Heaps of Trouble (10 page)

As we left the hospital she explained the meaning of the doctor's words, and the next day all of us, including Catherine, searched the house and shop from top to bottom. By the time we had completed the hunt there were over fifteen bottles of Powers whiskey, in various stages of consumption, stacked on the kitchen table. They ranged from unopened to almost empty, as if the drinker had been interrupted before he could finish the contents and had had to hastily re-hide the bottle. We found bottles in every hiding place imaginable, from the obvious to the downright ingenious. Our first probe netted four bottles only, a tally that we were quite content with until, without any rhyme or reason, I decided to check under the cistern lid of the toilet and found a full bottle bobbing about. Which meant that we had to begin all over again, only this time searching the most extreme and unusual locations.

We found them jammed under the clear-out tray of the gas cooker, at the bottom of his golf bag between the clubs, under the mattress of Catherine's bed, attached to a string hanging in the linen cupboard, and out in the shed balancing on the roof rafters. The one that I thought was the most obvious, and therefore the most ingenious, was a previous Christmas present of a bottle of whiskey that the father had left on one of the shelves by the fireplace, apparently un-opened. Still in its ‘Merry Christmas' gift wrapping, it seemed to suggest that we leave it untouched as, of course, father was not drinking whiskey any more, sticking only to the beer. On closer examination the wrapping paper had clearly been carefully rewrapped, the bottle was half-empty – in fact we concluded that he had continually replaced each bottle, when empty, under our very noses.

Staring at our tally, totally stunned, the mother estimated the monetary value of the bottles we had stacked in front of us –and I realised how dire consequences would have been for the family if the father had not gone in to dry out. And, yes, I finally appreciated the anxiety the mother must have lived with over the past number of years. I knew suddenly that whatever she had told me over those years I would have sided with the father, since I had always believed he was the injured party; and I left that table with feelings of guilt, confusion and a sense of betrayal and loss.

Betrayal by the father who had lied to me for years, claiming that he didn't have a drink problem. Betrayal by the mother, because she didn't have the courage to leave him, taking both of us with her so that we were away from the constant rows and arguments. I had a sickening fear of the future and what it might hold, for I didn't believe that the parents could forget all that had happened between them and live a normal life again. But, for now, all I could do was to wait and see, and insure that I protected my sister to the best of my ability.

*

The same day the father was discharged from the ‘nut-house', I met Naty, who had moved in across the street. He was two or three years older than me but, since he couldn't find any company of his own age, he decided to put up with me. Having no intention of lowering himself to my age level, he set about elevating me to his. His first introductory lesson was on the proper or, as it turned out, improper use of fireworks. I stared in wonder at the sight of the six bangers, stored in their long cigarette-type box, with their Chinese writing that probably said, ‘Danger! Keep out of the reach of children': they were totally illegal in Ireland. As I watched in awe, he lit one and tossed it a good 30 feet, where it exploded with a loud bang, which had Mrs Malloy rushing out to her backyard and shouting at Naty over the wall.

‘Stop using them bangers or I'll put the Inspector on you when he gets home and who is that boy with you? Is that young Heaps? You go home this minute or I'll tell your mother.'

Agreeing to meet up over the weekend, as there was no way I would be allowed out during the week, I ran home with anticipation of fun to come.

‘Hey Missus, got any bangers?' As instructed by Naty, I had gone to Moore Street after school the next day and approached a rather large lady who was attending her stall and calling out at the top of her voice, 'Ripe tomatoes, a shilling a pound.'

Peering at me after I had asked her my question, she pointed me over to a woman selling bananas a little further on, who was even bigger than she was.

‘Hey Missus, got any bangers?'

After glancing up and down the street, the banana-lady whispered, ‘Two-and-six sonny, a shilling for the squibs, and if you want rockets I'll have them tomorrow.'

I handed over the half-crown and she dived down the front of her dress, exposing a pair of the most enormous breasts that I had ever seen. She rooted around for a few seconds, with me blushing bright red at the sight, then extracted a box of bangers from her inner cleavage. I stored them quickly in my school bag and raced out of the street, expecting to get arrested at any moment.

There was not a lot for a nine- and a twelve-year-old to do on Emmett Road in the evenings, unless you were prepared to make your own entertainment. Armed with two packets of bangers, that is exactly what we set out to do. First we went down to the Black Lion pub, where we proceeded to clear the Saturday night revellers from the bar, which was packed to capacity. We hid in the recess of the entrance, with me keeping guard to ensure no late arrivals disturbed us. Naty took out the five bangers left in his box and, lighting the fuses, opened the door just enough to allow his hand through, then scattered the 6-inch, smouldering tubes across the floor. They created absolute mayhem within seconds and we had just enough time to dash across the street, take up refuge in the confines of a darkened shop doorway, and watch the entertainment. In quick succession the five bangers went off with ear-splitting cracks – and almost simultaneously the doors of the pub were flung back, nearly tearing them off their hinges. Confusion reigned as the rush of drinkers tried to escape the hullabaloo and smoke, with the racket compounded by the sound of breaking glasses. Bewildered, the first of the refugees hit the street.

‘Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened?'

‘No bleeding idea, but one of them things landed on me fucking foot and I booted it into the bleeding air.'

‘So
you're
the fucker who caused it to go off right into me ear! I'll be bleeding well deaf for weeks, you big bollox.'

‘Is it the bleeding Germans again?' This came from an old fellow who had staggered out, still holding on to his pint.

‘No Dad, it's not the bleeding Germans again, just a bunch of kids who I'll bleeding well kill if I ever catch them.' Turning to another he said, ‘That's all he ever talks about, the bleeding Germans. He was over at the Five Lamps during the Emergency when the Germans bombed the place, and every time he hears a loud noise he shits himself.'

With the pavement filled to overflowing, two white-shirted barmen rushed out and scanned the street, ready to bolt after any fleeing figures they could spot. Still glancing up and down the road, they herded the drinkers back in to the bar with the words, ‘It's ok, it's ok, it was only kids messing and if they ever try that again, the little bollixes, we'll kick their arses up and down the street.'

As the road returned to tranquillity, the pair of us, still well hidden in the shadows, were holding our sides with pent-up laughter. I was just about to move off when Naty dragged me back down. At that moment the pub door flew open with a crash and the two barmen rushed out and scrutinised the empty street again, until satisfied that the culprits had long gone. They shrugged their shoulders at each other and finally went back in, allowing us to make our way home.

Over the coming months we became the terror of the street with our banger escapades and, realising the dire consequences if we were ever caught, we decided never to attack the same place twice running. Because Naty's father was a regular there, the Black Lion pub was ruled out as a future possibility, which made me breathe a sigh of relief. Relief, because after the euphoria of that night's events had worn off, it had been replaced by the fear of how close we had come to having the crap beaten out of us. The Workman's Club and the buses became our main targets, and we alternated between the two each weekend. At the rear of the Club the gents' toilets had been constructed adjacent to an alleyway and, by climbing out along the steel waste pipes that ran the length of the building, we could peer in through the windows directly overlooking the three cubicles. There we waited, completely hidden in the darkness, until some poor, unsuspecting drunk entered and pulled down his trousers. Once he was settled on his business, we would lob a couple of bangers into his lap, which caused a variety of different responses. Most of them came crashing out of the toilets with their trousers down around their ankles, deafened by the noise of the explosion that the tiled walls magnified tenfold. And demanding to know from all in the bar, ‘What the fuck was the place coming to when a worker couldn't even take a shit in peace?'

One poor fellow was so shocked by the sight of two bangers landing on the ground at his feet that he remained riveted to the toilet seat, reciting the ‘Hail Mary' over and over. After they exploded, he farted so long and loud that we nearly fell off the pipes with laughter.

The buses proved harder nuts to crack, as the challenge lay in how to get a projectile into the bus without getting caught. We began by standing at the bus stop and, when the bus pulled away after collecting its passengers, we tried to lob a couple of lit bangers into the downstairs section. On our first attempt a diligent conductor quickly hit the bell to stop the bus and, to our amazement, jumped off and chased us up the street. Overtaking Naty, he smacked him over the ears so hard that his head hurt for a week. In later months we perfected our method to cause a little more devilment. Now only one of us (usually me, as I was the faster runner) would chuck the banger inside, aiming it to land at the conductor's feet. The conductor would hit the bell, stop the bus, leap off and try to catch me. Naty, who was standing in the shadows minding his own business, would calmly step onto the platform and, with two sharp taps on the bell, send the bus on its way without its conductor. The conductor might be a hundred yards up the road before he realised that he had just lost his bus. Eventually a passenger would inform the driver that the bus was missing one of its most important components if CIE ever wanted to make money. So the driver, bus and passengers would pull in to await the arrival of the conductor – who would probably have hitched a lift on the next bus. It played havoc with CIE's scheduling, not to mention completely pissing off the passengers.

With the flurry of another Christmas Eve upon us, our main priority was to ensure that, given the amount of booze lying around to supply the helpers, the father didn't have a relapse. The mother took each one aside separately and explained the situation, but Boy-o-Boy had a major problem in coming to grips with the situation. He had only called a few times since the father had come back from ‘drying out' and on his last visit had arrived so plastered that the mother ran him from the hall door before he even set foot in the house. But, as he had skin thicker than an old rhino, on Christmas Eve he bounced back in. Before the mother could send him on his way, he had infiltrated the crowd of helpers standing around in the kitchen awaiting the usual onslaught. Taking him aside, she began one of the strangest conversations I had heard up to that time.

‘Look, Boy-o-Boy, the situation is that my husband can't be allowed any drink.'

‘What? But it's Christmas, even Christ had a drink around this time.'

‘Jesus Christ was just born, he would have been too young.'

‘Yes, but as he got older, he must have celebrated his birthday with some fine whiskey.' And to enforce this statement he dragged out a full bottle from one of his many pockets and waved it proudly in the mother's face. With anger now mounting in her voice she responded, ‘Look, I don't care if Christ drank from Loch Erin, you are not to give Ron any drink, otherwise you can leave right this minute.'

‘Boy, oh boy, Emily, why did He go to the bother of changing water into wine if He didn't want us to drink?'

Throwing up her hands in exasperation, she grabbed me and, standing me in front of him, instructed me to watch who he supplied with booze and to ensure that he didn't force any on the father. From what we could tell, it appeared that the father got through that Christmas period without touching a drop; or if he did, he certainly kept it well concealed. That New Year's Eve – as Gay Byrne was on the telly counting down the seconds to announce the impending hour, ten, nine, eight –the mother brought us all out onto the street, where, as if by some strange magic, the same telepathic message had been received by the rest of the residents. Front doors were opened, up and down the street, and people started to appear mysteriously, so that within seconds the emptiness was filled with jovial humanity calling out greetings to each other. The mother spotted Naty across the road and, as he had black hair, asked him to bring a lump of coal in from our backyard and place it on the mantelpiece. She said it would bring good luck to the house if a dark-haired stranger perform this old ritual and it should remain there until the next New Years Eve.

January started very cold and icy, which was great as the buses couldn't run and I couldn't get to school. It suited me down to the ground, since my spelling hadn't improved one bit and the teacher had taken to ordering me to stand at the blackboard to spell words that he plucked from the air at random. There I would stand, at the head of the class in front of the blackboard, chalk in hands that were beginning to sweat so that the chalk stuck to them, while my face went bright red from embarrassment. Sensing the eyes of the rest of the class burning holes in my back and the suppressed hoots of laughter waiting to explode as soon as I had written the first letters in large capitals on the board.

‘Heaps, spell “psychiatrist”.' The first three letters I wrote would be sufficient to begin the afternoon's entertainment. As I painstakingly spelt out ‘Sikietrest', I would hear the derision from everyone in the room and was consumed by feelings of embarrassment, turning to shame at having a brain that could understand and pronounce the word, but failed dismally to transmit this information into the correct written letters. Until eventually a feeling of anger would wash over me, causing me to snap the chalk against the blackboard and send it ricocheting over my head towards the first row of desks. Finally the priest, becoming bored with the entertainment, would send me back to my desk with a suitably scathing parting remark.

One evening I returned home from school and caught the tail-end of a conversation that my father was having in the shop with Inspector Malloy.

‘…but we suspect that the hoodlums are from the flats behind us; they're becoming a complete menace to the area.'

‘Agh, you don't have to tell me, Inspector. It's now deemed unsafe to use the toilets in the club on the weekends for fear of having a firework landing on your arse.'

‘Well, don't worry, it's just a matter of time before we catch the delinquents and I will have great pleasure in reddening their arses before I bring them home to their parents, that's assuming the little bastards have any!'

After I had told Naty that the police were looking for us, we both agreed to curtail our weekend entertainment, since it was only a matter of time before our luck ran out. But only a few days after making that resolution, as if they had a mind of their own, my feet dragged me once again into Moore Street ‘just to see' what the banana lady might have to offer as a substitute for bangers. Rockets were what she produced from a bag hidden under her stall, and as soon as I set eyes on them I stared in wonder at these objects that were capable of soaring to the heavens.

Three inches of red capsule attached to a long stick that, once set into an empty milk bottle, with a shower of sparks marking the course of the fuse, would blast itself free from its makeshift launch pad and rush into the night sky. Leaving a trail of yellow light behind to mark its arched course and then, finally, erupting with a shower of bright lights that would have extinguished and dwindled into darkness before the noise of the explosion reached our ears.

We had found our substitute for bangers and we let them off from the safety and seclusion of the old factory hidden behind the houses opposite St Michael's church. I first came up with the notion, but it took Naty's courage to try it out, for as soon as I spoke the idea out loud the very thought chilled me. With Naty holding the milk bottle at arm's length parallel to the ground, and me acting as loader and fuse-lighter, we discovered that we could launch a rocket horizontally. And after a few practice runs we could aim and fire the projectile accurately at any target we chose. In a flash of inspiration we realised that finally we had a missile we could launch into the interior of a bus with complete immunity from reprisal by a pissed-off conductor.

The following weekend, rearmed with a fresh bunch of Moore Street rockets (smelling like over-ripe bananas), we installed ourselves behind the half-demolished wall that ran along the footpath from the dispensary nearly as far as the grounds of St Michael's church. A year earlier all of the residents of Keogh Square had been moved out to Finglas and Ballymun, and the construction of the new flats had started. On completion they were to be given the highly original name of ‘St Michael's Estate'.

We felt secure behind the wall, which was over 6 feet in height on the side against the footpath but only about 4 feet on our own side. And with plenty of space behind us to make a quick getaway into the construction site and lose any pursuer. Since there was a bus stop directly outside the church, we would have plenty of time to ready ourselves for our inaugural launch, and we settled down to await a bus with our arrangements carefully made.

Our plan was simple: wait for the bus to pass, thus offering us the best angle to fire our primed rocket in through the open platform at the rear. The rocket would hopefully whack into the conductor's area under the stairs, showering him with a bunch of sparks. Finally a bus showed itself but, as it had no passengers to collect or discharge, it roared past the stop without slowing down. So we didn't have a chance to ready ourselves and, cursing our luck, we once again settled down for another ten- to fifteen-minute wait. The footpath alongside the section of wall where we were hiding was in total darkness, since the streetlight close by was not working. Shortly after, a young couple out walking stopped suddenly when they drew level with our hiding place; the fellow grabbed his girlfriend and shoved her up against the wall. We couldn't hear anything for about a minute, except strange sucking noises (from our hiding place it sounded like a toy arrow with a wet rubber cap being removed from a pane of glass) until the girl broke the silence.

‘Jesus Jimmy, you're too rough.'

‘I can't get the bleeding thing off.'

‘Ah feck it, use your two hands, you eejit, before you tear it, me ma will bleeden' well kill me.'

More sucking noises, the odd moan and rustle of clothes – and then a loud gasp from the girl made us both jump.

‘No, Jimmy, not there.'

‘Ah come on, you're all bleeden' wet, you're fucking mad for it.'

‘No, Jimmy, me ma will kill me if she finds out.'

‘You didn't say that the other night, me back is still bleeden' scratched.'

‘Jesus, Jimmy, somebody will come along and catch us, ah Jesus, stop will you. Nooo Jimmy. Ah Jesus, hurry up, quick, before somebody comes along.'

‘Take it out, I'm bleeding busting.'

More rustling noises, followed by grunting that reminded me of the sound the apes at Dublin Zoo made while being fed.

‘Bleeding hell, Jimmy, it's huge it won't bleeden' fit.'

‘Open your legs a bit more so that I can bleeden' well get it in.'

‘Jimmy, you're hurting me, stop, Jesus stop, it won't fit, Jesus, Jimmmmey. Oh Jimmy oh Jimmy, faster. Jesus faster, faster.'

It sounded to me like he was trying to knock her through the wall and, looking over at Naty who I could barely see in the shadows, it looked like he had gone into a trance. His tongue was hanging out of the side of his mouth and a huge bulge had appeared at the front of his trousers, which I thought strange. I hadn't a clue what the hell was happening at the far side of the wall, only that Jimmy was now making very strange noises that sounded like he was being choked to death. With a final drawn-out grunt from Jimmy, all movement and noise stopped and was replaced by heavy breathing.

‘Jesus, Jimmy, you fecker, why did you stop?'

‘I couldn't bleeden' help it.'

‘You got it all over me bleeden' skirt, I'll have to get it off before I get home; if the Da sees it he'll bleeden' kill me.'

‘I didn't bleeden' well have one of them rubber things.'

‘It'll be all right, the nuns told me that if you did it standing up and afterwards said three ‘Hail Mary's', it'd be alright.'

‘Jesus, is that bleeden' right?'

They started to walk off up the street. As they came under the one working streetlight we popped up our heads and, watching their retreating backs, caught a last statement from the girl.

‘Ah Jesus, Jimmy, would you look, you fecker, you bleeden' well put a ladder in me nylons. Me Ma will kill me.'

I asked Naty what the hell they had been doing. With his tongue still hanging out, he whispered in a hoarse voice, ‘They were at it.' Before I could get him to expand on what ‘at it' meant, a 21A bus pulled in at the church stop. As the bus passed by the closed paper shop, the bottle was already loaded with its missile and gripped in Naty's outstretched arms, with me holding the lighting match. Naty told me to light the fuse. The burning fuse glowed towards its destination as the bus passed our position with Naty tracking its rear entrance all the while, swivelling his body slowly just like the turret of a Second World War German Tiger tank. We could clearly see the conductor standing at his station under the stairs because the rear entrance was lit up like a Christmas tree. The fuse finally completed its journey and then, with a flash that turned our darkened area into an oasis of yellow light and temporarily blinded us, the rocket streaked outwards.

Just before the rocket ignited I noticed that Naty's hands were shaking like a weather-vane in a force-ten gale. Since we had previously practised this launch sequence, which he had then performed with rock-steady hands, I could only put his shakes down to what we had overheard a few minutes before. Later I should get him to explain what ‘at it' meant, as I felt I was losing out somewhere there. In any case, he had missed the back of the bus by a mile; the rocket streaked off to the right of it and crossed the street, without appearing to slow down. It smacked into the side entrance of the Workman's Club, skidded off it and disappeared down the alley, out of sight, amidst a shower of sparks.

‘Naty, what the fuck is wrong with you, you missed by a mile, are you blind or what?'

‘It's ok, it's ok. I'll be alright next time.'

‘You're shaking like a leaf and look at you, you're sweating like a pig, have you caught flu or what?'

‘Shut up, just shut up and get ready, as there will be another bus along in a minute.'

‘Do you want me to do it?'

‘No, just shut the fuck up.'

Sure enough, within about ten minutes another bus arrived and, repeating our previous launch sequence, Naty succeeded in setting this one on its journey with steadier hands. It missed the conductor's head by inches, glanced off the bulkhead alongside his push-button bell, and rocketed into the downstairs interior of the bus. It worked its way up to the front, ricocheting off the roof and windows, before finally slamming into the partition that separated the driver from the passengers. With brake lights glowing and tyres squealing, the bus slewed across the road before screeching to a halt just opposite the Workman's Club. The driver jumped out, thinking that the shower of sparks he had seen in the coach behind him had been the bus on fire.

Coming around to the rear, he was met by a stunned conductor and a group of battle-axed, elderly female passengers, en route to their weekly bingo game. They were not a bit impressed and set about the still stunned conductor demanding, ‘What the bleeding hell did you let off? You could have killed the lot of us.' The driver, meanwhile, had gone up to the front of the bus and retrieved the remains of our missile; holding it up like a trophy, he handed it to the bingo group. Turning to the conductor he told him to get them all back on board, he was going to report this to the proper authorities.