Читать книгу Barefoot in Mullyneeny: A Boy’s Journey Towards Belonging - Bryan Gallagher - Страница 8

My uncle married a rich English widow who became my godmother. She was a lovely woman and regularly sent me books which I read voraciously. They had titles like The Fifth Form at St Dominic’s, Maitland Major and Minor and Tom Brown’s Schooldays. I became immersed in a world where boys talked about ‘rugger’ and ‘the first eleven’, and where if you were a ‘cad’ or a ‘bounder’ you were liable to get a sound thrashing in the boxing ring of the gym, where all fights were conducted with scrupulous fair play, with each boy having a second in his corner.

This ill-prepared me for life in a small village school in the Forties, and when I once had the misfortune to say that something was ‘jolly nice’, I was tormented unmercifully. There was one boy called Farrell about my own age who was noted as a great fighter. He was wiry, bony, and had fists as hard as stones. He was champion at Hardy Knuckles, and every time he fought, his opponent would be left cut and bleeding from fists that moved like lightning.

‘Out of my way,’ he would say when he came into school, and I would meekly obey, moving across the long desk to make room for him. I lived in mortal fear of him.

And then the bigger lads decided that it was my turn to fight him. I knew I was doomed when the first message arrived.

‘Farrell says you’re afraid,’ they said.

‘Tell him I’m not,’ I said, lying.

‘He says he can beat you with one hand behind his back.’

‘Tell him he can try,’ I said.

The fight was arranged for after school at the priest’s gate, the one place where we would not be seen. I spent the night before in fear and dread, knowing I was in for a hammering. In vain I tried to cheer myself up by thinking what Maitland Major of the Lower Sixth would have done with his straight left.

Now I knew that various rituals were observed before a fight. A big fellow always held his arm out horizontally between the adversaries, saying, ‘Best man spit over that arm,’ then lowered it and the contest began. I decided that my only chance lay in surprise. No sooner was the arm lowered than, hysterical with fear, I hit him a ferocious haymaker on the right cheekbone.

‘A splendid left hook, delivered correctly with the knuckle part of the glove,’ said Ponsonby of the Upper Third.’

‘A fierce box on the jaw,’ said my schoolmates.

And that was it. It was all over. He ducked his head and grabbed me round the waist and I realized with a fierce joy that he was afraid. I thumped him on the back, and he refused to lift his head. We were pulled apart and I was declared the winner and while I was accepting the plaudits, Farrell hit me on the nose and the blood spurted out. But this was declared a ‘false box’ and he was chased away in ignominy. I went home covered in blood and glory.

Next day I said, ‘Out of my way, Farrell,’ and he moved. It was a six over the grandstand, it was the winning try at Twickers. And the feeling was indeed ‘Jolly nice’.