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Authors: Creina Mansfield

My Nasty Neighbours (7 page)

BOOK: My Nasty Neighbours
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A
s I walked up the hill towards our house, I saw the red BMW parked in the alleyway, but Ian's van was missing.

Inside was Harry, sitting on the edge of my sofa. ‘I let myself in,' he explained, adding disapprovingly, ‘The front door was ajar, the back door wide open and I found three downstairs windows unlatched.'

‘We're trying to confuse the burglars,' I explained. ‘Giving them a choice.'

‘Where's Helen?' he demanded.

‘How should I know? I've been playing rugby.'

‘Hasn't she been in?' he asked, obviously agitated.

‘I've been out!' I dumped my bag down on the white wool carpet, now a light grey. ‘Wasn't she with you?'

He stared out of the window. ‘She was,' he
said tersely.

I flung myself on another sofa, picked up the controls and began rewinding my Blackadder tape. ‘So what happened?' I asked wearily.

‘Your brother turned up!' snarled Harry. He was dressed oddly in a dark suit with tails, a Fred Astaire without the footwork.

‘Where?' I asked.

‘At a wedding – the wedding of the year.'

I took another look at him. ‘Who was getting married? You?'

‘Don't be ridiculous, I was invited to Sean Connery's cousin's daughter's wedding. I was at school with the groom. It was going to be an excellent chance to meet people–'

‘But you don't have to go to a wedding to meet people: the streets are full of them.' I was sitting like he was now, tensely.

‘People who matter!'

‘So what went wrong?'

‘Ian and that group of his turned up. The Boil in the Bags or whatever they're called. They were already there when the guests arrived at the reception, playing some dreadful, fiendish racket.'

I leapt up. I'd heard Ian's van draw up outside and I knew I had just a few seconds to check. I rushed into the hall searching amongst the messages. ‘Where was this reception?' I shouted back at Harry.

‘Helmly Hotel, Foxrock,' he supplied.

Sure enough, on the wall, by the phone in Helen's small, neat handwriting was ‘Helmly Hotel, Foxrock'. Ian had read Helen's message, not mine.

There was no time to clean it off. Helen was already storming through the front door, followed by Ian. ‘I've never been so humiliated in my life,' she was saying. She pulled off her large brimmed hat and hurled it like a Frisbee at the stairpost.

‘Yes, you have,' corrected Ian wearily.

I pointed towards the sitting-room, wondering how Helen had missed seeing Harry's parked car, but it became obvious that she knew he was there. She was just practising her temper on Ian. She charged into the sitting-room and started on Harry. ‘I do not appreciate your driving off without me.'

‘Well, how do you expect me to react?' Harry
replied. ‘The bride's father was livid. He'd booked a nice quartet and five raving anarchists turned up.'

‘Singer, keyboard, guitar and accordion, actually,' Ian whispered to me. We were standing, tactfully, I thought, in the hall. ‘Music to grow old to.'

‘Did the other lot turn up too?' I asked. There was no need to whisper now. Helen and Harry were both shouting so loudly even our deaf neighbour would be able to hear.

Ian nodded. ‘We were on our third number when they arrived and tried to take over the stage. That's when the wedding cake toppled over.'

‘One of the three-tier jobs? Brilliant.'

‘… not quite the impression I wish to create,' Harry was shouting. ‘One of my oldest friends arriving with his bride and your brother playing some–'

Ian put his head round the door. ‘“Angel of Death”,' he supplied. ‘We were playing “Angel of Death” when she walked in.'

Helen giggled, but Harry was as unsmiling as ever. ‘I fail to see the joke,' he said pompously.

‘You always fail to see the joke,' snapped Helen. She ripped off her pink elbow-length gloves, as if preparing for a fight. ‘I'm fed up with this,' she began, as Mum walked slowly in from the kitchen. She must have heard the shouting, and had brought in a plate of cakes as an excuse to find out what was happening.

‘I made these earlier,' she said brightly. ‘Cherry rum cake, brandy snaps, coffee-frosted–'

‘Harry's just leaving,' Helen interrupted, marching Harry to the door.

‘Good riddance,' she muttered as the door slammed shut.

For a few minutes there was an atmosphere of tactful gloom. Then Mum asked hopefully, ‘Is he gone permanently?'

That infuriated Helen. ‘Mum, stop interfering!' she yelled. ‘When will you realise that we want our independence? We don't want you coming round here interfering with … everything.'

‘I see,' said Mum, slowly and quietly. She put the plate down, just out of my reach and turned to face Helen. ‘And what interference would you like me to cease? Cleaning your bathroom? Ironing your clothes?'

‘Everything,' replied Helen, stooping down and picking up the cakes. The coffee frosted ones had thick, smooth icing, the crunchy brandy snaps were oozing cream.

‘We're grown up now.' Helen continued as she thrust the plate back at Mum. ‘We just don't need this sort of molly-coddling.'

‘I see.' Mum was still unnaturally calm. ‘Well,' she said, heading towards the back door, ‘I shall respect your wish for independence. This is the last time I shall come in uninvited,' she added with an attempt at dignity.

I wanted to say something to cheer her up. I knew she was deeply hurt. I wanted her to know that I for one appreciated her attention, but she was moving fast towards the back door.

‘… leave the cakes,' I managed, but the slam of the door drowned out my words. Mum had gone.

H
arry had slammed out of the front door, Mum out of the back, and now Ian started shouting, ‘So why did you send me to that hotel in Foxrock?’

‘Me? I didn’t.’

He dragged me into the hall to face the messages. ‘Yes, you did. Here it is.’ He pointed to, ‘Helmly Hall, Foxrock’ in Helen’s loopy handwriting.

‘That’s not how I write. Look at it.’ Helen had done everything but decorate the message with flowers.

I jabbed a finger at the message I’d written. ‘Here it is. “Hell’s Bells, nine.”’

‘So I’m meant to swing upside down to read that? We’re not all built like orang-utans.’

‘Well, whatever species you’re closest to, it’s a pity you can’t tell the time.’

‘What?’

‘You’re meant to be playing in the Hell’s Bells at nine. It’s ten past.’

Ian was gone. Then the telephone rang.

‘If that’s Harry, tell him I never want to see him again and that he’s the most pompous, affected, miserable, self-obsessed–’

Her voice followed me out the back door. I hadn’t eaten all day, and was going in search of food.

No 10 was so peaceful and quiet after all the yelling and slamming of doors at no 8.

‘I played in the A team today,’ I told Mum over my three-course dinner.

We were sitting in the kitchen, facing each other. Dad was obviously out, though Mum didn’t mention him. ‘That was nice.’

There was a long pause.

‘Scored a goal from a drop kick.’

‘Well done.’ The quiet was starting to get eerie. I wasn’t used to it.

I tried again. ‘The goal that won the game.’

‘Very nice.’

I tried a cheerful topic. ‘At least Harry’s got the heave-ho!’

‘Let’s hope so,’ Mum answered, disappearing upstairs.

Later, back at no 8, the phone was off the hook and Helen was deconstructing herself upstairs.

When she came down, she was transformed. At least three layers of colour and make-up had gone. She was wearing blue jeans, a Guns n’ Roses T-shirt and her hair was covered by a scarf, gypsy style.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ she said.

‘Where do you suggest?’

Just then, Ian pushed the front door open. He was carrying an amplifier again.

‘You’re back early.’

‘This one blew up too! We only played two numbers and the landlord refused to pay us.’ He dumped the amplifier down on the greyish-white carpet. ‘God, I hate music.’

‘We’re going out. Want to come?’ asked
Helen.

‘Yeah, I know a few pubs we could go to.’

‘But Dave’s only twelve.’

‘He looks sixteen.’

‘I’ve been in pubs before. Don’t worry – I won’t drink. Sullivan’d kill me.’

Ian took his drum kit out of the van and left it in the hall, and we piled in. Out of nowhere came Psycho Phil, or his Doppelgänger, to join us.

‘Know a great place,’ he told us, guiding Ian to a pub I’d never noticed before.

‘Karaoke tonight!’ announced the notice outside.

‘We’re going in here?’ asked Helen doubtfully.

‘Yeah, why not?’ Ian said.

‘But you said you hated music.’

‘Exactly.’

The place was full and a girl had just finished singing ‘Cinderella Rockafella’. I thought she must have been brilliant because the clapping and cheering was tremendous, but as the evening continued, I realised that applause
was awarded for nerve not notes. Karaoke’s like bungee jumping: you’re admired for having the guts to do it. Neither is a musical activity.

Not, that is, until my brother went forward and took the microphone. He’d been drinking Fanta all night like me, so it wasn’t Dutch courage that made him sing. He’d chosen the song carefully and he didn’t need the words on the screen to prompt him.

He sang a Freddie Mercury hit, ‘Great Pretender’, and he sang every word as if he meant it.

When he finished, the applause was subdued. He’d sung it as well as Freddie Mercury, every note accurate, every line loaded with feeling. The audience was stunned. They’d come for Karaoke; they’d heard real music. The words, ‘I’m pretending/That I’m doing well’ kept repeating in my mind as we drove home. I knew the song was Ian’s farewell to Heavy Metal. He was back with classical music.

Ian had got it right first time. By the time he was fifteen, he was tired of doing what Mum, Dad and everyone else expected, hence his Heavy Metal rebellion. Now he was facing up to
the truth – he loved classical music. He wasn’t going to pretend anymore.

Helen had worked it out too. Ian, at the wheel, was silent, but Helen turned to me and whispered, ‘We’ve got Beethoven back.’

S
now fell in April, throwing Dublin into chaos. The roofs of the houses in Highfield Road were covered in a rich thick layer like icing sugar.

Rugby practice was cancelled – not for our sakes, you understand, Sullivan would have us practising in a cyclone, but for the sake of the pitches.

Joe, Abbas and I slithered up the hill of Highfield Road and spent our spare time at no 8. We mastered the knack of toasting marshmallows (two seconds max, then they’re crisp on the outside, soft inside). But by the time we perfected the toasting there was something wrong with the fire. I lit it every afternoon when I got home from school, using the thin wood from the dividing fence as kindling. And there was still coal left from
before Mum’s argument with Helen. But after nearly a month, the fire was slower and slower to light. Even when I got it alight, the coal produced more smoke than welcoming red glow.

Helen was worse than useless when consulted. ‘Why isn’t it lighting properly?’ I asked her.

She gazed at the fire blankly. ‘How would I know? Don’t ask me. I’ve done enough for you,’ she said bitterly.

I stared. I couldn’t remember her doing a single thing for anyone else, let alone me.

‘Just what have you done for me?’ I asked sarcastically. I consulted my watch. ‘Don’t hurry. I’ve got five seconds. That should be more than enough time for a detailed list.’ I’d heard her say this to Mum, years ago.

Helen narrowed her eyes at me just as Mum had done at her. ‘You don’t know how demanding it is running a house, David.’

‘Running,’ I laughed. ‘Helen, you’re not even walking this place.’

I looked around the sitting-room. One curtain was hanging lopsidedly from its rail. The once white carpet was mottled with pink and grey sticky circles. Up in the bathroom, the towels
had been emitting toxic fumes for days and the sink was growing a worrying mould on its grey rim. ‘Running,’ I repeated, ‘the only thing running around here is bacteria.’

But Helen had slammed out of the room. I sighed. My conscience wasn’t quite clear about the curtain rail. That might have come down during a fight that had developed between Joe and me, a fight that might also have been responsible for the splitting of one of the bean bags and the distribution of about a thousand plastic beans throughout the room.

Joe had been trying to strangle me with one of the curtains when Ian walked in – and this just goes to show how weird he is – ignored us completely. My older brother has never, not once, beaten anyone up on my behalf. Of course, with a physique like his he’s not well-equipped to do much beating up. In fact, my brother would be more likely to reduce Joe to a quivering wreck by singing him an aria, which is almost what happened.

Ian just headed towards the piano, as if in a dream. Joe stopped strangling me and listened. He knew Ian had won a scholarship for his
singing, but not that he could play the piano brilliantly. Ian began with ‘Chopsticks’, played with two fingers. As far as Joe was concerned, that’s how everyone plays the piano.

But the ‘Chopsticks’ turned into some concerto or other which seemed to need a hundred fingers and Ian was playing the piano as if his life depended on it. Joe stared in disbelief. When the playing came to an end with a dramatic crescendo, he let out a slow whistle of appreciation.

‘I never knew you could play like that,’ he said admiringly.

‘That,’ answered Ian contemptuously, more to himself than to Joe. ‘I want to play better than that.’ And he started playing again.

From then on he was always at the piano, so often that it interfered with our TV watching. We tried turning the volume right up but it’s very unnerving trying to concentrate with Beethoven in the room with you. Even if we chucked marshmallows at him, he just kept on playing. Now, don’t try to tell me that’s normal behaviour.

BOOK: My Nasty Neighbours
6.69Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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