by Tony Black
For my son,
Conner
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Tweleve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Ninteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty one
Chapter Twenty two
Chapter Twenty three
Chapter Twenty four
Chapter Twenty five
Chapter Twenty six
Chapter Twenty seven
Chapter Twenty eight
Chapter Twenty nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Copyright
Prologue
Marti didn’t get it. He knew when Dad said it was “just one of those things” it was because he couldn’t be bothered explaining.
“But why, Dad?” said Marti. It was burning hot outside and Dad was stretched out in the yard under the coolibah tree. Marti had seen him put the newspaper over his face when the sun broke out from the shade. He was still under the paper when Marti asked the question again. “Dad, why Blue?”
“Like I say, son, it’s just one of those things.”
Dad must know, thought Marti. He had never heard him say he didn’t know about something. He must know, really. “Just one of those things” was something grown-ups said when they couldn’t be bothered. It was like, “Go away and play with the cat’s eyes on the road.”
“But Dad, why Blue?” Why did they call Dad ‘Blue’? Pete, their neighbour with the swimming pool with the leaves in and the car with no wheels, had called Dad ‘Blue’ every time he passed by. And Pete wasn’t even a very good friend of Dad’s, thought Marti. Pete didn’t even support Liverpool, so Dad couldn’t really be good friends with him.
“Marti, it’s an Australian thing, all right. That’s what they call you in Australia when you have red hair like me, Blue.”
Marti really was confused now. “Well, why don’t they call you Red?”
“Because Marti, it’s Australia and they do things differently here. It’s the other side of the world.”
Marti knew Australia was on the other side of the world from Ireland. Dad had shown him on the map, and on the globe in the library he had shown him where the boat had come across all the ocean and how it was the best money he’d ever spent. He told him the story about how they needed men like him because the country was so big they had to fill it up and he paid all his money for him and Mam to come on a boat from Ireland.
“But why because it’s the other side of the world?” Marti knew he was pressing his luck. Dad put down the paper and tipped back his cap. It was bright sunshine outside and he had been trying to sit in the shade of the coolibah tree and read the news, but he was there so long the sun had followed him and the shadow was on the other side of the tree now.
“Right, Marti,” he said, and picked up the rug he was lying on and moved it into the shade again. “If I explain this thing for you, will you give me some peace?” Marti nodded. “Right, now first things first, get out of the sun – eleven to three, under a tree, remember.” Marti moved over into the shade of the coolibah tree with Dad.
“Now, in Australia everyone – well, mostly everyone in Australia – comes from Ireland or Scotland or the Other Place.” The Other Place was England; Marti knew Dad didn’t like England, except for Liverpool but that was as Irish as Molly Malone, he said, whoever Molly Malone was. “So, Australia is on the other side of the world. Australians think this is a funny thing, it’s like everything is the opposite. It’s summer in Australia when it’s winter in Ireland and the water goes down the plughole the other way.” Marti’s eyes widened. “Ah now, forget that about the water, son, that’s a whole other story, but so you see what I’m saying? That’s why red becomes blue in Australia. Do you get me? Do you see it now, Marti?”
He kind of got it. He didn’t know why the Australians wanted to call red blue, but he got the bit about doing things the other way around. It made him wonder because he had black hair like Mam, maybe they would call him white.
He was still a bit confused, then Dad leaned forward and lifted him up on his knee. “Don’t worry your head about this nonsense, son. Sure won’t you get it all for yourself when you go to Ireland.”
“Are we going to Ireland?” said Marti.
“No, son, we’ve no plans to go to Ireland. Australia’s our home now, but sure, won’t you want to go and see the place one day, to see where your mam and dad were born and where the giants come from, and sure won’t you have to try the Guinness on home soil. There’s nothing like a pint of Guinness poured on Irish soil, son – when you’re a man, of course.”
“Will you come with me, Dad?”
“No, Marti, I won’t be going back to Ireland.”
“Never, not even when I’m a man and I get the Guinness?” He knew Dad would never go back to Ireland. Mam had said it was because he was too fond of foostering his days away in the sun, and didn’t Ireland only remind him of himself.
“No, Marti, I never will. Sure why would I want to – would you look at this place? Isn’t it God’s country entirely; you can’t grow oranges in your yard in Ireland.”
“Then I won’t go, Dad. I’ll stay here with you.” Marti hugged him and Dad laughed.
“Son, you’re choking me – that’s some grip you have there. Do you fancy yourself a wrestler?” Dad pretended to bite Marti’s arm, and the pair rolled around on the grass. “That’s enough now. There could be trapdoors around here,” said Dad.
Trapdoor spiders were sneaky bleeders, Mam had said. They bury themselves in the yard and then jump out of their little grass trapdoors to bite you if you’re not careful, she had told Marti.
“Do they have trapdoors in Ireland, Dad?”
“No, son.”
“Then could we wrestle in the yard if we lived in Ireland, Dad?”
“You’d be soaked through in a millisecond, Marti. Sure, there’s no sunny days over there. It’s all rain, rain and more rain. No, this is the place, Marti, God’s country, like I say. Now away and play.”
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Will you show me the flower dancing?”
“No, son.”
“But, Dad, please.”
“No, son. Come on now. I think I hear your mam calling you. Is that a cake she’s been baking?” Marti knew there was no cake. He had never known Mam to bake a cake. Dad was having him on.
“Dad, can I see the flower dancing, in the wind like you say it, Dad?”
“Aren’t you getting a bit big for that, Marti?”
“No, Dad. Please, please, Dad.” Marti felt sad when Dad said this. He really was getting too big at eight to see the flower dancing, but he liked the way Dad did the trick. It was his favourite trick in the world.
Dad looked at Marti. “And if I show you the – what is it?”
“I know it’s not a flower, but I forget. Is it a sha … sham-m—”
“A shamrock. W
hat is it?”
“A shamrock.” Marti spluttered out the word and knew it as soon as he said it. He knew he’d forget it again, too. It was the green flower thing on Dad’s arm that he could make dance in the wind.
Dad rolled up his sleeve over the shoulder and showed Marti the shamrock. “Here it comes then, son.” The shamrock stood there, square in the middle of Dad’s arm.
“Once there was a lucky little shamrock that stood in a field,” said Dad. Marti laughed. He loved to see the shamrock. It was something he could never grow tired of. “A lucky little shamrock in a lucky little field,” said Dad, “and all through the day he’d stand in his field, thinking, What a lucky little shamrock am I, am I, what a lucky little shamrock am I, to stand in a field and grow strong, said he, to stand in a field and grow strong.” Dad turned his arm and the shamrock’s stem straightened.
“He’s starting,” said Marti.
“And when the night turns to day, I go wild, he said, when the night turns to day I go wild. Wild for song and the dance of a song, and I dance in a field all night long!” Dad turned his arm back and forth, making the shamrock dance. It rolled and reeled on his shoulder like a proper cartoon, thought Marti. Then Dad tugged his sleeve down again. “Right, son, that’s enough. Now off and play like a good boy.”
Marti grabbed Dad round the shoulders. “I love the shamrock, Dad,” he said.
“And the shamrock loves you too, son. Now off and play, before your mam really is calling you in.”
Marti loved playing in the yard.
He could remember when there was just a yard and Dad took them to buy the house to put in the yard. It was a big field full of houses all up on big tree stumps and Mam said she liked the one with the white rails that went all the way around. “I like that one too,” said Marti, “because you could walk under it and I could climb out through a secret passage.” But Mam said you couldn’t because the big tree stumps would go away and you wouldn’t be able to walk under the house anymore.
A man in a hat and a vest, with a big belly and freckles on his arms, said Mam had an eye for a bargain and she could look around the house if she wanted, but Dad said he wasn’t made of money.
“You wouldn’t need to be, mister. This is a repo’,” said the man with the freckles on his arms, and Dad went over to talk to him. When he came back everyone went to look around the house. Dad had to lift Marti up over the big gap and the wood made a noise like a twig snapping, but Dad said it was all right, and the man with the freckles on his arms shouted out, “No worries, sonny. You’re as safe as houses.” And Mam smiled.
Inside Marti ran around the empty house. There were some things left behind, like a big wooden chest, which was nailed shut. He thought it might have treasure inside and told Dad, but Dad said they nailed everything down when they moved the houses. “How do you mean?” said Marti.
“They move them on the road, like a big lorry comes for the house and you take it to where you want to live.”
“Isn’t it the strangest thing, son?” said Mam.
Marti didn’t answer but Dad said, “Sure, how’s he going to know any different. Isn’t the lad an Aussie? You only think it’s strange because your imagination’s running wild with the big old house driving up the Connemara Road!” Mam laughed, and Marti went off to explore the rest of the house.
In one of the bedrooms there was a picture of Superman and Marti decided this would be his room. “Can I have this room, Dad? Please, please?”
“Calm down, son. Haven’t we hardly had a chance to check the place now.”
“But Dad, someone else might buy it – look, there’s Superman!”
“Where, where?” said Dad, and he looked out the window, putting his hands over his eye like a telescope. “I don’t see him. Have I missed the man of steel again?” he said, and everyone laughed.
“It’s just a picture,” said Marti.
“A picture of Superman, here? Well why didn’t you say sooner? That seals it for me. Mam, what do you say?”
“Well, the boy’s right. If there’s a Superman picture up we better move fast. Where’s the man?” said Mam, and they went to find the man with the freckles on his arms. The man wrote something in a big blue book and gave Dad a piece of paper. Dad said that it was a chit, and they couldn’t lose it because it meant the house was theirs, then he put the chit in his back pocket and there were smiles from everyone.
Marti liked to think of the day at the big field full of houses all up on big tree stumps. He liked to think of the day when the house with the white rails that went all the way around became theirs and there were smiles from everyone. He liked to think of these things because when the house came to the yard and everyone moved in to live, there were no more smiles.
1
Joey sometimes wondered, had Australia been a good move? God yes, had it ever. Sure wasn’t it all blue skies and sunny days, he thought, and weren’t the people just the best of craic, even the bosses. There were no bosses in Ireland would give you the steam off their piss, but sure Macca there was all right. Hadn’t Macca been the greatest lately, even after all the bother with Shauna? Wasn’t Macca the first to say, “Take some time, Joey. Get her right.” No, Australia was the Lucky Country all right, and wasn’t it the best of places to be raising young Marti. It was a million miles from Ireland and talk of Banshees and little old women with shawls and wispy beards who would only be scaring the b’Jaysus out the boy.
Joey took the trailer to be washed before the afternoon smoko with Macca and the men from the transport section. The cab was hot inside and the wheel felt like it would scorch his palms if he didn’t spin it quickly enough. Driving a trailer filled up with iron ore day after day mightn’t be the best job in the world, he thought, but it was a regular wage and there was a lot to be said for a regular wage in this day and age, was there not?
Driving the trailer mightn’t be the highlight of his thirty-four years, but it had bought them a grand enough house and it had kept Shauna from sitting at a checkout or behind some counter or other. The family was looked after, Marti especially wanted for nothing, money was being set aside for his education and Joey was proud enough. The boy had a brain on him and if he were raised right and there was money enough for an education then there would be a fine job waiting for him when he was ready. Who could want more than that?
When the water from the hose hit the trailer there was hissing and steam raised off as the splashes evaporated. It was a blinder of a day – even the corellas that flew in from the bush were too hot to scratch about for a feed and sat hidden under branches and leaves in the gum trees for a bit of shade. The air seemed to hum when it was this hot. It was as thick as soup to walk through and the light played tricks on your eyes, making the road and the paddocks and the trees quiver like they were about to disappear in a shimmering mist.
On days like this Joey sometimes thought how different his life had become since he left Ireland on that wet May morning in 1968. He remembered his first job at Gleesons Bakery in Kilmora and the days spent carrying the flour in and the bread out. The faces and the air as white as a maggot, the men opening the windows and hacking out floury spit to the street, the pigeons below pecking away at it. He’d felt grand the day Gleeson had shown him the door – wasn’t the job only a favour to his father, the mighty hurling player Emmet Driscol. He felt glad to be turning his back on the pair of them.
Bitterness was all he felt for his own father. Bitterness and hatred was what he’d been made to feel. It could never be that way for Marti, he’d make sure of it. Joey had nothing but a pile of desperate memories left over from his own childhood, which in darker moments would come back to haunt him. It was always the way of it. The darker things looked, the more he remembered. It was at the core of him. He could still see his father now, the whole family living in fear and awe of him, mealtimes held in silence in case a noise tipped him into rage.
Joey could only have been about the age of Marti himself when he brough
t the whole family close to despair. His sister, Megan, younger still, had appeared at the dinner table in tears. She was covered head to toe in muck and carried a stench that made the room seem suddenly emptied of air. Emmet stamped his fist on the table, swearing before God he had been pushed beyond the beyonds this time.
“What is this ye are bringing to my house?” he said. His voice was trembling so much that it seemed his next word might hurl the plates and dishes to the floor. No one would look at him. All six children kept their heads down, even the babe Clancy buried himself deeper into his mother’s arms and scarcely dared breathe.
“I was looking for the fairies,” said Megan. She was crying and blurting out her words. “Tis a fairy rath we have in the yard. Joey showed me.”
When Megan pointed at Joey all the eyes shifted on him. He was the eldest and used to being looked on, but he could only see his father’s gaze racing towards him as he was lifted from his chair by one great hand. He knew he was in for trouble as his father dragged him by the hair into the yard. The fairy rath was the midden, he understood that now, but then he had been told about it by grown-ups and thought he was doing no wrong. His own mother had laughed about the midden being a fairy rath when he told Megan, but he knew this would have to be their secret now. He was glad it was him and not his mother or Megan being dragged out.
“Do ye see them?” said Emmet. He grabbed Joey’s head – his whole hand fitted round it – and he pushed him face down in the midden. There was the sound of his brothers and sisters shuffling into place to see what happened next, and then there was his father’s roaring. “Do ye see them yet? I’ll put ye through it, I will,” he said as Joey’s mouth filled with muck and potato skins. “I’ll put ye through it,” said Emmet again and again. Joey tasted the muck and the rotting waste. His nostrils and his eyes filled with thick black soil that stuck to him and then the earth was frozen and hard where the midden ended.
He cowered from his father where he lay. Grown men had flinched from Emmet Driscol on the hurling field, but to a mere boy he was a terrifying sight when the rage was on him. His father looked lost in his fury, then a mouse scurried out from the midden and he shouted, “Vermin.” Even with his eyes full of muck, Joey could see his mother and his brothers and sisters watching as Emmet’s great boot was stamped, catching the creature’s head. The children screamed at the sight and his mother gathered the little ones around her and led them back to the house. They had seen too much already. Joey was left alone with the sight of his father bringing down his boot again. He could still remember the way the mouse’s little legs kept going, it wasn’t dead yet. Then his father brought down his boot again and again, until the mouse was no more than a bloodied tangle of flesh and tiny white bones.
