My Nutty Neighbours

by Creina Mansfield

  But how was I going to get my hands on a decent set of clubs? If I’d wanted a ukulele or a trombone or some such musical instrument, Mum and Dad would be falling over themselves to buy it. They’d spent thousands on violins and pianos for Ian over the years and now Dad said it was costing megabucks to keep him while he studied in London. He hadn’t got a vacation job because he said getting into Dublin would take too much time. This is the journey I did six days a week! I’d suggested that Ian visit the neighbouring farms and offer his services, but apparently Flimsy McFeeble couldn’t do manual labour because he had to protect his hands. It is the best get-out ever. If M gets a twig entwined in his hair, Ian refuses to help in case M bites his hand. Likewise with helping Dad in the garden. Even mowing the lawn might do irreparable damage to those delicate hands of his. I’m surprised he is prepared to open the door for himself – he could get a bruise off a faulty doorknob.

  I came out of the fields onto a winding lane with some small, modern bungalows along it. The first bungalow had a nice garden, but the second was like a little shantytown, like pictures of Mexico City. From the back wall to the house there were buildings made out of bits of wood, corrugated metal and even cardboard. There was just a narrow path down the middle of the sheds. I saw a red bouncing blob moving along the path towards me. A face suddenly turned upwards to stare at me. I’d been watching the top of a red baseball cap.

  I was going to give him one of those culchie nod/winks when he beat me to it. Only the gesture I got was a two-fingered one. He muttered something, and then moved away.

  So much for the friendliness of simple countryfolk! Crazy as a coot! Does he think I want to nick some of his junk? With neighbours like that …

  By the time M and I got back from our walk, the kitten was sleeping on a blanket in a shoebox. Ian was leaning over to look at it as he lay curled asleep. ‘Look at Mozart’s whiskers. Ah, in’t ’e luverley?’

  ‘Mozart? What a name!’ Mozart, the boy genius, was one of Ian’s heroes. ‘Just think, if we’d found him last year in Dublin, he might have ended up being called Metallica. Anyway, why didn’t I get a chance to name the kitten?’ I complained, as I grabbed some carrot cake. ‘After all, I saved him from M.’

  ‘That dog’s a nutter.’ Ian hadn’t forgiven M for climbing onto his bed, then up onto a shelf where his violin case was open and empty. He’d found M sitting in it with a Go on punk, make my day expression on his face. When he tried to tip him out, M had leapt at him and sunk his teeth into his right arm. You need two good arms to play the violin I understand.

  ‘He defends his territory. It’s the wolf in him,’ I explained, not for the first time.

  ‘Do me a favour. It’s the crazy in him,’ retorted Ian.

  ‘Sshh. You’ll wake up Mozart.’ Mum could scarcely leave the kitten alone. She was all gooey, having found someone to fuss over.

  When Dad came in he put up a show of resistance, but we could all tell it wasn’t going to last. ‘I’ve got to the time in my life where I want fewer dependants, not more,’ he objected, but he was already holding Mozart on his lap. The kitten was growing bolder by the minute. When it was on the kitchen table, it’d venture to the side and peer under to see if it could clamber down.

  With Dad in a good mood, I opened my plan of attack. As we ate in the kitchen, I made sure he saw me reading an article in a magazine. Only it was Ian who paid some attention. ‘Let’s have a butchers.’ He leaned over and grabbed the magazine. The article was about Tiger Woods. I let Ian get away with taking it. ‘Finking of taking up golf?’ he asked.

  Thank you, Bruv.

  ‘Not me. It says in that article that golf is extremely good exercise for the older man.’ It didn’t, but I was relying on nobody bothering to check. Ian threw the magazine down on the table. I reckon he only took it so he could say give us a butchers. You don’t have to be born within the sound of Bow Bells to know that butchers is cockney rhyming slang: butcher’s hook – look. I mean, Ian’s college isn’t even in east London! The closest he’d ever get to cockney slang was when his plane flew over east London before landing at Heathrow.

  Dad leaned over and looked at the pictures in the magazine. ‘Thinking of having a go, Dad?’ I asked.

  ‘What, me?’ He seemed pleased with the idea, but he always liked to be persuaded.

  ‘You’d be a natural,’ I assured him. He looked a bit doubtful. ‘Sure, you would. You’ve got the same physique as Tiger Woods.’ That is, he had two arms and two legs.

  ‘It would be good exercise for you.’ Mum looked down at her figure, and then took another helping of pasta.

  ‘Some of the fellas at work play, but I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself.’

  ‘Tell you what …’ I’d been waiting for this moment, ‘I’ll go out with you, if you want. Have a bash, too.’

  ‘Bash will be the right word,’ chipped in Ian. ‘There won’t be a pheasant left standing if you’re let loose with a golf club.’

  ‘Are you saying I lack finesse?’ I thought I was using some at that very moment, but couldn’t point that out.

  Ian grinned. ‘Davy, mate, it took you a month to learn how to open the French windows.’

  I let this go because Dad was looking thoughtful. He had taken the bait.

  Unfair!

  Joe, Abbas and I were walking around the school grounds at lunchtime when Frazier sauntered up with some of his cronies. ‘Your sister chucked Sullivan, then?’

  ‘None of your business who my sister’s going out with. What sort of perv are you?’ I retorted. Joe and Abbas lined up beside me. I screwed up my crisp packet and threw it at Frazier’s feet.

  ‘Yeah, it’s got nothing to do with you!’ said Joe.

  Frazier grinned. ‘Trouble in Paradise?’ His friends hung back. They couldn’t take Joe, Abbas and me and they knew it. Frazier backed away and was well out of kicking distance when he shouted, ‘Just wondering why you’ve been dropped from the team.’ Then he turned tail and ran off with his friends.

  I was off the A team? I’d scored every game! I’d run faster, tackled more than anyone else. I was out? No way! We went to the notice board where teams were posted, to make sure Frazier wasn’t just winding me up, but he was right: my name was in the B team list.

  ‘Sullivan’s put Cahill in your spot. He hasn’t scored a try this season!’ exclaimed Abbas. ‘And he runs like a girl.’

  ‘Bloody Sullivan,’ I muttered.

  ‘But why? Helen hasn’t chucked him, has she?’ asked Joe, unable to keep the hope out of his voice. When we’d lived in Highfield Road, he’d been a frequent visitor and had stared at Helen more than at my multi-channel TV.

  ‘No, unfortunately. She hasn’t got the sense,’ I complained. The injustice got to me. I deserved my place on the A team, whatever Frazier and his cronies said. And now I didn’t even have that. All thanks to Sullivan. All through Maths class I tried to think of a way to get back my place. Even if I went to the headmaster, he wouldn’t do anything about it because whatever Sullivan said, went: with his international caps for Ireland, he was untouchable. Anyway, I couldn’t really see myself explaining my sister’s love life to the headmaster. That would be like explaining rap lyrics to Mum. The injustice was plain. The Court of Human Rights should deal with this sort of thing, but there was nothing I could do.

  My great-uncle Albert won a medal during the war. I only found out about it after he had died. He must have been brave to win the George Cross. You’ve got to stick up for what you believe in. Stick up for what’s right. Trouble is, they don’t give you medals for it in my world.

  History lesson was last period. Sullivan was still going on about the French Revolution. How long could a revolution last, for God’s sake? He was pacing up and down the room – a sure sign of trouble. Me, I didn’t say a word. Couldn’t have been quieter, though when he said that ‘Liberty, equality, fraternity’ was the cry of the revolutionaries, I couldn’t keep the sneer off my face.

  He judd
ered to a halt in front of me. ‘You have something to say, Stirling?’ I shook my head. He wasn’t getting me that easily. ‘Come now! What part of liberty, equality, fraternity do you disagree with?’ He’d moved from my desk and gone to a pile of papers in his briefcase. I hoped I was off the hook, then saw he’d taken out my ‘Why I must concentrate at all times’ essay. I’d prefer to be talking about liberty, equality, fraternity.

  ‘They could have made it easier,’ I said. ‘Just shouted fairness. That’s all that’s needed – fairness.’ Abbas was looking at me as if I’d just jumped off a tall bridge into a dry river. The rest of the class gaped. News of my demotion from the A team had spread fast. They all knew I was having a go at Sullivan.

  He knew it too. ‘You seem to have something to say, Stirling, so say it.’

  ‘Why am I off the A team?’ I asked. No sir. He didn’t deserve a sir.

  ‘This is History. Keep that for rugby.’

  I leapt up, indignant. ‘You said I should say what I had to say!’

  ‘Sit down.’ There was menace in his voice.

  I stayed standing.

  ‘Sit down.’

  We were glaring at each other. I wanted to deck him. He looked as if he wanted to deck me. The other boys in the class were swivelling around from him to me as if it was a tennis match. Abbas’ eyes were wide like saucers and I could read a message there: you can’t win.

  I sat down, noisily and untidily, giving the bag at my feet a kick. Sullivan took one final look at my essay, scrunched it into a ball and chucked it in the waste bin. Then, talking in a lighter tone than usual, he got back to the French Revolution. The tension in the room eased. I didn’t look at him for the rest of the class, spending most of the time scowling and staring out the window onto the rugby pitches. Sullivan left me alone. Sometimes my friends risked looking back at me. Joe caught my eye and shook his head as if to say, that was close, very close.

  I thought, it isn’t over. Not yet.

  Second nutty neighbour

  ‘Where’s M?’

  I was in the kitchen and had the first bun in my mouth, but M hadn’t run up to greet me since I’d come in from school. Mum had no idea where he was – she only had time for the kitten and its ‘cute antics’.

  I ran through the house, checking the sorts of places he liked to hide when he had a biscuit to guard (like we wanted it!), but I couldn’t find him. He wasn’t in the garden either. Maybe he didn’t like the scent of cat everywhere. I got his lead. If he thought he was getting a walk, he’d creep out from wherever he was hiding. No luck, no sign of him. I threw my coat back on and grabbed my mobile. ‘I’m going to look for him. Text me if he turns up,’ I yelled.

  I scoured the lane. I’d heard of farmers shooting stray dogs in the country. M wasn’t wearing a collar because his hair always got entangled in it, so I only put one on him when I took him for a walk. But with his long, sleek coat, surely even culchies would know he wasn’t a stray?

  When it was clear he wasn’t in the lane, I climbed into the field, calling his name. There was a lot of long grass and once I thought I saw him in the distance, but it turned out to be a plastic bag. I’d been out for over an hour when I heard his bark. I followed the noise into the lane we’d walked along the day before, where the natives had been so ‘friendly’. M was nowhere to be seen.

  I called out his name again and suddenly Baseball Cap emerged from his wreck of a bungalow. He didn’t look any friendlier than he had the day before. I made a show of getting out my phone and calling home. I reckoned it might be safer to let Baseball Cap know that somebody knew where I was. He just kept staring at me. What was with these people?

  Just as I was about to walk away, he called out, ‘Here, boy, you.’

  I turned back. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Why are you always sneaking about around here? You’re not from around here. Another blow-in, aren’t you? I’m a working man, you know. Need a bit of peace and quiet and here’s you, shouting and roaring out of you. What in God’s name is “M” anyway?’

  I matched his sneer with one of my own. ‘That’s my dog’s name. I can’t find him.’

  ‘Dog’s name, is it. You cityfolk have queer ways, that’s for sure.’ That was rich coming from him!

  I was in no mood for politeness. ‘Well, at least I know how to be friendly instead of just rude.’

  He looked at me like I was the one who was crazy. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Last time I saw you, you gave me a two-fingered salute and I didn’t appreciate it.’

  He stared at me like he didn’t believe me. ‘I don’t know what’s up with you, boy. I’ve only ever waved at you, nothing else. Cheeky.’ He walked off.

  I’d had enough of this madness. I headed back to The Haven to see if my stupid dog had decided to put in an appearance yet.

  No sign of M at home, so I went back to the laneway and went on looking. I was nearly past the last bungalow when I saw a face staring out at me from the window. It was my best chance. I decided to call at the door and ask whether the face at the window had seen M. It seemed so easy as I walked up the path, but after I’d knocked, I began to have my doubts. Nobody answered, even though I was sure there had been a face at the window a moment ago. I was being watched by more than Baseball Cap, I was sure. Ballykreig has more than its fair share of idiots: wasn’t there meant to be just one per village? If Mum and Dad got out more, they’d find plenty of reasons to move back to Dublin, double-quick.

  There was a sign swinging in the wind – The Belfry – a weird name for a bungalow. There was no doorbell, so I grabbed hold of the heavy knocker in the middle of the door and hammered away, hoping the owner of the staring face would get the message that I wasn’t going to give up any time soon. Eventually, the door opened and I was looking at a small, wiry old man.

  ‘Sorry to bother you …’ I began. His face was expressionless, as if he didn’t understand what I was saying. Another one! I was trying to find the right words when M came bounding down the hallway towards me. He ran straight past the old man and jumped up at me. I caught him. He was so pleased to see me that he wouldn’t stay still. He licked my face and wriggled about.

  The old man spoke. ‘This your dog, then?’ It sounded like a trick question. What had M been up to? Had he chased sheep? Was there a heap of decapitated chickens lying in one of the sheds at the bottom of the garden?

  I hesitated. I couldn’t get away with saying, ‘Dog? Mine? No, never seen it before.’ After all, I was holding a dog’s lead and M’s tail was wagging so vigorously it looked as if he would take off. And he was still licking my face. So I said, ‘Err, I know the brother of the person it belongs to.’

  ‘Do you now?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Well, I did. Ian was the brother of the owner and I certainly knew him.

  Anyway, who was this old fella to keep my dog locked up in his house? I knew people stole pedigree dogs and I wasn’t about to have M taken by the Village of the Damned. ‘I’d prefer if you didn’t take my dog inside your home. I spent ages looking for him and I was worried. I’d rather you left him alone. So, I’ll be taking him now, thanks.’

  I turned and walked away, leaving the old guy standing there with his mouth open. I kept hold of M, not wanting to take the time to put his collar and lead on him, just in case there was a band of pedigree dog thieves inside the bungalow. I’d spent one rainy Sunday watching A Hundred and One Dalmatians, so I knew a thing or two about this.

  When we were at the gate, I turned. The old man had gone back inside, but Baseball Cap was standing in front of his tumbledown house, watching. I raised two fingers to him, the same way he’d done to me the day before, and decided that any other residents of Nutters Lane probably deserved the same. Still with M in one arm, I raised the other in the air and jerked two fingers. ‘Thanks for nothing!’ I yelled into the eerie country silence.

  That’s when she appeared, coming around the corner with those golf clubs in her hand. It was too late t
o turn my two-fingered salute into a friendly wave. I replayed that moment a hundred times. Every time it was like being kicked in the gut. She stopped, stared at me, then walked on, leaving me gaping. So that was that. I was better off when she thought I was simple-minded!

  I slouched home, not even wanting to talk to M. No one at home seemed to register how long we’d been gone. Mum was still crooning over Mozart. ‘Did Dad call you?’ she asked.

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘He’s got a surprise for you.’

  ‘Surprise or shock?’

  Mum and Dad are usually plodding and predictable, typical parents, really, but just when I am lulled into a false sense of security they do something spontaneous and crazy. Look at their decision last year to sell our house and buy two next door to each other.

  Mum wouldn’t tell me what the surprise was, but she promised I’d be pleased. I waited nervously for Dad to come home. When I heard his car come up the driveway, I looked out and saw him lugging a set of golf clubs out of the boot.

  He had a grin on his face. ‘Look at these, Davy. I bought them in my lunch hour. Fancy coming up the range?’

  Would she be up the range? I wasn’t keen to meet her.

  ‘I’ve got loads of homework.’

  His face fell. ‘This is a transformation, isn’t it? You usually do that in the car. What’s the matter? Don’t fancy your chances against your old dad? Worried I might be better than you?’

  ‘In your dreams!’ We were at the golf range within ten minutes. As soon as we got there, I had a good look around, but the place was empty.