Collected Short Stories (9 page)

And then suddenly he found himself in the cold open air amidst the rushing noise from the sea. He halted and to his left saw the long tarred road Dan had mentioned, and there was a flock of gulls on it, and far beyond them were the church and the graveyard, places he had never seen from this part of the sea-road. And then he saw that the sheep-mound was levelled and everything made as flat as the sea. The dog ran away from him and he saw it lapping up water from the stream, the stream that used to flow at the side of his potato field. The dog barked, and with wet paws raced along the smooth tarred road. He followed it till he left the buildings behind him, and then he stopped and gazed towards the place where his house should stand. But it was no longer there, not a stone of it to be seen. There was nothing but a windy plain with neither tree, nor bush, nor cow, nor sheep upon it. Nothing but vacancy, and the sky where the sun had set was a red patch like the glow of a fire on a hearthstone. The dog barked at the gulls and they arose from the black road and passed overhead out to sea. The dog ran back, licked the old man's hands and bounded to the stream again. The old man didn't seem to see it. He trembled and gripped the stick in his hand, his eyes resting on the church and the white headstones in the graveyard.

When I was young we came to Belfast and my father kept a game cock and a few hens. At the back of the street was waste ground where the fowl could scrape, and my father built a shed for them in the yard and sawed a hole in the back door so that they could hop in and out as they took the notion. In the mornings our cock was always first out on the waste ground.

We called him Dick, but he was none of your ordinary cocks, for he had a pedigree as long as your arm, and his grandfather and grandmother were of Indian breed. He was lovely to look at, with his long yellow legs, black glossy feathers in the chest and tail, and reddish streaky neck. In the long summer evenings my father would watch him for hours, smiling at the way he tore the clayey ground with his claws, coming on a large earwig, and calling the hens to share it. But one day when somebody lamed him with a stone, my father grew so sad that he couldn't take his supper.

We had bought him from Jimmy Reilly, the blind man, and many an evening he came to handle him. I would be doing my school exercise at the kitchen table, my father, in his shirt sleeves, reading the paper. A knock would come to the door, and with great expectancy in his voice my father'd say, ‘That's the men now. Let them in, son.'

And when I opened the door I'd say, ‘Mind the step!' and in would shuffle wee Johnny Moore leading the blind man. They'd sit on the sofa: Jimmy Reilly, hat on head, and two fists clasped round the shank of the walking stick between his legs; and Johnny Moore with a stinking clay pipe in his mouth.

As soon as they started the talk I'd put down my pen and listen to them.

‘Sit up to the fire, men, and get a bit of the heat.'

‘That's a snorer of a fire you've on, Mick,' would come from the blind man.

‘What kind of coals is them?' says Johnny Moore, for he had my father pestered with questions.

‘The best English; them's none of your Scotch slates!'

‘And what's the price of them a ton?'

‘They cost a good penny,' my father would answer crossly.

‘And where do you get them?'

The blind man's stick would rattle on the kitchen tiles and he'd push out his lower lip, stroke his beard and shout, ‘They're good coals, anyway, no matter where they're got.' And then add in his slow natural voice, ‘How's the cock, Mick?'

‘He's in great fettle, Jimmy. He's jumping out of his pelt.' And he'd tell how the comb was reddening and how he had chased Maguire's dunghill of a rooster from about the place. And the blind man would smile and say, ‘That's the stuff! He'll soon have the walk to himself; other cocks would annoy him.'

With a lighted candle I would be sent out to the yard to lift Dick off the roost. The roosts were low so that the cock wouldn't bruise his feet when flying to the ground. He'd blink his eyes and cluck-cluck in his throat when I'd bring him into the gas-light and hand him to the blind man.

Jimmy fondled him like a woman fondling a cat. He gently stroked the neck and tail, and then stretched out one wing and then the other. ‘He's in great condition. We could cut his comb and wattles any time and have him ready for Easter.' And he'd put him down on the tiles and listen to the scrape of his claws. Then he'd feel the muscles on the thighs, and stick out his beard with joy, ‘There's no coldness about that fella, Mick. He has shoulders on him as broad as a bulldog. Aw, my lovely fella,' feeling the limber of him as his claws pranced on the tiles. ‘He'll do us credit. A hould you he'll win a main.'

My father would stuff his hands in his pockets and rise off his heels, ‘And you think he's doing well, Jimmy?'

‘Hould yer tongue, man, I wish I was half as fit,' Jimmy would answer, his sightless eyes raised to the ceiling.

And one evening as they talked like this about the cock and forthcoming fights, Johnny Moore sneaked across to the table and gave me sums out of his head:
A ropemaker made a rope for his marrying daughter, and in the rope he made twenty knots and in each knot he put a purse, and in each purse he put seven three-penny bits and nine halfpennies. How much of a dowry did the daughter get?

I couldn't get the answer and he took the pipe from his mouth and laughed loudly. ‘The scholars, nowadays, have soft brains. You can't do it with your pencil and paper and an old man like me can do it in my head.'

My face burned as I said, ‘But we don't learn them kind of sums.' He laughed so much that I was glad when it was time for him to lead the blind man home.

A few evenings afterwards they were back again; the blind man with special scissors to cut Dick's comb and wattles. Jimmy handed the scissors to my father, then he held the cock, his forefinger in its mouth and his thumb at the back of its head.

‘Now, Mick,' said he, ‘try and cut it with one stroke.'

When my sisters saw the chips of comb snipped off with the scissors and the blood falling on the tiles they began to cry. ‘That's a sin, father! That's a sin!'

‘Tush, tush,' said my father, and the blood on his sleeves. ‘He doesn't feel it. It's just like getting your hair cut. Isn't that right, Jimmy?'

‘That's right; just like getting your toenails cut.'

But when Dick clucked and shook his head with pain, my sisters cried louder and were sent out to play, and I went into the scullery to gather cobwebs to stop the bleeding.

In a few days the blood had hardened and Dick was his old self again. The men came nearly every night and talked about the cock fights to be held near Toome at Easter. They made plans for Dick's training and arranged how he was to be fed.

About a fortnight before the fights my father got a long box and nailed loose sacking over the front to keep it in darkness. Dick was put into this and his feathers and tail were clipped. For the first two days he got no feed so as to keep his weight down. Then we gave him hard-boiled eggs, but they didn't agree with him and made him scour. The blind man recommended a strict diet of barley and barley water. ‘That's the stuff to keep his nerves strong and his blood up. A hould you it'll not scour him.'

Every morning we took him from his dark box and gave him a few runs up and down the yard. Johnny Moore had made a red flannel bag stuffed with straw, and Dick sparred at this daily, and when he had finished my father would lift him in his arms, stroke him gently, and sponge the feet and head. Day by day the cock grew peevish, and once when he nebbed at me I gave him a clout that brought my father running to the yard.

The night before the fights the steel spurs were tied on him to see how he would look in the pit. ‘Ah, Jimmy, if you could see him,' said my father to the blind man. ‘He's the picture of health.'

The blind man fingered his beard and putting a hand in his pocket, took out a few pound notes and spat on them for luck. ‘Put that on him to-morrow. There's not another cock this side of the Bann nor in all County Derry that could touch him.' Even Johnny Moore risked a few shillings, and the next morning before five o'clock my father wakened me to go to Toome.

It was Easter Monday and there were no trams running early so we set off to walk to the Northern Counties Railway to catch the half-six train. The cock was in a potato bag under my arm, and I got orders not to squeeze him, while my father carried the overcoats and a gladstone filled with things for my Granny, who lived near the place where the cocks were to fight.

The streets were deserted, and our feet echoed in the chill air. Down the Falls Road we hurried. The shopblinds were pulled down, the tram lines shining, and no smoke coming from the chimneys. At the Public Baths my father looked at his watch and then stood out in the road to see the exact time by the Baths' clock.

‘Boys-a-boys, my watch is slow. We'll need to hurry.' In the excitement the cock got his neb out and pecked at me. I dropped the bag, and out jumped the cock and raced across the tram lines, the two of us after him.

‘Don't excite him, son. Take him gently.' We tried to corner him in a doorway, my father with his hand outstretched calling in his sweetest way, ‘Dick, Dick, Dicky.' But as soon as he stooped to lift him, the cock dived between his legs, and raced up North Howard Street, and stood contemplating a dark-green public lavatory.

‘Whisht,' said my father, holding my arm as I went to go forward. ‘Whisht! If he goes in there we'll nab him.'

The cock stood, head erect, and looked up and down the bare street. Then he scraped each side of his bill on the step of the lavatory and crowed into the morning.

‘Man, but that's the brazen tinker of a cock for you,' said my father, looking at his watch. And then, as if Dick were entering the hen-shed, in he walked and in after him tiptoed my father, and out by the roofless top flew the cock with a few feathers falling from him.

I swished him off the top and he flew for all he was worth over the tram lines, down Alma Street and up on a yard wall.

‘We'll be late for the train if we don't catch him quick, and maybe have the peelers down on us before we know where we are.'

Up on the wall I was heaved and sat with legs astride. The cock walked away from me, and a dog in the yard yelped and jumped up the back door.

‘I'm afraid, Da, I'm afraid.'

‘Come down out of that and don't whinge there.'

A baby started to cry and a man looked out of a window and shouted, ‘What the hell's wrong?'

‘We're after a cock,' replied my father apologetically.

The man continued to lean out of the window in his shirt, and a woman yelled from the same room, ‘Throw a bucket of water round them, Andy. A nice time of the morning to be chasing a bloody rooster.'

Here and there a back door opened and barefooted men in their shirts and trousers came into the entry. They all chased after Dick.

‘Ah, easy, easy,' said my father to a man who was swiping at Dick savagely with a yard-brush. ‘Don't hit him with that.'

By this time the cock had walked half way down the entry, still keeping to the top of the yard walls. Women shouted and dogs barked, and all the time I could hear my father saying. ‘If we don't catch him quick we'll miss the train.'

‘Aw,' said one man, looking at the scaldy appearance of the cock. ‘Sure he's not worth botherin' about. There's not as much on him as'd set a rat-trap.'

My father kept silent about Dick's pedigree for he didn't want anyone to know about the cockfights, and maybe have the police after us.

We had now reached the end of the entry and Dick flew off the wall and under a little handcart that stood in a corner. Five men bunched in after him, and screeching and scolding the cock was handed to my father.

‘I can feel his heart going like a traction engine.' he said, when we were on the road again. ‘He'll be bate. The blind man's money and everybody's money will be lost. Lost!'

We broke into a trot, I carrying the gladstone, and my father the cock and the overcoats. Along York Street we raced, gazing up at the big clocks and watching the hands approach half-six. Sweat broke out on us and a stitch came in my side, but I said nothing as I lagged behind trying to keep pace.

We ran into the station and were just into the carriage when out went the train.

‘Aw-aw-aw,' said my father, sighing out all his breath in one puff. ‘I'm done. Punctured! That's a nice start for an Easter Monday!'

He took off his hard hat and pulled out a handkerchief. His bald head was speckled with sweat and the hat had made a red groove on his brow. He puffed and ah-ee-d so many times I though he'd faint, and I sat with my heart thumping, my shirt clammy with sweat, waiting with fear for what he'd say. But he didn't scold me.

‘It was my own fault,' he said. ‘I should have tied a bit of string round the neck of the bag. He'll be bate! He'll he bate!'

He took the spurs from his pocket and pulled the corks off the steel points. ‘I might as well strap them on a jackdaw as put them on Dick this day, for he'll be tore asunder after that performance.'

As the train raced into the country we saw the land covered with a thin mist, and ploughed fields with shining furrows. The cold morning air came into the carriage; it was lovely and fresh. My father's breathing became quieter, and he even pointed out farms that would make great ‘walks' for cocks. It was going to be a grand day: a foggy sun was bursting through, and crows flew around trees that were laden with their nests.

Dick was taken from the bag and petted; and then my father stretched himself out on the seat and fell asleep. I watched the telegraph wires rising and falling, and kept a lookout for the strange birds that were cut out in the hedge near Doagh.

When we came to Toome my father tied the neck of the bag with a handkerchief and sent me on in front for fear the police might suspect something. The one-streeted village was shady and cool, the sun skimming the housetops. Pieces of straw littered the road, and a few hens stood at the closed barrack door, their droppings on the doorstep.

We passed quickly through the silent village and turned on to the long country road that led to my Granny's. Behind us the train rumbled and whistled over the bridge; and then across the still country came the dull cheer of the Bann waterfall and the wind astir in the leafing branches. Once my father told me to sit and rest myself while he crossed a few fields to a white cottage. It wasn't long until he was back again. ‘I've got the stuff in my pocket that'll make him gallop. The boys in Lough Beg made a run of poteen for Easter.'

When we reached my Granny's she was standing at the door, a string garter fallen round her ankle, and a basin in her hand; near her my Uncle's bicycle was turned upside down and he was mending a puncture. They had great welcome for us and smiled when my father put the poteen on the table. He took tumblers from the dresser, filled one for my Granny, and in another he softened a few pieces of bread for the cock.