The Street and other stories (7 page)

Our Shane cost £10. In 1968 £10 was a tidy bit of money. I bought him off Billy Bradley in Springhill. Billy bred Alsatians; he called them German Shepherds. Shane was the only sable-coloured pup in a large litter of black-and-tans in Billy’s coalshed.

He was a big pup, heavy-boned and thick-coated. I paid for him in two instalments. To tell the truth, I have a vague recollection that our Paddy may have paid £5. At least I remember us having an argument, half-joking, half-serious, about who owned what half of the dog, so I suppose that means our Paddy must have been a half-owner. I must ask him about that the next time I see him.

A few weeks after I got Shane, Billy give me his papers. I was pleased about that at first but later I must confess I got a wee bit sceptical. That was after Barney McLavery scoffed when I showed him the papers one day. Barney had remarked on how fine-looking a pup Shane was. Barney bred greyhounds.

“He’s champion stock,” I said proudly, “pedigree breeding. I’ve the papers.”

“Aye,” said Barney, “I wouldn’t pay much heed to papers. Doggymen always have papers about the place. But he’s a nice pup all the same.”

After that I put the papers away.

We always had a dog in the house. In fact, when I got our Shane we already had a red-haired collie-type mongrel called Mickey I got for nothing from a man in Moyard. Before Mickey we had Rory. I remember when Rory disappeared that I cried for a week. Rory and me and my friends used to roam the Black and Divis Mountains every summer. He was a great dog. So was
Mickey, and he and Shane made a nice pair. I suppose it’s a good thing rearing a young dog with an older dog. The older dog puts manners on the pup.

Then when he was about nine months old Shane got sick. I took him down to the free vet in May Street. Shane had distemper. The vet gave him an injection and told me if he didn’t improve that I’d have to get him put down. I was shattered. I took him home on the bus and my da let me keep him in the back hall. He was very, very sick. I gave him penicillin tablets, force-fed him honey to bring the phlegm up, and washed the mucus from his nose.

“Make him eat,” Billy Bradley advised me. “Keep his strength up.”

I sat up all night for a week spoon-feeding Shane with scrambled eggs, milk, rusks and water. When he got better I was really proud of myself. Even now, thinking back on it, I’m still proud of myself. And of Shane, too, of course. He was banjaxed; anybody would be. But after a few weeks you’d never think he’d had anything wrong with him. Except when he was tired, like after a long walk: then you’d see his back legs a bit weak. Other than that he was all right.

He and I used to go everywhere together until, as things became more hectic, I started spending less time at home. Even then, though, I would still see him regularly and we would walk together maybe three or four times a week. I’ve always thought there is nothing as relaxing as strolling with a dog. Shane was a really fine-looking animal, and biddable as well. Big as he was, he was quite docile. Mickey was a different kettle of fish. I suppose he had to be. In Ballymurphy small dogs live very combative lives, especially small small ones like Mickey.

When the British army arrived on the scene my visits home became more infrequent. At times I may only have been a few streets or even only a few houses away, but 1970 and ’71 weren’t actually great dog-walking years, so Shane and I cut down on our excursions. I still saw him, of course. Our Liam or our Sean
would walk him down to wherever I was and we would have an hour or so together. The problem was that when it was time to part Shane used to go wild. He would rear up on his hind legs, crying and shouting and barking and yelping. It got so that our Liam or our Sean could hardly hold him as he jerked away from them, pulling and straining on his lead and bawling out to me. In a way it used to please me, I suppose. Once I got a week off and we spent our time wandering through the fields of Aughyneill down south, far away from British army patrols, but he fretted for days on returning to Belfast when we went our separate ways again.

In 1971 the Brits killed Mickey. They killed a lot of dogs in Ballymurphy. The dogs gave an early warning that the Brits were in the area. The dogs used to give them gyp, and with our house being raided so often Mickey would go crazy whenever he caught sight or scent of a British soldier. After they killed him our Dominic cried for a week.

Then in 1973 Shane vanished. The Brits took him, of course. Somebody saw him up in the Henry Taggart British army base, but there was nothing we could do. My ma phoned the barracks and complained, but, of course, it was pointless. We had always been afraid that the Brits would get him—they are always keen to get any half-decent dog. They had tried to take Shane before, but my da caught them and got him back. This time, though, we didn’t get him back. I was in Long Kesh by then, interned in Cage 6.

We used to get very frequent British army raids in the cage; at times they even raided us twice in one night. Usually they raided at about half-four in the morning. They would sneak into the huts, slipping into place at the foot of our beds, and then, as the one in charge snapped on the lights, they all beat hell out of the beds with their batons.

“This is a British army search!” one of them would scream at us. “When told to do so, you will take your knife, fork and spoon and go to the canteen.”

We would be escorted one at a time through a gauntlet of
British troops to spend the morning in an empty hut. Sometimes we would be put on the wire, legs and arms and fingers splayed wide and holding the body weight. It was hard going, especially at half-four in the morning. After the first hour you forgot what end of you was up.

One morning we got a Brit raid which was no big deal. They took it easy enough, and none of us wanted any trouble. When the raid was over we were taken back from the canteen to our hut, one at a time as was the routine, through two lines of British soldiers. Sometimes some of the Brits would slabber at us or use their batons, and occasionally they would “seize” their war-dogs, setting them on us. This particular morning nothing untoward happened and the worst we were hit with were the usual and predictable insults.

Just as I turned the corner of our hut I saw Shane. He was about fifty yards from me, close to the gate of the cage, and accompanied by a small, stocky British army dog-handler.

I had about ten yards to walk. Our Shane was clearly in my view. I shouted out to him but he didn’t move. Then I whistled, the way I always whistled for him: one long, three short, then one long whistle, all in the one breath.

He tensed immediately, ears cocked, head alert, his body on point. Jesus, he was a smashing-looking dog!

“You! Fuck up!” the Brit nearest me said.

I whistled again and slowed my pace. Our Shane saw me just as I reached the end of the hut. He jerked towards me and the Brit dog-handler, just like our Liam and Sean before him, could hardly hold him. Shane was rearing up on his hind legs, crying and shouting, barking and yelling. I thought he was going to break free as he lunged forward, jerking away from his handler, pulling and straining on his lead and howling out to me.

Then a Brit shoved me around the corner and into our hut. I could still hear Shane crying. The lads behind me told me that he had to be taken out of our cage, still pulling and straining against his handler. And still crying.

“Don’t talk to me like that!”

“Like what?”

Jimmy Brady looked at his son. He leaned back in his chair and sucked his breath in in sharp little gasps before exhaling in a long, loud, frustrated sigh. He made a face, placed both his hands on the table as if to steady himself, and then, raising his head slowly, he looked at Sean once more. When he spoke this time his tone was even, placatory.

“Look, son, this is getting none of us anywhere. You mightn’t realise it, but your attitude leaves a lot to be desired. Every time I try to talk to you it ends up in an argument. I’m sick of it. You’ll have to learn to take things easy.”

Sean remained silent. He stared sullenly at his father; then anger flared for a second in his eyes. Words flowed out in an angry torrent.

“Why is it always me has to take things easy? I can’t do anything these days without you giving off to me. You’re never off my back! You’re sick of it? How do you think I feel?”

They were seated, facing each other across the dinner table. Jimmy could feel the temper rising inside him. Once again he strove to remain calm. But when Sean pointed his finger at him he snapped.

“Don’t do that! How many times have I to tell you not to talk to me like that?”

He kicked his chair back and leaned across the table, towering over Sean. “I’m your father and I deserve more respect than this from you. I’d be better off falling in drunk every night, abusing your mother and gambling away my wages. You’d think more of me then, wouldn’t you?”

He was shouting at the top of his voice. As Sean rose to face him Mary rushed in from the kitchen where she was preparing the evening meal. “What in the name of God’s wrong now? Yis have the place like a madhouse. What’s the matter with the two of youse? Yis are like two wee children!”

“That’s right, Ma, you pick on me as well!” Sean retorted, stepping away from the table to face both his parents.

“I’m no wee child, Mary. I’m his father and he’ll not behave like that in my house,” Jimmy protested. “It’s you has him the way he is. And you…” he turned on Sean again: “that’s no way to talk to your mother. I don’t want another word out of you.”

“It’s a pity I’m not a dummy, isn’t it? You’d be happy then, wouldn’t you?”

“Sean, shut your mouth!”

“What’ll you do if I don’t? Eh? What’ll you do? Put me to bed early! I’m no wee kid, Da. You can’t boss me about any longer.”

“Sean,” his mother interrupted him, “Sean, please. Please sit down and have your dinner.”

“No, Ma. I’m going down to Mickey’s. I know where I’m not welcome.”

“Ach, Sean,” Mary pleaded, “don’t be going out without your dinner. Jimmy, get him to stay. This is not right, a father and son getting on like this. Jimmy, please. You should have more sense. You never give the lad an earthly.”

“That’s what’s wrong in this house, woman,” Jimmy yelled at her. He left his place at the table and advanced towards Sean who defiantly stood his ground in the centre of the room. Mary rushed
between them. She faced her husband, pushing him in the chest as she screamed at her son.

“That’s enough, Sean. Go on away down to Mickey’s. You can get your dinner later.”

Sean rushed from the room, choking on his tears. “I don’t want any dinner,” he shouted.

Jimmy strained against his wife, but she stood firm. He turned from her in disgust.

“Dinner, I’d give him dinner! It’s a good toe up the hole he wants and not sympathy from you. It’s you has him the way he is. I’m sick telling you not to take his part. How do you expect him to pay any heed to me when you keep butting in and undermining me?” Jimmy slumped on to the settee by the fire. He buried his face in his hands.

“I’m sick of it,” he said.

Mary knelt beside him.

“I’m sick of it, too,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with the two of youse.” She took his hands in hers. They hung together in silence until eventually Mary eased herself up off her knees.

“You’ve me murdered,” she joked, tousling his hair. “I’ve a cramp in my thigh.”

She rubbed her leg energetically. “Come on and cheer up,” she told him. “Your dinner will be freezing.”

“I don’t want any, Mary,” Jimmy said moodily, “I don’t feel like eating just now.”

“Well, I don’t know what to do to please youse. I rushed in early to make sure the two of youse got…”

Jimmy interrupted her with a fierceness which took her aback.

“There you go again, woman. It’s not the two of us. I’m not the same as Sean. He’s only fifteen. I’m his father. You’re always going on about ‘the two of us’. That’s some way to instil discipline in him, isn’t it? He doesn’t do a hand’s turn around the house. He leaves everything at his arse. He treats the place like a hotel, and you, more fool anyway, you’re like his servant, and the
only time he speaks to me is to be cheeky or to ask for something. And what’s your answer to it all?”

He looked at her with contempt.

“You talk about the two of us as if me and him were two wee lads who fell out. It’s no wonder he’s the way he is!”

Mary fought back the tears.

“Why don’t you try talking to him?” she said. “You were never like this with our Damian or Joseph when they were Sean’s age.”

“They never got on like him,” Jimmy retorted. “They weren’t spoiled.”

“And Sean’s not spoiled either,” Mary continued. “No more than any of the rest of them. He’s not a bad lad. He’s just going through a wee phase. You can’t expect him to be any different than all the others. It’s just that he’s the youngest and the only one here, and he thinks he’s a big fella now. Why don’t you and him have a wee talk. It can’t go on like this. I can’t cope with it.”

She could hold back the tears no longer. As she turned sobbing and retreated into the kitchen, Jimmy softened. He followed her in and took her in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Don’t be crying. I’ll talk to Sean when he comes in. All right?”

Sean was slightly smaller than his father, but by the way he was growing Jimmy guessed that it wouldn’t be long until he was dwarfed by his youngest son. Sean was taller already than his older brothers. “That’s maybe why I’m so sore on him,” Jimmy reflected. “He looks much older than he is, and I’m probably expecting him to behave like someone older.”

They were sitting together in the living room watching the football on television. It was the Saturday after the big row. In the two days since then barely a word had passed between them. Mary was out shopping. On her way out she had whispered to Jimmy as he stood in the hallway waiting to lock the front door after her, “Now’s the time for you and Sean to have a wee yarn.”

Jimmy knew she was right. He had always been able to talk to his children. He and Sean had actually enjoyed a special
relationship, mostly, as Mary said, because he gave Sean the time he hadn’t been able to give the others. They had got on great until about nine months ago. Since then, Jimmy smiled wryly to himself, it had been a murder picture.

He glanced across at Sean. “H’y doing, son?”

“I’m all right.”

“Sean, son, it’s about time we had a wee yarn. I’ve been…”

“It’s a bit late to be thinking about a wee yarn now, Da, isn’t it?” Sean interrupted him gruffly.

“What do y’mean?” Jimmy was just as gruff.

They looked directly at one another.

“Look, Sean,” Jimmy said, “I only want us to talk. Now, if you don’t want to talk that’s fair enough. But we’ll have to talk sometime. We can’t go on not talking or bawling at one another all the time. So it’s up to you. I’m not going to coax you and I’m certainly not going to fight with you. This is my day off and I’ve better things to do. So what do you say?”

“Okay,” Sean conceded sullenly, “we’ll talk.”

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Jimmy smiled patiently. “Let’s start by making friends.” He reached his hand out to Sean, who hesitated only for an instant before grasping his father’s hand in a warm, firm handshake. They both smiled.

“That’s better,” Jimmy smiled. “Do you fancy a cup of tea?”

“Aye, Da, I don’t mind if I do. Like, you don’t have to go ´.”

“I’ll tell you what, Sean. Do you see, every boy…” Jimmy paused for a minute as he concentrated on squeezing the last drop of brown moisture from the teabags.

“There you are.” He pushed a cup over to Sean. They were standing in the kitchen. Sean was buttering toast. He put a few slices on a plate for his father and they adjourned again to the living room.

“Where was I?” Jimmy asked him through a mouthful of hot toast.

“You were about to give me one of your fatherly talks,” Sean
said. “You’d do it with a bit more dignity if you hadn’t a big blob of butter dribbling down your chin. Will I get you a bib?” he laughed.

“Somebody swallowed a dictionary. Dignity? That’s a new word for you.”

Jimmy wiped his chin and waited until his son’s laughter ceased.

“What I was about to say was that every boy goes through certain phases with his father. Phase number one is when his father is a hero. He can do no wrong. No other boy’s father is half as good as yours. He can outrun, outthink and beat just everybody else at everything. You know what I mean?”

Jimmy smiled at Sean a little self-consciously.

“You know, like, up to the time when you start school and for a few years after that.”

Sean shifted in his seat.

“Well,” his father continued as he finished off the last of the toast, “as I said, that’s phase number one. Phase number two comes much later. That’s when every boy wonders how he could have been cursed with such an awful da. That happens to every boy also. You know what I mean. Your da picks on you all the time. He embarrasses you in front of your friends. He thinks he knows everything and that you know nothing. He treats you like a child. Well, that’s the second phase. Phase number three? Phase number three is the last phase. That’s when the boy becomes a man and realises that his da is just the same as him.”

Jimmy handed his empty cup to Sean.

“That’s the three phases, son,” he concluded. “And now that we’re muckers again, do you think you could get your oul’ lad a wee taste of tea and another round of that toast, seeing as you ate the most of it.”

Sean grinned as he took the cup.

“No problem, Da,” he said. “No problem.”

Mary knew that things would be back to normal again when she returned home. Her only worry was that Sean wouldn’t give
Jimmy the chance to talk to him, but she thought that was unlikely. The way the two of them were behaving after two days of not talking, it was only a matter of someone breaking the ice, and she was sure Jimmy would do that. For all their annoyance at each other Mary knew none of them enjoyed the breakdown in their relationship.

Sean met her in the hall and took the trio of bulging plastic shopping bags from her.

“All right, Ma?” he said. “I hope you’ve something nice there for me; me da’s ate all the bread and I’m starving.”

“Is that right, son?” Despite her optimism, she conceded a wee sigh of relief.

She followed Sean into the kitchen where his father was busily washing the dishes.

“Ah, Mary,” he greeted her, “just in time to make us a big fry.”

“Bloody men!” she answered good-humouredly. “I suppose youse would’ve starved if I hadn’t come back. What would youse do if I ran away?”

Later, as all three of them bustled about the kitchen preparing the meal, she turned to Jimmy.

“I suppose you think you’re great now that you and your son are talking again,” she said quietly.

“Indeed I do,” he grinned.

“So do I,” she agreed.

That’s the way it was for about a fortnight. All peace and harmony. Then one Wednesday evening when Jimmy came in the door from work, Sean rushed past him in the hall and charged upstairs. When he came back down Jimmy was seated at the fire with his dinner on a tray on his knee.

“You’re like a herd of elephants going up the stairs,” he said.

“She left my jeans up there,” Sean replied sulkily, making his way past his father to the kitchen. He had his jeans in his hand.

“Who’s ‘she’?” Jimmy asked.

There was no reply. Sean had gone on into the kitchen and didn’t hear his father.

“Who’s ‘she’?” Jimmy asked again, louder and with an edge to his voice. Silence. He put his tray on the floor in front of him.

“Sean!” he yelled. Still no response. The kitchen door opened. Jimmy, halfway out of his chair, could hear Sean and his mother talking in the kitchen.

“Sean!” he yelled.

“What on earth’s the matter?” Mary’s tone was annoyed. That irritated Jimmy even more.

“I was talking to him and he walked right past me,” he snapped. “Sean.”

“What, Da?” Sean’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

“Don’t ‘what-Da’me.” Jimmy was on his feet. “Who’s ‘she’?” he confronted Sean.

“What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me, Sean. I’m not an eejit. Who’s ‘she’? Is that any way to talk to your mother?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about,” said Sean.

“Don’t mess with me, Sean,” Jimmy yelled at him.

Sean exploded.

“Don’t mess with you! You’re the one that’s doing all the messing. I’m sick of this.” He turned to his mother. “I’m sick of this, Ma! He’s never off my back.”

Jimmy was almost beside himself with rage now.

“Who’s ‘she’?” he roared. “You need to be taught a bit of respect.”

“I’m trying to go out, Da,” Sean roared back. “You…”

“You’ll go out when I tell you and not before,” his father interrupted.

“Is that right,” Sean shouted. “Well then, I’ll not go out at all! I’m away up the stairs, Ma.” He brushed past his father.

“Sean!” Jimmy commanded.

Sean ignored him and rushed from the room, slamming the door in his wake.

“Jesus, give me patience!” Jimmy cried.

He sat back heavily in his seat. His dinner, growing cold on the
tray, lay ignored at his feet. He looked up at Mary.

“Take it easy, Jimmy,” she said. “I don’t know about you, but I can’t take much more of this. You want to watch your temper,” she concluded as she, too, left the room.

Upstairs she confronted Sean.