‘They’re just to say thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s nice to know that some young people will step in and help when there’s trouble around.’
‘Any time,’ Brian said, and he meant it.
‘What in the name of all that’s good and holy is that green thing?’ Brian’s father asked, snorting to express his disgust.
‘It’s kale,’ Brian said.
‘Kale?’ His father poked at it with his fork, before repeating the word. ‘Kale.’
‘It’s a vegetable.’
Brian’s father, Patrick Duffy McDonnell, but known by most as Mucky, stared at his son.
‘What have I told you about vegetables?’
‘That you don’t like them?’
‘That I don’t like them – do you hear him?’ he asked, even though there was nobody else in the house other than Brian and himself. ‘I don’t just not like them, I hate them. I haven’t eaten a vegetable since 1983 and I have no intention of starting now.’
It was quite possibly true that Mucky hadn’t eaten a vegetable in over thirty years, unless you counted potatoes as a vegetable, which he didn’t. Even when he got his social welfare money and went to the chipper, he never got mushy peas or onion rings or anything like that. Most of the time it was burger and chips or sausage and chips. Pizza, if he was feeling fancy. But never a vegetable. If Brian’s father ever had to become a vegetarian for medical reasons, he’d be dead by the end of the week.
Mucky shifted the green contents of his plate on to Brian’s before tucking into a large portion of chicken nuggets. ‘You can eat it. And make a better lunch tomorrow, right? Where did you get it from anyway?’
‘Mrs Doherty grows it herself and she threw it in with the shopping. She said we might like it. Thought we’d give it a try,’ Brian said. He hadn’t told him the truth about what he’d been up to earlier and he wasn’t going to tell him either.
His father was looking at him strangely, as if something wasn’t quite right.
‘You been fighting?’ he asked eventually.
Brian had been home for over an hour, yet it was only now that Mucky noticed his son was in much poorer physical condition than he’d been the last time he’d seen him, which, he thought, was either yesterday or the day before that.
‘No, I fell off my bike.’
‘That’s good. If you looked like that after a fight, it means you’d have lost. Don’t want any son of mine embarrassing the family by taking a beating.’ He got up from the small kitchen table, took a packet of chocolate biscuits from the cupboard and slumped on to the couch. ‘Make me a cup of tea, like a good lad. And Sharon’s coming over in a while so tidy the place up a bit. You’ve left it in a right state.’
Mucky had never been the world’s greatest father, but he hadn’t always been like this, either. The biggest problem with Brian and Mucky was that they had nothing in common other than the ability to make smart remarks at the wrong time. People had always said Brian was like his mum and they were right. Mucky was interested in cars and football and playing cards, and Brian didn’t like any of those things. They never had much to say to each other and it had always been a little awkward between them, but Brian’s mum had a brilliant knack of making things all right. But then she left and now he only saw her every couple of months. Brian and his dad hadn’t been the same since she’d gone – they just seemed to get on each other’s nerves.
Brian’s mum used to collect fridge magnets for some reason, those ones that had inspirational quotes. They’d been stuck all over the fridge door, a couple of them falling off any time someone went to fetch milk or butter. Brian remembered a bright orange one that was stuck right beside the handle. It read: ‘Your life does not get better by chance – it gets better by change.’ The day after his mum had left, he’d thrown it in the bin. Any time there had been changes in his life things had only got worse. Yes, he thought, anyone who thinks change is good is an idiot.
‘I’m going to go out for a while, to meet the lads.’
‘Huh?’ His father wasn’t listening.
‘Once I’ve tidied up, I’m going to go out for a while.’
‘What are you telling me for?’ Mucky said.
Excerpt from travel book: Jottings from a Small Ireland by William Wrydaughter (2005)
The town of Newpark isn’t new and it doesn’t contain a park. And that is the most interesting fact about what has to be Ireland’s dullest town. I had been having a wonderful time travelling around the Emerald Isle when one evening, while sitting by a roaring fire in a cosy country pub being stared at by a cheerful three-legged dog – who also happened to be called William – I told the men at the next table that I hadn’t had a boring day since I’d set foot in the country. Instead of accepting what I thought of as a compliment, they took my statement as a challenge.
‘Oh, there’s some dull places here, all right. A lot more dull than you’d find in one of your fancier parts of the world,’ one of them said. ‘Baile Eilís, that place would drive you nearly mad with boredom. The dogs can’t be bothered to bark and even the crows caw wearily.’
‘There’s a place in the west called Carraig Cruach. I got so bored there once I started reading Ulysses,’ another said.
‘Carraig Cruach is like New York compared to some of the towns I’ve worked in,’ said a hairy-faced man.
I sat back, slowly draining my creamy pint of stout from its glass as they argued among themselves for a while. Each tried to top the last with names of places known for their ability to suck the life from your bones, mentioning towns and villages so dull that, according to these men, visitors frequently fell into twenty-hour sleeps, while locals spent every evening crying in despair. Each new customer in the pub was more than happy to join in the game, offering stories of how crushingly dull a place was until an old man, who had been listening intently for almost half an hour, finally spoke up.
‘Newpark,’ he said simply.
The others nodded their heads slowly in agreement, as if this was the final word on the matter. The man looked like Gandalf or Dumbledore, although his wise and wizardly demeanour was offset somewhat by the shiny blue anorak he was wearing.
‘Newpark?’ I asked with the innocence of someone who’d yet to encounter what I will loosely call its charms.
‘Dullest place I’ve ever been,’ the old man said. ‘It’s not unpretty, the people are pleasant and it’s a large enough town, so it tricks you into thinking something interesting might happen, but it never does. Nothing interesting ever happens there.’
When I heard those words, I knew I had to see it. This was exactly the sort of low-key anti-adventure I usually enjoyed. I travelled to Newpark the next day. At first glance, it looked unremarkable. It was indeed a large town by Irish standards. It had pubs and restaurants and shops, but there was something about it, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. After a day, I realized the old man was right. It was hideously, unequivocally, gut-wrenchingly dull. And I like dullness. An open fire, a crossword and a nice cup of tea are my idea of heaven, but Newpark . . . it stretched me to my boredom-loving limits. The only good thing that occurred in the two days I spent there was that I solved a centuries-old medical dilemma: I had finally found the cure for insomnia, and its name was Newpark.
CHAPTER THREE
‘Nothing ever happens around here.’
There were only two people in the neat and tidy garden and they were brothers. Twins, actually, fraternal not identical, though they did look similar – both had thick brown hair and large brown eyes. But they were very different in personality, almost as if they had been designed to be opposites.
Chris, the slightly older of the two, didn’t look up from his mobile phone. He was in the middle of an adventure game that he’d been playing for most of the last forty-two hours.
If Chris had his way, everything would be quiet and peaceful most of the time. Peace and quiet were good, allowing him to play his games and read his books and think what he increasin
gly considered to be great thoughts. When Chris grew up, he wanted to be a games designer or a scientist or an engineer. The problem was a lot of the time he was stuck in a noisy environment where most of the noise was created by his younger – by twenty-nine minutes – brother who didn’t seem to have an off switch. To make matters worse, they had to share a bedroom.
‘Nothing ever happens here,’ Sam repeated. ‘Newpark is so boring.’
‘I heard you the first time.’
‘You didn’t say anything,’ Sam said.
‘Because I was ignoring you,’ Chris said. ‘And you’re wrong. Something does happen here. Something happens everywhere. The sun rises, people go to work. What you mean is nothing you find exciting ever happens here. Anyway, it’s not like you have to put up with life around here for much longer.’
‘Why do you have to be such a pain?’ Sam said. ‘And where’s Hannah?’
The garden they were in, and the large stone-grey house that it surrounded, was the home of Hannah Fitzgerald, one of their best friends and a co-founder of The Misfits Club. They had been members, along with Brian McDonnell, since they were eight years old.
‘Heads up, here’s Brian,’ Sam said, spotting him coming down the narrow tree-lined road that ended at Florence Parkinson’s farm. The Fitzgeralds and Parkinsons were the only two homes at this end of a road that was a kilometre from Newpark town centre. Florence Parkinson, who was either a charming or an eccentric lady, depending on your point of view, lived by herself. Since Hannah was an only child, the total population of the two houses was three adults and one child, meaning the cul-de-sac was usually a quiet place.
Chris didn’t look up from his game.
‘Looks like he’s been attacked by a bear or something.’
It still wasn’t enough to make Chris look up.
‘What happened?’ Sam asked as Brian limped towards him, pushed his bike through the garden gate and on to the gravelled path, which was bordered by a variety of expensive shrubs. Brian knew they were expensive because when he’d accidentally cycled over some of them six months earlier Hannah’s mother had spent a good five minutes lecturing him about how much it would cost to replace the ones he’d destroyed.
‘Fell off my bike,’ Brian said. He’d tell Sam about the chase later; he wasn’t in the mood right now.
Sam took the bike from him and inspected it. ‘Well, it doesn’t look too bad. Mostly surface stuff. I’ll get Chris to check it out before we leave.’ He looked past Brian, across the road to the farmhouse that was owned by the old woman whose name he could never quite remember. Hannah was coming out of the house, accompanied by a girl around her own age. ‘Who’s that with Hannah?’ he asked.
The girl had long red hair and unlike Hannah, who was stomping her way through the muddy yard, the pale girl was picking her steps carefully, as if she was worried about getting even a single speck of dirt on her shoes.
‘Maybe it’s one of her cousins,’ Brian said.
Hannah had a lot of cousins, but none of them looked like her because she’d been adopted from Vietnam when she was a baby and all her cousins had been born in Ireland.
‘Nah, don’t think so. She looks like she’s our age. Hannah’s only cousin our age is that weirdo with the snotty nose. You know, the guy who eats what he picks when he thinks no one’s looking.’
‘Oh, him. He is a weirdo,’ Brian agreed.
‘Hey, guys,’ Hannah said as she hopped over the wall.
The red-haired girl chose the more traditional route of going through the gate.
‘Hey, Hannah,’ Sam said. ‘Who’s that with you?’
Sam wasn’t the sort of person who had the patience to wait around for polite introductions.
‘This is Amelia.’
‘Hello,’ Amelia said.
‘Great to meet you. You can call me Sam. Mainly cos that’s my name.’
He slapped her on the shoulder a little too enthusiastically. She almost toppled over.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said.
‘That guy who’s too rude to look up from his phone is Chris. He’s Sam’s brother,’ Hannah said.
‘Not too rude. Just finishing a game.’
‘Take no notice of him,’ Hannah said.
Amelia smiled, although she didn’t feel like smiling.
‘We’re the Misfits Club, by the way,’ Sam said. ‘Me, Hannah, my brother Chris – that’s the guy who says he isn’t rude – and Brian is the battered-looking guy,’ Sam gestured to his friend, standing to his right.
‘Hey,’ Brian said.
‘Hello,’ Amelia replied.
‘We started the club when we were really young,’ Sam explained. ‘You know, for adventures and stuff. It’s kind of stupid.’
‘It’s not stupid,’ Brian said, his cheeks reddening. He hated it when anyone called it stupid. Really hated it.
‘He kind of likes this club,’ Hannah said.
‘I got that,’ Amelia said. ‘So, what do you do?’
‘Hang out, mostly. Chat, play games, stuff like that. We’re going to the cinema tomorrow.’
‘I see.’
Not, that sounds great or I think that’s cool, Brian thought, but I see, as if she found the whole thing beneath her. He was almost certain that her lip curled a little when she said it, as if she was sneering at them. He had only just met her, but he was already taking a dislike to this girl.
‘The Misfits Club isn’t just a club – it’s a state of mind,’ Chris said.
‘But it is an actual club too, right?’ Amelia said.
‘Yes, it’s a cl—’
‘Come on,’ Hannah said to Amelia. ‘I’ll show you our headquarters.’
‘This is the den. It’s where we have our meetings,’ Hannah said.
The den was a large wooden shed. There were two sheds in the garden, one was for all the gardening equipment, the other, the slightly shabbier of the two, had served as the headquarters of the Misfits Club for almost four years. It was as cosy as a warm hug on a cold night. Beanbags sat on a large old rug that crept to the walls of the shed. A small bookshelf filled with Hannah’s favourite mystery stories was placed beneath the only window and the walls were covered in film posters she’d got from the local cinema.
‘It’s really nice,’ Amelia said as she glanced around, checking for spiders and any other bugs that might be lying in wait for her.
‘You here on holidays, Amelia?’ Chris asked. He leaped on a beanbag and burrowed his way in until he was comfortable.
‘I’m here to visit my grandmother,’ Amelia replied, a little cagily. ‘I’m going to look after her for a few weeks. She, er, needs a bit of minding.’
‘You can sit down if you like,’ Hannah said.
Amelia looked unsure. The others had settled into their beanbags, leaving the two girls standing.
Before she’d decided whether to sit or continue looking awkward and uncomfortable, she heard the click-clacking of Mrs Fitzgerald’s shoes on the paving stones outside the shed. The door swung open to reveal a round-faced woman who looked extremely jolly. Jolly was not the right word to describe either Mr or Mrs Fitzgerald, not when you could choose words like practical or serious or joyless. They may not have had much in the way of a sense of humour, but they were good parents and Hannah never wanted for anything, other than a sense of freedom – they were constantly monitoring her comings and goings and always fretting that something bad was going to happen to her.
Mrs F carried in a tray of goodies – crusty sandwich rolls, freshly baked cakes and home-made lemonade. Brian’s eyes lit up. Even though he’d just had lunch, he was always hungry.
‘You must be Amelia. How lovely to finally meet you in person rather than just seeing you through a car window as your father drives by.’
‘Hello, Mrs Fitzgerald. Nice to meet you too.’
‘What lovely manners,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said. She was impressed by things like politeness and good manners yet, for some reason Sam failed to underst
and, distinctly unimpressed by things like his ability to belch the first nine letters of the alphabet without drawing breath.
‘Mam, we’re having a club meeting,’ Hannah said.
‘That’s her way of telling me to get lost,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said to Amelia.
‘Is it OK to use your bathroom? I’d like to wash my hands before I eat,’ Amelia said.
‘Of course. Follow me,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said.
‘She’s a barrel of laughs, isn’t she?’ Brian said as soon as Amelia had left.
‘Give her a break,’ Hannah said. ‘She’s only just met us. It’s not easy meeting new people.’
‘Why did you bring her here, Hannah? She’s like, I don’t know, Miss Fancypants or something. Washing her hands and being polite and making conversation with your mother. It’s not natural.’
‘You just don’t want her joining the club,’ Chris said.
‘She’s joining the club?’ Brian asked incredulously.
‘Yeah, why not? The more, the merrier,’ Sam said.
‘And it’ll be nice to have another girl around,’ Hannah said.
‘Wait a second – I didn’t agree to that. I don’t want her joining the club when she could be, you know, all Goldilocksy and stuff. It’s just been the four of us for years. Why do you want to change it now?’
‘Come on, Brian, what difference does it make?’ Hannah asked. ‘It’s not like we’re going to be together for much longer anyway.’
At the end of August, just over a fortnight from now, Sam, Chris and the rest of their family – three brothers, two sisters, two parents, an elderly cat and a dog with a serious peeing problem – were moving to Galway. Their mother had been offered a place at university to study medicine even though she was in her forties, and, since their father spent a lot of time working in Galway as it was, it made sense to move. It didn’t make much sense to Brian, though, who seemed to be more upset at the thought of his friends moving than they were.
‘And what do we do these days except hang around and eat and laugh at the stupid body noises Sam makes?’ Hannah continued.
The Misfits Club Page 2
