I would die for Poland. Would you die for Wales?
| ALL THIS IS MINE
‘He fancies himself, doesn't he?' Colin didn't like the way the new boy was ignoring everyone. He was leaning against the wall, eating an apple, gazing up at a jet plane streaking through the thin white clouds. ‘He thinks he's better than us.' ‘Maybe.' I wasn't sure. Still, he'd only started school that morning, he had no right acting so relaxed in our playground. He should have been hovering anxiously on the edge of our game, charging off to fetch the ball every time it went out of play, a big sucking up smile on his face when he rushed back to hand it over, slowly plucking up the courage to ask for a game. |
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What if I go on the side that’s losing?
No, it’s too close, there’s only one goal in it.
We were stood around, waiting. Preece had kicked the ball over the wall into the street, then made Joe 90 go and get it. He was taking ages. Preece was fed up waiting. He started walking over to the new boy. I nudged Colin.
‘Look.’
He wasn’t even going to wait till after school, he was going to get him right there, in front of everyone. No hair, staring eyes. Heading straight for him. I held my breath. One of the teachers, Thommo, came round the corner, hands behind his back, whistling The Dam Busters. Preece heard him, turned round and slipped into the bogs for a fag instead. The new boy carried on eating his apple, no idea what a narrow escape he’d had. I could have given him a run down on who to keep in with and who to avoid, might even have offered him the chance to team up with Colin and me. But he didn’t seem bothered whether anyone liked him or not, so now he’d just have to find out how things worked in our school the hard way.
‘About time you spaz!’
Joe 90 was back with the ball. The game restarted with a throw in. Now Preece had gone for a fag, our side was one man down;the new boy could have had a game if he’d wanted, but he just carried on gazing up at the sky, eating his apple.
Marek, that was his name.
***
Preece barged into Marek on the way out of school.
‘Oi! Fucking watch where you’re going, you spaz.’
‘You bumped into me.’
Preece searched his face for signs of nerves, but Marek looked irritated, not scared. A crowd started gathering.
‘Don’t you know who I am?’
‘No.’
Everyone was supposed to have heard of Preece. He shoved his face into Marek’s.
‘You soon will.’
There was some pushing as kids jostled for position, eager not to miss anything.
Marek turned to go, Preece stepped in front of him, pointed to the patch sewn onto his anorak. A white eagle on a red background.
‘What’s that?’
‘The Polish flag.’
‘It’s shit.’
I watched the anger flare up in Marek’s eyes, then him struggling to gain control of it.
‘Excuse me.’
Preece let him past, a sneer on his face. He started making the chicken noise, but Marek didn’t turn round. Preece walked over to his mates and grinned. He wasn’t in any hurry.
***
Colin couldn’t see it.
‘He isn’t chicken.’
‘Oh yeah, then why didn’t he fight him?’
That was a laugh. Colin would have run a mile.
‘I don’t know… but it wasn’t because he was scared of him. It was something else.’
‘Ha!’
‘Ha!’ I shouted back, louder. He was getting on my nerves. We walked the rest of the way to the railway crossing in silence. The sun glinted off the rails. My favourite smell, burning tar, drifted past on the breeze.
‘Why are you taking his side?’
‘Why are you taking Preece’s?’
He hesitated, picked up a stone, threw it at a rusting tin.
‘He’s alright.’
‘He’s a bastard.’
He wouldn’t look at me. I said it again, louder this time.
‘Preece is a bastard. Isn’t he?’
He finally turned and looked at me.
‘Yeah, he is.’
‘What was that? I didn’t hear you.’
‘He’s a bastard.’
I jumped in front, stood in his way.
‘Who’s a bastard?’
‘Preece is.’
‘Then tell him, like this.’
I threw back my head, made a loud hailer with my hands.
‘PREECE – YOU’RE A BASTARD. A BLOODY BAAAA –STAAARD!’
‘Oi you. Watch your language.’
An old man stood on his doorstep, pointing at us. He looked a right miserable old git. I ran across the road, shouting.
‘BASTARD! BASTARD! BASTARD!’
He was shouting something back at me, but I kept on running. I didn’t slow down till I was out of sight. When Colin caught up I put my arm around his shoulder.
‘Silly old bugger.’
‘Yeah, sod him.’
We turned down our street. I took my arm away, in case anyone saw us and thought we were a couple of nancies.
***
Monday was boiled bacon and cabbage. Clouds of steam rolled across the kitchen as mam drained the saucepans. I lay the knives and forks on the table, then sat down next to Michael, the spaz. Dad came in the back door.
‘I’m home. The working man is ready for his grub.’
He bent down to take off his bicycle clips, then went into the bathroom. Mam served the dinner. Slabs of thick, sweaty bacon, a pile of steaming spuds, dark green water oozing from the cabbage. Michael began to look queasy. Mam sat down, wiped the sweat from her forehead, blew out her cheeks.
‘Oh god I’m killed. I wish your father would eat a salad in the week.’
Salads were for Sundays – corned beef, lettuce, tomatoes, pickled onions and salad cream or brown sauce. Dad came back from the bathroom, covered his chair with yesterday’s paper so he wouldn’t stain it with his working clothes, then beat it flat with his hand.
‘Now then…’
Mam handed him his cup of cabbage water. He slurped it down. Michael pulled a face.
I put my head down, started shovelling it all in as quickly as I could.
‘For god’s sake Liam, it’s not a race.’
The only way to get through a plate of boiled bacon and cabbage was to pretend you were a robot imitating a human, and that you couldn’t really taste anything. There was only one thing worse – crubeens;pigs’ trotters. Dad ate them cold, with a glass of buttermilk and some soda bread.
‘I’ve finished.’
‘You’ll give yourself indigestion.’
‘Leave him be’ said Dad, ‘At least he likes his grub, not like the other fella.’
Michael was still nervously cutting his first slice of bacon.
‘Can I leave the table please?’
I rushed to the toilet, locked the door behind me, lifted the seat. Stuck my fingers down my throat. My dinner came out like a flood. I flushed the toilet twice, washed my hands and face, drank some water from the tap. When I went back into the kitchen Michael was trying to force a tiny piece of soggy cabbage into his mouth. He’d be there all night
‘Can I go and see Colin now?’
‘All right.’
His house was only a few doors away. I ran down the back lane, knocked on their door.
‘Hi-ya.’
‘Hi-ya Liam, come in.’
They were having pie and chips from the chippie. Colin’s mam smiled, said ‘There’s some chips left, they always give you too much at Alonzis.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Help yourself to bread and butter.’
I took a couple of slices from the plate in the middle of the table, some chips from the bag on top of the cooker, made myself a butty.
‘Don’t they feed you at home?’ said Colin’s dad.
He always said that. I ate the butty leaning against the cooker. They got their dinner from the chippie three or four times a week. At the weekend they ate their dinner sitting in front of the telly. I’d have loved that.
***
Everyone knew what was coming. When Marek walked through the gate at the end of the day and saw the crowd waiting, he knew too, he must have, even though he looked as though his mind was somewhere else. Preece walked right up to him, blocking his way.
‘My dad says Poland is a commie country.’
He pushed Marek in the chest.
‘Commie.’
Marek went rigid.
‘Take it back.’
‘What?’
Preece was acting dumb, taking his time, getting his own back on Marek for not knowing who he was, for not being frightened of him.
‘Take it back I said.’
He started to shout.
‘I’m no communist.’
‘Are you calling my dad a liar?’
‘Yes.’
Preece’s head snapped forward. Marek’s legs buckled, he staggered backwards, eyes wide with pain and bewilderment. It wasn’t fair, Preece hadn’t given any warning.
‘Cheating!’
One of Preece’s mates pointed at me, shouted ‘Shut your face Bennett.’
Marek slumped against the wall, put his hands out to steady himself. Preece stayed where he was, gloating, waiting to see if he’d recover. The crowd tightened around them.
‘Go on Preecey, get him.’
Marek shook his head, straightened up, brought his fists up in front of his face. Preece sneered, closed in. He had to get away from the wall or he was finished. Preece swung for his head, but Marek was ready this time, ducked, then caught Preece a beauty right on the nose. He swerved to the left then moved to the right, wrong footing Preece, moving out from the wall. When Preece turned to follow him, there was blood streaming from his nose.
Yes.
There was a crazed look on Preece’s face. He hated Marek for not being scared, for fighting back, for drawing blood in front of everyone. His punches were wild, the ones Marek didn’t dodge caught him on the arms or shoulders. Marek timed his perfectly, drove his fist into Preece’s face two, three, four times.
Come on Marek
I had to bite down hard on my lip, force the words back down my throat, keep them from escaping. It frightened me to realise how much I wanted to see Preece beaten. He’d been lording it over us for years. Had us all where he wanted us, under his thumb. We bored him. He’d needed someone new to bully, thought he’d found him. But he’d finally met his match. Now I was ashamed of pretending to like him, laughing at his jokes, letting him dribble past me when we were playing football even though he was useless. He’d made my life hell when I first went to school. Waited for me outside every night with a couple of his mates, pushed me against the wall.
‘Count to three.’
‘What?’
‘Count to three.’
‘Why?’
He pushed his knuckles into the side of my head.
‘Do it.’
I could see it was a trick, knew it would just be the beginning. But what was the catch?
He shoved me in the chest with the flat of his hand, my head bounced off the wall.
‘Go on.’
‘Wun, too, tree.’
They howled with laughter.
‘Shut up!’
Wun, too, tree. See dat over dare. A cup of tay. I sounded like Dad back then. Mary Dwyer and Caroline Duffy weren’t picked on by the other girls;Pat Roche, Sean McGuinness and Tom Daley didn’t come till later. I was the one who got it all.
‘Hey Bennet, how many goals did United score at the weekend?’
I’d turn away.
‘I tink it was tree.’
Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha.
Let them laugh, I told myself. They’re just being stupid, it doesn’t bother me.
It did. I hated it.
I looked around, at Colin, Joe 90, some of the others, could see they felt the same as me, wished they’d fought back, were struggling to force cries of Come on Marek back down their throats too.
Then suddenly Preece was bellowing like a bull, charging at Marek, ramming him back into the crowd, scattering boys. The two of them rolled across the pavement, kicking, gouging, tearing at each other’s clothes. Preece elbowed him in the nose. Before Marek could recover he had him in a headlock. Preece dragged him to his feet. His eyes were crazy. He rammed Marek’s head into the wall. The sound sickened me. He grabbed a handful of hair and scraped his face down the bricks.
‘Cheating!’
It was Joe 90 this time. One of Preece’s mates shoved him and his glasses went flying into the gutter.
Preece got him back in a headlock.
‘Give in?’
Marek wouldn’t say yes. I willed him to get up, throw Preece off, but it was over. Preece had won. A sour taste fetched up in my throat. Preece tightened his grip.
‘Give in?’
Marek was trying to prise Preece’s arm away from his neck, but he barely had the strength to stand.
‘Do you want some more?’
Preece’s face was burning red, his teeth bared.
He was going to ram his head into the wall again. He was going to kill him.
‘There’s someone coming.’
‘Where?’
I pointed to the school.
‘Someone was watching from the window. Just now. I think it was Thommo.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, yes!’
‘Let him go Preecey, Thommo’s coming.’
‘Give in or I’ll smash your head. Give in, give in.’
‘Leave it Preecey. Come on, let’s go.’
A couple of his mates dragged Preece away. Colin and I helped Marek up. He was a state.
‘Bad luck. You put up a good fight.’
He spat onto the pavement.
‘His father’s a liar.’
His face was battered and scratched, his jumper torn. His hands were shaking.
‘Are you OK?’
He wiped blood and dirt from his mouth, felt his jaw. He was white as a ghost.
‘I’m fine. Thank you.’
He didn’t have an accent like ours. He wasn’t posh, but he spoke very precisely.
‘No one’s ever beaten Preece.’
Joe 90 handed him his anorak. He snatched it from him, ran his hand carefully over the Polish flag, searching for any damage.
‘He did over a boy two years older than him in the summer holidays’said Colin, ‘because he thought he was looking at him funny.’
‘No one would have blamed you if you’d given in. You could have…’
The contempt in his eyes stopped me in my tracks.
‘He insulted me. I would have died rather than give in.’
Before I could reply he turned and started walking away.