My Nutty Neighbours

by Creina Mansfield

  Finally, when the bucket was empty and we were walking away, Andrea asked, ‘Have you told her yet?’

  ‘Her, who? Told what?’

  She looked at me impatiently, ‘Your sister. Helen. Have you told her that her boyfriend’s a rat?’

  ‘Err, no.’

  She stopped. ‘Why not? You really should, you know.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. He’s okay. I spoke to him and–’

  ‘Oh, right. What’s this then, male solidarity? That is just typical. If you …’

  ‘No, no, Andrea, honestly, let me explain. The woman I saw him with was his mother.’

  ‘Mother? And you believed him when he said that?’

  ‘Yes, and I also checked the Internet, just to be sure, and there she was, with her son. It’s definitely his mother.’

  Andrea was laughing again. ‘David! You said they were kissing passionately.’

  ‘Well, I blame mothers. They shouldn’t be so demonstrative in public. It confuses people.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t know the difference between a mother’s kiss and a girlfriend’s, you’re in trouble …’

  I let M off the lead. We had to start running to keep up with him. The only way I could stop Andrea laughing was to out-run her. We began to race as we followed M over the hedge and through the fields. At least I could beat her in a sprinting contest!

  Sullivan was back in charge at rugby practice the next day. He pushed us hard. If St Joe’s didn’t win the Challenge Cup, it would be the first year since he’d begun coaching the team that we hadn’t won a trophy. That display cabinet outside the Headmaster’s study would be half empty, the centrepiece gone. Saturday’s game was crucial, and we all knew it.

  The game

  Friday evening, I ate two plates of pasta, which is great energy food, and took it easy, watching TV in my room. Tiger was lying on the bottom of my bed, feet in the air. Mozart nestled against my shoulder, so close that his purring filtered through the sound from the TV. I checked my mobile: McFeeble had texted, wishing me ‘gd lck 4 ur gme’, which I presumed was a good thing. I was feeling confident. All I needed was a good night’s sleep and I was ready. Blackrock were going to be formidable foes. We needed to get ahead early in the game. For some reason I couldn’t settle, something was niggling at me. I checked everything was ready – kit, boots, padding, socks, bag – all were there. It was too soon to start envisioning our winning moves. I’d do that on the bus on the way in to Dublin. Now, I tried to concentrate on the film, but couldn’t. I went downstairs for a snack. The kitchen was empty. Helen was out with Sullivan – the first time without her crutches. Mum and Dad were in the living room watching something boring about birds on the Discovery Channel.

  I found some cake and was eating it when Dad came in.

  ‘Thought you were going to have an early night?’

  ‘Can’t sleep. Not tired.’

  ‘I plan to do some gardening tomorrow. How about, when you come back from rugby, you set about building that rockery you promised?’

  ‘Sure.’ If I was still standing! Then I realised what it was that was bothering me. ‘Where’s M?’ I hadn’t seen him all evening. He wasn’t in his basket in the utility room, or hiding in one of his favourite cubby-holes. I went into the garden to call him. No answer, but the gate was open. I went back in and grabbed his lead. He wouldn’t always return to me if he was off tracking, but he would if he heard the rattle of his lead. Crazy mutt.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Dad.

  ‘To find M.’ I took a torch and my mobile. ‘Call me if he turns up.’

  I got away before Mum or Dad urged me to stay put. The last thing I heard was Mum saying, ‘But I thought you had an important game in the morning?’ Like I’d forgotten! But I wouldn’t rest until I’d found M. I walked our favourite lanes, heading towards the centre of the village. One car nearly blinded me with full headlights as it came towards me, but apart from that the whole of Ballykrieg seemed to be asleep. Even The Feathers was in darkness, the car park deserted. The 24/7 was closed, too, naturally. I called out, ‘M! Man of Honour.’ My voice seemed to echo to infinity, but M did not appear.

  My phone rang. It was Dad.

  ‘Frank Lynch phoned. He saw M outside his bungalow.’

  ‘Did he catch him?’

  ‘No. By the time he’d got outside, M was gone.’

  At least I had a sighting. I knew what direction to head in and I knew M was uninjured. I ran to Nutters Lane, with only the full moon and my torch to light my path. The lane was in darkness. I shook M’s lead and called his name again. The light in The Belfry’s porch went on and a figure in pyjamas appeared in the doorway.

  ‘That you David?’ It was Frank.

  I went to speak to him. From his account, half-an-hour or so had gone by since he’d looked out his front window and seen M rootling in the grass.

  ‘Just like the first time. But I managed to get hold of him then. This time he was too quick for me.’

  ‘Which way did he go?’

  ‘Not along the road, or I’d have seen him.’

  ‘You reckon he could still be in Nutters … I mean, in this lane?’

  ‘Could be. I’ll get my Tilly lamp.’

  As I waited for Frank to put a raincoat over his pyjamas, I shone my torch across the gardens of the bungalows. It was eerie how different familiar places seem at night. Though most humans were sleeping, faint rustlings suggested that other life forms were awake and close by. The Earth is occupied in shifts by day-dwellers and nocturnal creatures and here I was, out and about in others’ time.

  Something led me towards Declan Murphy’s sheds. If my crazy dog was tired by now and seeking safe shelter, the shantytown sheds offered just the sort of protection he would seek. Frank followed me as I made my way along the corridor that led to Declan’s back door. The bungalow was in darkness and I was hoping its owner was soundly asleep: I didn’t want Declan thinking we were burglars.

  The first shed I entered was empty, but in the second a snarl came from beneath a load of Guinness is Good for You signs. I directed the torch and illuminated a dejected-looking M. He was like a drowned rat, his huge ears hanging down limply. His bid for freedom had ended as it always did – with him wishing he was home in the warmth of his basket. Relief flooded through me. Frank came round beside me and reached down, obviously under the impression that M would come quietly. He quickly withdrew his hand as M went for him. I pulled my jacket sleeves down, crouched by M and whispered gently, ‘You are one crazy dog.’

  He raised his head, then bared his teeth.

  ‘M, it’s me!’ I began to say, knowing conversation distracted him. Then I pounced, grabbing him firmly by the middle. He tried to turn and bite me, but I’d learnt just where to hold him so he couldn’t quite reach. I held him struggling in my arms. ‘Thanks, Frank.’

  ‘Glad to be of assistance. You’ll be alright?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I reckoned I’d walk by the side of the road to get home rather than go off across the fields. It would be all too easy to step into a rabbit hole and twist an ankle, and I needed all my speed tomorrow. As I attached M’s lead and said goodnight to Frank, my thoughts returned to the make-or-break game. So much for an early night! So much for a relaxing evening! I was tired, very tired. The expression is dog tired. Now I knew why …

  I am running with the ball. The opposition is so close I can feel fingernails scratching my skin. I’m yards away from the touchline. There’s cheering from the spectators. Andrea’s here. She’s cheering more loudly than anyone. She holds M on a lead. I throw myself forward. The ball meets the touchline. We’ve won! We’ve won!

  I am running with the ball. The opposition is scratching at my arm. The touchline is ahead of me, but the faster I run, the more blurred and distant the line becomes. There’s a strange noise. I don’t know what it is. Andrea’s here. She’s yelling. She holds M’s lead. M is missing. We’ve lost the game.

  I woke up. Moz
art was scratching my arm. I looked at the clock and hurled myself out of bed.

  ‘I’ve missed the bus!’ I yelled.

  Down in the kitchen, Mum and Dad were in their dressing gowns, looking drowsy. M – the cause of my lateness – came up wagging his tail, full of energy and contentment.

  ‘I’m late!’ I yelled at them.

  ‘You can take the later bus, can’t you?’ asked Mum.

  ‘No! There is no later bus on a Saturday!’ I shouted. ‘Dad?’ He was my only hope. If he drove me in right now, I might just make it.

  ‘I was going to spend the day in the garden …’ he grumbled, but he got up. I knew he was prepared to drive me in, but reluctantly. ‘I’ll just get dressed.’

  ‘No time!’ I yelled.

  ‘He can’t go in his dressing gown, David,’ objected Mum. ‘Supposing he’s stopped. Supposing he’s in an accident.’

  ‘Then he’ll be all ready for the hospital bed,’ I shouted back as I leapt up the stairs to grab my kit. I wasn’t going to waste time dressing either. I’d change in the car. I grabbed my bag and hurled myself down the stairs again.

  ‘Come on!’

  Dad’s pace was infuriatingly slow. He drove slowly out of the driveway. Even the way he looked first right, then left, then right again before pulling out onto the road seemed more careful than usual.

  ‘Let’s get moving,’ I shouted.

  ‘Be quiet,’ said Dad, with menace. ‘I can’t drive with you making all that noise. Anyhow, you’ll be in no state to play if you go on like that.’

  Yeah, so much for getting myself psychologically ready for the game. I pulled off my pyjamas and put on my rugby gear. The sight of my backside mooning out the window startled shoppers happily making their way into town.

  Minutes ticked by. Though the roads were clearer than they were on weekdays, there was still enough traffic to slow us down. I urged Dad on, stressing the importance of the game ahead.

  ‘It’s our only chance. Do you get it? Our only chance. If we lose this …’

  ‘Surely you’ll be replaced if you don’t turn up on time?’

  That was meant to cheer me up!

  ‘Of course I’ll be replaced! And I’ll be in deep trouble. Just get me there!’ I was yelling again.

  The game was being played on one of Blackrock’s pitches, which had seemed a disadvantage up until now; it was along the M50 route, which meant we wouldn’t have to drive through the city centre. Even so, the meeting time for the team came and went. By now they would all have realised I was missing. Sullivan would be asking, ‘Where’s Stirling?’ He’d be talking to Cahill, ready to move him back into the A team. Damn! I had no phone. In the rush, I’d forgotten to bring it.

  Ten minutes before the game started, we drove in through the arched gates of Blackrock College. I could hardly wait for Dad to stop the car before I leapt out and ran into the changing rooms. The team were all there, in their kit, ready.

  ‘You’re late!’ shouted Frazier.

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ I yelled back.

  Sullivan walked in. ‘You’re late.’

  If I gave him the same answer, I was kissing goodbye to my place on the A team, and not just for one game but for the season. And I wanted to play. More than anything, I wanted to get on that pitch and score for St Joe’s, so I bit back the words.

  ‘Yeah, sorry,’ I said.

  ‘You know the rules,’ he said. I didn’t. I’d never been late for rugby before. Lessons, Assembly, detention, church – I’d been late for them often enough, but never for rugby. I waited.

  ‘Have a one-page essay on my desk on Monday morning entitled ‘The Importance of Time’,’ he said. ‘Now get ready.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  We marched out onto the pitch, surveying the opposition. They looked brutal and determined. The whistle went. Before we knew what had hit us, Blackrock scored a try and converted. Then a second, although they didn’t make the conversion. We were 12 to 0 down and I hadn’t handled the ball yet. Lack of sleep made me feel in a daze. What the rest of the team’s excuse was, I don’t know. They were like zombies, wandering around vacantly while Blackrock took the ball and held it. We were being pasted.

  Already I could imagine what it would be like after the game. The long lingering disappointment, the empty feeling that comes with losing. These were negative thoughts and Sullivan’s advice returned to me. I conjured up pictures of winning: I race down the pitch, I score a try. It worked. I felt energy surging into me and the mental fogginess disappeared. Now I needed to get that ball and run with it. A fluke gave Frazier possession. He ran with the ball. I was free, ready for him to pass to me. I yelled to him, but he ran on, even though he’d seen me. He was ignoring the moves we’d gone through in training a hundred times. He was going for a glory run, but it was hopeless. He was tackled and Blackrock had the ball again. Then disaster! A penalty. A kick. 15 to 0.

  I went up to Frazier and shoved him. ‘Pass the ball next time, or …’

  ‘Or what?’ He shoved back. Our team-mates came between us.

  ‘Or we’re going to bloody lose,’ I shouted at him as the ball came into play again. I ploughed through, tackled and took possession, racing along the wing. I felt Blackrock players clawing at me, just like in the dream. My speed didn’t desert me. I ran on, sidestepping a Blackrock player, then dummying another. I held onto the ball, hugging it to me, then threw myself down. The ball hit the line. A cheer went up from St Joe’s: 15 to 5. Frazier converted to give us seven points. A long, mournful whistle drew the first half to a close. We dragged ourselves to the changing rooms, knowing we still had a mountain to climb.

  Sullivan was there, looking concerned. ‘Okay, I want 110% from each and every one of you. We can still win this thing. Nice try, Dave … Stirling.’

  The Blackrock team was slow to emerge for the second half. All they wanted now was the game to be over, with them looking forward to being in the final. We, on the other hand, had to make every second count.

  ‘Get amongst it!’ I urged as the ball went into play. Frazier tackled and took possession. As before, I paced him. I could see the shadow ahead of him. He was about to meet the huge, immovable object that was their fullback. Frazier swung round and passed the ball to me. I weaved towards the line. The fullback collided with me head-on. I rolled, still clutching the ball, picked myself up and ran on. Five yards from the line, I dived towards it. A try! 15 to 12. Frazier stepped forward for the conversion. I closed my eyes, pleading the ball to go over. It did! Now it was 15 to 14: we had a real chance.

  We were making all the play. Blackrock had given their best and were now dragging their feet, hoping it was enough. With ten minutes it was still 15 to 14 and Blackrock were defending their territory like lions. I could see my team-mates were starting to tire, but we couldn’t let go now. Again and again we ran at them, only to be knocked back. Time was running out.

  ‘How long left, ref?’ we shouted.

  ‘Last play,’ he answered.

  We had one chance and one chance only to win. Blackrock were still time-wasting, throwing the ball to each other, but they did it carelessly and we took possession. From Frazier to me again. I had one final run to make. The mammoth shadow of the fullback was ahead of me and I didn’t know if I had the stamina for another bone-crunching tackle. Suddenly a picture of how Johnny Wilkinson won the World Cup for England in 2003 flashed into my mind. It was a hell of a risk, but I was going to take it.

  I dummied to the left, then ran to the right, losing the fullback for a crucial few seconds – just long enough to pause, look up and sight the posts. I drop-kicked the ball. Time slowed down as the ball sailed high. The crowd fell silent. The ball seemed to hover, then dropped right over the post. Blackrock, 15; St Joe’s, 17. Three short whistles. The game was over. We’d won!

  We let out a mighty cheer. Our supporters came forward. I felt my back being slapped.

  ‘Well done.’

 
‘You’re a star.’

  ‘First rate.’

  ‘Drop-kicking us to victory is getting to be a habit, Stirling.’

  There was even a fella in pyjamas and dressing gown; Dad had stayed to watch despite his clothes, or lack of them. I was so wrapped up in the game, I hadn’t even noticed. But now he was waving madly at me, giving the thumbs-up and I felt like all my birthdays had come together.

  The Importance of Time

  ‘So, how about this rockery?’

  Sunday morning, a day of rest, and Dad was determined to drag me out into the garden. I slid my head under the covers, knowing escape was only temporary. It was pay-back time for those Pings.

  The grass was tall enough for Mozart and Tiger to hide in it. I’d have to mow that, too. But before I started, I reckoned I should practice my golf swing. My shoulder ached from the heavy tackles I’d made against Blackrock, but who cared? Winning is better than Deep Heat for soothing muscles.

  I was lining up a difficult chip shot when a yellow convertible pulled into the driveway. The couple inside waved to me. Looking the way they did, they could only be Helen’s friends. The woman was wearing high heels that dug into the gravel, so she tottered slowly towards the front door. I saw Helen come out and peer vacantly around. She has perfect eyesight, but has taken to wearing a pair of Dad’s reading glasses, which make seeing difficult. She was experimenting with a new look, apparently, to suit her student life. Combat trousers, pulled-back hair – they’d throw her out of the Beauticians’ Union if they could see her now. She’d started to carry books around, too. Rebel Without a Clue.