Heaps of Trouble (18 page)

As for him, well he wasn't going to let me near him in case I assaulted him in their stead. Amazing, the ideas that some of the older country folk harboured about ‘Dubs'. If he had only known what the average Dubliner thought about ‘culchies'; most hadn't a clue about the origin of their daily food.

‘Aagh sure, Jesus, milk, what? Sure that comes out of a bleeding bottle and me potatoes and cabbage comes from the grocer at the corner of me street. Those farmers don't do nottin' all day long except go to bleeding funerals and to the pubs afterwards, what?'

Within a week I was driving a tractor, a Fordson Major, complete with power take-off. (Whatever that meant, but I knew it would sound great when I recounted to David what I had done on the farm.) In glorious sunshine days, we baled hay, with Noel operating the baler. Gerard and myself walked behind, standing the bales against each other in groups of four so they could dry out fully, with constant reminders from Noel to ‘remember, knots down and out'.

Every morning Matty would explain his wishes regarding the day's work. Some days left us with plenty of time to explore the countryside, but when there was work to be done it came first.

Within a few weeks I began to regain all my old fitness and whatever hospital fat I had left was quickly replaced by muscle. The good food and sunshine acted like a tonic and the bits of me that were exposed to the sun turned golden brown in colour. After a day's work or play sleep came easily and, under Matty's roof, I was (for the first time in many a year) enjoying a good night's rest without the worry of being dragged out of bed to listen to the parents fighting. Even the remembered smell abated for a while. And, when it did come, it washed over me and passed on quickly, as if in gentle reminder that it had not gone away completely but was simply allowing me a restful break from the memory.

One particular Saturday evening Matty announced that he was going to take us to the pictures in Youghal. Straight after tea we all loaded into the Morris Oxford – Matty, Gerard, Noel and myself – and headed off, making a slight detour along the way. For some unexplained reason we called into Marigold's house and collected her younger brother and sister. A quiet, withdrawn girl climbed into the front seat along with her seven-year-old brother, leaving the three of us in the back.
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
was showing to a nearly empty theatre, allowing us to spread ourselves out among the seats. At some point in the course of the picture the girl, who was sitting in the seat directly in front of mine, got up to take her brother to the toilet. I watched her lead him by the hand out through the double doors, and then something happened inside me and I experienced a feeling that was totally new to me. It was like a floodgate opening and discharging a mixture of giddiness and light-heartedness that caused my breath to come in short gasps.

All the way home I was memorised by her profile as she sat staring out of the passenger window, as if concentrating on some object that only she herself could see. I don't think I heard her speak two words throughout the evening, so I had no idea what her voice sounded like. All I knew, by the time we dropped them back to their house, was that her name was Gina; she was eleven and I was thirteen.

The next morning Matty got a rare phone call from the father. He was to send me home straight away as, finally, we were going to court.

Our ‘day in the sun' had finally arrived. We were going to court; we were going to have our justice. The excitement and trepidation was almost palpable around the house as we prepared to leave for the Four Courts on the first morning of the hearing. The mother was shouting and screaming at the father and me, her normal behaviour when she got excited or worried; behaviour that we always had to bear in silence. At times like these I often wondered why the father hadn't told her to shut up and behave years ago. During the drive from Emmett Road to the quays her constant giving-out was nearly impossible to put up with. Nothing was right: I was dressed incorrectly, my shoes weren't polished enough, my hair wasn't combed properly, the father was driving too fast, the car smelt of cigarette smoke and he was not listening to her.

By the time we arrived at the court-house they were both sulking and neither was talking to the other. I realised this particular bout of bad temper was due to the prolonged frustration they were experiencing, since the court case had been deferred by the Calor gas solicitors for what now seemed like an eternity. During that time offers of compensation had been suggested to our solicitors, but these were always treated as ridiculous and rejected out of hand by both the parents and our legal advisors.

But now we had them. Justice would prevail. We were finally bringing them to the Four Courts, by the Liffey in Dublin, in High Courtroom 3. We were going to nail them to the wall, given the sums of money that were tossed about by our solicitors and the parents; at that time, those figures were only seen in connection with the Irish Hospitals' Sweepstake.

As we ascended the steps leading into the main hallway, it seemed to me as if we were entering a Roman temple. My jaw dropped at the sight of the ornate floor and walls, the dome-shaped ceiling, and the sturdy pillars (whose shoulders appeared to bear the weight of the building) standing as guards. Pacing back and forth across the entrance was Larry, one of our solicitors. As soon as he spotted us he ran over and shook the parents' hands as if they were long-lost relatives, returning after years of enforced immigration.

I had been dressed up for the occasion in my school uniform and given the usual instruction to be ‘seen, but not heard, unless spoken to'. Both my parents were dressed in dark clothing that blended well with the sombre mood the occasion seemed to demand, and also coordinated with the black gowns of our barristers. As we stood outside the courtroom waiting to be called in at the appointed hour, we made up a sizeable group, which included the parents and me, Larry, Curly and Mo (two barristers I had never seen before), plus various clerks and their henchmen. If the case were to be awarded on mob size, we would have won hands down. The opposition were assembled over in the far corner of the main hall and had an equal number of white wigs, but failed miserably with their gathering of hangers-on. They were whispering in hushed voices amongst themselves, and kept glancing over in our direction.

Finally a head popped out through the double doors and announced that we had five minutes left to go, which accelerated the final instructions being given to the father who was due to be the first witness on the stand. We all trooped in together, and the parents and I were asked to sit in the public seats immediately behind a partition separating us from the ‘arena'. Then, with much straightening of wigs and flapping of black capes, our own team and the opposition forces filled every other available table and chair.

‘All rise. His Most Gracious Highness, the Right Honourable Lord So-and-So is now presiding.' This was not, of course, what was actually said, but the court clerk might just as well have said that, for the person who walked out of a door leading to the judge's platform was dressed like a king. He wore a brilliant red robe adorned with tassels and dangling bits, and, precariously balanced on the top of his large head, was a tiny, off-white wig that matched his hair. With steel-rimmed glasses perched on the nose of a round face that expressed sternness bordering on hostility, he surveyed the array of his subjects drawn up before him. These ‘subjects' bowed low, their stooped shoulders implying surrender before they had even begun. Then he gave a barely perceptible nod in the general direction of the public area and settled himself in his high-backed chair before motioning to the court clerk, who sprang up and handed him a pile of papers.

Although we were sitting directly behind our barristers, I found it very hard to hear what they were saying, since everyone spoke in hushed voices to the judge, now engrossed in the papers that the court clerk had given him. The only way I could tell when anybody was addressing the judge was when he or she stood up; from my perspective it looked like they were involved in a badly run game of ‘musical chairs'.

No sooner would one of our barristers sit down than one of the opponents' would jump up. This gave our lot time to turn around and whisper to one of our solicitors, who appeared to be supplying the relevant information and questions. I looked around, in vain, trying to figure out where the jury was hiding, for surely you couldn't hold a court case without them? I was just about to whisper this question to the father, when suddenly everybody sprang up, closed his or her books and bowed, just as the magistrate withdrew through his back door like a magician performing a disappearing trick. Apparently lunchtime had arrived, although it seemed to me that we had only just started. I began to realise that this lot had never heard of a 40-hour week. That first afternoon went much the same as the morning: an hour and a half after we had all trooped back in for the session, the court was adjourned until the following morning.

‘Well, I think that went well,' said the head wig to the father, once we had gathered around him in the main hall. ‘Not my best choice of judge for a case like this,' he continued, ‘I'm sure he fell asleep during the afternoon session, what George?' This last statement he addressed to his associate.

I strolled off to have a good look around, leaving them to it because they were again discussing the father's testimony, which they were certain would be given on the morrow. So far I had found the whole experience quite amazing. Mainly because there was no jury: no sign of twelve working men of truth, no honest and upstanding brotherhood to hear our case and award in our favour. No, the outcome of the case was going to rest solely on the judge's discretion. So it went without saying that we all had to be nice to him, and all I could hope for was that the mother wouldn't abuse him over something or other.

Of course, that evening after we arrived home our kitchen became the nerve centre: all the usual callers turned up to find out how our first day in court had gone. After they had settled themselves down with a drink, the father began, ‘We arrived at a quarter to eleven, to be met by our mob plus the gas company shysters, resembling black vultures circling a trapped and dying animal, eyeing us from a distance. At eleven the court clerk called us in and they all began talking to the old judge who looked like he had spent the night in a brothel.'

‘Did you get to wave at the jury?' broke in Jim.

‘There wasn't one,' said the mother in a voice that suggested that it was the father's fault. Well, that had them all babbling, talking at once, everybody ignoring each other in an attempt to voice an opinion on the matter and at the same time reaching for more drink. Finally, Boy-o-Boy was able to get his view across, mostly due to the fact that he dropped his glass on the floor where it smashed into a thousand pieces and stunned the rest into silence.

‘Boy, oh boy, Ron, call for a mistrial.'

‘How can he call for a mistrial when it has only just started?' said Money-Lending Jim., who was one of the new acquaintance's that the father had dragged back with him from the pub. The name that he had bestowed on him was a result of his wife running a illegal money lending operation to destitute women at usury interest rates.

‘How can you even call it a trial when there's no jury?' put in someone else.another of the new arrivals

And so they went on, arguing long into the evening about the absence of a jury, about the judge, how much the barristers were costing, how long the case would go on for, were our lot going to be any good, and how much would the judge award us anyway?

The next morning found us back in the same courtroom and it looked like we were in for the same legal gibberish as the previous day until, with a flurry of activity and a straightening of wigs, the father was called to the stand to give evidence. As he got up, the mother grabbed my hand as if we were watching him being led to the guillotine. No sooner had the father taken two steps forward than the old judge looked at a large old clock hanging at the rear of the room and announced to all that it was, in fact, lunchtime and he would hear the evidence after he had dined.

As soon as the court reconvened the father was called to the stand where, in a clear and firm voice, he apprised the old judge of the events leading up to and after the explosion. Gradually a hushed silence descended over the courtroom, as the judge and barristers alike began to pay attention and became fascinated with the account. The mother cried all the way through his rendition, especially when he spoke of the hours leading up to Catherine's death. Of how, on her last day, they had sat through the night with her, holding her hand and knowing she was dying, yet somehow hoping that their presence would encourage Catherine to hold on to the tiny spark of life that was slowly and quietly flickering away. And of the way in which, on 7 October at 8.45 in the morning, Catherine had opened her eyes, held out her two arms towards the ceiling, smiled at both of her parents and, with a final, peaceful exhalation of breath, had died. Reaching into his jacket pocket, the father then extracted a small, flat, plastic box with a transparent cover and held it up, saying,‘This is all we have left of our daughter, it is a lock of her light brown hair that my wife cut the moment after she had left us.'

Pausing for a second as he slowly replaced the box in one of his pockets, he went on to recount the details of Catherine's funeral and the devastating effect it had had on our family. The father, standing erect and straight-backed in the witness box, with his two hands gripping the smooth and well-polished handrail, told his story not as if he was looking for sympathy, but simply as a statement of the facts. He was never a person to solicit pity or commiseration from anybody – and he especially did not want it from that courtroom.

As he stared straight ahead, wearing the same suit he had worn to his daughter's funeral, it was as if he was peering at a giant TV screen at the back of the court that was showing a replay of the day he had carried Catherine's white coffin from the church to the graveyard. His voice never wavered as he concluded his testimony by commenting that, as a result of the accident, when they had re-opened the shop it had never returned to any of its former glory.

The judge, who had been leaning forward with his elbows on his desk and his hands cupped in front of his lips while the father had been talking, broke the deep silence that had settled over his court with a polite cough and thanked him for his testimony. As he replaced his glasses on his nose, he informed everyone that the defence could put their questions to the witness the following morning. Then, before the court clerk could bawl out the usual ‘All rise', the old judge disappeared through his back door as if he was suffering from a bad dose of the runs.

On leaving the court we were told by our lot that, all in all, the day had gone well for us. They especially liked the way the father had conducted himself in the stand, as they felt that his simple, truthful and accurate account had gone down very well with the judge. Mo even had encouraging words to say as we all went down the steps together: ‘After today's account, don't worry about tomorrow, as I don't think that they can shake or rock your description of the events. Good night all, we'll see you bright and early in the morning.' Which, to them, meant any time after 10.30 in the day.

However the next morning, after the father had again taken the stand, the defence team came straight into the attack without any polite preamble and put forward their head barrister for their opening barrage. He was a short, dumpy fellow in his mid to late fifties. I think we all took an instant dislike to him, as he had a face that a pedigree bulldog would have been proud to display, a characteristic that immediately earned him the nickname ‘Bulldog' from the father.

‘Yesterday, Mr Heaps, you told the court (and I quote) that you had just, a few days before, bought the replacement gas bottle from a local supplier and ferried it back to the caravan in the boot of your car.'

‘Yes,' replied the father in a loud, clear voice. He had been warned not to elaborate on any of his answers and to keep his replies short and to the point. ‘Can you please describe, for the court, the boot of your car, err…' (here Bulldog made a show of placing glasses on his nose and reading from a sheet of crumpled paper that he had obviously being carrying around in his pocket) ‘…a Ford Popular I believe?'

‘Why?'

Well that got him. Even the old judge smiled at that response, and Bulldog sniffed the air, as if he had just sensed a bitch on heat seven streets away.

‘You placed a gas bottle, which you have claimed was faulty, in the back of you car. I just want to know if there was anything in the boot of your car that could have damaged it in some way?'

‘Err…let me think…no.'

‘Come, come, Mr Heaps, are you telling us that there was nothing in the boot of your car?' As his voice went up a few octaves.

‘No.'

If he had started out with the intention of trying to rile the father, he was backing the wrong horse. Exasperated, he threw his hands in the air and turned to the judge.

‘Ma Lud,' (his cheeks were flapping up and down now, and beginning to turn red) ‘will you please instruct the witness to answer the question?' At which the judge turned to the father and smiled, twirling his glasses in his hands, and said, ‘Mr Heaps, to satisfy my learned colleague, will you please tell the court what was in the boot of your car, as I am also at a loss and now curious, I might add, to see where this question is leading.'