Ahoy for Joy (8 page)

However, there was a kind of fascination with English culture and tradition in the van der Vliet home. The
Island
people, as her Dad often referred to them, describing them as perhaps the most foreign of other Europeans, or even not European at all. He would comment on their polite ways and sense of fair play, the queuing, the pin-striped suits and bowler hats her mother was convinced everyone still wore. These were the characteristics of civility and decency they clung to. Even if the news from across the North Sea was entirely contrary, with stories of a failing economy, political strikes, power cuts and an unsettled population, for Anna's Mum and Dad, the England of old was the one they believed in and a few news stories weren't going to change that.

When Geert had suggested he and some friends make a car trip to England, the idea had been met with approval or even some enthusiasm by the parents. Anna's father had even been perhaps a little envious, for despite everything, he had never been to England. The children had all been on school trips to London already, but for one reason or another, neither he nor Adrie had visited and perhaps in deference to that had suggested Anna go too. Geert had not been enthusiastic. Anna was quite a few years younger than he and her agenda would be quite different, but some gentle persuasion and a little financial subsidy had helped, so the trip was arranged.

When Anna returned, she announced before long that she had a new pen pal, a boy. Her mother hadn't thought much about it and had simply assumed he was English, having never been told any different. It wasn't until once when Anna left her letter to Michael on the counter ready for posting that her mother noticed,
Northern Ireland
written on the envelope. She had been a little bothered by that and had questioned her daughter. After all, the news from there was not of people striking for a pay increase, it was rather more severe. This was a dangerous place. There were bombs and bullets, rioting and civil unrest. But Anna had assured her that all was fine and that these events were happening far from Michael and the life he lived.

And that was what Anna believed. Michael never mentioned such things and she never sought to bring them up. Before long, she put such thoughts out of her mind and paid them no heed. Occasionally when the news was on and there was some awful report of explosions or rioting, she would ponder a little and wonder about Michael, but come Tuesday, Wednesday at the latest each week, his new letter would arrive. In time, it ceased to be an issue.

And so their little romance developed. Michael had been in love from the start. For Anna it took a little longer, but she was charmed a little more by each letter and Michael seldom put a foot wrong. His letters would be laced with little rhymes and verses, poetry and prose. He always wrote well and she liked that. The truth was despite the awkward ways she remembered from their sole meeting; he was a deep, sensitive, thoughtful young man. Before long, she knew he was the one for her.

Michael thrived in the uncomplicated world of written correspondence and could carefully filter his texts, tuning them cleverly to the messages he wanted to send. In the written word, he could shield his vulnerabilities and keep his fears under control. In all the time the two young people corresponded, Michael never once mentioned the
Troubles
as they were called. They were happening all around him every day, but like Anna's father, he chose not to speak. Like Anna's father, his scars lay obscured in a silent horror. Like Anna's father, he feigned normality. Michael may not have been mired in hatred, but his life was marred all the same by his experiences, the people around him and the world in which he lived.

Michael Coglan could not remember anything from before about his 10
^th
birthday.

His early days had been idyllic, living in the big house in the leafy suburbs and attending a private school which specialised in the development of all aspects of its young charges. Here academic work mingled flawlessly with nature walks in the hills nearby and a healthy dose of sport and games to whet a competitive spirit and instil a sense of fair play. When the Troubles arrived, few could have been more insulated from the harsh realities of sectarian conflict.

Times had been good and Michael was very much a normal outgoing, gregarious young boy. He was intelligent, quick witted and charming interjecting conversation with a cheeky grin or even a sly wink which he would use to build up funny little parallel relationships with adults as well as other children. Indeed, his parents' friends would comment,
oh, he's just like his father
, and Susan would smile and look fondly at her husband, proud of the product of their marriage.

“We'll have to watch him when he gets older, for that's a ladies' man if ever I saw one,” said one neighbour as the little seven year old boy who had just complimented her appearance ran off into the garden with a jump and a skip.

In his peer group, Michael was popular too. At school, he participated fully in classes interacting with the teachers and other pupils and developing understanding of the academic subjects as well as the world around him. Outside of school he also made friends readily often playing in the neighbourhood, climbing trees and getting up to mischief with the other children in the area.

He had one friend in particular, called Paul, who lived a few doors away. Paul attended a different school, but in the afternoons the two would play together endlessly, slipping in and out of each other's houses, playing games, building dens and riding their bicycles in the nearby park. One might have assumed they would remain friends for life and when Michael's family moved to the rental home following the collapse of Branny's business, both sets of parents made every effort to see that the two children maintained regular contact.

Every Saturday, either Michael was delivered to his old residential area, a trip Susan still found very difficult, or Paul would be delivered to play in Michael's new stomping ground. The latter troubled Paul's mother a little, but it offered new opportunities for exploration for the young boys and generally Susan kept them well supervised.

This worked well for a while, but Paul, like Michael's father was a Roman Catholic. This was a point hardly noted at all in their old neighbourhood but Michael's new home was in a staunchly Protestant working class district of rented housing. At first, the two boys mostly kept themselves to themselves, playing happily in the small garden or in the streets outside Michael's home. However, as time went by, they strayed further afield to the local park where there was a playground with swings and roundabouts.

It was one day when they visited the park that the two youngsters, both not yet ten years old, were approached by a group of bigger boys. They were a little older and Michael knew some of them a little having seen them around the streets or at the local shops. They were a rough looking bunch, with shaven heads his mother maintained was to keep the nits away and jeans too short that left skinny white ankles on view. Still, Michael knew they were to be taken seriously.

At first they chatted amicably, but they were suspicious of Paul and began milling around him in an increasingly intimidating fashion. His name could easily pass on both sides of the religious divide, but they wanted to know what school he went to, a fact that would immediately reveal his religion.

“The same school as me,” Michael had maintained, “sure we're in the same football team.”

Michael could see they were unconvinced and felt the situation deteriorating. The two friends made several attempts to leave, wishing the others well and motioning to go. But someone always stood in the way, each time with increasing menace and then once with a sharp push that caught Paul square on the shoulder shoving him firmly towards the centre of the group. Both boys looked around for an escape route, but there were five of them, bigger and faster and making a run for it seemed less and less of an option.

What might have started as mischief with no real agenda, quickly turned into fairly threatening behaviour with the five larger boys surrounding the two frightened young friends. Tacitly it became apparent that Michael, the relative newcomer to the area, didn't quite know the rules and had brought his little
fenian
friend along to play. Strangely, this was a point they failed to mention, nor an accusation they openly made. Instead, they rather campaigned from a veiled agenda, seeking some
truth
from Michael, the off-loading of a burden on his mind, or some admission of guilt that could then be considered reasonably and objectively.

The game was sophisticated far beyond the years of its players and certainly beyond the intellectual capacity one might have imagined such youngsters might possess. They weren't explicit in their accusations, but said things like;
no one would bring a Catholic here to play
and describing the beating that
anyone
who did would receive, but that
Michael would be fine, because he would never do that
. No Michael was an okay guy, they knew Michael.
Michael
would never do that.

It became like a mantra.
You would never do that, sure you wouldn't
they were saying to him, one after another. Poor Paul was petrified and Michael distraught, his eyes wide, staring like a rabbit, comatose in fear as the inevitable set to unfold.

Suddenly, the mood changed to a more conciliatory tone. It was really all the more sinister, but the voices were less jeering and feigned sympathy.
People do make mistakes
. Then one of the older boys put his hands on Michael's shoulders and stood square before him. He was pale and gaunt, with a gold earing in one ear and just above his left eye was a scar that slanted upwards making him look slightly Chinese in appearance.

“Hey, we're all human after all.” He said softly. Michael wasn't convinced of that, but he listened to what was said. “But sometimes, if we make a wee mistake, it's better to just admit it. Get things over and done with. You know?” He raised his eyebrows, looking expectantly at the young boy who was very much aware that the shaking of his body could easily be felt through the hands laid upon him.

“Hey, we all make mistakes,” he went on. “Listen, Michael,” the lad leaned over close to him and whispered in his ear. Michael could smell the cigarette smoke on his breath. “You know what it's like at home when you've done something wrong.” He paused. Michael nodded. “Sometimes, it's just better to own up if you've done something wrong, rather than spinning the thing out. Makes it all the more unpleasant for everyone.”

Michael could feel the sweat form between his shoulder blades, and he shivered as it trickled down the line of his spine.

“Now, you see my Da. If I lie to him, he takes the big belt, not the little belt, but the big belt, the one with the big brass buckle with the red hand of Ulster on it and he beats me with that.”

The boy undid the belt of his own jeans to reveal a wide scar on his hip, that had clearly been caused by a serious gash some time back, “that's what that belt did to me. That's what I got for being a dirty little liar.”

In his mind, Michael could feel the pain of such a belt hitting him, not the cracking slap of a leather belt or a cane, an honest punishment for deeds done, but the raw thud of a blunt metal object struck in anger with such force that it broke through the skin. The poor boy stood motionless, his mind no longer in control of his shaking body.

“Now,” he went on. “Now, I tell the truth. There is respect for the truth. We all make mistakes. From time to time, we all need to be punished, that's fair, but no one likes a dirty little liar.” He paused, “are you a dirty little liar Michael?”

The tears burst in Michael and began streaming down his face, “no, no, no, I'm not. No, please I'm not,” he sobbed.

With that, an older boy, perhaps the oldest in the group, who had thus far not really participated too fully in the activities, approached. “Leave him alone,” he said sternly to the other boy. “You're scaring him. Can't you see he's upset?”

He put his arm around Michael's shoulder, causing him to shudder once more and led him off towards a nearby park bench, leaving Paul with the others who were now laughing and joking once more. Paul backed off a little, but was held in check by the gaze of one who said, “where do you think you're going, just when we are all getting along so well? You thought you would just slip away. Why's that then? Why's that I wonder! What reason could you have for wanting to slip away?”

Paul stopped in his tracks. He made no noise, but his composure broke and his rosy cheeks of childhood innocence streamed wet with tears of terror. The boy smiled once more and the others burst into a fit of laughter, seemingly amused by the look on Paul's face.

Meanwhile, the good cop in the group who had clearly developed a sophisticated understanding of such an interrogation method, had sat on the bench, lit a cigarette and was chatting casually to Michael.

At last he said to him, “Look here Michael. See, if it was up to me, I would just let you go, and your little friend with you. Well, doesn't make any difference to me really, but you see some of the other lads, they worry that if people keep bringing
fenians
in here, the next we know, there'll be loads of them. Then what'll we do?”

The question was really asked rhetorically, but Michael shook his head. The older boy smiled, “well, we don't want that now do we?” Michael shook his head once more.

“The thing is,” he went on, taking a deep drag from his cigarette, “the others are being well behaved, but they're only doing that because they're afraid of me. Now, Michael, listen carefully. Very, very carefully.” He breathed the last of the smoke from his lungs which caught Michael in the face, causing his eyes to sting, “we know your Dad's a
taig
, but he's all right. Yes, he's all right.” He sat down on the bench.

Michael was flabbergasted.
No one knew that about his father. Did they?
It had been a closely guarded secret in the family since they moved to the area. Anyway, they were
allowed
to be there. Even the 9 year old Michael knew that when mixed marriages were housed, the clerk would usually seek a sort of unofficial approval from one or two influential people in the neighbourhood, even before offering the house to people on the list.

“Here, look. Here, sit,” he said patting the bench beside him. Michael sat down nervously, taking care to leave as much space between him as he was able to without seeming to be rejecting whatever friendship or comfort might be on offer.

“Look, Michael. All we want to know is the truth. We know anyway, about your little friend. We've always known. Well, he's not kicking with the same foot as you and me, now is he Michael?”

Michael stared. The tears were building once more in his eyes. Indeed, their presence may have even indicated a small depletion of the terror he felt, as tears show remorse and relief while terror is hard and cold.

“Look, Michael, if you tell me the truth…” He stopped briefly. “Look at me,” he said, still softly and lifting the child's tiny chin higher with his hand, forcing their eyes to meet. Michael looked up at the boy, right in his eyes. He knew he was evil. Evil in a soft voice.

“If you tell me the truth, I'll see that nothing happens to you. Look, you grew up elsewhere, with the posh kids and whatever. That's fine. Doesn't matter to me. Maybe things weren't as rough there, but, well, you're here now aren't you. You have to get on with us, but you're young. It's alright to make mistakes when you're young. What age are you Michael?

“Nine,” whimpered Michael.

“Look, who can expect a nine year old, not to make mistakes. Hey,” he smiled menacingly, “I thought you were older. Look, for God's sake, everyone has to be allowed to make a mistake.”

The boy sat, looking at the ground in front of the bench and Michael followed his gaze. The grass was worn from the endless fidgeting of its users. He dragged deep once more on the last of his cigarette before flicking it skilfully into a waste bin that sat nearby.

“What do you say, we go over to the others together. Look, I'll hold your hand. It'll be all right. I'll be with you. Just tell the truth. If you tell the truth, I'll see that no one will lay a finger on you. Is it a deal?”

Michael found himself nodding, but already he knew what would happen.

The older boy got up from the bench and beckoned Michael to follow. Michael stood up and the boy put his arm around his shoulder once more. They walked together towards the waiting group, but stopped just short.

“You won't make a fool of me will you Michael? You won't make me look like a fool in front of everyone now will you?”

Michael shook his head. Seeing them approach, the waiting group now stopped their chat and looked expectantly at the pair.

The other boy, the one with the belt buckle scar, had taken to sitting on a low wall that edged the grassy area in the park, stood up when he saw them approach.

“Well?” he asked.

Michael felt the firm support of the boys arm around his shoulder. It squeezed him gently, then pushed him forward softly.

“Well?” he said again.

Paul's eyes met Michael's only briefly, before the pain of the contact became too much and he looked at the floor once more. He knew what he was going to do.

“He's a Fenian,” said Michael at once, failing to look but pointing at his friend.