This Man's Wee Boy Read online

  MERCIER PRESS

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  © Tony Doherty, 2016

  ISBN: 978 1 78117 458 6

  Epub ISBN: 978 1 78117 459 3

  Mobi ISBN: 978 1 78117 460 9

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  To the memory of young Damien Harkin

  Acknowledgements

  There are a number of people who deserve thanks and credit. First, my wife Stephanie, for her support and patience, but especially for her belief in what I had set out to do; my mother Eileen, who, in the months before she died in August 2014, largely unknown to her, provided me with the rich pickings of our family history from her own memory bank; my big sister Karen, my wee brother Paul and my Uncle Eugene, who helped me bring our households in Moore Street and Hamilton Street back to life; my Aunt Maureen, for helping me out with the McFredericks; Dave Duggan, for telling me what to write about and how to do it; Lily (née Lily White) and Eddie Harkin, for allowing me to write about their son, Damien; Seán McLaughlin of the Derry Journal, for publishing ‘The Folded Newspaper’; Rónán McConnell of Derry City and Strabane District Council, for sourcing the Ordnance Survey map; Mickey Dobbins, Amanda Doherty and Julieann Campbell, for their prompt and honest feedback and encouragement; Minty Thompson, the oracle of every seed, breed and generation in the Brandywell; both Conal McFeely of Creggan Enterprises and the Trustees of the Bloody Sunday Trust, for helping me; Felicity McCaul, the godmother of The Literary Ladies, including Freya and Lynne; and Averill Buchanan for her skilful editing and her insightful feedback and guidance. Finally, thanks to my kitchen table and the two red robins, Maureen and Patrick, who came to my doorstep in the early spring and summer mornings. Maureen was there for a nosey and Patrick to practise his cursing.

  Tony Doherty

  1

  Moore Street, 1967–68

  My father (‘me da’) was at the open front door, standing between me and the sunny street. He was smoking and he looked up and down the street while I stood behind him in the darkened hall with my homemade drum hanging from a cord around my neck. Earlier he had made holes in the sides of a square biscuit tin with a screwdriver to knot the cord through. I had a wooden stick in each hand.

  The marching band was forming under the sun in the middle of the street, halfway between our house and McKinneys’ across from us, mostly boys with one girl. Our instruments were sweet tins and biscuit tins; one had a family-size Heinz Beans tin. Some, like me, had their drums hanging around their necks; others just carried the tins in their hands. Our drumsticks were the kindling sticks used for lighting the fire in the house. The band gathered in the street, banging, clanging, clunking, raring to go.

  As me da stood in the doorway the sound of a car could be heard coming to a quick stop at the bottom of the street.

  ‘What are these cowboys at now?’ said me da out loud to no one in particular. He stood down from the front step onto the street and I squeezed past him to join the band. At the bottom of the street two policemen got out of their car and one took a football from three older boys who had been playing there.

  ‘Hi!’ called me da, slowly making his way towards them. He had his beige shirtsleeves turned up as usual. ‘Hi! What the hell are yous boys at there wi’ them fellas?’ He stopped about twenty yards away from them and then began walking towards them again more slowly.

  The dark-uniformed policemen looked unsure of themselves as he approached. The marching band stopped drumming. There was complete silence in the terraced street.

  ‘The days of yous boys messing wains about are over. Give them back their ball and get the fuck from this street!’ Me da was desperate with his temper when he started.

  The policemen looked even more uncomfortable. The lanky one whispered something to the one with the ball in his hands, who promptly threw the ball back to the teenagers. None of them said anything.

  Me da lowered his voice but you could hear him say, almost in a whisper, ‘Now fuck off into your fancy car and get the fuck out and don’t come back here messin’ people about.’ He pointed with his thumb towards the end of the road as he spoke each word.

  The two policemen did exactly as they were told and drove off up the Foyle Road in the direction of Killea. Still puffing on his Park Drive fag, me da turned around with a broad grin on his face and walked slowly back towards the house. The teenagers went back to playing football.

  Off the band went in single file up Moore Street. Me, our Patrick and Paul, Ernie Thompson, Dooter and Jacqueline McKinney and their dog Dandy – Dandy McKinney, one of the family. We all wore shorts and stripy t-shirts, and our plastic sandals of blue, brown and red made a sharp split-splat sound on the hard, dusty ground as we marched. I was at the back and Dooter walked in front of me. He wore red rubber boots that were too big for him so he flip-flopped about and staggered a bit as he walked.

  The short-back-and-sides heads with wing-nutted ears bobbed in and out of the line in front of me as we walked in formation, banging the drums with our wooden sticks and making a noise that bore no relationship to the tunes we thought we were playing: ‘We all live in a yella submarine, a yella submarine, a yella submarine.’ Clunk, clunk, bang, bang – clunk, bang, clunk, bang.

  As it was a sunny day some of the houses had their front doors open; there were prams outside with babies in them taking in the sun and fresh air. We passed Wee Mary’s house on the left near the top. Wee Mary would invite us in now and again. She lived on her own with her cats and didn’t say a lot. She just pointed and gestured and said some words now and again. Wee Mary Fleabag, some in the street called

  her.

  On the other side, Barry McCool had Peggy the horse out of the stable and was brushing down her snow-white coat in the sun at the bottom of the steep bankin’. Barry smiled at us as we passed his stable. So did Peggy the horse.

  At the top of Moore Street you come to waste ground. You turn right to go up the steep bankin’ or left to go down towards Hamilton Street, where you come out between the two gable-ends. Down we went: ‘Here we come, walking down the street.’ Clunk, clunk, bang, bang – clunk, bang, clunk, bang.

  As we reached Hamilton Street we swung left and walked Indian file past Chesty Crossan, who was sitting on his kitchen chair in the shade in front of his cottage in his white string vest. He smiled as we passed, battering our drums and chanting the lines from The Monkees that we knew and humming the ones we didn’t.

  ‘Hello, Chesty!’ called our Paul.

  ‘Hello, wee Doherty!’ Chesty called back with a laugh.

  Hamilton Street was longer than Moore Street, bending gradually almost out of sight towards Quarry Street, Lecky Road and the Bogside, which was out of bounds for us. The houses were all painted dull or pastel shades, with the odd splash of red or yellow on the windowsills to brighten them in the sunshine. The Barbours were playing tig in front of their house. As we passed, Johnny Barbour abandoned the game and took up position behind me. He had no drum, but he walked in formation with the marching band and sang what he knew.

  We passed McLaughlin’s shop, with its grey walls and darkened insides, and then the Silver
Dog bar near the corner. On the wooden bench outside a solitary, old, flat-capped man was sitting with a glass of stout in his hand. He smiled, raised his glass and said, ‘Good on yis boys’, as we passed by. As we reached the end of Hamilton Street and turned left onto Foyle Road, our Patrick said, ‘Get on the pad’, and led us towards the footpath. Foyle Road was busier than Hamilton Street. This was the bottom of Bishop Street, where the Morrisons and Thompsons lived. They weren’t part of the hated Bishie Gang because they lived at the bottom of Bishop Street, just around the corner from us. The real Bishie Gang all lived further up Bishop Street, out of view from our street. Kevin Morrison joined our band. He had no drum either but fell in behind Johnny Barbour as we made our way towards the corner of Moore Street again.

  Mrs Thompson was out in her apron brushing the dirt and dust off her step. Her black hair was up in a bun on top of her head. She smiled as we passed and rested on her brush for a moment watching us make another go of ‘The Yellow Submarine’. She was Ernie’s ma.

  The teenagers were still at the corner playing football and made way for us to get back to where we started. At that moment, a small blue van pulled into Moore Street just in front of us and stopped. The door opened and the Fishman got out. He had jet-black curly hair like me da’s and wore blue overalls.

  ‘Fresh herrin’!’ he shouted. ‘Fresh herrin’!’

  The band stopped to watch. He opened the back doors of the van to reveal fresh fish packed in boxes. We could smell it from where we were standing. Women came out of their houses with coloured scarves on their heads. Paddy Stewart came out of ours with his flat cap on his head. The women paid their money and got their fresh herring wrapped in newspaper, chatted for a few minutes and went back indoors again. The Fishman closed the back doors, got back into the van and drove off down the lane to Hamilton Street. The band started up again and hurried down the lane after him, calling ‘Fresh herrin’! Fresh herrin’!’ at the tops of our voices and beating our drums ferociously. Dooter fell over in his red floppy boots and he and his drum clattered to the ground. Up he got, brushed the dust off his bare legs, and on we went. In Hamilton Street more women came out with coloured scarves on their heads, bought their fish, chatted and went back in again. The wee blue van drove off towards Anne Street below where me granny and granda Doherty lived in the prefabs.

  The marching band broke up in Hamilton Street, where we joined the Barbours playing tig, running away from whoever was ‘it’, and declaring ‘parley’ by touching a lamp post with both hands so you couldn’t be caught and you could get your breath back. After the tig we sat down in the sun on the kerb opposite Chesty, still sitting in his kitchen chair at his front door.

  I spied a patch of dull-pink chewing gum stuck to the road and poked at it with an ice-pop stick to see if it would move. Softened by the heat, it came away easily in pinky-white strings.

  ‘Hi, I got chewin’ gum! Look!’ I shouted.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Johnny Barbour.

  ‘It’s a Bubbly,’ I said, rolling it in my fingers. I kissed it up to God and put it in my mouth. There was still a bit of flavour off it, as well as a few pieces of grit, which I picked out in a pincer movement with my tongue and fingers.

  ‘Gis that ice-pop stick,’ said Johnny.

  I threw him the ice-pop stick and he poked at a piece of dull-white chewing gum near his feet. It came up in strings too. The sun was a blessing for chewing gum. He rolled it in his fingers, kissed it and held it up to the sky.

  ‘I kiss this up to God,’ he said and promptly stuck it in his mouth.

  ‘What kind did you get, Johnny?’ I asked.

  ‘Beechnut,’ he said with a smile, crunching on a bit of grit, as I had.

  ‘It’s okay when you kiss it up to God, isn’t it?’ said our Paul, sitting down beside Johnny.

  ‘Aye, it is. As long as you kiss it up to God you won’t get poisoned,’ I said and watched our Paul poke another dull-pink Bubbly with the stick.

  * * *

  It was our first day at school. The classroom at Long Tower Primary School had erupted with four-year-olds crying for their mammies. Mrs Radcliffe was being stern with some of the mothers who were in the classroom. They had to leave. They were only making the children worse. Almost all of the thirty boys were crying like babies and I wondered what they were crying about. I was the only boy in the class not crying. It took a long time to get the mammies out the door. They stood outside looking in through the glass at all the wains crying. Then some of the mammies started to cry. Mrs Radcliffe went out to them, closing the door behind her. Eventually they dried their eyes and left. Mrs Radcliffe was always stern. When school finished later that day they were all back, crying again in the yard. The mammies had their boys by the hand or were hugging them.

  Only a few boys cried on the second day, but one of them cacked himself in the classroom. Mrs Radcliffe was purple-faced. She took him out to the toilet. When they came back he was wearing someone else’s trousers. We all got a small bottle of cold milk in the morning. Some boys didn’t drink their milk but Mrs Radcliffe said you had to, to make your bones and teeth strong. They only sipped it. I drank the whole bottle as I wanted to have strong bones and teeth. I had toast wrapped in bread-paper for lunch. The two slices of cold toast were really nice because the butter had caramelised with the burnt bits. We got hot tea with sugar at lunchtime. Mrs Radcliffe poured it for us from a giant silver teapot into cups and small milk bottles.

  I went home with our Patrick and Karen. Karen was a big girl in Primary Three in the Long Tower Girls’ School.

  On the way home one day our Patrick said to me, ‘You’re deef.’

  I said, ‘What?’ and he said, ‘I said, “You’re deef.”’

  ‘What d’ye mean, deef?’ I asked.

  ‘Me ma said to Paddy Stewart the other day that she thought you couldn’t hear right, and Paddy said that you might be a bit deef all right,’ he said.

  ‘But I’m not deef. Sure I can hear ye talkin’!’ I said, feeling a bit hard done by.

  ‘Well, that’s what they said. You’re deef and that’s it!’

  ‘Naw, I’m not deef! I’m not, aren’t I not, Karen?’ I asked, alarmed and looking for another opinion.

  ‘Naw you’re not. Patrick, stop you narking him,’ she replied.

  ‘I’m only tellin’ yis what they said. It was Paddy Stewart that said you’re deef,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Well, give over about it now,’ said Karen and we walked home in silence.

  A day or two later me ma called into the school to get me out early. She was standing in the corridor when Mrs Radcliffe said that I had to go. We walked from the Long Tower School towards Abercorn Road where Riverview House was. As we walked me ma said she had to get an hour off work in the factory to take me to get a hearing test.

  ‘I’m not deef, Ma, amn’t I not?’ I asked, looking up to her face to see her reaction.

  ‘Och naw, son,’ she said, with an anxious smile back at me. ‘Everybody gits an ear test when they’re young.’

  ‘Everybody in the class?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye, you’re the first. Aren’t you the lucky wan?’

  When we got to Riverview House we were taken by a smiling, blue-uniformed nurse into a cream-painted room with two wooden chairs and a wooden table with a wooden mallet on it and a pair of black metal earphones wired into a grey metal box on the wall above the table. The nurse explained that I was to put the earphones on my head, she would go out of the room and that I was to tap the table with the wooden mallet after I heard a beep on the earphones. Me ma sat down at the table opposite a large, square window looking into another room, behind which the nurse would sit down. I was to sit facing away from the window. The nurse placed the earphones over my head, covering both ears. I couldn’t hear a thing from this point on and wondered was I supposed to be hearing beeps or was I really going deef. I had the mallet in a death-grip, and had heard nothing yet from the earphones. I waited … and wa
ited a few seconds more …

  I heard a very faint beep. A weak one but I definitely heard it! I raised the mallet and brought it down hard on the table with all the strength of a boy worried about going deef. Bang! Me ma, who had been looking in at the nurse and not at me, screamed ‘Jesus Christ!’ at the top of her voice, jumped up from her chair, her handbag fell off her knees onto the floor and all her belongings fell across the floor. Papers and lipstick everywhere. The nurse rushed in from the windowed room next door and said, ‘Are you okay, Mrs Doherty?’ I could only hear the talk in muffles. Me ma sat back down on her wooden chair, put her hands over her face, and her shoulders started heaving. I thought she was crying into her hands but then I heard the laughs of her and, when she took her hands away, her eyes ran black with make-up.

  ‘Jesus, Tony Doherty!’ she said, still laughing. ‘You’re goney bring on a heart attack!’ The nurse and me ma got down on their hunkers to lift all me ma’s things from the floor. Me ma then placed the handbag squarely on the table.

  ‘I know, Tony,’ the nurse said, smiling and patting my hand after she lifted the earphones from my head. ‘Just hit the table a wee tap so I can see your hand moving through the window.’ She placed the earphones over my ears again and returned to the other room. My knuckled grip on the mallet remained strong, despite the nurse’s advice. I had the earphones on and could hear nothing. So I waited … me ma, her still giggling and looking at me this time, put her hands up to her ears. I waited …

  I heard another very weak beep. Weaker than the first one but definitely a beep! Again, I brought the mallet down hard on the wooden table with all my strength. Bang! Me ma, who had been watching me this time, put her hands round to cover her open mouth as she looked, wide-eyed, in through the window at the nurse. The nurse came in again from the other room, gently lifted the black earphones off my head and said, ‘Mrs Doherty, there’s not a thing wrong with this boy’s ears, but could you take him out of here before he wrecks the place!’ My grip on the mallet released at the news and I put my hands down by my sides.