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Mammy and I returned to school each lunch-time for the boys. Dominic usually appeared in the same state as he’d entered. Every chestnut hair perfectly in place, uniform unruffled and knees clean. But, Patrick, well - socks were crumpled at his ankles, the tie knot virtually at the back of his neck, shirt un-tucked, jumper slovenly tied around his waist, cap balancing on the side of his head with blond curls cascading around his cheeky, mischievously-masculine Shirley Temple-looking face. Each day I pondered long and hard over his appearance, wondering which kind of lessons got him into this dishevelled condition. It was all too exciting, I can tell you. My day soon arrived to find out exactly what happened behind those gates. I didn’t know what to do first on preparing my things. I had checked my Mickey Mouse pencil case a hundred and one times. I packed and unpacked my new white plimsolls, smelling their fresh rubber soles in the process. I kept looking at my green and gold uniform dangling like a deflated, abandoned rag doll, which Mammy had hung on the wardrobe door - name labels were neatly stitched on each garment - wishing the day would be over so I could wake up and go to school, just like my brothers. Nothing of significant intrigue had really occurred in my young life so far, so school was top of the priority list. There was the weekly dig to Australia in Grandma Maggie’s back-garden - to no triumphant avail. Walking down the upward-bound escalator in Marks and Spencer had caused quite a rousing to-do. I had sat and sulked as I watched the red imprint of Mammy’s slender hand on my calf slowly disappear. Oh, and being kidnapped by gypsies in Ireland - now that was thoroughly exhilarating. Although I suppose it wasn’t really kidnapping, more like me toddling off of my own free will. Away I went from my brothers chasing a baby bull around in circles. Down past my grandpa’s dilapidated barn which smelt of manure and soggy, urine-drenched straw. Past Paddle, the one-legged duck - who had endured quite enough of my taunts - across to the sweet aroma of cooking food sizzling over the enchanting camp fires, where the gypsies had settled themselves quite nicely on Grandpa’s land, with their brightly painted carts and penny good-luck trinkets. After searching every nook, cranny and hay bale around for me, Dad resorted to climbing on the thatched roof of the old grey-stoned farmhouse. Shading his eyes from the afternoon sun, which was brighter than a mountain of mustard grass, he looked into yonder. Over the peat bogs, the grazing cattle, through the shadows cast by the ancient Celtic crosses which marked the resting place of my ancestors, past Paddle, the one-legged duck, and over into the gypsy field. All he could see were women with black hair trailing down to the tops of their legs and men with cabbage-shaped heads and unruly black curls springing out from under what could have been cabbage leaves. Amongst all the mayhem and black hair, there I was. My blonde curls stood out like a solitary diamond amid coal as I ate a bowl of coddle and happily chatted away to a gypsy lady with golden earrings larger than a hula hoop and a paisley-patterned head-scarf that flapped away in the summer breeze. Dad said they’d been worried sick, had been looking for me for hours. Mammy was apparently at the end of her nerves. The excitement came to the same end as Mammy’s nerves had, which had successfully been brought back to life by some cowslip tea. The earring-clad gypsy had informed Mam the tea would calm her fraught nerves. “Cowslip blossoms, boilin’ war-ta and hon-ey, nerve tonic, me dear, nerve tonic.” The idea of starting school was the stimulation my young brain needed. “Orlagh, it’s only six-thirty. What on earth are ye doing up?” Dad groggily enquired, stretching and yawning in bed. “I can’t be late for school, Dad. I have to be org’nised this mornin’.” I stood over their huge bed, caught on a finger of the dawn sunlight which peeped through a small crack in the curtains. I watched as the ray of light illuminated my long golden curls as they bounced up and down like a spiralled spring against my nylon ‘I am four’ nightdress. “Yer’ve three hours ‘til yer’ve to be at school. If ye don’t get some more sleep, ye’ll not last the day. Ye’ll be napping and that’ll not please your new teacher, Mrs O’Reilly, now will it? Yer don’t want to be in her bad books on your first day now, do ye? Go on with ye now, I’ve a million and one bricks to lay in a few hours.” I dragged my feet back to my bedroom, first checking if either of the boys were up. Unfortunately they were sound asleep. I thought it best if I tried to sleep. I didn’t want to be in trouble on my first day and I certainly didn’t want to miss anything. I soon went into a deep sleep, dreaming of being Mrs O’Reilly’s star pupil and making Mammy and Daddy so proud. “Orlagh, come on now, darling. It’s eight o’clock, time for school,” Mam bellowed, as she opened my curtains to a beautiful warm September day. I could never understand why she had to shout to wake me. I was, after all, only in the bed next to where she was standing. It was as though she was shouting through a loudhailer, like a lifeguard calling reckless swimmers into land from the wild perilous waves of the ocean. It was no longer safe swimming in my land of dreams - the red danger flag was up. Imminently the caterwauling waves from Mammy’s tongue were to be washing into the shores of my warm bed. Dad was my preferred waker-upper. He would be quietly spoken and everything would be calm, like the dawn silence. I wasn’t usually one of those children who woke at the crack of dawn; I loved my bed. This morning was an exception; I didn’t have to be told twice. No waves were going to trickle past my valance. Today I didn’t even mind Mammy brushing my hair in the heavy-handed way that she did. Everything had to be just perfect. Mealtimes were always such fun in our house and breakfast was no exception. Mam ceaselessly waited on us all hand and foot. She never seemed to sit down and eat. She was forever running, like a diner waitress, but without payment or tips, unless Dad proclaimed: “Yer’ve worked hard today, Grania, so yer have, and I’ve got a little tip for yer.” “And what’ll that be, Rory, love?” “Don’t get bettin’ on them horses.” He loved his joke, however many times he told it. Dad always played some kind of game to occupy us as we waited for our meal. Spin The Spoon was a favourite. We all started with ten points. Dad or Dominic would spin the spoon and if the rounded end pointed at you, you lost a point. Whoever lost their points first - lost the game, and subsequently had to do a forfeit. Strangely, the majority of times it landed on me. I’m sure they had it fixed. I was endlessly doing forfeits. But today I won spin the spoon, which I considered a perfect start to this momentous day! Dad went off to work first and gave me the usual million sloppy kisses before he left. He cupped my head into his huge hands, “mwar, mwar, mwar,” he sounded, as his spittle transferred from his soft moist lips to my dry skin. “Mwar, mwar,” over my eyelids. “Mwar, mwar,” over my forehead. I burrowed my chin into my chest to evade any more loving torture. Undeterred, he placed tiny crystals of salivation on to my curls. Mam reckons I was the most kissed child ever. The three of us got so much pleasure in seeing Dad drive away in Betsy, his old navy-blue van. It was like chitty-chitty-bang-bang! It made the strangest noises; coughing, spitting and farting, like a toothless old man in a fusty, urine-smelling chair. As he started the engine, a huge grey cloud of smoke appeared from the exhaust. We all disappeared momentarily, until the cloud evaporated into the atmosphere to add just a little more pollution to the air over the industrial city of Birmingham. “Come on, you three rascals. You’ll be filthy standing in those exhaust fumes, so ye will. What’ve I told you before? You’ll get headaches and be sick. Don’t come crying to me when you do. I don’t know why yer father doesn’t replace that old thing with something half-decent. Get ready now, we’ll be leaving in five minutes.” Mammy went through the everyday locking-up routine, like a prison warden, checking and re-checking that all doors which should be locked, were. I was waiting with impatience, while the boys ran riot in the front garden. We finally departed and made our way up the long what was once black, but now faded to grey, asphalt school driveway. It seemed to take an eternity, with Mammy and the boys telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. I was too busy concentrating on not stepping on any cracks which crossed the tarmacked surface - I couldn’t risk bad luck today. We eventually arrived in the playground. The boys continued to their classes as I had watched them do a thousand times before. Today I had a different feeling as they waved goodbye. I was so excited because I would know what kind of things they got up to when they left me. As Mammy and I waited in the playground for the new entrants to be sorted into their specific classes I really couldn’t believe what I was observing. There wasn’t a group of excited new pupils as I had expected. No, all I saw were crying children. Girls crying I could understand. But the strangest sight of all were the boys - crying! How silly. I had never witnessed such a scene before. Boys didn’t cry. Well, Dominic and Patrick certainly didn’t. This was such a fantastic adventure - why on earth were any of them upset, boy or girl? “This must be Orlagh Emmet. What a perfect name for a lovely and I must say brave little girl. My, you’ve grown an awful lot since Patrick left my class. It must be those extra inches which’ve made you so brave. ” Mrs O’Reilly beamed. She seemed to smile with every feature on her wonderful, kind face. Through her inviting, rosy cheeks and with the same huge, happy, ocean-blue eyes Dad had. Not the tropical shore-line, ocean-blue, which crashes to the golden sand with carefree rhythm, but the colour of the deepest ocean only Captain Nemo could explore. I was a little unsure of the dress she was wearing. It was like my granny’s curtains, with great swirling patterns meandering over her huge contours. I figured it must be hard to find clothes so big, as Mammy wore normal-looking clothes and she was always complaining nothing ever fitted her tiny figure. The first sentence she had spoken to me, on the most important day of my life so far, totally confused me. I didn’t know why I was brave. I had only got dressed, eaten breakfast, won spin the spoon and walked to school. I didn’t see any bravery in that. Maybe there was a surprise in store for me. I figured all these children who were crying must have had it before I’d arrived. I watched Mammy’s unusually sad face as she waved goodbye. She must have had something in her eye, because she continually rubbed it with her knuckle, which made it quite red. I was quite glad she was leaving. I wanted to get on with this business of school. We arrived in the classroom to find desks had been allocated boy-girl-boy, which produced more banshee wails and crocodile tears from the girls. Boys were fun to be with; I just couldn’t see what the problem was. This day was getting more and more confusing as it continued and we hadn’t even started any type of lesson. As I was the only dry-eyed pupil in the class, Mrs O’Reilly chose me to dispense the new exercise books. They were the colour of a stormy sky, just like the class-room storm they would inevitably provoke. Mammy had sat with me every day while the boys were at school, teaching me the alphabet and counting with a brightly coloured abacus. I soon caught on that when I showed Dad when he returned from work what I had learned that day, he would say I was the cleverest girl in the world and reward me with ten (or if I was really clever) even twenty pence. Thus, I was a diligent student with Mam so I could reap the benefits upon Dad’s return. It was now time to make use of all what I had learned with Mammy. I took it upon myself to fill in my name, which I was so very proud of. Dad always said not many little girls are named after golden princesses, which there wasn’t - I was the only Orlagh I knew. I wrote my name quickly, I’d been doing it so long I didn’t really have to think about it. I then set to daydreaming of the day when I could make the ‘O’ less of an egg shape, so it would appear like a perfectly round circle, where the beginning and end would meet without an overlap. After I’d mastered that, maybe I would be able to join it all up together in the beautiful way Dominic did. Mrs O’Reilly then interrupted my daydream: “Come on now, everyone.” Mrs O’Reilly clapped her hands. “I want you all to line up at my desk with your new exercise books and I’ll write your names on them, so then you can copy as best you can.” When I heard this I thought I was to repeat the Marks and Spencer escalator ‘to-do’ and end up with an imprinted hand on the back of my calf. As each child returned to their desk after Mrs O’Reilly wrote name after name on the new books and, as my turn got ever nearer, my nervousness increased. The adrenaline pumped through my veins, like a boxer about to enter the ring. I’d heard terrifying stories from Patrick about what teachers did if you misbehaved. Now I was really in for it, and on my very first morning too. My hands were shaking as I handed over my filled-in book. My eyes were fixed on the scratched parquet flooring. On the verge of an explanation I raised my eyes to see Mrs O’Reilly’s rubicund face was full of smiles. Relief swept through me - I wasn’t in trouble. “My goodness, class, we have a genius among us! Orlagh Emmet has already learnt how to write her name. She will be our first gold-star pupil. The pupil with the most gold stars by half term wins a prize.” This was incredible, I thought; I get rewarded for my knowledge from Dad, and if I keep pleasing Mrs O’Reilly I’ll gain lots of these marvellous gold stars and win a mysterious prize at the end of term. I had come to the conclusion that being clever was the only way to go. I decided from then on to be extra attentive. Then, unfortunately things got confusing again. A Scrabble hand of wonderful vowels and common consonants had been replaced by: Y, K, X, W, V and Z. A corpulent boy raised his hand. “Yes, Robert, what would you like to know?” Mrs O’Reilly sounded a little shocked at the awakening of her class. Robert’s eyes were virtually non-existent from the excess flesh of his cheeks pushing them closed, along with the long black fringe which touched his eyelashes. If he had been wearing a black-and-red-striped woollen jumper you would have thought he had jumped out of the pages of The Beano. A high-pitched squeak was uttered from a tiny hole lost in the same fat which hid his eyes. “Do all clever people have horrible, red faces?” Now I thought this was like one of Dad’s mind-teasers he used to ask us to fathom out - I never did, it was always Dom or Patrick who got them, well usually Dom; Patrick’s mind wandered along with his feet outside to the football. Do all clever people have horrible, red faces? Well, Mrs O’Reilly had sort of a red face; it was blotchy with her pale snow-white complexion peeping through, but it wasn’t horrible. My grandpa almost always had a red face, but Dad said this had something to do with the beautiful-shaped bottle full of a brown liquid he kept by the side of his armchair at all times. I knew Grandpa was clever, but his face wasn’t horrible either. “Now what do you mean by that, Robert?” Oh great, I thought, Mrs O’Reilly doesn’t have a clue either. Robert’s chubby face lit up with delight as he realised he had baffled the teacher. “Well,”
he replied. “You have a red face, all your cheeks are red and my
mom said you’re very clever and I must listen to you. And Orlagh,
the girl you said was a genius, well, she has a horrible red cheek and
chin and even her neck is red and really horrible - so she must be really
clever.” The tiny hole which released this high-pitched squeak
closed and turned into a derisive smirk as he affirmatively nodded his
head. Today, my first day at school I was to learn that my birthmark was somewhat ‘out of the ordinary’, that I was different from the rest of the children in my class - in my school. Not one other child had what I had. I was the solitary black child in a bigoted southern state school. I was the leopard with no spots, or in my case, too many. Mrs O’Reilly’s already blotchy red face went redder, spreading down her neck like a contagious rash, to her gigantic cleavage which was being held in by my granny’s curtains. “Well, Robert, I’m glad to see you’ve been observant.” His back straightened, his lips pursed together and his chin rose a notch or two at the praise he received. “But in my class we’re all very compassionate to our fellow students and your first lesson will be that you must hold your tongue when you have such a serious and degrading comment to make. You’ll apologise to Orlagh and myself immediately.” Robert once again
sunk into his hunchbacked position and the formation of his three chins
reappeared and wobbled like a jelly on a tea-party table as he shook
with obvious anger and snarled, “Ssss-orr-rry.” In the playground I seemed to be the centre of almost everyone’s attention. Mrs O’Reilly had brought about too much attention to myself, telling them I was a genius. They had taken the literal sense of the phrase and wanted all their hurtful, discomforting questions answered. ‘Did the doctor make you bleed when you were born and couldn’t stop it?’ ‘Did your mom spill beetroot juice on your face and couldn’t get it off?’ ‘Did you smudge your jam sandwich and not have a wash?’ ‘Jam roly-poly.’ ‘Err, can you catch it?’.‘Red-face.’ ‘Strawberry-face.’ Juvenile jeers, accompanied with two-front-toothless sniggers. My perfect day was being spoilt by questions I couldn’t answer. I was walking deeper and deeper into the maze in my mind, turning left and right, meeting incessant dead-ends, spinning around in circles. I wondered if I would ever find the right path and view the frosted ray of sunlight I imagined Mammy prayed for at the end of the concrete tunnel. No attention had ever been paid to my birthmark before, only when I went into hospital for treatment. And then I was getting so much fuss I didn’t really take any notice of the significance of what the whole procedure was about. It wasn’t about removing the red mark on my face, but receiving sweeties like red, sugary cola cubes, multi-coloured jelly babies or soft melt-in-your-mouth flumps. Having a giant bottle of Lucozade was a bonus. Drinking it was okay, especially because it turned the inside of your mouth the colour of rust. But the orange cellophane paper which wrapped the bottle was the most significant asset. It kept me occupied for hours as I placed it over my eyes and turned everything in sight orange. My treatment meant acquiring new colouring books and maybe a doll. Not that I received too many dolls, having made it quite clear I didn’t want them. Dollies were for sissy girls. Secretly, I did like them, but Dominic and Patrick had put this idea into my head so, if they thought that, then I had to also. I considered my treatment to be just a big adventure as we travelled all over the country and met many doctors and nurses who always seemed to look at me with their heads tilted sideways. The nurses always gave me nurses’ paper hats and plastic aprons so I too could be a nurse when we returned home. After playtime it was back to a short lesson and the bell sounded once again. We all said in unison, “Good evening, Mrs O’Reilly,” as we pushed our tiny plastic chairs under our new desks. Robert Reeves, the boy who had prompted the entrance to my grey winding maze, elbowed me and squeaked with his almost non-existent mouth. “You’ve had it tomorrow, Ribena-face.” Those were the final words of my first day of school. I dragged my feet to meet Mammy, who waited excitedly at the school gates. She bombarded me with questions: “What did you learn? Who did you sit next to? Is Mrs O’Reilly nice?” “Mammy, I can only answer one at a time,” I replied sarcastically, repeating what she said to us if we blitzed her with too many questions at once. She smirked and told me to answer one at a time. I told her how Mrs O’Reilly thought I was so intelligent and about my gold star, but I didn’t recount the incident with Robert Reeves. I thought she might be angry with me for causing so much trouble on my first day. I was subdued about the whole school subject. I was a little bewildered with Rubbery Robert’s (as I had since decided to name him) ‘You’ve had it’ comment. When Mam or Dad said that it usually meant I was in big trouble. But what had I done to him? This preoccupied my mind for the rest of the day. I had to work out a solution to the ‘You’ve had it’ dilemma, draw up a map and make a trouble-free exit. The appearance of Dominic and Patrick an hour later took my mind off my new-found predicament and playtime took over. It wasn’t too much longer before Dad returned home from work in Betsy. As he emerged from the driving seat, he ran over to where we were playing on the front lawn and swept me up into his arms. His scent was a combination of sweat and dust, forming his distinctive bitter-sweet smell which he always possessed after a hard-working day. I watched the grass spin and my golden curls fly as he spun me around like I was a sharp blade on a roaring helicopter, making me so dizzy that when he put me down I staggered like a drunk departing a pub. “How was me favourite girl’s first day at school?” “Okay,” I replied, uninterested in my long-awaited independent inauguration into the real world. My usual garrulous manner was absent. I could sense Dad’s disappointment at my uninspired demeanour. The same barrage of questions I had received from Mammy followed from Dad, with the added, “Did someone upset you, baby doll?” How is it that parents know everything? I didn’t give any clue that Rubbery Robert had been nasty, so how did he find out? Maybe he’d met Mrs O’Reilly on the way home - but no, she didn’t hear him say, ‘You’ve had it’. My most perfect day had turned into a complete disaster, and the excitement of my second day of school was diminishing with the thought of more nasty comments and further confounding questions. I won spin the spoon again at dinner, so the sun was peeping from behind the grey clouds. Twice in one day - an absolute miracle. The boys and Dad proceeded to the boxing gym, another adventure I longed to experience. But tonight I was happy watching Charlie Chan, my absolute favourite programme. Charlie Chan himself never ceased to mystify me, with his number one son and number two son. I couldn’t come to terms with why Mr Chan didn’t give his children proper names. When it was over, rather than emulating Charlie Chan and pretend to type up case reports on my plastic Petite typewriter as I usually would, I was back to pondering over my school predicament. What was so wrong with me? Was this mark on my face some kind of nasty peculiarity which only naughty children possessed? The boys and Dad returned, smelling of perspiration and the inside of sweat-filled leather boxing gloves. We had our supper snack and were all sent upstairs to wash the milk moustaches from our faces and to brush our teeth. The boys were consistently teasing me about my new status as a school child. I was usually pretty tolerant of their taunting, but tonight I found it annoying due to the Rubbery Robert situation. I made my way back downstairs to complain to Mam and Dad of the boys’ jeers. On reaching the bottom step I could hear my parents whispering. The hushed tones immediately caught my attention. I tiptoed to the kitchen door which was ajar and held my breath so I could hear better and so they couldn’t hear me. “There’s definitely something wrong with her,” Mammy said. I detected agitation in her soft Irish accent. “Ach no, it’s her first day o’ school for goodness sake. She’ll be fine tomorrow,” Dad replied, in his idiosyncratic, carefree manner. “No, Rory, there’s definitely something up. This morning when I took her she was as happy as Larry, the only child in the whole of the starting class not crying. She was even comforting some of the other children. I know it’s all a little bewildering for her, the first day and all, but she hasn’t uttered a word all night. She’s pondering over something, I know it. She didn’t even tell me the whole plot of Charlie Chan or ask me the million questions of what she didn’t understand. Or type up her reports which I always have to look over as though I’m the number one son. No, no - there’s definitely something up. Do you think someone has commented on her birthmark, Rory?” I felt like running in and telling them the whole story - but no, I couldn’t do that, I would break my cover and then I would be in even more trouble for ear-wigging. “Maybe so, Grania, I didn’t really think of that. Ye don’t think that would upset her, do ye?” Dad now sounded a little more concerned. He had called her by her Christian name, so I knew he meant business. “Oh Rory, when you tuck her in have a word with her, would ye? Find out what’s happened and sort it out for her. If it’s what we think - tell her the story.” “All right sugar, think it done! First, the continued adventures of ‘The Friendly Farting Giant’, then down to serious business.” Dad was over being anxious, back to love-some nicknames and thinking of his continued tale of our bedtime story hero. This meant a quick exit for me as quietly as possible back up the stairs and into the bathroom to Dom and Pat without so much as a complaint to Mam and Dad about their taunts. I just about made it before Dad began his ascent, clapping his hands and singing his theme tune to ‘The Friendly Farting Giant’. We had a superlative bedtime story serial. It wasn’t Black Beauty, Snow White, The Princess and the Pea or even Star Wars science-fiction for the boys. No. We had this bizarre character from Dad’s eccentric imagination, who lived in a land which was two-thirds smaller than what he should have been living in, who went around causing unintentional mass destruction from excess flatulence. I’m sure he enjoyed narrating it as much as we delighted in listening. It was told in Dominic and Patrick’s room. I got into bed with Dominic. There was no way Patrick would have his four-year-old sister in bed with him; he was seven, much too cool for that kind of carry-on. But Dominic, who was nine, took me under his wing and my place was set for our hilarious bedtime story. “Now where
were we last, kids?” Dad always started by testing our attentiveness
of the previous evening. “Correct, Pat, me boy, only it’s Lake Ontario not Ontariac. Well, he continued on his journey to find his lost fartin’ tribe. First he went back to New York City, his favourite of all cities as the skyscrapers were the perfect size for chairs. The World Trade Centres being his favourite as they are the tallest buildings in the whole wide world, so were the perfect height for Freddie to sit on. He also liked them because they’re flat on top, not like that Empire State Buildin’ with its spiky top which used to stick in his bum. By the way, before the World Trade Centres were built the Empire State was once the tallest. Anyway, he headed on his journey after his little rest and a bite to eat. Well, in fact it was all the food from every Indian restaurant which covered a whole street on the east side of Manhattan, and we know what Indian food means for Freddie, don’t we, kids?” We all screamed in unison, “FARTING DESTRUCTION!” We obtained so much delight out of uttering the taboo word. “Keep it quiet up there, you lot, you’ll wake the whole neighbourhood,” Mammy shouted, with a hint of humour in her voice. “So he set off after his snack,” Dad continued. “A little step took him over the Hudson river to the state of New Jersey, also known as the Garden State. He tried his best not to squash any people. We all know how much he likes people, don’t we now? He’d decided to head west over the vast country of the United States of America. How many states are there now, I can’t quite remember?” Dad placed his index finger over his lips. Dominic was usually first to get these tricky questions. “Fifty, isn’t there, Dad? Hawaii was the fiftieth; that’s why we have Hawaii Five-0, right?” Dominic answered enthusiastically, as Patrick leapt out of the covers, humming the TV series theme tune and pretending to paddle like the men at the start of the show. “Sure, Fifty. Enough paddling now, Pat, we’re all gettin’ soaked here. Well, after all that Indian food Freddie’s stomach was already a-rumblin’ and when Freddie’s tummy rumbles it sounds like an earthquake, so it does. By the time he got to Kansas, the Sunflower State, he was tryin’ to hold in his farts but little ones kept escapin’ and he caused a wee tornado. Nothing too serious but there were a few barns and ald bikes flyin’ around as well as a few balls of tumbleweed.” “Is that what Dorothy out of the Wizard of Oz was caught in, Dad?” I asked, concerned for the star of my favourite movie. “Yes, it was one and the same, but not a tornado that Freddie had caused. Anyway, he was headin’ south, he wanted to get to Mexico for supper. He loved the spicy food they have there. Chilli and jalepeno peppers are his favourites. And what does spicy food mean to Freddie?” “FARTING DESTRUCTION!” we all screamed. Dad had recaptured our full attention with our participation in the story. “Freddie had no sooner got into Arizona when he could feel the biggest fart ever comin’ on. It felt so big he had to sit down, crushin’ hundreds of trees as he did. He couldn’t keep it in any longer and heeeeee...................” An elongated ‘heee’ was our cue for the finest part of the tale. We shouted using every breath of air from our lungs, along with controlling our laughter. “HE FARTED AND HE FARTED AND HE FARTED AND HE FARTED AND HE FARTED UNTIL....” Dad concluded the story. “He farted until the biggest, hugest, most mammoth hole in the ground that you’ve ever seen had formed due to his fart, and it became known as the Grand Canyon. All in the day of Freddie The Friendly Farting Giant.” “More, Dad, more,” we all pleaded. “No, enough, it’s time to sleep. Come on, Orlagh, darlin’, another big day ahead for you tomorrow, so it is.” Oh no, my thoughts of tomorrow and my most probable confrontation with Rubbery Robert, about this thing that upset him so much on my face, was at the forefront of my mind once again. Dad carried me into my room feet first. My hair dragged along the floor and all the blood rushed to my head. Dad placed me into my imitation patchwork quilt, which kept me occupied on nights I couldn’t sleep. I would endlessly trace my index finger around the lines of the different-patterned hexagonal shapes. Things were getting serious, I could tell by the look on his face. His dazzling blue eyes were not smiling as much as usual. The crow’s feet which were beginning to form were not as prominent. “Mammy said you’ve been quiet since finishin’ your first day of school. What’s up, baby doll?” I contemplated answering this question. All my concern, confusion and upset prompted me to tell him everything. I told him all about Rubbery Robert and my new dilemma of what was wrong with me. Dad then proceeded with clarification and related the whole extraordinary story. The most important bedtime story I was to hear. On his magical spinning wheel he set the tension and speed, twisted and wound by his imaginary bobbin, to spin the most glorious yarn. A yarn which was to be passed to future generations. A story to be shared around cosy flaring fires as snow falls delicately outside. A bedtime story which was really, really true... “We could never tell ye before, we promised, yer mammy and me. We said we would only tell yer when ye were a big girl. Now I think yer a big girl. After all yer’ve started school.” Dad nodded, confirming to himself now was definitely the right time. “It all happened when ye were a wee baby, only a few hours after ye were born. There yer were lyin’ in yer crib next to Mammy who was in bed and I was sittin’ in the chair next to her. We had no lights on as ye were havin’ yer very first wee sleep. It had been a tirin’ day for yer, havin’ to be born an’ all. What happened next was a miracle. Like when our Lord rose from the dead. A miracle, to be sure. It doesn’t happen to many people, not many at all. We had never known anyone it had happened to, we’d just heard the stories. So when a ray of golden light appeared from the ceilin’ of the room we both thought we were dreamin’ - but it was no dream. “The ray of golden light was directly above yer crib and it made yer light up in the dark room. Then out of this same golden light a figure appeared, then another and another until there were five of ‘em. They were tiny little perfect people with wings. They were all beautiful with long golden hair and shimmering white dresses and above each of their heads was another circle of light, much brighter than what they had appeared from; they were their halos, of course. When those little rings of light appeared that’s when we knew for sure. They all hovered above yer head, then each one kissed yer face and all said together this blessing; ‘Never have we seen one so fair. Who will have bright green eyes and long golden curly hair. A smile so bright with teeth so white, and her mind full of facts to share. For she’s the one. The Chosen One. Who we put a mark upon, her beautiful skin, So each shall know, That when she grows; She’s one of us - A Chosen One’ “They then explained to yer mammy and me that God had chosen you as His special girl. Out of all the millions of little babies born that year you were the most special, and they’d each kissed you to send His powers, so you could teach everyone on earth to be good and clever. And there are other jobs you’ve to do that we can’t know about. And because there’re so many millions of people they had to put a little red mark on your face to distinguish you from the rest. “Then the light got fainter and fainter and God’s messengers went back into heaven to help God out with the rest of His important jobs, like lookin’ after sick people and watchin’ out for the good people in the world, and such like. So that’s why yer have this little red mark on yer face and people like Rubbery Robert haven’t got a clue. They’re what are called the bigots of the world, princess. But names are not going to hurt ye now are they? Because you have to be strong and remember yer’re one of the most special and beautiful people in the whole wide world. So tomorrow when Robert is nasty to you, be ready for him. Get the strength of yer angels behind yer and give him that, one-two-bang-bang which I showed yer and he won’t be nasty again. Now go to sleep, my wee baby, and don’t you worry, the angels are watchin’ over you as well as me, yer mammy, Dominic and Patrick.” I had been listening in awe as Dad told this magical story, not about Freddie The Friendly Farting Giant or one of his other wonderful Irish folk tales we loved so much, but about me. The whole truth about me and my fate. There was my light in my metaphorical maze, shimmering as bright as the sun, as dazzling as the angels’ halos. The key to my destiny had been revealed. Here I was, four years old, lying wrapped in my patchwork quilt, presuming I knew the meaning to my life. This was as I’d totally expected first thing this morning - the most important day of my life so far. After the customary sloppy kisses Dad left me wholly contented in bed with my recently discovered knowledge that I was a Chosen One. Rubbery Robert had better watch out, for I had the greatest power of all - God’s power. I’d been kissed by the angels.
BOOK TWOChapter Twenty-two I had well and truly fallen in love - hook, line and sinker. You could say I was obsessed. Mammy was concerned with my obsession. She had protested somewhat. She said I shouldn’t be spending so much time with my new-found love. She said I should be concentrating on my school work or doing my Irish dancing and gymnastics. Dad on the other hand encouraged the romance. He tried convincing Mammy that it was a diverse learning curve, teaching me lessons which school didn’t have in its curriculum. My infatuation wasn’t blond-haired and blue-eyed - it wasn’t even male. God, no - chance of that would be a fine thing. As far as boys were concerned, I was ‘one of the lads’. I suspected it would be a wondrous feeling to have admiration from a boy for how I looked, not because I knew the off-side rule or because I genuinely cared who won the FA cup, or who came top of the league, or because I got excited at who was on the transfer list. Not because I knew a perfectly executed left hook when I saw one, or because I knew who floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee. I would rather the boys admired me for my sparkling emerald eyes, not because I could climb a tree as fast or faster than them. For my golden curls, not because I could pop a wheelie on my BMX for longer or jump more steps on a skate board than they could. But as I watched all my friends fall in puerile pubescent love, I acted indifferent. I convinced myself that I would rather experience romantic rendezvous while encapsulated within the plot of a Catherine Cookson epic which I covertly borrowed from Mammy’s paint-chipped bookshelf. My romantic encounters were illusory clandestine meetings with a character from one of these books, not in the mud and soggy fallen leaves amidst the trees in the woods behind our school, or in a squalid urine-smelling tower-block flat where other teenagers I knew congregated and drank cheap peach wine as one of the gang babysat a small child while the mother went to bingo, oblivious or apathetic of the virginities being lost in her fetid bed. However much I attempted to convince myself that I was totally impassive about romance, gnawing away in the pit of my stomach was an incarcerated adolescent urge. It hauled its shackles through my loins, shrieking its innocence, proclaiming a romantic miscarriage of justice as it witnessed what appeared to be the whole world in an awesome relationship. I blocked the incarcerated adolescent urge’s escape plans as hard as I possibly could. I managed to avoid all that adolescent confusion by escaping to the arms of a replacement love. To the sanctuary where my frustrations were pounded away, where my dreams and desires were contrived and where that whining captive urge was silenced. My haven was the boxing gym. The rancid but peculiarly ambrosial aroma of sweat trapped in battered leather gloves and on the worn canvas besmirched with spit and blood was to me - tantalising. Upon smelling the sweet fragrance of boxing a satisfied smile would sneak upon my face, my eyes would close, my mouth would lubricate, my shoulders would rise and a warm anticipatory shiver would run down my spine, like the sensation experienced when you see and smell a craved delicious delight. I was uncontrollably drawn to the arduous abode of pugilism - like metal to a magnet. The omnipresent muscular defined physiques which frequented the gym were like sculpted pieces of modern art. As they pounded the boxing bags with all the strength, anger and skill they could muster, their muscles seemed to want to escape through their skin, like a drowning cat trying to escape from a tied hessian sack. The powerful magnificence, harmless aggression, mixed with boisterous excitement astounded me so much I would have spent every last minute of my spare time there, which to an extent, I did. I constantly yearned to be among the boys, among the sweat and punches, amidst the hanging black and red boxing bags and poster-covered walls plastered with champions of both present and past. Dad was correct in assuming the boxing gym would teach me things school most certainly couldn’t. I would quietly listen to the boys’ teenage exploits as I stood with my orthodox stance - left foot forward, guard up, happily jabbing away at the flock-filled boxing bag as it swung back and forth causing me to bob, weave and dance with agility out of the way. I learnt the ins and outs, every detail of a man’s mind in the hours I spent at the gym. They were the key to my imprisoned urges. I took mental notes as they spoke of what they preferred and abhorred in the opposite sex. I defined a slapper, a slag, a tart, what is acceptable on the first night, became confused at statements like: ‘No really means I want to but I just can’t’, or even, ‘No means yes’. I was baffled that if ‘no’ really did mean ‘no’ then the girl in question gained more respect. So, why did they ask in the first place if they really wanted her to say no? I pondered long and hard as I pounded the bag. I soon learnt these rules (or thought I had) and dreamed of putting them to use, proclaiming myself to be the most eligible catch - everyone would want me! Then my dreaming would come to an abrupt end and I would remember a certain little burgundy patch of skin on my cheek, chin and neck, which most certainly put boys off romantic trysts. I was just a great mate. They all merely regarded me as one of the lads, a sister, a confidante. Romance... that was, well, that was a ridiculous assumption. For the time being I was content with punching the bags or the hand-held pads at Dad’s boxing gym. I didn’t want to be one of those ‘no means yes’ girls the boys conversed about in the hours of the gym; I wanted to be the one they would want to marry. My ideals of a perfect woman were based on the opinions of a group of teenage pugilists. But my urges could not be imprisoned. They wouldn’t stop protesting about unlawful incarceration. They wouldn’t give-in - they were plotting escape!I longed for Dad’s prediction to be British boxing champion, but unfortunately - no girls allowed. The closest I came to competing apart from in the gym was visiting the eccentric, half-senile boxing doctor. Maybe it was sheer fate, or maybe it was Dad’s magical magnet to eccentric characters at work once again, that Doctor Awad Sudki was the appointed doctor to the West Midlands boxing board. Each boxer had to go through what was supposed to be a rigorous medical to confirm physical and mental fitness before a competitive boxing match was permitted. But you could hardly call Doctor Awad Sudki’s medicals rigorous. Doctor Sudki, the oldest practising doctor in Europe, was four foot ten inches tall. His spine was permanently bent from hours of stooping over a desk with a candle as his only light. His olive skin surprisingly glowed in the depressingly dim room, certainly not looking ninety-six-years old. Large brown freckles were scattered over his lustrous bald head, due to excessive exposure to the severe Egyptian sun. Doctor Sudki adored boxing. In his seasoned years he pulled his oversized trousers above his chest, clipped his braces to the waist, tucked in his soup-stained shirt, placed on his pork-pie hat and sheepskin coat and sat ringside. Equipped with an antediluvian brown-leather case, rusty stethoscope and ancient Egyptian remedies, he was prepared for any unfortunate incidents which might occur where a doctor would be required. For the love of boxing he’d do it seven nights a week, if need be. Three of Dad’s new boxers were ready for competition. They had been training three times a week for six months and were extremely dedicated. Dad decided they were ready for competition, for which a medical was essential. Upon passing, a medical card would be issued and the boys could commence competition. Expecting they would pass their medicals, Dad had set up matches on the next club show for the three new boys. They were to come training as usual on Sunday morning, after which we were all to proceed to the oddball household of Doctor Sudki. “Okey-dokey, two down, two to go. I wish they’d all come on time,” Dad stated. Two boys had turned up to training but the third boy, Errol, a black twelve-year-old, was strangely absent. He was elated when Dad had told him he was going to be examined and in the ensuing period be able to compete. Dad was a little perturbed that Errol had not shown. He had high hopes for him. Had a big heart, Dad said, with a great left hook to back it up. “Errol’d better show, I’ve got him matched with that golden boy from Kerl Hall. They won’t know what’s hit ‘em when he takes that left hook out the bag.” “Who’s the fourth, Dad?” I asked as I sat on the edge of the ring, with my chin leaning on my forearms which were balancing on the bottom blood-stained rope; the distinctive sweet aroma of hard-won stale sweat invaded my nostrils. “Did I not tell ye? Paddy O’Riordan from the Ring Gym in Derry called me up last Tuesday and asked me if I’d take this young lad under me wing. He’s supposed to be a great little fighter, with the heart of a lion. I arranged for him to be here half-hour ago, I canny be waitin’ any longer.” “Well, why would you need to train him if he lives in Ireland?” “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t explain, did I? Him and his family are movin’ back over here Apparently they’re backwards and forwards from Birmingham to Derry. Talkin’ of backwards, that’s what they all are up the north anyway, if ye ask me.” Dad chuckled at his own joke. At that the paint-chipped door closed and a small figure came jogging towards us. “You can talk, yer culchie ya. You Free Staters, ya’re all the same. Paddy said I’m to watch yer!” While Dad shook his hand and welcomed him to the Birmingham Irish Boxing Club, I was - for what seemed like an eternity - glued to the rope. I was like a child pretending to be a statue. My breathing slowed and muscles froze. I was in awe at the sight of Mother Nature’s prime example of the perfect specimen of a male figure which was standing before me. Paddy from Derry omitted to inform Dad that this new lad wasn’t just a great boxer, but that he also had the most exquisite smiling eyes; not the ocean blue of Dad’s, but a cloudless summer-sky blue. The pupils were like blackbirds flying through paradise. A tiny reflection of yellow light near the circumference of his pupils was like the blackbird’s beak. His protruding cheekbones gave the impression they had been carved from stone. Those cheekbones along with the strong defining lines of his jawbone accentuated his radiant white skin, slightly flushed from a short jog. A thin line of perspiration sat like a crystalline-jewelled moustache atop his full terracotta-coloured lips. But there again, I assumed Paddy’s main priority wasn’t the heartbreaking status of his boxers. I was fixated on a drop of the perspiration moustache which had broken away from the thin layer of stubble and had begun a journey. It broke ground over the perfect heart-shaped top lip and was just about to enter his mouth when his tongue shot out like a lizard’s and eradicated the salty droplet. His lips began to move consistently and his white tombstone teeth sporadically came into view. It was like a silent movie, with a mouth moving but no sound following - although there was noise emanating from his mouth, but I was in such an hypnotic state I couldn’t hear anything. My mind had packed itself a wicker hamper, plastic cutlery, paper plates, a chequered blue and white cloth, mounds of delicious delights and headed off on a picnic. I tightly squeezed my eyes together and shook my head, attempting to shake myself from this ludicrous daze. I resembled a cartoon character after being hit on the head with an over-sized sledge-hammer. I’m sure like in the cartoons there were huge stars flying erratically from my head. Sound then began to form, but I still couldn’t decipher the rounded vowels being made up into what I imagined to be wonderful nouns, verbs and adjectives. The sound then developed into the monotones you hear when immersed underwater. “Mmmmmwaaawm, mmmmmwaawm.” Panic replaced the trance when realisation hit me like the cartoon character’s over-sized sledge-hammer, that he was speaking directly to me. “Mmmmmwaaawm, mmmmmwaawm, angel-face.” What? Angel-face? Oh, how could I be so stupid and miss the start? I straightened my arched back, lifted my chin from my arms, which were now tingling with numbness - much like my brain. “What?” Aggg, how could I say what? Where was my courteous decorum? How embarrassing. I was, after all, trying to make a good impression. I quickly caught my bad manners in a net and replaced the indignant what with a stumbling fake cough and a stuttered; “Pppparrdon, em pardon?” “Hows about ‘cha, angel-face?” Now I hung on his every word, like washing pegged to a line. Angel-face! Out of all the nouns he could have chosen, why angel? Did he detect my Chosen-One status? I was uncharacteristically stuck for words. My vocabulary was stranded on a mud-sodden deserted beach. Attempting to retrieve it, I sunk deeper and deeper into the thick, dirty brown puddles of discarded rock formations of ancient geological aeons. “Now what’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a boxin’ gym? I must say things’re definitely looking up. I was sad, so I was, leaving all those pretty Derry girls behind. But it looks like Paddy has landed me well and truly on me feet. Sure, I’ve the prettiest girl around, right here in the gym, so I have.” Time was moving like a runner trying to reach the finishing line in a slow-motion review. I needed my fast-forward button pressed and a quantum leap back into the real world. “Hey there, Derry man, keep ye eyes off. That’s me daughter, Orlagh, Orlagh Emmet. What’s your name, son? Paddy did tell me, but I’m terrible with names.” “Oh my, you’re a princess as well as an angel?” I couldn’t believe my ears, he knew the meaning of my name too. With each word he uttered he rose in my esteem, like the piece of steel on a fairground strength test; the hammer is slammed down - ten, twenty, fifty. “Emmet... Emmet O’Malley’s the name.” Ding! The steel could go no further - the bell had been struck. The ringing reverberated around my brain, bouncing from one side of my skull to the other. How could Dad forget that... Emmet, his own name? There again, how did Dad do any of the things he did? Out of all the names in the universe why was his Christian name the same as my surname? Why? Why? Why? - Destiny? - Fate? I knew there was no such thing as a coincidence, the Bumblebee Angel had made sure of that. So what was the reason here? I was hot, blushing and bashful. I was having an out-of-body-experience, or something of that description. I felt peculiar, weird... in love? Love at first sight was a romantic’s delusion, not the harsh reality of a teenager with bee-sting boobs, puppy-fat and a facial deformity in a sweat-smelling boxing gym. “Are ye shy, wee one?” he whispered, then puckered his lips and nestled his chin into his muscular defined chest. His paradise sky-blue eyes stared out from under elongated dark eyebrows as he traced a long finger-nailed digit from my forehead, over the bump of my cheekbone, around the contours of my face where it fell at my jawbone. I placed my palm over the side of my face which had just been stroked, mouth ajar, like he had just sliced me with a razor blade. “Show him a left hook, doll. That’ll show him how shy ye are. Come on, let’s get this show on the road. We canny wait any longer for Errol. You’ll just have to stand in for him, Orlagh.” “But he’s a boy,” I protested, snapping out of my bewilderment. “And ye think that’ll make any difference to ald Sudki? He’s as blind as a bat and senile to go with it. You’ve only bee-stings; he’ll never know the difference, boy or girl.” I cringed from within, anger bubbling like a volcanic mud pool. Why did he have to embarrass me in front of my new-found love? The issue of my boobs was such a jovial subject in our household. I prayed to God and the angels that my boobs would not sprout like vegetables in an allotment, but stay right where they were, locked away, bra-less - bump-less. I prayed for a chest like Nadia Comaneci, not Dolly Parton. “But Errol’s black.” “Ach, Orlagh, that’s a mere formality. Come, lets go.” We were greeted
at the green door by Mrs Jones. On approaching the door a Shakin’
Stevens song always shot to the forefront of my mind. Although, today
I didn’t do the usual recitation of ‘Green door, oh, what’s
the secret you’re keepin’?’ I couldn’t reveal my
juvenile musical knowledge to such a mature man. Mrs Jones nodded in delirious, Alzheimer’s agreement - nearly twenty years after Kennedy’s assassination. “Terrible news, I thought that. What club are you from, love?” she asked Dad, not recognising him from his weekly visits to the nonsensical house. “Aston Villa.” “Oh, I like them. They’re my favourite.” She nodded her hoary head in affirmation, with her wrinkled, almost translucent hands clasped under her chin. “But we’re the Birmingham Irish Club, Rory,” Dermot whispered. “I know, son, but this one’s away to the woods, so she is. She has no clue who we are.” The eclectic group of people congregated in the newspaper-strewn house was at home with Doctor Sudki’s eclectic mix of furniture. Confidential medical records of old were, like the newspapers, scattered around the room. Pictures of ancient mythological figures, surrounded by hieroglyphics woven with golden thread hung on the walls. Old black and white photographs, like the newspapers, faded to yellow behind the fingerprint-smudged glass, showed distinguished-looking men in tweed suits and open-necked shirts. They all sweated while standing in the desert trying to hold a shimmering, haunted-looking mask. “I’ll
just call the doctor. What club are you from, love?” she asked
yet again, oblivious of her recent enquiry. “Oh, Birmingham City, I like them. They’re my favourite.” “Go you stu-pid woman. GO!” Doctor Sudki screeched, as he emerged from behind one of his doorswhich was speckled like an old cow. It was dirty beige with large brown blobs, where the old paint had fallen off to be walked into the cracks of the wooden floor. His bald head still managed to shimmer in the dingily lit abode. His ears, as globular as his lips, stuck out like handles on a mug. His stained trousers were invariably pulled up above his chest. “Com, Emmet, com,” he clamorously instructed while gesturing with a long, wrinkled finger. The spittle off his bulbous lips sprayed into the beautiful face of Emmet O’Malley. Emmet diligently followed the old man into the room. “No, Emmet - com. Not you, you stu-pid boy. Emmet, com.” The divine Emmet was about to defend himself when Dad - the other Emmet - placed a hand on his strong shoulder and informed ‘Emmet the divine’ through a clenched-teeth smile; “He means me, the barmy ald bastard. Just smile at him. I’ll cheer him up. I’ll get him to tell us his favourite story. You’ll love it, so yer will.”
“Before we get down to business, doc, do me a favour would ye? Tell us that story about the tomb.” Dad bellowed at such an intolerable level even Doctor Sudki cringed - and he was half-deaf. Doctor Sudki, in his heavily accented English, excitably proceeded to tell us - yet again - his favourite tale. “The discovery of Tutankharmen’s tomb was the greatest and strangest day of my life. It was the last tomb to be found, because all other excavations were taking place around it and they’d mistakenly hid the tomb by placing all the rubble from the tombs of Ramses one, two and three on top of Tutankharmen’s. But it was mainly Ramses six rubble that stalled discovery of the boy-king’s tomb. “The Egyptian Minister of Health needed to be present upon entering any newly discovered tombs. This job belonged to my far-ter and I was a young handsome doctor a few years past my training who had the privilege of accompanying him. “Death is everywhere in the Valley of the Kings and I thought I would be near it if How-ard Carter and Lord Carnavon did not get a hurry in them. You see, Carnavon had tired of Carter’s dig for the insignificant boy-king’s tomb and had left in a - what do you call it? Strop? Yes, strop. He was like a spoilt child. But, upon discovery of Tutankhamen’s tomb, we had to wait for Carnavon’s arrival back at the excavation site before we could enter. The cliffs of sand surrounding us were scorching, like the hot Luxor sun. I’m from Alexandria, where the sea breeze makes everything good.” His liver-spotted hands moved up and down as he advanced with the story, like a conductor instructing his orchestra. Spittle flew in each and every direction from his spherical lips. With the bottom lip protruding further than the top he looked like he himself had taken a few too many punches in the ring. “Carnavon eventually arrived and we got the all clear. We proceed down the dusty steps of the newly found tomb. The temperature soon changed from very hot... to cool. “The seal of the first door was broken and we all enter: Carter, Carnavon, my far-ter and me. You could hear the pure three-thousand-year-old air being sucked out.” He placed his wrinkled palm behind his mug-handled ear, as though he were again listening for the noise sixty years on. Sucking in his ancient cheeks he devoured the musty air around him, making a slurping noise as he did. “Ssslurrrrrr,” - like when you take a petrol cap off a car desperate for gas, this was the noise. Then it was so quiet you could hear the silence. We all proceeded with much excitement and anticipation down a very long cool corridor. On the limestone walls either side there were beautiful paintings of Cleopatra-looking Egyptian ladies, with their hands above their heads as if they were dancing, or with them cooking on ancient stoves, or holding the head of a strong wild beast. We come to the end of corridor and there was yet another door with a seal unbroken for three-thousand-two-hund-red and forty-seven long years. The same ssslurrr sucking noise and silence. Our torches fell upon a golden-jewelled vase full of the lotus flower, standing tall and strangely alive. The lotus flower was associated with the life-giving power of the Nile, so maybe the ancient people thought its presence would guarantee them powerful life in the next world. Then, slowly at first, the flowers began to wilt. The long green stems folded over and after all those years the pink flowers hung dead over the shimmering golden vase. We then turned right, heading towards the sarcophagus... Did you know that all sarcophagi are larger than the entrance doors of the tombs? A strange phenomenon.” “Never!” Dad commented, although he certainly did know; he had gone through the fine points of this story many times. He then winked at Emmet and out of a tiny gap in the corner of his mouth he whispered: “You have to humour the ald man, he has nothin’ else!” “Yes!”
More spittle escaped captivity from the corner of Doctor Sudki’s
moist mouth. His bony index finger pointed to the ceiling, like a mad
professor after making an amazing discovery. “The sarcophagus...
the coffin, made of thick cold stone, housed the body of the boy king.
Do you know the meaning of sarcophagus?” Before anyone could respond,
he continued. “It is Grrr-eek!” Rolling his ‘r’
and spitting some more. “Grrr-eek for flesh-eating. But none of
the boy-king’s flesh looked as though it had been eaten. His mummied
body lay still and haunted-looking, covered in gold and precious stones
and wearing the mask we’re holding there on the wall.” He
gestured at the old black and white, faded-to-yellow photograph of the
sweating men; Doctor Sudki was recognisable in his youth, with his bulbous
lips and mug-handled ears. “We gathered around the corpse and we all felt so much elation at the discovery of such a magnifi-cent tomb, for such an insignificant king. Then... one by one we passed out. It was not just a black-out. I felt like I was falling to sleep. I slowly began to spin. The gold in front of my eyes shimmered into a whole mass and began to look like golden waves of an ocean, and out of the golden ocean I swear I saw the wings of an angel; solid gold, but strangely buoyant. My feet tingled, then my shins, my knees and by the time the tingling in my thighs had begun I had fallen on to the jewels spread beneath our feet. Was it lack of oxygen? Or was it the curse of Tutankhamen?” “Ach, doc, it gets better each time I hear it. Isn’t it great, Emmet? What d’ye think, Orl... ermm, Errol?” “Fantastic,” I replied in a masculine tone. Because of course I was a boy and I was black. “Emmet O’Malley up first, doc. Like me another Emmet, so he must be a good man. And he’s Irish too. It’s only a re-medical so don’t go too mad.” Dad slapped Emmet’s muscle-defined back and pushed him in the direction of the hunched doctor. Like the camels of his native country, he had acquired a hump; I wondered if his carried an emergency water supply. “Ah, Irish like you, Emmet. I like Irish. England stole your country like they did mine. They were only interested in Egypt for Suez Canal project, so they could make a shorter route to India. Ah, India, yet another country they decided to steal. They weren’t interested in the Egyptian people who worked themselves to near death in Egyptian sun producing cotton to feed British textile mills. It took us until 1954 to get English out. You’re still trying, eh? Com, I now do medical, Irish.” I didn’t know whether to stay in the musty, mothball-smelling room or retreat to the grease-strewn kitchen, which was a putrefying museum of mould. Tea-stained china cups stood next to a battered old teapot which appeared to have emerged from Tutankhamen’s tomb it looked so aged and dirty. The inside was the same chocolate-brown colour my skin was supposed to be. Milk bottles full to the brim looked like mini-mosques. The UHT silver tops, which had been pushed to full capacity by the ancient milk which had coagulated to a solid mouldy mass while trying in vain to escape the glass bottle, represented the onion-shaped domes. Standing adjacent to the mini-milk-houses-of-worship were full urine-sample bottles which had been located there for months, years maybe - I dreaded the thought. Next to the urine samples were strips of used litmus paper, which had been used to test boxer’s urine sugar level, dipped in and discarded on the kitchen worktops. The same worktops where Doctor Sudki insisted on making us tea in his filthy pot. Mouldy Turkish delight lay untouched, which Doctor Sudki’s family sent him in ornate boxes from Egypt. I found it strange that they were not red and covered in chocolate, but a mouldy shade of yellow, doused in icing sugar. Oranges had acquired a green fungoid moss. Green apples had turned yellow and brown in the final stages of decomposition. Everything had been attacked by the germ of age. Time, as always, had won in the race of life. Should I go to the kitchen and converse with a delusional Mrs Jones who sometimes mistakes me for the daughter she never actually had, or sit and watch a sculpted body take off its shirt and wince at the touch of the cold stethoscope? It was a difficult decision - Mrs Jones, who invariably smelt of boiled sweets and urine (or maybe that was just the urine samples)? Or Emmet, who smelt like a fresh sea breeze and replicated the illusionary figures of my dreams? I would never usually leave while a medical was taking place, but I cringed when I glanced at Emmet’s body. I was convinced he knew I was glaring through him and daydreaming my way to his lips... I decided to stay and endure the torture of Emmet O’Malley removing his crisp white T-shirt and revealing a perfectly defined torso. I watched as his deltoids, trapezius and rhomboids rippled at his every move, like water over a calm pond being disturbed by a small falling pebble. Attempting to distract myself, I picked up a decaying yellow newspaper and pretended to be engrossed in the 1971 introduction of British decimalization. Emmet’s perfect physique sailed through its medical and Dermot followed trouble-free. Jack caused the doctor distress. Adversity I could have done without. My anxiety was mounting and I didn’t want a perturbed doctor examining my female contours for fear of discovery. Jack’s bony teenage figure stood shaking before the hot-tempered spittle-spraying doctor. He had completed all stages of the medical except the eye examination. There wasn’t a board pinned to the wall like in an optician’s examination room; instead there were letters placed on a piece of cardboard, its edges curled with overuse and age. The doctor held the card ridiculously close to Jack’s eyes. We could all sense Jack was struggling. You wouldn’t have thought he had a sight problem. “Hurry, boy, you can see, or not see - tell me?” “Amoglmmmmtuuc,” Jack replied. “WHAT?!” “Amogl...” He glanced at Dad, eyes damp from straining or frustration. “I can’t read too well, Rory.” His head hung low. I thought I had problems... Jack thought he had to make a coherent word from the accumulation of haphazard letters. His eyes brightened upon Dad’s explanation of only having to decipher each individual letter. “A, M, O, G, L, M, T, U, C.” “Why did you not do this five minutes ago? Go. You’re done. Quickly, who’s next?” “Errol is, doc. Great LAD he is, although he can be a bit of a GIRL at times.” Dad, Emmet, Dermot and Jack folded over in convulsing laughter, alleviating Jack’s humiliation and intensifying my consternation. Through his enormous magnifying glass he read my - well, Errol’s file. As I approached, the bold, defying words of AFRO-CARIBBEAN glared at me in spherical letters. My long hair was scooped up into a Toronto Blue Jay’s baseball cap, turned backwards so I could view the sight test unhindered. The cap was on so tight the plastic strip which was supposed to be at the back of my head cut into my forehead. A few unruly blonde curls were peeping through the semi-circle gap in the hat, also trying to witness the hilarious scene. “Com... take off your shirt.” I glared at Dad. “Go ‘nd
make us a nice cuppa with Mrs Jones will ye, Jack? And give him a hand
there, Dermot,” Dad instructed the two younger boys. It wasn’t
them I was bothered about - it was Emmet. I didn’t want him to
view my boobs... or lack of them. Emmet must have sensed something because
he turned to the wall and showed exaggerated interest in Doctor Sudki’s
pictures. The delay incensed Doctor Sudki somewhat. I quickly unbuttoned my shirt revealing my little bumps. My Nadia Comaneci prayers had been answered so far. I flinched as he placed the rusty stethoscope on my chest; it was as cold as an ice-cube that wouldn’t melt. The only thing melting was my mind at the thought of Emmet behind me, and - of being a boy and trying to be black. With my mind on important issues I didn’t hear if Doctor Sudki had instructed me to inhale or exhale. So, I took the fifty-fifty chance and bet on inhale. “I said EXHALE, you stupid child. Emmet, why do you bring these black people to me? They’re so half-witted. Their brains have not formed inside their skulls.” He pounded my skull with bony knuckles. My cover was almost blown when the baseball cap tilted off my head. “These black people are just like Neolithic man. You only have to look at their faces and the colour of their skin to see they are backward.” Phew, I thought, at least I’d convinced Doctor Sudki of my blackness. He pointed at the skin on my arm, which was three shades fairer than his own - trying to prove his point on black people to Dad! The sound of raspberries being blown on a child’s stomach emerged from the mouths of Dad and Emmet, who was still busy viewing the ancient photographs. They couldn’t suppress their laughter. I even saw the funny side of it. Luckily for me,
my black stupidity disgusted him to an extent that he rushed the rest
of the examination. He pushed my female, white body in an arrogant fashion.
Blood pressure, ears and eyes were done like a hundred-metre sprint.
Dermot produced Errol’s urine, which the doctor tested with his
litmus paper in the kitchen - or maybe he was testing the coagulated
milk. I’m sure he wouldn’t have known the difference.
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