Paperboy (12 page)

For the rest of my career as a paperboy, when I sometimes heard gunfire in the distance while delivering my papers in the dark, I thought about the night they shot at the scouts. I worried that there might be other wee lads my age out there who weren't getting a chance to duck down in time. Wee lads just like me, not really understanding all the trouble going on all around them. Maybe they liked
Doctor Who
too. Maybe they had a lovely girlfriend like Sharon Burgess. Maybe they were hoping to go to the Bay City Rollers concert in the Ulster Hall. I could not forget the night the bullets missed the scouts and I had missed the bullets. I kept on wishing it would all end. But I knew it never would, so I did.

Chapter 12
A Final Verbal Warning

I
got complacent, so I did. Now that my paperbag was black with experience, I began to cut corners and take risks. I was heading for a fall, as surely as the day I had slipped on Petra's poop, fallen against Mrs Grant's rose bush and torn my new tartan turn-ups out of John Frazer's. The same day I had run home crying and been spotted of course by Big Jaunty, who had told all the other paperboys the next day, when they had all laughed until they cried.

I had developed the sort of paperboy swagger that comes with the confidence of having delivered ten thousand papers with a completely clean disciplinary record. Among swaggers, the paperboy swagger was unique. It was more uncommon than a hard-man swagger, more routine than a marching-season swagger and less intimidating than a tartan-gang swagger. It was a swagger very much in its own right, and involved walking purposefully, while at the same time confidently swinging a heavy bag over one shoulder without losing your balance (no matter how high your platform shoes) whenever it swung back into place. Your shoulders would then continue an arrogant vertical and horizontal swaying motion, while one hand would remain fixed on the paperbag, holding it close to one leg. With your other hand, you would remove each newspaper from the paperbag, slapping and folding it aggressively against the other leg. It was paperboy poetry in motion. This complex ballet of the streets would be performed at great speed – unless you were in a bad mood because you had got the strap for your cheek and you weren't going to the caravan that weekend.

I had mastered the essentials of the job long ago, as well as identifying and honouring the importance of all of the more subtle dos and don'ts that were part of a paperboy's unwritten induction manual. These included the following immutable rules:

As my mastery of my trade became increasingly evident, I noticed how Oul' Mac began to look at me with a certain amount of awe. Clearly he had never before seen such flawlessness in a paperboy. I was never late; never once had I given him cheek; I had never stolen even a single penny. My employer's attitude to me changed from indifference to incredulity and then, finally, to admiration. I actually overheard him whispering the words, ‘best f**kin' paperboy ever' to Mrs Mac once, as I walked into the shop with a bulging bag of tepid takings, fresh from my boots. And indeed, to Mrs Mac, I was approaching sainthood.

My customer complaint rate was exceptionally low. My clean slate had in fact been marred on a few occasions only, by unjust crumpled back-page complaints, and even then Oul' Mac had taken responsibility for the damaged goods as being van-related as opposed to bag-related. Each time, he had apologised to the customer, said it ‘hadn't been the wee lad's fault', and given them a free
Ulster
. Even when customers sometimes complained unfairly – when, for example, it had actually been the postman who had spat on their step – I never told any of them where they could stick their
Belfast Telegraph
(at least not out loud), not even Mr Black from No. 13. And so the conflict had never escalated to management level and therefore Oul' Mac never even got to hear about it.

Of course, Mr Black had never liked me, since my very first paper round, when he had suggested I was too young for my vocation. The feeling was mutual: I didn't like the oul' get either. He was well known for being grumpy. My mother always described him as ‘yet another ignorant wee Belfast man'. I took this to mean that there was a large pool of such men in our city. Mr Black's wife had died before I was born, and he had grown-up children in Canada and bad breath. He loved his greyhounds only.

One day, while happily engaged in my work and delivering his paper perfectly and on time, with one of the greyhounds tugging at the turn-up of my parallels, the same Mr Black told me off for whistling ‘Fernando' by ABBA. He said I should ‘not be whistling no Republican song at his front door'. There was a line in ‘Fernando' that went something like, ‘How proud you were to fight for freedom in this land', and so Protestants thought Fernando was a Provo. I was certain, however, that Fernando, the song's hero, was fighting near the Rio Grande, because that rhymed with ‘land' in the next line. ABBA spoke Swedish, so they liked easy English rhymes like that. I wasn't sure exactly where the Rio Grande was, but I was certain it wasn't anywhere near West Belfast. I supposed it might have been in the Bogside, but even then I was sure Fernando wasn't a Provo.

Mr Black's attack about my song choice seemed particularly unjust, since I wasn't even singing the questionable words of the song on the day in question: I was only whistling the tune. Anyway, I was in no doubt that the blonde one in ABBA, in whom I was developing an increasingly strong interest at the time, was much too nice to be on the other side's side. And I had never seen a woman look less like Bernadette Devlin. I couldn't work out whether Agnetha was a Protestant name or a Catholic name, but maybe Swedish was a different religion altogether, so it would be okay to marry her – although she was already married to Björn, which was a shame of course, because that was for ever.

As my professional complacence grew, I began to leave the occasional gate open behind me. If I suspected a customer was out at church or voting again, or if I otherwise judged they would not see my misdemeanour, I would wilfully leave their gate wide open. It felt good, dismissively letting it swing in the wind. I was a rebel now: no gate would dominate me. Of course, if there were small dogs or children that might escape onto the road and get knocked down by a bus, I was still very careful. But in less dangerous circumstances, I would sometimes belligerently let customers' gates swing on their squeaky hinges.

In the absence of witnesses, I would be only one of a range of suspects for the crime of a gate left swinging, and I knew that with my reputation, I would be at the back of the criminal queue. It could have been the bread boy, or the rag-and-bone man who shouted ‘any oul regs?', or a scout ‘bob-a-jobbing'. Or a politician canvassing or a Baptist giving out gospel tracts or a collector for the Loyalist prisoners. Any one of these would have made a better suspect than me. Yes, Christians, boy scouts and Loyalists were all more potentially aberrant than I was. If it came to a line-up in Tennent Street RUC station, I was sure I wouldn't be the one to be singled out: my reputation was secure, after all, and I knew that both Oul' and Mrs Mac would defend my innocence to the hilt. Once the pair of them had established the extent of my integrity, they had become invested in maintaining their belief in it.

I had become very smug. My family, the ones who knew me best, could recognise it only too well. ‘Don't be so Mr Know-It-All now, love,' warned my mother. ‘Stop being such a cocky wee shite!' ordered my father. ‘Catch yerself on, dickhead!' chided my big brother. ‘Wise up, wee lad,' said my wee brother.

But these challenges occurred behind closed doors, and I was far from wising up. To my employers and customer base alike, I remained blameless. In my own mind I was beyond reproach. But pride, as the Reverend Lowe would have said, always comes before a fall …

It happened on a Wednesday. The papers were lightest on a Monday and Wednesday, so these were generally my most complacent days. Lost in my smugness, I barely gave my professional responsibilities a thought that day. Although it was a school day, I was excited. On Wednesdays I had a violin lesson, and I played guitar at the Bible Union at lunchtime, so it would be a very musical day – although carrying both instruments to and from school on the bus was something of a balancing act. And even though I also had PE on Wednesdays and knew the tracksuited teacher would choose one of his rugger favourites to select the five-a-side teams and I would be one of the last to be picked, I didn't care, for today was to be the start of my acting career. I had auditioned for the school play, and the casting was to be announced during the after-school drama club that day. For, as well as being a violinist like Yehudi Menuhin and a guitarist like Paul McCartney, I had aspirations of becoming a great actor, like Roger Moore. The school play this year was to be
Tom Sawyer
, and I had auditioned for the parts of both Tom and Huckleberry Finn. I would have been happy with either part: I had already in fact begun to learn the lines of both. The drama club started at three o'clock and finished at four o'clock, so I reckoned that once I had landed my starring role and modestly accepted the congratulations of my supporting actors, I would have plenty of time to catch the bus home in time to do my paper round and then go to Scouts as usual.

‘First of all, I have to say that you all did very well in your auditions,' began Miss Baron, our drama teacher, in a patronising manner. Miss Baron was young and blonde, and by far the most attractive teacher in the whole school. She was like Olivia Newton-John with chalk, and so she always got my complete attention. I was always determined to please Miss Baron.

‘Aaahh, she's really nice … I like her … Is that blouse see-through, like the one Olivia Newton-John wears in my
Look-in
poster?' I found myself thinking. ‘She's just letting the bad ones down gently, I suppose … That's really nice of her. If she just stood beside the window, I would know if it was see-through or not …'

‘Not everyone can play a leading role, but there is always next year, of course,' Miss Baron continued authoritatively, interrupting the flow of my meandering thoughts.

I looked around me sympathetically at all the kids who were about to be disappointed. Miss Baron was right: they would always have next year. Miss Baron was always right.

‘The part of Tom Sawyer will be played by … Thomas O'Hara,' were her next words. This was perfect casting: Thomas could use his real name, and he was already a good mate of mine, so we wouldn't have to act too hard at being Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. I patted my pal on the back magnanimously, as he grinned widely. My part was next.

‘And the part of Huckleberry Finn will be played by … Patricia Thompson!' Silence. Then applause and congratulations for – Patricia bloody Thompson?!

Excuse me?

Have I misheard?

I didn't get it.

I am not Huck?

I didn't get a part?

F**k, I'm not Huck!

She has given my part to a ... girl
?

I hate Patricia Thompson. I bet her da plays golf with the teachers and she lives up the Antrim Road. I bet no one from up the Shankill with a Ford Escort respray has ever been given a main part in a play in this snobby oul' school.

I hate that Miss Baron. She gets on like she thinks she's Olivia Newton-John, but she's an oul' boot, and she gave a boy's part to a girl. And Patricia Thompson already has breasts and ... where is she going to put them?

I'm tellin'! Patricia Thompson is going to have to dress up as a boy. Miss Baron is trying to make Patricia Thompson into a homo – except a girl homo, if there is such a thing – and I'm going to tell my RE teacher because it sounds like a sin!

Somewhere amid the mists of my selfish anger and moral outrage, I hazily heard Miss Baron interrupt my internal ravings: ‘The part of Boy Three, one of the boys who paints the fence for Tom, goes to Tony Macaulay.'

I was to be nothing more than a Boy Three – a bit part at Tom Sawyer's fence! Thomas O'Hara was to be the star, and I was nothing. This was humiliating. It was like Thomas got to be the new Doctor Who, if Tom Baker ever regenerated, while I got to be a Silurian stuck inside a rubber suit who then got zapped by the Sonic Screwdriver in the very first episode.

As far as I was concerned, Drama Club was over. But once we had been informed of the casting decisions, we had to do a read-through of the play. Thomas O'Hara had thirty lines to read for every one of mine. Patricia Thompson tried at first to put on a deep boy's voice for Huck, but Thomas O'Hara's voice hadn't broken yet, and it didn't sound right that the girl playing a boy had a deeper voice than the boy playing a boy. So Miss Baron told Patricia to just speak in her normal voice, so that Huck and Tom would sound the same. I rolled my eyes at this latest example of artistic misdirection, and I could not hide my disgust at Patricia's attempt at an American accent. The more she tried to sound authentically American, the more she sounded like a farmer from Ballymena. She had clearly never watched a single episode of
Sesame Street,
where you learned how to say the alphabet in American.