The Good Son, page 3
‘That’s cracker,’ I say, forcin’ a smile. I think it sounds like somethin’ a really horrible person would do. St. Gabriel’s sounds like it’s goin’ to be Holy Cross multiplied by a hundred million. I’m goin’ to ask Our Paddy. I’ll have to be nice to him. Shiver me timbers.
The Chapel is enormous. Huge, grey bricks, ladder up to two high spires. Men stand smokin’ outside the doors holdin’ their babies. They pretend the baby’s cryin’ so they can leave for a fag. Me and Fartin’ bless ourselves with holy water from the font – you have to, to get in – push through the latecomers standin’ just inside the door.
Mass is bunged and we walk down the aisle lookin’ for Ma and Wee Maggie. I use it like a catwalk. I know everyone is starin’ at me. I don’t look but I can feel their jealousy mixed with total admiration for my style and general coolness.
I push Fartin’ into Ma’s pew and everyone shuffles along. Ma narrows her eyes til they say You’ve embarrassed me in front of the whole friggin’ Chapel.
The new Priest is so quiet it’s hard to hear what he’s going on about. Our Paddy says he’s gay, but how can that be? He probably thinks that cuz Priests wear robes that look like dresses. They make altar boys wear them too. You’d never catch me wearin’ one of them. I’d rather eat my own eyeballs soaked in bleach. It’d be like walkin’ round in a T-Shirt that said KICK MY HEAD IN PLEASE.
The rows in front sink to their knees and like dominoes we follow.
‘That new Priest is so borin’,’ Fartin’ whispers.
‘Shush, yous two,’ whispers Ma. ‘Mickey Donnelly, I’m warnin’ you.’
It’s not friggin’ fair. And it’s not fair I’m not going to St. Malachy’s and Fartin’ won’t be in St. Gabriel’s. That’s God’s fault.
Mickey, that’s a black mark on your soul.
I wonder what your soul looks like. I reckon it’s a red circle. No, a heart is red, so a soul is probably pink. Pink is for girls though. I picture my circle soul now and it’s definitely pink. I just won’t tell anybody my soul’s a girl’s one.
I forgot the black mark. I’ll make it an X for wrong. But I don’t want to go to Hell. Wait a minute. What did Old Father Michael used to say? ‘Ask for forgiveness and your soul will be cleansed.’ Hmmm . . . I see a pygmy God, inside my soul, with a wee mop.
God forgive me. God mops the black mark off.
Sex! God forgive me.
Fuck! God forgive me.
Big diddies. Two black marks appear. Must be one for each diddy.
God forgive me. God forgive me.
Poor God is rushin’ around on fast forward.
‘Mickey,’ says Ma.
‘What?’
‘Will you get up for Communion,’ Ma scowls. I was last in on the pew so everyone’s standin’, waitin’ to pass. How long have I been spaced out for? ‘I’m takin’ you to see the Priest afterwards,’ says she, loudly for those watchin’.
‘I’m goin’ to Communion, Mrs Donnelly,’ Fartin’ says, with the voice of an angel, his hands together in prayer and his head tilted to the side like the statue of the Child de Prague.
‘Mickey,’ Fartin’ whispers behind me in the line.
I bring my prayer hands up to my face and whisper into them. ‘What?’
‘Your Ma’s mental.’
‘I know. But you’d better watch yourself. She’ll end up whackin’ you, if you don’t stop,’ says me.
‘The Body of Christ,’ the new Priest says.
‘Amen,’ I stick my tongue out and he puts the white, cardboard circle on it that sticks to the roof of my mouth. The nuns came to school to give us a special lesson on unstickin’ Communion without using your fingers – that’s a sin and punishable by Hell.
There’s Martine. Hey – did you happen to see the most beautiful girl in the world? That terrible song plays in my head. Two wee cherubs fly out of the stained glass windows above and trumpet down to hover over her.
Martine . . . She’s got long, blonde hair and everybody knows, long, blonde hair is the most gorgeous thing any girl could have.
Martine . . . she has a garage. She’s so lucky.
Martine . . . is like Farrah Fawcett-Majors without diddies. God forgive me. Twice. And she’s even an actress like her too. Last summer she put plays on in her garage. Everybody went mad for them. I hope I get to act in a proper play in her garage one day.
She smiled at me. Nah, it couldn’t have been. Could it? Not unless she went temporarily Stevie Wonder. Must have been at Fartin’.
I sit up and let Fartin’ pass. I nip him on the inside of his leg. He yelps like Killer and falls onto the pew. Ma digs me, givin’ me a dead leg. ‘Wait til Mass has finished, wee boy,’ Ma says. She’ll crucify me on the altar. I never mess around like this in Chapel. It’s just cuz Fartin’s here. He makes me do things I wouldn’t do in a million years. Ma will never let him sit with us in Chapel again.
‘May the Peace of the Lord be with you always,’ the new Priest whispers.
‘And also with you,’ we all answer.
‘Go in Peace, to love and serve the Lord,’ says he.
‘Thanks be to God.’ Yeah, thanks be to God that’s over.
Everybody legs it out. It’s like leavin’ the cinema. Everybody’s pushin’ to get out first.
‘Mickey,’ Ma says in a deep voice that she uses when she wants to shout but she can’t.
‘You go on, I’ll have to go with her,’ I whisper to Fartin’.
‘Oh Donnelly . . .’ he sucks in through his teeth.
‘I know,’ I say, noddin’ my head up like it’s all one big laugh but really I should start sayin’ my prayers, for real this time.
Fartin’ heads on and I slow down. A hand grabs my arm tight. I let it pull me any way it wants. We bless ourselves and go outside. The light is blindin’. I’m pulled down the steps, across the path to the side door of the Chapel. The new Priest is there, shakin’ hands, all smiles, talkin’ to the Holy Joes. Mrs Montgomery even has a grotto in her front garden, re-staging Mary’s appearance to Bernadette at Lourdes.
Ma can’t really be takin’ me to the Priest. I’m a good boy really. It’s all Fartin’s fault for makin’ me act the maggot.
‘Hello, Father,’ Ma says, half bowin’, like she’s talkin’ to the Queen. ‘I was wonderin’ if you could have a word with my wee boy. He was actin’ up somethin’ shockin’ in Chapel.’ She looks at me: Didn’t I tell you I was gonna do it?
‘Mrs Donnelly, isn’t it?’ says he.
‘Yes, Father.’ Ma’s over the moon he remembered her. That’s it now. He could tell Ma to stick needles in my eye til I sang Hail Glorious Saint Patrick, and she’d say, ‘Needles in just one eye, Father?’
‘Och, Mrs Donnelly, I’m sure he’s not that bad,’ he winks at me.
I have to nip my leg hard to stop myself from sayin’ Winkin’ on a Sunday, why Father, I’m shocked. I am seriously on my funny half hour, as Ma would say.
‘When I was his age I wasn’t exactly an angel either. At least he comes to Mass with you,’ smiles he. ‘Where’s Mr Donnelly?’
Ma near has a stroke; face frozen on one side and a cripple’s smile on the other.
‘He’s sick, Father. Was ragin’ he couldn’t make it,’ says she.
‘Och, well, I hope he gets better soon. I look forward to meeting him. But I can see your wean is worrying you though,’ says he, soundin’ all Scottish. He speaks so soft in Chapel you’d never notice. ‘If it makes you feel better, I’ll certainly have a chat with young . . . ?’
‘Mickey . . .’ I say.
‘Michael,’ says Ma, diggin’ her nails into my arm.
‘Michael,’ he says, smilin’ at me. ‘Why don’t you come up and see me soon and we’ll have a wee chat, OK?’
‘Thank you, Father,’ says she. ‘Say thank you to the Father.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
‘Go in Peace,’ he smiles and pats me on the head.
‘There, that’ll get the messin’ out of you,’ says Ma when we get out of the gates.
It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was gonna be. I think Ma came off worse.
‘Mammy, can me and Wee Maggie run on down to the house?’ I say.
‘After the way you’ve messed about in Chapel? Anyway, we’re too far away.’
‘Aye Mammy, dead on. Sure am’n’t I gonna have to go past here to get to St. Gabriel’s?’ says me.
Ma goes purple. I wasn’t sayin’ it in a bad way.
‘Mammy, can we not go on down to the house?’ Wee Maggie says. ‘We could set the table for you an’ all,’ she says, sweet as strawberry jam.
‘No,’ Ma says, but her heart’s not in it. ‘Go on then, give my head peace.’
‘Thanks, Mammy,’ I say and take Wee Maggie’s hand. We walk ahead, down Brompton Park.
‘Will we do our walk?’ says Wee Maggie. We can walk at exactly the same time. We’ve been brilliant at it since we won the three-legged race at the Summer Scheme last year. God, the Summer Scheme, I wonder when it starts. We’ll have to go back this year and win again.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Our Paddy nearly has a canary. ‘Don’t burst into the house like that.’ He thought he was gettin’ shot by the Prods. I want to laugh but I need him on my side.
Wee Maggie grabs my hand and we go into the scullery. Our Measles’ face is the colour of a raspberry Slush Puppy, leanin’ over the steamin’ pots of potatoes and cabbage. She looks like a mad scientist in her lab. If we were gunmen, she’d be shot without even noticing, but I tell you, with her last breath she’d have reached up to turn off Ma’s potatoes.
‘Alright, Measles.’ I run over and grab her round the waist. Maggie copies me.
‘Awoooaaah!’ I laugh, as my ear gets pulled off my head. Measles has us both by an ear and we’re on our tippy toes, like naughty school kids caught by the headmaster.
‘Shut that dog up before Ma gets home,’ she says, throwin’ us to the back door and pretendin’ to kick us up the bum. We laugh. We love Our Measles. I wish boys and girls were swapped so Paddy had to do all the work around the house and then we could play with Measles more.
‘C’mon, wee son,’ I call, openin’ the yard door, ‘It’s me and Wee Maggie to see you.’ Killer runs out of his box barkin’ and jumpin’ up on us and burlin’ round with his pink tongue floppin’ out the side of his mouth. ‘Isn’t he the best dog you ever did see?’ I say, in an American voice.
‘Can you wait five minutes?’ says me to her. She frowns. ‘You can play with Killer all by yourself.’
‘OK, hurry up but,’ says she.
I sneak into the livin’ room and slide onto the sofa beside Paddy. He’s watchin’ TV. I hate football in real life, never mind the TV. ‘What’s the score?’ I say.
‘2–1 to Everton,’ says he, then looks at me. ‘What you lookin’?’ he squints.
I have to hurry before Ma gets back. ‘What’s it like in St. Gabriel’s?’ I ask.
He laughs. ‘So you want info. What’s in it for me?’
‘I’ll polish your shoes.’ He completely hates them not bein’ shiny.
‘You can clean my football boots.’
I can clean them when Ma’s polishin’ Da’s boots and we can be together. ‘OK. It’s a deal.’
‘On the first day they’ll have your head down the toilet,’ he says.
My stomach churns. ‘Yeah, right,’ I say. Ma walks through the door behind Paddy. He doesn’t see.
‘They’ll do a big shit in it first. And then they’ll shove your face right in it. And flush the chain,’ he says. He mimes wipin’ his face then puts his hands under his nose and smells somethin’ disgustin’.
I’m goin’ to be sick. Ma looks like Medusa. She grabs the wee shovel from the companion set on the hearth and whacks Paddy on the leg. He screams like a girl, jumps to his feet and squares up to Ma. She takes a step back, eyes wide. He’s gettin’ too big for his boots. In that freeze somethin’ changes, Paddy’s chest unpuffs and he gets smaller. Ma whacks his elbow with the shovel. Paddy dances like a demented leprechaun.
‘What’re you sayin’ that for?’ she shouts.
‘They do, to ones like him,’ he points at me. ‘Sure he still plays with his wee sister.’
Ma whacks him on the knee and he hobbles out the door.
‘He’s a good boy,’ Ma shouts after him and she slams the door. ‘Don’t listen to him.’
‘OK,’ I say. Nine weeks til shite on my face.
Bangin’ on the ceilin’. Da’s been woken up and wants somethin’. Ma forgot not to shout.
‘Go on, play with your dog,’ Ma says, frownin’ up at the ceilin’. She goes to Da and I go out the back. Paddy could be lyin’. Fartin’ could find out for me. How am I goin’ to see him? We didn’t arrange anythin’. I wish we had a phone. I could get 10p and go up to the payphone on the Cliftonville Road, but that’s more dangerous than going to Fartin’s house, there’s so many Proddy areas around it. Who else can I ask?
Wee Maggie’s lyin’ on the ground with Killer jumpin’ all over her. I pick him up. He licks me. It tickles and I laugh but I can’t concentrate. I need to ask boys, but I don’t play with any. I hate them and they hate me. Why can’t I live in America where girls and boys go to the same school? Girls would protect me.
‘I’ve got sweee-eeets,’ Wee Maggie sings.
‘Yum yums,’ I say, in my funny voice. We laugh and she shoves somethin’ pink, soft and sweet into my mouth. I bite half off and give it to Killer so he knows he’s my dog. Killer! The boys would love Killer. I can use him as my secret weapon to get behind enemy lines. Genie-Ass! Ha! Mickey Donnelly will never be defeated. No surrender! Shit. That’s the Protestant saying. Luckily only me and Maggie can read minds cuz that would get me knee-capped. In the future, everyone will be telepathic and the IRA posters will say Loose Thoughts Cost Lives. I’d better be careful cuz they may already be testing this kind of technology.
3
I’M NOT ALLOWED in the house cuz it’ll annoy Da. Which is really, really not fair cuz there’s so much brilliant TV on. Ma said she doesn’t know why I’d want to be sittin’ in on a day like this anyway. She said every child in the world would want to be out playin’. I wish she’d make up her mind cuz most of the time she tells me not to play with the ones in our street. Everythin’ changes in the summer.
Da’s off the drink and fags again which makes him sick. He’s really gonna try this time, Ma said. This’ll be about the ten hundredth time. But you never know. He did get me Killer. Ma took Wee Maggie to work with her sayin’ I was too wee to mind her, but big and ugly enough to look after myself. But she won’t let me take Killer out – yet. I nearly did, anyway. I don’t know what difference it makes if I take him out when Ma’s home or not. I don’t understand her. Like Weetabix, brown sauce, how TV beams across the sky, the Bermuda Triangle and the bizarrest of all, the off-side rule in football.
I have very clear instructions. Don’t go to the top of the street cuz there’s always riots. Don’t go to the bottom of the street cuz there’s No Man’s Land and there’s always riots. Don’t go near the Bray or the Bone hills cuz that leads to Proddy Oldpark where they throw stones across the road from their side. Don’t go into the aul houses cuz a wee boy fell through the stairs in one and broke his two legs. I think his neck too. Ma could be exaggerating. Oh, and don’t go onto the Eggy field cuz there’s glue-sniffers.
Ma should have just tied me to the gate or locked me in a cupboard.
I step on two chewin’ gum splats on the tarmac and go up on the balls of my feet. I swishy-twist my ankles in and out, clickin’ my heels like I’m wearin’ ruby slippers. I put my right foot in front and swishy-twist it. Bring left foot front and swishy-twist it. Swishy-twist right foot, change, swishy-twist left foot. Frig me, this is great.
Faster, faster. Look at me! Nobody else can do this. Americans – they could. Cuz they’ve got baseball boots like mine. Class. Beezer. Magic.
Someone’s watchin’ me. Why would they not, when I look this cool? I don’t even look up. That’s how cool I am. I wish Martine could see me do this, but she’s playin’ in the girls’ gang. I wish Wee Maggie could. I’ll show her later.
‘Take a redner, Donkelly.’ Only one person in the world thinks it’s funny to call me Donkelly. Ma’s-a-Whore from my class. He hates me and I hate him.
‘Wise up, Donkelly. Catch a grip, wee lad,’ says he.
‘Jealousy will get you nowhere.’ Who wouldn’t be? Of my brill baseball boots. And the way I can swish.
‘Wha’? Of them? Wise the bap! Why would I want baseball boots for? Sure nobody plays baseball in Ireland,’ says he.
I stop. ‘Yeah, well, I’m goin’ to America on my holidays and everybody plays it there.’
‘Aye, right, America? I believe ye, thousands wouldn’t,’ he laughs.
‘Anyway, you don’t have to play baseball to wear them. They’re sneakers and everybody wears them over there.’ Ha!
Hold on a cotton-pickin’ minute. I bet you he’s goin’ to St. Gabriel’s. ‘So, what are you doin’ now?’ I ask.
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’ He smiles and walks on. He’s won me now.
It’s so hard to let him win, but if I let him win cuz I want somethin’, then really it’s me that’s winnin’. I smile. I watch him spit over his shoulder like the men do. Yuk. He’s got the Ardoyne Hard Man Dander too. I might need this for St. Gabriel’s. I catch up, puff my chest, hands in pockets, chin stickin’ out and point my knees out as I walk. The Dander. I must be doin’ OK cuz he doesn’t sleg me.
