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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781907756146 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Legend Times Group |
| Publication date: | 05/16/2006 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 288 |
| File size: | 630 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
A Son Called Gabriel
By Damian McNicholl
Legend Times Ltd
Copyright © 2008 Damian McNichollAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-907756-14-6
CHAPTER 1
The choice was school or the big stick and seemed easy to make. My younger sister Caroline and any boy in the whole of Ireland would choose school, but I knew I was right in refusing to go. I was six, had been going there for almost a year, was tired of being picked on, spat at, and just wanted to leave. I glanced down the road one more time and saw my friend Fergal was now sandwiched between Jennifer and Noel, her twin brother. They stopped and looked back for a moment before disappearing over the brow of the hill.
"I'm definitely not going," I shouted at Mammy.
The idea of staying at home with my sister and James, my four-year-old brother, seemed far more sensible. My mother stood at the front gate with an angry look on her round face and hands pressed against her hips.
"Who do you think you are?" she said. "Get to school this instant or I'll fetch a sally rod and beat the living daylights out of you."
I stared at the birdshite on the tarmac for a few moments before starting toward the house. "It's all right for you to say I must go, but you don't have to deal with Henry Lynch every day. He makes the others gang up on me and you won't listen."
"You must go to school or you'll just be a stupid Harkin."
"I don't care."
She always said my father's family was stupid when she was cross like this.
"Last year, you wanted to go so much, I went and got permission for you to start school very young. I did that for you, Gabriel, and if you don't go now, I'll be a laughingstock."
That part was true. Fergal was over a year older than me and, when he started last year, I'd cried and demanded to go there with him. I'd cried so hard for two days that my mother took me to the primary school and spoke to Mrs Bradley, the headmistress, who tested my thinking and speech and said I could start because I was bright and way ahead of my years.
"That was before I knew Henry Lynch would be in my class."
"You must try harder to get him to like you. Talk to him instead of shying away ... and don't take his name-calling to heart. You must be a man, Gabriel. Nobody likes a boy who's too sensitive."
That wasn't the reason Henry hated me. He hated me because I wasn't interested in playing football with him and the other boys. Where was the fun in chasing a ball around a mucky field? I wondered. I preferred playing stuck-in-the-muck with the senior girls. Even though they were eight, nine, and ten, I was every bit as fast as them. And stuck-in the-muck wasn't just a girl's game like Henry kept saying. You had to be every bit as fast and skillful as footballers in order to avoid the person playing the jailer, otherwise she tagged and sent a body into the jail corner.
"I'm still not going," I said as I walked toward my mother.
She wagged her finger before she ran to a nearby hedge, tore off a sally rod, and started charging at me.
"I'm not putting up with this nonsense. Your sister's starting after the summer holidays, and I'm not going to tolerate you showing her a bad example."
Mammy seized my arm, and I watched the rod with its baby green shoots just like kitten claws rise until it became a thin, dark line against the sky. It fell and rose, fell and rose. Hot stings spread out over my bare legs, one thump hit the exact same spot as the first, and I started to dance about the road. I tasted the salt of my tears as I tried to dig my heels into the tarmac, but she was so much stronger and dragged me down the road.
A car came behind us as we reached the brow of the hill. The driver honked as it passed, I could see its blurry red taillights, and stopped five yards ahead. It was old Mr O'Kane. Quickly, I wiped my eyes and cleaned my nose on my pullover sleeve as we drew up to the window of the car.
"Howdy, Eileen," he said. "Do you want a lift?" "This one's decided he doesn't like school and is refusing to go this morning." She laughed. "If I don't teach him who's boss, he'll end up in Borstal."
Borstal was not a place I wanted to go. Declan Keefrey was in Borstal, had been sent there for stealing, but boys didn't get sent there simply for refusing to go to school.
"I was never one for school or the books myself." He winked at me. "Son, you have to go to school to learn, because a body can't get anywhere nowadays without the education behind them." As he smiled, gaps between the tiny purple veins that looked like spider webs on his cheeks seemed to stretch and widen. "I dare say if you're anything like your uncle Brendan, you'll be a smart fella."
Uncle Brendan was a priest in the foreign missions whom I'd never met because he didn't ever come home for a visit. My grandmother wanted him home, but he never came.
"Hop in and I'll take you to school," he said.
I knew I'd have to go now, I couldn't refuse in front of a neighbour, but Mr O'Kane's car was the joke of Knockburn.
It was shaped like an egg at the back, was also the same colour as an egg, and had tires almost as narrow as pram wheels. All the boys laughed at it when it passed us by on the road, and now Henry Lynch would see me getting out of it at the school.
"I'll walk, thanks," I said.
"Get in the car at once because you're now late," said Mammy. Her lips stretched horribly thin again.
Ancient and very small, the school had a slate roof and thick walls with three large windows on either side that each had sixteen small glass panes. It stood perched on a height at the end of a long, winding lane and was surrounded by a dry moat ringed with beech trees. Coal black crows nested in their silvery branches, and about twenty rose into the air cawing as we drove along the driveway. Fergal and the others were climbing the height, a shortcut everyone took to reach the school building, and I crouched down in the seat and turned my head away as we passed by so he wouldn't see me. Luckily, Henry wasn't by the main door as Mr O'Kane pulled up, so I bounded out and disappeared inside.
At my desk, I thought about what my mother had said about trying harder with Henry, but I couldn't think what to do until an idea jumped into my head just before lunch. Every day we ate at our desks under the supervision of Miss Murray, our teacher, and I'd noticed Henry always had the same food to eat. It was always strawberry jam on bright yellow Indian meal scones. He never had ham or a chocolate bar like me, because his father was on the dole and couldn't afford it.
As Henry shared the desk immediately behind me with Simple Brian, a much older boy who was a spastic and blew spittle bubbles through his rubbery lips — bubbles that always dribbled down his chin — I turned around, forced a smile and said, "Henry, would you like one of my ham sandwiches?" Henry had wiry hair that reminded me of the scrubbing pads Mammy used to clean saucepans, and his sneaky eyes stared at me under his lashes. She said he had bad hair, not good hair like mine which was straight and glossy brown. She also said he wasn't good-looking like me, because I had my father's "black Irish" colouring which looked brown and healthy all year.
"Why would you give me one of your sandwiches, Harkin?" he asked.
I always made sure to meet Henry's stare to show him I wasn't frightened. "I thought you might like to try something different."
"Have you spit on it?"
"I have not indeed." His eyes darted to the sandwich I held in my hand. Simple Brian watched, slimy dribbles trailing from his mouth, and I knew I wouldn't eat my chocolate bar, either. "I'll also give you my chocolate today."
"I'll take the chocolate bar, but I won't have the sandwich unless you eat a piece of my Indian scone."
Henry's family lived in government housing and I was sure his house wouldn't be clean like mine. I glanced at the horrible-looking yellow scone and saw where the red jam had seeped out and dried around its edges.
"I'm not so very hungry today."
"Is my scone not good enough for you to eat? Is that what this is about?"
"No. I just thought you'd like some ham for a change, that's all."
"Harkin, are you saying my ma can't afford to buy ham?"
Of course they couldn't afford it. I laid my sandwich on the desk before him. "I'll have a tiny, tiny piece, then."
He broke off a huge piece and watched as I took a bite. It was dry as straw, I could swear I'd seen a black hair on it as I'd raised it to my lips, and I wanted to hurl it away. Henry took a bite of the ham sandwich, and we watched each other chew.
"How do you like my ma's scone?"
"Delicious."
"In that case, you can have the rest and I'll take another ham sandwich."
"You're sharing each other's lunches, boys," Miss Murray said. "Look, girls and boys! Look at the example Henry and Gabriel are setting. They're sharing. Sharing is so good to do. Now, who can raise their hand and tell me another person who shared a feast?"
No one raised a hand.
"I'll give you a hint. His name begins with a 'J.'"
Still no one raised a hand.
"Jesus, boys and girls. Remember ... remember I told you Jesus gave his body to the apostles to eat?" The teacher looked at Henry. "Oh my goodness! Goodness! Henry, quick, quick. Clean Brian's mouth this instant because he's dribbling badly."
Henry hated sitting beside Simple Brian because she always made him wipe his mouth. The corn in the scone felt like cement powder in my mouth and I wanted to vomit.
My plan worked, however, because Henry stopped calling me sissy and getting the others to gang up on me. So long as I gave him a sandwich and half of my chocolate bar every day, he didn't bother me. Then, one afternoon after school a few weeks later, he came up to me, prodded me on the chest, and told me I had to hand over all the chocolate bar or whatever other treat I had for lunch from the next day on. Although it didn't seem right, I did it until I grew angry with myself. I grew angry because, every time I gave up the bar, I was reminded of how I was completely in his power..
"I can't give it to you anymore," I said at the beginning of the second week. My voice shook, and I could hardly look him in the eye.
"I'm going to make it very rough for you again, cunt," he said.
"What you're doing is wrong, Henry."
"Don't tell me what to do, you fucking sissy boy." He prodded my chest with his finger like a jackhammer again. "I'll give you a good thrashing if you don't give me the stuff."
Still, I refused, but he didn't hit me. Instead, the name-calling and spitting returned much worse than before.
After the summer holidays, at least once a week, Henry and some other boys started to come around to where I played with the girls and would cause me trouble. They'd try to trip me up as I ran about releasing girls from jail. They'd call me nasty names that cut my mind to ribbons. I tried to ignore everything, but the words would not be blocked. They'd get inside. They felt like my mother's sharp carving knife slicing into my heart and brain. I'd try to go on with the stuck-in-the-muck game and felt so ashamed in front of the girls. They tried to stop Henry. They often sent him away, but minutes later he and the others would come back, and eventually Jennifer and the others gave up.
I also started getting it bad from Daddy. My friend Fergal and I had had an argument coming from school one afternoon. My father was weeding in the garden and, as we drew up to the gate, he asked Fergal jokingly which one of us was the better footballer. Fergal told him I didn't play because I preferred being with girls. I knew it was only his anger talking, but it set my father off. He demanded I start to play with the boys. To please him, I decided to make an effort. All the boys had a favourite English football team, so I studied the teams and picked one to have ready for the next time I was teased about not having one.
"Hey, Harkin, haven't you picked a soccer team to support yet?" Henry said at lunch a few weeks later, after Miss Murray had disappeared behind the pink curtain. The curtain ran across the width of the room, dividing it into the senior and junior sections, and she always went into the senior section to drink black tea with the headmistress after we'd finished our lunch.
"I quite like Chelsea."
His eyes widened with surprise.
The other boys crowded around now.
"Why?" Henry's sneaky eyes moved slowly from face to face to make sure everyone was listening.
"I like the colour of their outfits ... and Chelsea is a nicer part of England."
"The colour of their kit doesn't matter a fuck." Henry stood and smacked the top of my head with his palm.
This was the first time he'd smacked me and I needed to tell him to stop, but couldn't bring myself to say anything. He wasn't fooled by my answer, either. I'd picked Chelsea because I liked the photographs of the players in their blue shorts, not because of their skills.
"Seeing as you have a team now, I think you should play with us today," Henry said, and he looked at the others real sneaky again. "You can't support a team properly until you understand the game."
"Yes, come on, Gabriel," said another boy.
The sun was shining when we got outside and the girls had started their game. My sister Caroline was running about the yard in her purple and white pinafore, a matching ribbon in her long dark hair. The jailer wasn't at all interested in her, though. She was only six, a small fry, too small to play with them. They allowed her only because of me. They should just put her in jail like I was forever telling them, and she'd be happy. Caroline's eyes locked in mine and she waved. The girls' laughter and cries filled the playground, I wanted badly to join in, but Henry had a point that I should give football another try.
"Gabriel, come and free me," Jennifer said. She was Noel's twin, but didn't have yellow-green teeth like him because she brushed hers.
"I'm going to give football another go."
"Ach, why, Gabriel? Don't play with them. I must be released."
I turned to Henry. "I'll come and play with you in a minute." Running over to the jailer, I whispered, "Put our Caroline in jail."
"If you promise to release me before anyone else when I'm next in jail," she said.
"I will."
"Even before freckle-faced Jennifer."
"Yes, I'll release you first."
She ran over to my sister and tagged her.
"I'm catched, Gabriel. Look, she catched me," Caroline said, and she ran joyfully into the shady, damp corner that was our jail.
I ran to the other side of the school. Some boys and girls were lining up to slide down the hill to the bottom of the moat. Their trousers and skirts were streaked brown and gray from cinders and ashes dumped there from Mrs Bradley's fireplace. Henry was picking the sides as I drew up.
"You're on the other team because you're useless," he said.
He was picking for both teams even though he had no right to do so, and they were obeying him. Afew minutes later, the game started. Every time the ball rolled in my direction, I prayed it would stop, or someone would reach it before it came to me. Boys swarmed around me, pulled at my sweater, cursed, kicked my shins. Twice, Henry came over and smacked my head in the middle of the tackling.
"Stop hitting me, Henry," I said, after he smacked me much harder a third time. "That's not allowed in the rules."
"How the fuck would you know the rules?"
He hit me again on the side of my face. "Come on, Harkin. Fight me, or are you a yellabelly?"
I just looked at him.
"Let's see you fight him," another boy said.
The game was forgotten as the boys huddled closer. Tears welled in my eyes. I wanted to hit him but knew fighting was wrong. I turned away.
"Le ... le ... leave him be, Hen ... Henry," said stuttering Anthony. "You ... you ... you asked him to ... to play ball and ... and ... and he did."
"Shut up, Stuttery-mouth," Henry said.
Fergal watched, but said nothing. He was my friend, my best friend, but he also liked the other boys. I met his eye and he looked quickly at the ground. Henry was king in the playground.
Suddenly, Henry lifted his foot and kicked my arse. He stuck up his fists like Cassius Clay and began to dance around me. It looked silly, but the boys loved it and cheered. Fergal laughed, too. Seeing him laugh gave me a much sharper pain than the one in my arse. Henry's fist hit my nose. I heard the crack inside my head. I put my hand up and felt my nose, and when I brought it down, I saw blood streaked on my bar of fingers. The boys saw my streaky blood and cheered.
"Hit him back, Harkin," one of them cried. "Let's see the thickness of his blood."
Older boys gathered around now. My blood excited them as well. They ordered me to floor Henry. My head was sore, I raised my hands and formed fists, but still I could not hit him.
"Gabriel, kill him," said Noel. "Don't let us down. Don't let a boy from the other side of Knockburn beat the shite out of you."
"I don't want to fight."
"Coward! Coward!" the boys cawed.
"Fighting's for animals. They don't know better." I dropped my fists to my sides and started to leave. Henry pushed me hard in the back and shoved me out of the opening ring.
"Gabriel is a coward. He's a big sissy," the older boys yelled. "Gabriel Harkin's a sissy boy."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Son Called Gabriel by Damian McNicholl. Copyright © 2008 Damian McNicholl. Excerpted by permission of Legend Times Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
PART ONE September 1964–August 1970,PART TWO September 1970–October 1978,
Acknowledgements,
What People are Saying About This
This book does everything a great story should. It engages the reader intimately in the life of someone you come to care about deeply, while at the same time giving that life a rich historical context that enlarges your own world. It is funny and fast-paced as a good tale will be...it's a must. (Author: "Origins of Sin: A Memoir", and a NBA finalist)
Comic, courageous and often painful, this is a beautifully paced and balanced novel that will have an assured place in contemporary Irish writing. The pressure of social and religious convention on a young gay man within the minority community in Northern Ireland is tangible; this is the subaltern life, that of a minority within the minority, revealed as never before. (Author: "Reading in the Dark", shortlisted for Booker Prize 1996, Winner of the Guardian Fiction Prize)
What a joy to be introduced to Damian McNicholl's world of 'family.' He has a unique talent of not just having you read 'Gabriel' but actually believing that you are in the tale. Bravo! A cracking read that should never end...(bestselling author of "The Mammy")