screech in my teeth. This meant trouble. Oul' Mac scanned the waiting crowd of paperboys, until his eyes fixed upon me. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the dashboard and jumped out of the van with the vigour of a man of half his age. This was a very bad sign. He headed straight for me.

I had planned to accept my dismissal with dignity. I wouldn't cry, and I wouldn't tell my employer where he could stick his paper round. I was clinging on to the hope that he might at least provide me with a satisfactory reference for my next employer. If not, I was destined for signing on in Snugville Street forever.

‘You, here! Nigh!' Oul' Mac pointed at me and shouted. He sounded like Davros, the creator of the Daleks.

‘What sort of a wee blurt tries to deliver the Wednesday night
Telly
on a Thursday night?' he enquired. I hung my head in shame. It was a reasonable question, except for the ‘wee blurt' bit.

‘I'm sorry Mr Mac, I was at drama, and the buses were off …' I attempted to explain, before he unexpectedly interrupted.

‘You were at what? Drama?' my employer asked in rhetorical disbelief. ‘I'll have f**kin' Laurence Olivier doing the papers next!'

Then, to my surprise, he laughed and shook his head. I feared one of his looser teeth would fall out, but they hung in there as precariously as my contract of employment.

Oul' Mac then looked at me in the eye very seriously and said in low voice: ‘Last chance, wee lad. Happens again and you're out on yer arse! And you're paying for them!'