~ Blood Brothers ~
Joe lived next door to us with his older sister and younger brother. His mother died some years before, after which his father turned into a bit of a recluse, hardly speaking to anyone, let alone his children. So it wasn’t surprising that Joe was a surly laddie at the best of times. The problem was that for the last year or so he had been directing his surliness at me personally. It began with him curling his lip every time he saw me. It graduated to him muttering things about me behind my back. And today it escalated suddenly to him insulting me to my face.
It didn’t seem so long ago that we were not just neighbours, but also good pals. We played football together, we went out on our bikes together and we spent days at the beach together. Along with a few others, we were members of the Black Hand Gang, whose single sworn enemy was the ferocious dog at the end of the street. We were even blood brothers, having cut our palms and pressed them together to let the blood intermingle, just like Hawkeye and Chingachgook did in The Last of the Mohicans.
But everything changed after the summer holidays last year. It was time for me to start at secondary school. Being a Roman Catholic, I had to go to the academy, which was an hour’s bus ride away. Joe was younger than me, so he would have to wait a while before he went to the local Proddy secondary school. I think he resented the fact that I was going to the academy, because that’s when his surly attitude to me began. There was no more playing football together or going out on our bikes together. In fact, there was no more communication between us, apart from Joe’s muttering when I wasn’t looking.
That’s how it had gone during my first year at the academy and all through the summer holidays that followed. Those holidays were about to come to an end. Today was Saturday. School would start again on Monday, which was the reason why this morning I came to be on the street outside our houses at the same time as Joe.
Earlier, I had gone with my wee brother to the newsagent’s on the High Street for a couple of things I needed for the new year at school. I bought a protractor and a pair of compasses. The wee brother was ten years younger than me, not yet at school and at that stage where he was inquisitive about everything under the sun. All the way down to the newsagent’s and all the way back up, I held his hand and answered his questions as best I could. I was still holding his hand and still talking to him when we turned the corner into our street. Up ahead, I could see Joe and his wee brother, who was a couple of years younger than Joe, kicking a tennis ball back and forward to each other. It was when we reached the gate to our house that Joe noticed me and came out with that insult. “Snob!” he shouted at me with all the malice he could muster.
Which confirmed what I had suspected: he did resent me going to the academy. But his resentment was both misplaced and unfair. Because I wore a uniform to school – a bright blue blazer with gold braiding – didn’t mean that I thought I was better than him – or anyone else for that matter. The uniform was an ordeal most of the first year pupils had to endure on account of their mothers wanting them to look the part. And the school itself was rougher than Joe could ever have imagined. It took in pupils from all the surrounding mining villages. The boys were as tough as those villages, and there were fights in the playground every day.
While Joe didn’t know any of this, of course, that didn’t excuse his behaviour. I had been putting up with all his scowling and muttering, but an insult flung out in public and in front of my wee brother was another thing entirely, something that had to be confronted. I handed the protractor and compasses to the wee brother. “Hold these for me,” I said to him. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I added as I walked into the road.
“What was that you were saying?” I asked when Joe and I were face-to-face.
“Snob!” Joe repeated, his face twisted grotesquely, his eyes blazing and his spittle showering me.
Then Joe did something silly. He took a big swipe at me. I dodged the punch and the next one and the one after that, keeping out of reach of Joe’s flailing arms. I had learned a few things watching all those playground fights at the academy, one of which was to step inside the flailing arms, which I duly did and gave Joe a dunt on the nose. I did the same to Joe’s wee brother, who by then had decided to help Joe by clinging on to my neck.
Joe’s wee brother was first to see the blood. It came trickling down from his nose. As soon as he realised what it was, he ran screaming into his house. In Joe’s case, several more seconds passed before the blood gushed suddenly from both his nostrils. Then he, too, ran screaming into the house. Moments later, their father came out of the house, his two sons snivelling behind him. He was a short, dark and frightening man. It was said that he had been a Commando during the War. He didn’t just look at you; he glowered. And right then he was glowering fiercely at me as I stood alone in the middle of the road. But before he could utter a word, a man from a few doors along, a friend of our family, came out onto the pavement.
“It wis a fair fight. Two against one,” he shouted. “I watched it aw fae ma windae.”
From the other side of the street, the window-cleaner, whom I hadn’t noticed before, also shouted: “Aye, definately a fair fight. An’ your laddie threw the first punch.”
The father said nothing, glowered at me again and returned to the house with his sons.
I walked over to my wee brother who handed the protractor and compasses back to me. Then I took his hand and led him through the gate to our house. I was sure he would have lots of questions to ask me.
It didn’t seem so long ago that we were not just neighbours, but also good pals. We played football together, we went out on our bikes together and we spent days at the beach together. Along with a few others, we were members of the Black Hand Gang, whose single sworn enemy was the ferocious dog at the end of the street. We were even blood brothers, having cut our palms and pressed them together to let the blood intermingle, just like Hawkeye and Chingachgook did in The Last of the Mohicans.
But everything changed after the summer holidays last year. It was time for me to start at secondary school. Being a Roman Catholic, I had to go to the academy, which was an hour’s bus ride away. Joe was younger than me, so he would have to wait a while before he went to the local Proddy secondary school. I think he resented the fact that I was going to the academy, because that’s when his surly attitude to me began. There was no more playing football together or going out on our bikes together. In fact, there was no more communication between us, apart from Joe’s muttering when I wasn’t looking.
That’s how it had gone during my first year at the academy and all through the summer holidays that followed. Those holidays were about to come to an end. Today was Saturday. School would start again on Monday, which was the reason why this morning I came to be on the street outside our houses at the same time as Joe.
Earlier, I had gone with my wee brother to the newsagent’s on the High Street for a couple of things I needed for the new year at school. I bought a protractor and a pair of compasses. The wee brother was ten years younger than me, not yet at school and at that stage where he was inquisitive about everything under the sun. All the way down to the newsagent’s and all the way back up, I held his hand and answered his questions as best I could. I was still holding his hand and still talking to him when we turned the corner into our street. Up ahead, I could see Joe and his wee brother, who was a couple of years younger than Joe, kicking a tennis ball back and forward to each other. It was when we reached the gate to our house that Joe noticed me and came out with that insult. “Snob!” he shouted at me with all the malice he could muster.
Which confirmed what I had suspected: he did resent me going to the academy. But his resentment was both misplaced and unfair. Because I wore a uniform to school – a bright blue blazer with gold braiding – didn’t mean that I thought I was better than him – or anyone else for that matter. The uniform was an ordeal most of the first year pupils had to endure on account of their mothers wanting them to look the part. And the school itself was rougher than Joe could ever have imagined. It took in pupils from all the surrounding mining villages. The boys were as tough as those villages, and there were fights in the playground every day.
While Joe didn’t know any of this, of course, that didn’t excuse his behaviour. I had been putting up with all his scowling and muttering, but an insult flung out in public and in front of my wee brother was another thing entirely, something that had to be confronted. I handed the protractor and compasses to the wee brother. “Hold these for me,” I said to him. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I added as I walked into the road.
“What was that you were saying?” I asked when Joe and I were face-to-face.
“Snob!” Joe repeated, his face twisted grotesquely, his eyes blazing and his spittle showering me.
Then Joe did something silly. He took a big swipe at me. I dodged the punch and the next one and the one after that, keeping out of reach of Joe’s flailing arms. I had learned a few things watching all those playground fights at the academy, one of which was to step inside the flailing arms, which I duly did and gave Joe a dunt on the nose. I did the same to Joe’s wee brother, who by then had decided to help Joe by clinging on to my neck.
Joe’s wee brother was first to see the blood. It came trickling down from his nose. As soon as he realised what it was, he ran screaming into his house. In Joe’s case, several more seconds passed before the blood gushed suddenly from both his nostrils. Then he, too, ran screaming into the house. Moments later, their father came out of the house, his two sons snivelling behind him. He was a short, dark and frightening man. It was said that he had been a Commando during the War. He didn’t just look at you; he glowered. And right then he was glowering fiercely at me as I stood alone in the middle of the road. But before he could utter a word, a man from a few doors along, a friend of our family, came out onto the pavement.
“It wis a fair fight. Two against one,” he shouted. “I watched it aw fae ma windae.”
From the other side of the street, the window-cleaner, whom I hadn’t noticed before, also shouted: “Aye, definately a fair fight. An’ your laddie threw the first punch.”
The father said nothing, glowered at me again and returned to the house with his sons.
I walked over to my wee brother who handed the protractor and compasses back to me. Then I took his hand and led him through the gate to our house. I was sure he would have lots of questions to ask me.