A Time for Friends (11 page)

‘Ooohh posh! You’re coming up in the world, Mr Harpur.’

‘Yes indeed, on the fringes of High Society! Hilary and I are going to be
THE
interior and lighting designers to go to,’ Jonathan smirked.

‘Right, Mr Interior Designer, I have to go. I’ve got basketball practice and I’m meeting the girls in town afterwards.’ Orla took a last gulp of coffee and got off the
bed.

‘And how are your lady pains?’ he asked solicitously.

She made a face. ‘I’m dosed up with Solpadeine. The exercise will help. What are you doing for the rest of the day?’

‘I’ve to go and buy gold brocade curtains, and source a glass coffee table and some lampshades. And then I’m meeting some of the lads in the George.’

‘We probably won’t see each other until tomorrow then. Brekkie and the papers in Omni around eleven? I’ll drive.’ Orla arched an eyebrow.

‘Perfect,’ he said as she blew him a kiss on her way out.

What a delightful weekend it was turning out to be, Jonathan reflected, lying back against his pillows as the sun spilled in through the big bay window and a lark sang in the branches of the
minty green rowan tree that was bursting into soft-blossomed bud in the front garden.

How different he felt from the day before yesterday when he had been so demoralized after his confrontation with Gerard. He’d made a new friend in Hilary, had a great time on the course
and was eager to move forward in his design career. Optimistic, that’s what he was, Jonathan decided, relieved that the feelings of depression he’d felt coming on had receded. It was
hard work keeping the darkness at bay sometimes, but on days like today he felt ready for anything. He sprang out of bed and headed for the shower. Today was not the day to linger in the snug
confines of his bed. Today was a day of purpose. He had things to do, places to go and people to see. And then tomorrow he and Orla would have breakfast together and sit reading the papers in a
cosy booth in Bewley’s in Omni, and then perhaps have a walk in the Botanics, and he would come home and work on his portfolio and his latest project in the afternoon. He wanted to bring his
new client to approve the furnishings he’d selected, as soon as possible. He wanted to be ultra prepared.

Jonathan was carefully folding a selection of small swatches of material to put into his shoulder bag when the communal phone in the hall rang. He knew Tommy, the occupant of the bedsit beside
his, was out, as was Orla, so he went to answer it.

Surprised, because they’d only spoken in the last two days, he heard his mother’s voice at the other end of the line. ‘Hello, love,’ she said, but he knew by her tone
something was up.

‘What’s up, Mam?’ he asked, instantly alert.

‘Some sad news, Jonathan. Poor Gus next door died yesterday evening. Took another massive heart attack. I waited until I had the funeral arrangements before I rang you and the girls. The
removal’s tomorrow evening and he’ll be buried after ten Mass on Monday. You’ll be down for the removal, won’t you? I don’t think Rita would expect you to take a day
off work and I certainly wouldn’t but tomorrow is a Sunday so that will be grand. I’ll be there on Monday but we can all be at the removal tomorrow,’ his mother said firmly.

Jonathan couldn’t speak. He literally froze. His abuser was dead and his mother wanted him to go to his removal service. He couldn’t do it, he just couldn’t! He swallowed hard.
‘Ma . . . Mam,’ he stuttered. ‘I have something arranged for tomorrow. I’m not going to be able to make it.’

‘Oh Lord, Jonathan. Couldn’t you rearrange it? He was a kind neighbour. He was good to me. To us,’ Nancy said in dismay.

‘Mam, I have to go now, I’m meeting a client. I’ll ring you this evening,’ Jonathan fibbed, desperate to get his mother off the phone.

‘Well, get a Mass card at least, and try and rearrange whatever you have on tomorrow, Jonathan. You should be there if at all possible,’ Nancy urged.

‘OK, bye, Mam, bye,’ he said hastily and hung up. Jonathan was shaking as he walked across the hall and closed the door behind him. The memories came surging back against his will
and he was instantly transported to that untidy, smoke-polluted sitting room with the brown tweedy sofa and the big chipped oval mirror over the fireplace. The memory of the curtains being pulled,
the belt being unbuckled, Gus’s raspy breath as he forced him to his knees brought tears to Jonathan’s eyes. The recollection of the fear and revulsion that always overwhelmed him came
back with a force that stunned him. And afterwards, when the hideous assault was over, he remembered Gus’s finger held up in warning. ‘Don’t tell anyone about this now or
I’ll make things difficult for yer mammy, and I won’t buy her any more cigarettes and ye wouldn’t like that, now would ye?’

Jonathan would nod his head and run out of the house as fast as he could, down the small pathway that separated their two houses and into the shed at the bottom of his garden where he would
fling himself onto an old quilt his mother had given him to play house with Alice. He would sob into his forearm, his body shaking with terror, revulsion, rage and helplessness.

For three years, Gus had made his life a living hell. If he didn’t see Jonathan outside, he’d wait until he saw Nancy and say, ‘Nancy, will ye ask the wee lad to run to the
shops and get me a few fags and I’ll get him to buy ye a packet too.’

‘I don’t want to go, I’m too tired,’ Jonathan often protested, petrified and desperate at the thought of what would inevitably happen. On one occasion he had refused
outright. His mother had gazed at him sternly and said, ‘I’m surprised at you, Jonathan, that you wouldn’t run an errand for a neighbour, and he not a well man. I thought
I’d reared you better than that. I’ll go myself.’ She had gone to the shops in a huff and not spoken to him for the rest of the evening.

‘Sorry, Mammy,’ he’d muttered, suffused with guilt when he’d gone into the kitchen to say goodnight and seen her sewing a button on his good white Sunday shirt.

‘Ah sure, it’s not often you don’t do me a favour when I ask you. We’ll let bygones be bygones and forget about it,’ Nancy said kindly, opening her arms to him.
She’d hugged him tightly and he’d rested his head on her shoulder and so badly wanted to blurt out that Mr Higgins
wasn’t
a kind man. That he was mean and dirty and made
Jonathan do horrible things.

Shortly after his eleventh birthday, his neighbour had crooked a finger at him one Saturday afternoon when he was mowing the grass. Jonathan, being the man of the house, was responsible for
keeping the front and back gardens neat and tidy and for putting out the bin. Nancy had gone to measure up a woman for a dress she was making for her and his sisters were doing housework, making
sure the dusting and polishing was done to have the house spick and span for Sunday. ‘I want a few fags, laddie. G’wan to the shops and get me some – here’s ten shillings.
Get yer ma a packet as well.’

Jonathan had taken the money without a word, hurried to the shop to complete his purchase and walked home, his heart thumping, his stomach knotted so tightly he could hardly breathe. Instead of
knocking on the front door as he usually did, he shoved the cigarettes and change through the letterbox, making sure to keep Nancy’s packet in his pocket. He leapt over the garden wall in a
bound and hurried into his own front garden to complete his grass cutting, comforted by the fact that the door to their small front porch was open should he need to make a run for it.

Gus opened his front door scowling. ‘Come over here you and bend down and pick up these fags. Why didn’t ye knock on the door?’ he growled.

Jonathan ignored him. He thought he was going to vomit, but he knew he had to make a stand. There was something very wrong with what that man made him do. His mammy wouldn’t like it if she
knew, he was sure of that.

‘De’ye hear me, lad?’ said Gus, raising his voice a little. His face crimson with temper.

‘I’m not going into your house ever again,’ Jonathan shouted, brought to breaking point. ‘Ever! Ever!
EVER!
And I’m not doing that thing you make me do.
You’re a bad dirty bastard!’ he cursed.

Gus came down his path like a bull. ‘Shut up, ye little runt. Shut up, I tell ye! De ye want the neighbours to hear? Now get in there and pick up those fags and go into the front room like
ye always do and no more of yer guff!’

In desperation, Jonathan picked up the gardening shears and pointed them at Gus. ‘Get away from me or I’m telling my teacher on you—’

‘Don’t ye ever tell anyone or ye’ll be mighty sorry. I’ll say you’re a little liar,’ Gus ranted, astonished at this utterly unexpected onslaught. Seeing Mrs
Johnston, another neighbour, coming along the road towards them, he turned on his heel and stomped, puffing and wheezing, back into his house, leaving Jonathan trembling like a leaf.

‘That’s a nice job you’re doing, Jonathan. If I gave you a shilling would you do mine?’ his neighbour asked when she got to his gate, oblivious to the incident that had
just occurred.

‘You don’t have to pay me, Mrs Johnston,’ he managed shakily, knowing his mother would be annoyed if he took payment from a neighbour for cutting her grass.

‘Well I’ll tell you what then, seeing as you’re a kind boy, I’ll make an apple tart for you and you can share it with your mammy and sisters. But you’ve to get the
biggest slice,’ she said, giving him a wink.

‘Thanks, Mrs Johnston,’ he answered shakily, darting a glance at the Higginses’ house. The door was closed and he couldn’t see the bulk of his tormentor silhouetted
behind the lace curtains.

‘Grand, I’ll go and make the tart so,’ Mrs Johnston said, walking on to her own house.

Jonathan waited.

Would Gus reappear?

If he did, Jonathan was ready to run. His palms were sweaty as he gripped the lawnmower and began to push, keeping a wary eye on that hated red door with the paint flaking off it, and the dull,
blackened brass door knocker that hadn’t seen Brasso in years. The door remained resolutely closed.

Was that it? he wondered. Was that what it took? To overcome his paralysing fear and stand up to the bully? Was the nightmare over? He finished cutting the grass and wheeled the lawnmower out
the gate to Mrs Johnston’s, still half expecting his tormentor to come after him. But of Gus there was no sign. Jonathan could hardly believe it.

The following morning at half ten Mass he saw his neighbour dressed in his Sunday best walking up the aisle to receive communion as usual, his wife and two daughters following behind him. Dread
enveloped Jonathan. It was certain that the two families would meet, as they often did after Mass, either in the church grounds or jostled together in the small corner shop that sold bread, milk
and the Sunday papers. The old familiar stomach-knotting anxiety reclaimed him and he could hardly swallow the Host when he went up to receive.

‘Good morning, Nancy, morning, girls, morning, laddie,’ Gus greeted them affably as the crowds spilled out of the small church into the bright sunshine.

‘Morning, Rita, Gus,’ Nancy responded cheerily. ‘A lovely day, thank God.’

‘Did ye get the few fags I sent in yesterday?’ Gus asked, ignoring Jonathan completely.

‘I didn’t but thank you, Gus, you really shouldn’t have. Jonathan, you should have told me Mr Higgins was kind enough to buy me cigarettes,’ his mother chided.

‘Sorry, I forgot,’ Jonathan said truculently, glowering at Gus.

‘You’re very kind, really.’ Nancy smiled at her neighbours.

‘Not a bother,’ Rita assured her. ‘Sure isn’t Jonathan the grand wee lad going to the shop for Gus here when he runs out of smokes. We can always depend on him,’
Jonathan heard Mrs Higgins say. His stomach lurched.

‘Any time you need a message just let us know,’ Nancy said firmly. ‘Isn’t that right, Jonathan?’

‘I’m just going over to say hello to my teacher.’ Jonathan’s voice was almost a squeak but he raised his gaze to Gus, hoping against hope that the man would understand
the implied threat.

Gus’s eyes narrowed but he pretended not to hear and turned to salute another acquaintance, while a friend from the quilters’ group accosted Nancy.

Jonathan pushed his way through the Mass-goers to where his teacher, Mr Dowling, was surrounded by some of his pupils. Jonathan wanted Gus Higgins to see that he would follow through with his
threat to tell his teacher if Jonathan was ever put through a torturous episode again.

‘Hi, Mr Dowling,’ he said, glancing over to see his neighbour casting surreptitious glances in their direction.

‘Aahh, Jonathan,’ said the young master kindly. ‘How are you today?’

‘Fine thanks. I just wanted to say hello.’ Jonathan liked the new teacher who had recently taken over from Mrs Kelly who had gone to have a baby.

‘Done your ekker yet?’

‘Yes, on Friday,’ Jonathan grinned, liking that the master called his home exercises ekker and not homework. Mr Dowling was a Dub and that’s what the Dubs called homework.

‘Excellent. Good man. The day is yours then. Enjoy it,’ his teacher approved.

‘Thanks, sir.’ Jonathan felt strangely, uncharacteristically, light-hearted. If that dirty, disgusting thing ever happened to him again he
would
tell Mr Dowling. And if Gus
Higgins did anything bad to his mammy he would tell him that too. Mr Dowling was kind and very knowledgeable.
He’d
know what to do. Jonathan saw his best friend Alice waving to him
and hurried over to her.

‘Let’s have a picnic down at the river and plan our new secret club,’ she said excitedly. ‘I’ve a new Five Find-Outers book from the library, it’s brilliant.
The Secret of the Spiteful Letters
.’

‘And I’ve a Secret Seven,’ he said happily. Today was turning into a very, very good day.

‘Anthony Kavanagh and Darina Keogh want to join too. Will we let them? We could make badges and have a password and your shed could be our secret den,’ Alice burbled. ‘We could
solve crimes, even a murder if we had to!’

‘And practise our invisible writing,’ Jonathan chipped in enthusiastically. ‘And we could make lemonade and bring biscuits, for a feast.’