Friend or Foe

by Brian Gallagher

  ‘Mill! Mill, at the handball alley!’ he heard boys calling out behind him in the schoolyard.

  A moment later he rounded the corner, past the high wall of the alley. The rest of the class quickly followed him, and in spite of the chill autumn breeze Jack took off his sweater and handed it with his schoolbag to Gerry. Phelim stripped off his sweater also and gave it to one of his friends.

  ‘OK, Madigan. Let’s see what you’re made of!’ he said.

  Jack still felt angry, but he knew that to win he had to control his anger and think tactically. Phelim was bigger and heavier than him, yet Jack had some advantages. Phelim didn’t know that he had been taught how to box. And because Jack hadn’t used his fists before and wasn’t regarded as a fighter, Phelim was over-confident. The key to winning would be to strike hard early on, before Phelim realised what he was up against. But even if it turned into a dogfight and he got hurt, then so be it – he couldn’t let the other boy away with belittling Ronnie.

  Jack raised his fists as Phelim advanced, but he didn’t adopt the traditional boxer’s stance, wanting to keep his boxing training a surprise until the last minute. Phelim suddenly rushed at him, launching a punch towards Jack’s face. Jack danced sideways, dodging the blow and landing a right-hand jab into Phelim’s ribs as the other boy’s momentum carried him past. The blow obviously hurt, and Phelim cried out in anger, then wheeled around and made for Jack again. Once again Jack kept his guard low, but when Phelim swung a punch at his jaw, he quickly shot up his left hand and blocked the blow, as Da had taught him. Jack immediately bounced forward and drove his fist hard into Phelim’s solar plexus, and the bigger boy doubled up in pain. As his opponent gasped for air, Jack unleashed a blow to his ribs followed by a stinging right hook that split Phelim’s lip and sent him staggering to the ground.

  There was an animal-like roar from the watching boys. Jack looked at his dazed opponent crouched on the ground with blood pouring from his lip. Part of him was sickened by what he had done, but part of him was exhilarated too, and he drew nearer to Phelim. ‘That’s for insulting my cousin and calling brave men cowards!’ he said.

  He turned away and took his sweater and schoolbag from Gerry, then he walked off, his exhilaration quickly fading as he thought of the consequences of what he had done.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘I know the killer!’ said Joan. ‘It’s definitely the fella with the squinty eye!’

  ‘Too obvious,’ said Emer as she walked home along the North Circular Road with Joan, Jack, Ben and Gladys. They had been to the moving pictures in the Bohemian Cinema in Phibsboro to see the first instalment in a two-part mystery drama.

  Emer loved their Sunday afternoon trips to the cinema. The Bohemian had its own distinctive smell, and she liked the magic of the flickering images in the darkened auditorium and the improvised piano music played live by an accompanist as the story unfolded.

  ‘I still say it’s the squinty fella,’ said Joan. ‘He looks like he’d kill you!’

  ‘But we shouldn’t judge people by their looks,’ said Gladys. ‘Mr Prendergast always says that.’

  ‘Who’s Mr Prendergast when he’s at home?’ asked Joan.

  ‘Our Sunday School teacher,’ answered Ben. ‘But he also thinks that people shouldn’t play cricket on a Sunday, so you have to take him with a grain of salt!’

  ‘Who do you think is the killer, Jack?’ asked Emer, aware that her friend was a bit subdued.

  ‘I’d say it’s the sister. You’re always worried that the killer will murder her – so it’d be a really good twist if she’s the killer herself.’

  ‘I’d never have thought of that,’ said Gladys.

  ‘Yeah, but it makes sense,’ said Ben. ‘Good thinking, Jack.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  They paused at the railway bridge, and the crisp air of late October suddenly filled with black smoke as a locomotive from the Midland Great Western Railway chugged beneath them, heading north towards Liffey Junction. They waited until the train passed, the pungent smoke still swirling about, then Emer made a point of falling into step with Jack behind the others as they started for home again.

  Jack had told her about his fight a couple of days previously and his concerns about what might happen when he arrived in school tomorrow morning. Even though she couldn’t root for the British Army the way Jack did, Emer still felt that the boy Jack had fought was horrible to say what he had, and that he had deserved it when Jack defeated him.

  ‘Are you still worried about the fight?’ she asked now.

  Jack nodded. ‘I don’t know whether I should have told my da or not.’

  ‘By telling, you might give him worries he doesn’t need. If you say nothing, it could all blow over.’

  Jack looked at her appealingly. ‘Do you really think it’ll blow over?’

  ‘Lots of boys have fights and don’t tell their parents. Maybe they should, but a lot of them don’t. And seeing as this Phelim lost, he probably won’t want to draw attention to it.’

  ‘Yeah, you could be right,’ said Jack more hopefully.

  Emer was glad that she had cheered her friend up a little, and she turned to him and smiled. ‘And talking of fighting, did you hear about the boxer who was offered a fight for the crown?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He said: “Great, I think I can beat the Queen in about three rounds!”’

  Jack laughed, and Emer was pleased. She liked the way his eyes sparkled when he laughed, and she thought he looked far more like himself when he was happy. She hoped that the advice she had given him was good and that he wouldn’t get into trouble. Then she said a prayer under her breath, crossed her fingers for luck and carried on for home.

  Al Jolson sang ‘Sister Susie’s Sewing Shirts for Soldiers’ on the gramophone in the living room, but Jack didn’t join in tonight. Since Mary and Una had begun working in the munitions factory, they had money to spare, and normally Jack loved singing along to the gramophone records on which they spent much of their wages. Now, though, he felt his knees trembling as he left his sisters and mother behind and stepped out into the hall. He paused before the parlour door, dreading facing Da yet knowing that putting it off was just prolonging his agony.

  His father had been called to the school by Brother McGill today. Although Jack didn’t blame Emer, he wished that he hadn’t followed her advice in not telling Da about the fight. But it had been his choice, and now he had to face Da and take whatever punishment came his way. He swallowed hard, then knocked on the parlour door and entered. Da was sitting up very straight in his chair, and Jack knew from his tight lips and the look in his eyes that he was angry.

  ‘Close the door and sit down, Jack,’ he said.

  Jack did as he was told, and his father looked at him a moment then breathed out.

  ‘Obviously you know what this is about.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘None of our other children ever caused Ma or me to be summoned to the school. Yet here I was today, having to leave work early to meet Brother McGill.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Da, I–’

  ‘Don’t interrupt me! You’ll have the chance to say your piece, but for now you hold your tongue.’

  ‘Yes, Da.’

  ‘We had a conversation some time back about integrity. How not saying anything can have the same effect as telling a lie. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes, Da.’

  ‘Yet you kept all of this from me. You got into a brawl, you injured a boy who captains the Gaelic team. Because of his injury his parents stopped him from playing in a match last weekend – a match the school narrowly lost in his absence. His parents are upset, Brother McGill is upset, but most of all Ma and I are disappointed. You’re going to have to be punished for this, Jack.’

  Jack felt his mouth going dry, but he swallowed and looked appealingly at his father. ‘Can I … can I tell you my side of it?’

  Da nodded. ‘You can. But by God, it better be good.’

  �
��It’s … it’s not completely good, Da,’ admitted Jack. ‘But I didn’t tell you because I thought it might all blow over, and that Phelim O’Connell would just take his beating. I really didn’t want to worry you for no reason. On my word of honour, Da, that’s part of why I said nothing.’

  His father looked at him, then nodded. ‘Maybe so, but that doesn’t change the fact that you split this boy’s lip so badly he couldn’t play for the school.’

  ‘I’m sorry it affected the school, Da. Really, I am. But … well, fighting Phelim O’Connell shouldn’t be different to fighting any other boy. Just ’cause he’s good at football shouldn’t make him special, shouldn’t make him matter more than other boys.’

  Even though Da was clearly angry, Jack knew that he prided himself on being fair, and that as a policeman he always listened to evidence from both sides of any dispute. His father said nothing now, but Jack suspected that his point had been noted.

  ‘As for the boxing, Da, I only hit him two or three times. I could have hurt him a lot more and I didn’t.’

  ‘That was big of you,’ said Da sarcastically. ‘But I seem to remember teaching you boxing for self-defence. Is that how you remember it?’

  ‘Yes, Da.’

  ‘But this wasn’t self-defence. This was an arranged fight behind the handball alley. Or is that untrue? Has Brother McGill been misleading me also?’

  ‘No. But–’

  ‘But? Another but?’

  ‘It’s true what Brother McGill said, but there’s more to it than that,’ said Jack.

  ‘Let’s hear it then.’

  ‘Well … did … did Brother McGill say what the fight was about?’ asked Jack.

  ‘No. It was enough for him that you injured another boy.’

  ‘But you’re fairer than him, Da. Surely it matters to you why it happened?’

  His father looked thoughtful, then nodded. ‘Go on then, why did it happen?’

  ‘Phelim O’Connell insulted Uncle Bertie and our cousin Ronnie. He’s dead against the British Army. He said that the soldiers on the front were cowards, and when I said that Ronnie had lost his leg, he made a joke of it.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I saw red, Da. I’m sorry, I know I’ve let you down. But I couldn’t bear to hear him calling brave men cowards and making fun of Ronnie after what he’s been through.’

  Jack looked at his father and saw that his expression had changed.

  ‘This Phelim O’Connell … He sounds like an ill-mannered pup.’

  ‘He’s not nice, Da,’ said Jack, his hopes rising that maybe Da wouldn’t punish him too much now that he had explained.

  ‘And he really made fun of Ronnie? Even though he knew he’d lost his leg?’

  Jack nodded. ‘He said that was careless, and could he not find the leg again?’

  Jack saw a flash of anger in his father’s eyes.

  Da said nothing for a moment, then sighed. ‘This changes the complexion of things,’ he said. ‘Not that I approve of brawling, mind – it still reflects badly on me as a policeman.’

  ‘I know, Da, and I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Having said that, it sounds like this O’Connell pup needs manners put on him.’

  Jack held his breath, hardly daring to think that his father had been swayed.

  Da stroked his chin, then looked at Jack. ‘I still have to punish you. I told Brother McGill that I would.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘So for the next two weeks, I’m docking your pocket money by two pence.’

  Jack could hardly believe his luck.

  Da continued, his tone severe. ‘This punishment won’t be discussed with any others. Anyone at all, you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Da.’

  ‘So I’ll write and inform Brother McGill that you’re being punished, you will be punished, and that will be the end of the matter.’

  Jack felt like cheering, but he knew not to show that his father was practically letting him off.

  ‘OK, Da, I understand,’ he said.

  ‘But next time something happens, Jack, don’t keep it from me.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Right then, that will be all.’

  ‘OK, Da,’ said Jack, rising to his feet.

  ‘And Jack?’

  ‘Yes, Da?’

  His father paused, as though seeking the right words. ‘You’re a good lad. Go on now.’

  ‘Thanks, Da,’ said Jack, then he turned and walked out of the room.

  Chapter Twelve

  Emer felt nervous. She had been waiting for the right moment to approach Miss Clarke, and now the teacher was walking down the street alongside her. It was All Souls’ Day, and the pupils of Emer’s class were on their way back to the school, having prayed for the dead at a nearby church. The morning was blustery and cold, but Miss Clarke seemed in good spirits, and Emer knew that this was her opportunity.

  She took a deep breath, then turned to the teacher. ‘I was wondering, Miss …’

  ‘Yes, Emer?’

  ‘I was wondering if you’d like to come to a variety concert next month. I’m playing the piano, and it’s to raise money for poor people, coming up to Christmas.’

  ‘That’s very commendable. What date is it?’

  ‘December the tenth.’

  ‘That’s … that’s a Friday, isn’t it? Yes, actually, I think I’m free that night,’ answered Miss Clarke.

  Emer was pleased, but she knew she had to be completely honest. ‘There’s just one thing, Miss. And if it’s a problem, I understand.’

  ‘Now you really have me intrigued – but just a second, Emer,’ said the teacher, turning to the line of pupils behind her. ‘Careful crossing the road here, girls,’ she called, indicating an approaching Guinness dray loaded with wooden barrels and pulled by two huge Clydesdale horses. Miss Clarke supervised the crossing of all the girls, then turned again to Emer as they continued walking towards the school. ‘So, what might be a problem?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, I hope it won’t be,’ said Emer, ‘but the concert is being run by Conradh na Gaeilge.’

  ‘Why would that be a problem?’

  ‘I thought because you’re English, maybe you wouldn’t like them being involved.’

  Conradh na Gaeilge was an Irish-language organisation that promoted all aspects of Irish culture, but in recent times it had become more openly nationalistic.

  ‘Oh, I think I can risk a concert without turning my back on England’s green and pleasant land!’ replied Miss Clarke.

  ‘Great,’ said Emer.

  ‘Which doesn’t mean I’m in sympathy with their politics, not for a moment.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘But as I’ve said to you girls in class, it’s important we don’t all retreat into our own little bubbles.’

  ‘No-one could accuse you of that, Miss.’

  ‘Thank you. But we’re all capable of prejudices, Emer. Do you know what the worst thing about prejudice is?’

  ‘What, Miss?’

  ‘The way it hems in our thinking. It’s like when someone we’re prejudiced against surprises us by doing something good, and instead of being pleased, we’re almost annoyed, because now we have to change our view.’

  Emer realised that this was true, and it occurred to her that it was conversations like this that made Miss Clarke such an interesting teacher.

  ‘But supposing, Miss, that you’re not just prejudiced – but you really disagree with how something is done, or with someone’s opinion?’

  ‘Then you pick your battles, Emer. I have to do it all the time.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘There are so many things wrong in the world. Big things, small things, all sorts of wrongs. You can’t fight every battle, so you pick the ones that matter.’ Miss Clarke looked at Emer directly. ‘It’s something you should bear in mind.’

  ‘Do you mean … in school?’

  ‘Everywhere. If you’re going to challenge a figure of authority, do it
when it really matters, and let other slights go over your head.’

  Emer wondered if Miss Clarke was giving her a coded message. ‘Do you mean Sister Assumpta?’

  ‘I never mentioned any names!’ said Miss Clarke. ‘But it’s like the Suffragettes, or unions, or any group fighting injustice. You pick the right time to fight your battles. And the right time isn’t every time.’

  Emer was eager to hear more, but before she could ask another question Miss Clarke held up a hand. ‘And that’s enough of that for now. But thank you for the invitation, Emer. I look forward to your concert.’

  Just then they reached the gates of the school, and Emer watched as the teacher shepherded the rest of the girls into the convent.

  ‘That was a great chat you had with Clarkie,’ said Joan as Emer entered the schoolyard. ‘What was it all about?’

  ‘Good question, Joan,’ answered Emer with a wry smile. ‘I’m still trying to decide that myself.’

  The tall, forbidding walls of Grangegorman Asylum loomed to their right in the heavy November fog as Jack and his mother walked towards Phibsboro. The gas lamps along the street cast small pools of yellow light, and Jack was fascinated by the way the fog made a familiar landscape seem mysterious.

  Jack liked Thursday nights when he and Ma walked together to the newsagents in Phibsboro to pay a weekly instalment towards the Boy’s Own annual that traditionally formed part of his Christmas presents. He enjoyed these companionable strolls with Ma, and she always bought him a toffee bar in the newsagents as part of their routine.

  They walked on through the swirling fog, with vehicles and other pedestrians materialising and then disappearing, and Jack let his mind drift. It was three weeks now since the fight with Phelim O’Connell, and there had been surprisingly little fallout at school in its aftermath. Brother McGill had accepted Da’s assurance that Jack would be punished and hadn’t pushed matters any further. Most of the boys in the class felt that Jack had won fair and square, and Gerry Quinn had overheard friends of Phelim’s saying that he was embarrassed by his parents’ intervention, even though the split lip had genuinely prevented him from playing football for the school. At any rate Phelim had made no further reference to it, and Jack had been happy for them to keep their distance from each other and just get on with things.