Graham kept his eyes on his plate. He might have known that, despite Joe’s assurances, his family wouldn’t be able to get through the day without some reference to yesterday’s game. Dinner was over and Rita was talking to her brother Desmond.
‘Bigoted b, so he was,’ Desmond agreed.
‘You’re right there, Desmond,’ said Rita. ‘Jammy and I watched it on the telly together. We saw him, plain as day, giving one of those funny handshakes to the linesman.’
Graham gasped. He couldn’t stop himself. The replays he had watched proved that the breaks had all gone Celtic’s way.
‘Aye, you wouldn’t believe it, would you, Gregory?’ Desmond had misinterpreted Graham’s reaction. ‘But that’s what goes on. Pure prejudice, so it is.’
‘Enough,’ said Kathleen. ‘I’ve told you lot before. When you have dinner at my house there’s no post-mortem on Celtic games. Football annoys me. It causes too much bad feeling, and anyway Tommy supports Partick Thistle.’
‘Aw c’mon,’ said Desmond, ‘even a Jags supporter has to admit that was never a goal in the first half. We would’ve won the game but for that. Did you see it, Gregory? What did you think?’
‘Aye,’ Joe chimed, affecting a serious, attentive manner. ‘What did you think, Gregory?’
Graham stared hard at Joe. Then he smiled and opened his eyes wide. ‘I think’ – he spoke slowly – ‘that you’re right. The ref was biased. It was blatantly obvious. No matter what the opposition says. The better team was robbed in the end.’
‘Once again they did the dirty on us. We were the best team on the park. By a mile,’ said Desmond.
‘We were,’ said Graham. ‘Def-in-itely.’ He shot Joe a look of triumph.
When dinner was over Joe and Graham sat on at the dining table and began to draw out sketches of line formations while the adults tried to persuade Kathleen’s husband Tommy to sing a song.
‘Danny Boy. It’s my favourite song,’ said Joe’s granny. ‘You’ve got a lovely voice, Tommy. And,’ she added in a placating tone, ‘it’s one both sides can sing with no offence to either.’
‘Not Danny Boy,’ protested Desmond. ‘I’d rather hear The Croppy Boy.’
‘None of that,’ said Kathleen. ‘This is a peaceable neighbourhood.’
‘Oh I see,’ said Desmond. ‘You’ve changed your tune since you’ve gone up in the world.’
‘I’m no going to annoy folk. They don’t annoy me.’
‘This is my culture,’ said Desmond. ‘This is my music.’
‘Aye, but this is my house,’ said Kathleen, ‘and I’ll fling you out if you start with any of your rebel songs.’
‘Gaun yourself, Kathleen,’ said her husband, Tommy.
‘We shouldn’t stop rebelling,’ said Desmond, ‘until we are truly free.’
‘You’re free to leave any time you like, Desmond,’ said Kathleen.
‘That’s not what I mean.’ Desmond glared at her. ‘What I’m talking about here is the situation where we are still being discriminated against. For instance, I’ll have you know, I could not become the next King of Britain.’
‘You’re right there, Desmond,’ said Kathleen. ‘You could not.’
‘And,’ Desmond went on, ignoring her sarcasm, ‘from now until July a load of loonies can march all over this city chanting things about Catholics, and we have to shut up and listen to it.’
‘The Orangemen don’t chant anything,’ said Joe’s dad. ‘And although, personally, I think they’re misguided, they say they’re not aware of any unpleasantness in the crowds that turn up.’
‘That’ll be right!’ said Rita with heavy scorn. ‘If they don’t know what goes on around them when they pass by, then they must have those wee bowler hats that they sometimes wear pulled all the way down over their eyes and ears.’
‘They’re trying to let us know our place,’ said Desmond.
‘Or perhaps keep their own place,’ said Joe’s dad mildly.
‘Maybe there’s more to it than that,’ said Tommy. ‘Perhaps the powers that be have got it all worked out to give the mob an outlet for their aggression. All the cheering and shouting encourage men to think they’re a united brotherhood.’
‘I’ll say yes to united Irishmen,’ said Desmond.
‘The United Irishmen were the original rebels,’ said Joe’s dad, ‘formed by women and men – like the patriot Wolfe Tone, for example – who were of different faiths.’
‘Yeh, faith,’ said Desmond. ‘Faith of our fathers. They tried to crush that out of us. But we resisted, In spite of dungeon, fire, and sword . . .’
He held his hands high in the air and began to sing:
‘Faith of our fathers! Holy Faith!
We will be true to thee till death,
We will be true to thee till death.’
‘Gie’s a break, Desmond,’ said Kathleen.
‘If you don’t have your faith’ – Desmond pointed his finger at her – ‘you have nothing. Nothing.’
‘When did you last go to church?’ Joe’s granny asked him.
‘That’s a private matter between myself and my Maker,’ declared Desmond.
‘I wish your singing was an all,’ said Joe’s granny.
‘You don’t have to be flocking to church every week to be a true believer,’ said Rita. ‘It’s what’s in your heart that counts.’
‘Aye, right,’ scoffed Kathleen. ‘See all these folk that only go to the Chapel twice a year? Hypocrites! Turn up on Ash Wednesday to get their ashes so they can walk about the town with the smit on their forehead. And on Christmas Eve they stagger up to Midnight Mass after the pubs shut to stand at the back half cut, and then go up to see the crib and keel over beside the baby Jesus.’
‘I fulfil my duties,’ said Desmond.
‘Going to Parkhead during the football season does not fulfil one’s religious obligations,’ said Tommy, in a solemn voice. ‘Even if one also does attend the away games.’
‘Desmond was in church for my wedding,’ said Rita. ‘And he stayed all through the service. Not like some I could mention, who skipped out early to get to the hotel afore everybody else, so they could get tore into the whisky and the sherry and the bucks fizz laid out for the guests arriving. And,’ she sniffed, ‘they weren’t from my side of the family, by the way. Our Desmond stayed right to the end of the Nuptial Mass, didn’t you, Desmond?’
‘Aye, I did.’
‘Rita’ – Joe’s Aunt Kathleen laughed – ‘you were married over twenty year ago.’
‘Point of principle,’ said Desmond. ‘Point of principle.’
‘Yes,’ said Joe’s dad, ‘that’s why it bemuses me that people who don’t practise their faith get all fired about it.’
‘For some people it’s an excuse to have a rammy,’ said Kathleen.
‘Naw it’s no,’ said Desmond.
‘Aye it is,’ said Kathleen.
‘Naw it’s no.’
‘Desmond, you know it is.’
‘Are you callin me a liar?’ Desmond made as if to stand up. ‘I’m no easily riled, but if I get to my feet . . .’
‘If you do get to your feet, Desmond, go into the kitchen and put the kettle on, will you?’ said Joe’s granny.
‘That’s another one of the things he hasn’t done for twenty year,’ said Kathleen.
All the women started laughing.
It’s reality TV, thought Graham from his vantage point at one end of the room. He’d heard programme makers were always keen for new ideas. If only he’d thought to bring a camcorder with him. He could have made a fortune.
Joe, obviously accustomed to scenes like this, ignored his relatives and went on talking tactics and drawing diagrams. Graham tried to concentrate on what Joe was saying, but when the adults’ conversation turned to the Orange Walk due to take place next Saturday his whole body tensed.
‘Some of the marchers are no bad looking,’ said Kathleen, smiling. ‘We stood and watched them go past the shop last year. On
e of them gave me the eye.’
‘Aye, the evil eye,’ said Rita. ‘He probably thought you were going to try to cross the street in front of them. You’d have seen how much he fancied you if you’d tried that.’
‘No, he was OK. If he hadn’t had all his regalia on he might have been passable.’
‘With or without the regalia, I think you can tell them apart,’ said Desmond. ‘You just need to look at them. And you can tell.’
‘The way they say they can tell us?’ asked Joe’s dad in an amused voice.
‘Oh, I agree with them there,’ said Joe’s granny. ‘I can tell our own. I mean, look at Joe’s new pal there from the football training. Wee Gregory.’
It took Graham several seconds before he realized they were talking about him.
‘You can tell he’s Donegal bred,’ Joe’s granny went on. ‘Give me his second name and I could probably place him to the exact village. He has the look of the black Irish.’
The black Irish? Graham kept his face blank.
Joe’s dad leaned forward. ‘In case you’re wondering, Gregory,’ he said to Graham, ‘the black Irish are the Irish who are descended from the survivors of the ships of the Spanish Armada, part of which was wrecked off the west coast of Ireland. They intermarried with the local population, whose subsequent offspring had distinctively more sallow skin and dark hair.’
‘Right,’ said Graham. His voice was neutral, but the look he directed at Joe was pure panic.
Joe shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’
‘If your ancestors are from the Emerald Isle,’ Joe’s dad continued, ‘you can probably trace your lineage to Spanish nobility on one side, while on the other side you’ll be a direct descendant of the High Kings of Ireland.’
‘See, you’re having a wee joke there, Joseph,’ said Desmond. ‘But your ma’s right. What’s bred in the bone comes out in the blood. Look at the boy. You can tell. Name like Gregory an all. Dead give away, that.’
‘Do you think so?’ Joe’s dad laughed.
‘Lovely name, Gregory,’ said Rita. ‘Jammy told me your ma called you after a pope, didn’t she, son?’
Almost certainly not, Graham thought silently. He stood up. He had to get out of the room.
Joe looked at Graham. He flicked his glance towards the door. Graham moved his head in a very slight nod.
Rita saw him standing up. ‘Where’re you going, son?’
‘Need a pee,’ Graham mumbled.
Chapter 30
Later that evening Graham had not taken two steps inside his house when his mum was beside him.
‘Where are the people who brought you home?’
‘Er – they drove away,’ said Graham.
‘Did they not think to wait to say hello?’
‘They were in a hurry.’
‘They were not.’ Graham’s dad laughed. ‘You got them to drop you at the end of the street so that you wouldn’t have to introduce us.’
Graham blushed.
His dad put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Did the same thing myself when I was your age. Parents are so embarrassing, aren’t they?’
Graham gave his dad a grateful look. He was taking the pressure off.
But his mum was not to be deterred. ‘Tell us all about this new friend of yours,’ she said.
‘Not now, Mum. I’m really tired and I’ve got things to sort out for school tomorrow.’ Graham went into the lounge and rummaged through the Sunday papers, looking for the sports section.
‘I don’t recall you mentioning this boy Joe before,’ said his mum, following him into the room. ‘He’s not a pupil at your school, is he?’
Graham shook his head.
‘So . . . what school does Joe go to?’
Graham looked straight at his mum. ‘I never asked him,’ he said truthfully.
Under her son’s direct stare Graham’s mother’s face went slightly pink.
‘Your dad and I are concerned for you. I don’t want to be overprotective, but—’
‘I was just playing football with a friend, and he asked me to his aunt’s house for dinner. That’s all.’
‘And did you have a nice time?’ his mum asked.
‘Ye-es!’ said Graham. He grabbed a handful of the Sunday papers and his rucksack and went quickly upstairs to his room.
He flung the bundle of stuff onto his bed and sat down. He was tired. He’d been telling his mum the truth when he’d told her that. And it wasn’t just his muscles with playing so much football over the last few days; his brain was churning too.
It had been a heavy weekend. First the excitement of scoring the goal at football training and maybe increasing his chances of being selected for the team. Then the horrible incident in Reglan Street, with all the further complications of helping Leanne by going to the hospital to give Kyoul her message. Graham felt his mind dip when he thought about Kyoul. Remembering the torture marks on the Kyoul’s body made him queasy. He hadn’t wanted to go to the hospital, but was glad he had. To see Kyoul safe made him feel better. He could understand why Leanne had wanted them to go and talk to him to make sure he was OK. Although it had been Joe who had done most of the work for that, blagging his way into the hospital ward.
Joe . . . Graham had never met anyone quite like Joe before – someone totally different from him in every way. Yet he liked him. He liked Joe’s dad too, now that he’d spoken to him a bit more, and his Aunt Kathleen. She was less uptight than the other adults, especially when they’d been talking about Saturday’s Orange Walk. She’d a wicked sense of humour and chatted away to him when cooking the dinner, and Graham found himself talking to her quite easily. It was only Jammy and Desmond who made him uncomfortable. There was no doubt that Desmond was brilliant at football and good at coaching. But his voice, his manner, the bruises on his face and his talk at dinner made Graham think that he was one of those people his parents might not want him to be associated with.
On top of all that, there was the pressure from his granda and his granda’s friends to take part in their local Orange Walk next week. When Sadie had spoken to him in the kitchen Graham felt ashamed that he hadn’t yet agreed to go. So why was it then, when he’d first told Joe about it, he’d felt uncomfortable that he was even thinking of taking part? He almost wished that his parents weren’t leaving it up to him to make the decision.
Graham picked up the newspapers and looked for the sports section to read the write-ups from Saturday’s game. Rangers should never have allowed Celtic to get that equalizer in the second half. Team tactics were lacking, said this reporter. Graham thumbed his way through the rest. There was a report about some trouble afterwards. An injured person had been taken to A&E. What had begun as a minor clash of rival groups chucking potatoes at each other had escalated into hard violence.
Graham had seen the Rangers fans at the front throwing potatoes onto the pitch at Parkhead. He’d thought it was really funny. After all, as his granda said, Celtic supporters were always singing about the Irish Famine. The potatoes were a good wind-up. But it said that an old man had to have stitches in his head. Graham threw the newspaper on his bed. Would it never stop? Both clubs were trying to do something positive, running antibigotry campaigns and banning abusive fans. At Ibrox Park, the Rangers football ground, and Parkhead, the home of Celtic, sectarian songs were banned. But some people wouldn’t listen. It was as though the actual football wasn’t the reason they came to the games. They soured it by linking it with religious prejudice.
Religion should help you lead a better life, that’s what his parents told him. His mum went to church most Sundays, his dad often went with her. They never pressured him to go with them so sometimes he went too. They passed a Catholic church on the way. There were always people going in or coming out. Everybody smiled and said hello. So how come fights happened about religion? Why couldn’t they live side by side happily all the time? Why was there a problem with Kyoul and Leanne being together? Was it never
going to stop?
Graham pushed the pile of newspapers to one side. As he did so he caught sight of an article in the main news section.
His heart bucked in his chest.
From the top of a page Kyoul’s face was staring out at him.
Above the photograph the headline read:
DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN?
Chapter 31
Graham’s hands shook as he spread the newspaper out on his bed.
DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN?
The police are still anxious to establish the identity of this young man, who was attacked in the city centre on Friday night. They would like to speak to the person they know was at the scene of the crime, a boy with dark hair wearing a grey sweatshirt, to come forward to help with their enquiries. The injured man, known only as Kyoul, is suffering from amnesia and is recovering in hospital. He may be of eastern European origin. If you have any information please contact Central Police Station.
Sickness rose in Graham’s throat.
Anyone who read that might know it was him! And it sounded even more as if he’d been actively involved in the attack. He tried to be calm and think the way Joe did. Joe, who seemed not to panic about anything. Graham read the description of himself again. ‘A boy’. It could be any boy, couldn’t it? ‘Dark hair and grey sweatshirt’. There must be loads of boys with dark hair and grey sweatshirts. Graham began to reason things out as he packed his rucksack for school and got ready for bed. He was safe, he told himself. No one would suspect that he was the boy mentioned in the newspaper. The police couldn’t have enough information to find him or they would have already called at the house. If Kyoul decided to tell the police what happened then he didn’t know Graham’s name or anything about him. And his parents must have read this and they weren’t knocking on his bedroom door to question him.
All he had to do was meet up with Joe tomorrow after school and go and tell Leanne that Kyoul was OK. Once that was done he would have nothing more to do with any of it.
Downstairs in Graham’s house his mum was talking to his dad.
‘Why do you think Graham was so abrupt with me tonight?’ she asked.
Divided City Page 11
