Part 2 – The Foundations of Friendship
OCTOBER 27, 1994
“ONE OF THESE DAYS, I’M GOING TO CATCH YOU LITTLE TOE-RAGS,” MR. MURPHY snarled from the side of the garden wall on Thursday evening after school. “And when I do, I’ll string the pair of you up by your bollocks. Do ya hear me? That’s the last flower bed of mine you’ll destroy with your fucking ball!”
“Aw, crap, he’s going to burst it, isn’t he?”
“He’s bluffing, Hughie.”
With my back plastered to the garden wall, I glared at the smaller boy beside me, the one with a head of golden curls, who was laughing into his hand.
“He never bluffs, Gibs,” I whisper-hissed, elbowing him. “And stop laughing.”
“What?” he replied, laughing hard, as the rain drizzled down on us. “It’s funny.”
“No,” I argued. “What’s funny is the stupid yellow raincoat you’re wearing.”
“Hey! I’m a handsome boy in yellow.”
“You’re a troublemaker is what you are,” I snapped back. “And now I’m in trouble again. Because of you. Again.”
“Oh, stop worrying, you big baby.” Looking thoroughly amused, he wiped a rain drop from his cheek. “Don’t be so touchy.”
“Easy for you to say,” I grumbled. “When you’re not about to lose your third football in a week.”
I knew it would happen. Old Murphy was the worst neighbor on our street, and every kid from Avoca Greystones knew what happened if your toy went over his garden wall. It didn’t come back. I was lucky to live on the other side of the street from the old crank, but Gibsie lived two houses up from him.
“Don’t be cross with me, Hughie,” he pleaded, looking up at me with those big puppy-dog, gray eyes that got him out of trouble. “You’re my big brother.”
I rolled my eyes to the heavens, but I knew he was right. We might not have had the same parents, but Gerard Gibson was my brother.
Our parents were best friends since primary school and had ended up buying houses in Avoca Greystones, a twelve-house estate on the upper north side of their hometown of Ballylaggin. We lived at number four, while the Gibsons lived across the street at number nine.
Aside from the four months I’d been alive longer than him, I’d never known a world without the curly-haired troublemaker beside me. It was strange because I didn’t think of him as a friend like Patrick Feely, my best friend from school. I thought of Gibsie in the same way I thought about my little sister Claire. Gibs didn’t have to be careful with my feelings and I didn’t have to be careful with his. We could argue, fight, and say the worst things to each other and still be okay because we were brothers, and brothers always came back together in the end.
“Don’t be sad.” Gibs patted my shoulder in support, dragging me from my thoughts. “The war’s not over. We can get this one back.”
“I bet he has the knife out already.” I sighed heavily. “That was my favorite ball.”
“Are ye listening, ye little hoors from hell?” Old Murphy continued to threaten, sounding closer now. “When I get my hands on the pair of you, I’ll wring your necks. Especially the fat one!”
Now, I was the one to cover my mouth to smother my laughter while Gibsie scowled in outrage. “That fucker.”
“That’s right, ya little overfed tank,” Old Murphy taunted, sounding farther away now. “I’ll put manners on you yet!”
“That fucker! Mam says I’m stocky, not fat, and Dad says it’ll fall off when I get taller,” Gibsie said, defending himself but looking outraged. “I’m big-boned, Hughie.” Now he was the one to elbow me to stop me from laughing. “We can’t all be beanpoles.”
“I know, I know,” I coaxed, trying to stop my face from smiling. “And don’t mind Old Murphy. He’s only jealous because he’s old and bald.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay, go and check,” he instructed me then, gesturing to the wall we were hiding behind. “See what he’s doing now? If he goes back inside, you can sneak through the gate and get your ball.”
“Why don’t you go in?” I shot back. “You kicked the ball in there.” Again. “You wrecked his petunias.” Again. “You’re the culprit.” Again.
“Yeah, but I can’t scale the wall like you,” Gibsie explained, looking up at me with mischievous eyes. “Come on.” He hooked his hands together and stooped down low. “I’ll give you a boost up.”
“I’m four months older than you,” I grumbled, using his hands as a step to hoist myself up. “But you’re four times more trouble.” Gripping on to the concrete ledge of Mr. Murphy’s side-garden wall, I slowly heaved myself up and peeked over just in time to see the gray-haired monster plunge his penknife into my ball.
And that was that.
Another one bites the dust.
Sighing in disappointment, I dropped back down to the ground and shook my head when Gibsie looked at me with a hopeful expression. “Nope,” I replied grimly. “Rest in peace, ball.”
“Oh, that’s it.” Balling his hands into fists at his sides, Gibsie glared at the wall separating us from the killer of joy and cupped his mouth with his hands before shouting, “You better take some photos of those flower beds, Murphy, because you can’t guard them forever, you big, bald, battle-axe, bollo—”
“Don’t make it worse,” I warned, slapping a hand over his mouth before he could finish. “We’re already dead as it stands.” Hooking an arm around him, I backed us away from the neighbor’s wall, careful to avoid Mrs. Grady’s flower bed as we trudged through her backyard. “If he tells our parents we swore at him, we’re double dead.”
Waving back at Mrs. Grady, who was smiling at us from her kitchen window, I steered Gibs around her prized roses, taking special care not to upset them. Mrs. Grady was even older than Old Murphy, but she wasn’t a grouch like him. She used to be our babysitter until she broke her hip during the summer. Even though she couldn’t mind us anymore, she still let us play in her garden and invited us in for tea and scones.
“Oh, this is war,” Gibsie grumbled when we were back on the street. “Just wait until next week.” He balled his small hands into fists at his sides. “We’ll get that fucker on Halloween night, Hughie.”
Veering off the footpath when we reached his house, I trudged up the driveway after him, feeling disappointed over my ball.
“I’ll get you a new ball for your birthday,” Gibsie promised when we walked into his house. “Dad’s taking us to his place for the weekend, so he’ll take me to the shop to get you a new one.”
“Forget about the ball,” I replied, feeling even worse now that I knew he was leaving for the weekend. “Will you be at school tomorrow? Miss Lawlor said she’s bringing sweets because it’s our last day before Halloween break.”
“I’ll be there,” he promised, walking through the hall to the kitchen. “I’ll just go from Dad’s house instead.”
“Will you be back for my birthday party on Monday?”
“Of course.”
“And trick-or-treating afterward?”
“Oh yeah.” He rubbed his hands together with glee and moved for the cake sitting on the kitchen island. “I’ve been storing trays of eggs under my bed for revenge on the ball-stabber.”
I grinned. “Excellent.”
“Gerard Joseph Gibson, if you don’t take your hands off Hughie’s birthday cake, you won’t have fingers to pick your nose with,” Sadhbh warned, appearing from behind the open fridge door.
“How dare you,” he huffed, looking outraged, with his hand hovering inches above the frosting on the birthday cake. “I don’t pick my nose.”
“No, you don’t pick your nose, Gibs,” Joe chimed in when he strolled into the kitchen with Bethany snoozing on his shoulder. “You use it for storage, don’t ya, son?”
“That was one time, Dad,” Gibsie argued back. “And one bead.”
“It was four beads,” I corrected with a laugh, remembering the incident during arts and crafts at school last week. “And you had to go to the hospital to have them removed.”
“I wanted to see how many would fit,” he defended. “Is that so bad?”
“Yes,” all three of us chorused, causing my friend to sulk in typical Gibs fashion.
“Honestly, Gerard, I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but no foreign objects are to enter your nostrils.” Waving a wooden spoon around like a weapon, Sadhbh shooed her son away from the number-seven-shaped birthday cake. “Or your ears!”
“I’ll pop upstairs and grab their weekend bags,” Joe told his wife but made no move to go upstairs until Sadhbh nodded her approval.
“When’s Dad moving back home?” Gibsie asked when his father had left the room. “I hate it here without him.”
Me too, I wanted to chime in, but my parents had warned me to not interfere.
According to Mam, Sadhbh and Joe were going through a separation, and we needed to stay out of it and keep our opinions to ourselves for Gibs’s and Bethany’s sakes.
I had plenty of opinions of my own about the crap going on in the house across the street from mine. Especially about the asshole Sadhbh was kissing instead of Joe, but I did as my mother asked.
Keith Allen.
Puke.
“Gerard.” A weary sigh escaped Sadhbh. “We’ve talked about this, pet.”
“No, we haven’t,” Gibs argued back. “Telling me Dad’s moving out isn’t talking about it, Mam. It’s telling, not talking. There’s a difference.”
“Nothing has changed,” his mother said, trying to coax him and going to his side. “Your father and I still love you and your sister very much.” She patted his curly hair and stroked his cheek. “We’re still a family, love.”
“Except we’re not.” Gibsie’s voice cracked, and he pulled away from his mother before swiping his cheek with the back of his hand. “And everything has changed.”
“We are still a family,” Sadhbh repeated in a sterner tone. “Our family just looks different to how it used to.”
“Yeah, because you broke it!” Gibs choked out, backing away from his mother. “You and your asshole boyfriend.”
My eyes bugged and I quickly clamped a hand over my mouth to stop the words oh shit from slipping out.
His mother sucked in a sharp breath. “Gerard!”
“What?” Gibs glared defiantly at his mother. “I’m not lying.”
“Don’t speak to me like that,” she commanded, voice cracking. “I’m still your mother.”
“Well, I wish you weren’t!” Gibs screamed before bolting out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with his mam.
“I, ah…” Pushing my chair back, I stood awkwardly and gestured to the kitchen doorway. Feeling uncomfortable, I shrugged and offered Sadhbh a half-hearted smile. “I should probably go home.”
With tear-filled eyes, Sadhbh offered me a pained smile before quickly turning around so I couldn’t see her face. “Okay, love.”
“I’m, ah…thanks for the cake.” I shook my head and moved for the door. “And, uh…sorry.”
Not waiting for a response, I pulled a Gibsie and bolted out of their house, breaking my personal sprinting record in my rush to get across the street to the safety of my house.
“I think you made your mam cry,” I announced breathlessly when I reached my driveway and found Gibsie hopping a basketball off the garage wall.
“Good,” was all he replied before throwing the ball at the wall once more.
“You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?”
“No, you don’t,” I said, trying to persuade and narrowly avoiding a furiously thrown basketball as it flew past my head at top speed and crashed loudly against the wheely bins behind me.
“How do you feel about running away?” Gibs asked then, retrieving the ball before aiming at my head once more. “I think we could do it.”
“I’m not running away with you again.” This time I caught the basketball he flung at my head. “The last time we tried that, you pissed in my sleeping bag.” I threw the ball back at him as hard as I could. “With me in it.”
“It was an accident,” he bit out, launching the ball at my head again. “Let it go.”
“I will,” I snapped back, slapping the ball away from my face before it connected. “When you stop throwing the ball at my head.”
“I’m mad!”
“I know.”
“I hate that asshole!”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to live with her!”
“I know.”
“I want to be with my dad!”
“I know.”
Chest heaving from temper, Gibs glared at me through tear-filled, gray eyes for what felt like forever before exhaling a ragged breath. “I just want everything to go back to normal, Hugh.”
“I know, Gibs.” I sighed heavily. “Me, too.”
“It’s not going to, is it?”
“No, Gibs.” I slowly shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
Looking thoroughly defeated, Gibs walked to the edge of the footpath at the end of my driveway and sank down. Hooking his arms around his knees, he stared across the street at his house.
I didn’t know what to say to make him feel better and I hated it. Because I wanted to help. I wanted to make it all better for him. I wanted to bring his dad home and put his family back together again.
But I couldn’t.
All I could do was sit beside him and keep him company.
“Sorry for trying to take your head off,” Gibs said once he had finally calmed down.
“It’s grand.”
“Do you still want me to come to your party Monday?”
“Of course.”
“And go trick-or-treating when our friends leave?”
“Yes, Gibs.”
“And I’m still sleeping over afterward?”
“Yep.”
“And we’re still sneaking out to egg that asshole’s house once our parents are asleep?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Good.” A smile tugged at his lips, and he nudged my shoulder with his. “So when’s your sister getting back from the hairdresser with Sinead?”
Rolling my eyes, I gave Gibs a dirty look, even though I was secretly glad that he was back to his favorite topic. “Would it kill you to pretend I’m your favorite for one day?”
“I don’t know, Hugh. I’m not that good of a liar,” he chuckled, and just like that, he was back to the jokester I knew. “Is your mam still making you invite Claire’s friends to your party?”
“Yes.” My shoulders slumped in defeat. “But I’m writing my invitations tonight, and she’ll be at work, so maybe I can get away with not having to invite them.”
“Who does she want to invite again?”
“Can’t remember their names.” I shrugged. “But I know there’s four of them.”
His eyes widened. “Four?”
“Yep.”
“And we have to play with all four of them?”
“Yep.”
“The entire time?”
“Yep.”
“Jesus,” Gibsie groaned. “What are we supposed to do with four girls?”
“Five,” I replied grimly. “You forgot to count my sister.”
“But Claire’s one of us, so she doesn’t count,” he offered. “And besides, we like playing with her.”
“No, Gibs, you like playing with her.”
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” he offered then, clearly trying to cheer me up. “They might be like your sister.”
“Yeah.” I shuddered. “And I can’t think of anything worse.”
