Читать книгу The Marble Collector: The life-affirming, gripping and emotional bestseller about a father’s secrets - Cecelia Ahern, Cecelia Ahern - Страница 8

‘Fergus Boggs!’

These are the only two words I can understand through Father Murphy’s rage-filled rant at me, and that’s because those words are my name, the rest of what he says is in Irish. I’m five years old and I’ve been in the country for one month. I moved from Scotland with Mammy and my brothers, after Daddy died. It all happened so quickly, Daddy dying, us moving, and even though I’d been to Ireland before, on holidays during the summer to see Grandma, Granddad, Uncle, Aunty and all my cousins, it’s not the same now. I’ve never been here when it’s not the summer. It feels like a different place. It has rained every day we’ve been here. The ice-cream shop isn’t even open now, all boarded up like it never even existed, like I made it up in my head. The beach that we used to go to most days doesn’t look like the same place and the chip van is gone. The people look different too. They’re all wrapped up and dark.

Father Murphy stands over my desk and is tall and grey and wide. He spits as he shouts at me; I feel the spit land on my cheek but I’m afraid to wipe it away in case that makes him angrier. I try looking around at the other boys to see their reactions but he lashes out at me. A backhanded slap. It hurts. He is wearing a ring, a big one; I think it has cut my face but I daren’t reach up to feel it in case he hits me again. I need to go to the toilet all of a sudden. I have been hit before, but never by a priest.

He is shouting angry Irish words. He is angry that I don’t understand. In between the Irish words he says I should understand him by now but I just can’t. I don’t get to practise at home. Mammy is sad and I don’t like to bother her. She likes to sit and cuddle. I like when she does that. I don’t want to ruin the cuddles by talking. And anyway I don’t think she remembers the Irish words either. She moved away from Ireland a long time ago to be a nanny to a family in Scotland and she met Daddy. They never spoke the Irish words there.

The priest wants me to repeat the words after him but I can barely breathe. I can barely get the words out of my mouth.

‘Tá mé, tá tú, tá sé, tá sí …’

LOUDER!

‘Tá muid, tá sibh, tá siad.’

When he’s not shouting at me, the room is so quiet it reminds me it’s filled with boys my age, all listening. As I stammer through the words he is telling everybody how stupid I am. My whole body is shaking. I feel sick. I need to go to the toilet. I tell him so. His face goes a purple colour and that is when the leather strap comes out. He lashes my hand with leather, which I later learn has pennies sewn into the layers. He tells me he is going to give me ‘six of the best’ on each hand. I can’t take the pain. I need to go to the toilet. I go right there and then. I expect the boys to laugh but nobody does. They keep their heads down. Maybe they’ll laugh later, or maybe they’ll understand. Maybe they’re just happy it’s not happening to them. I’m embarrassed, and ashamed, as he tells me I should be. Then he pulls me out of the room, by my ear, and that hurts too, away from everyone, down the corridor, and he pushes me into a dark room. The door bangs closed behind me and he leaves me alone.

I don’t like the dark, I have never liked the dark, and I start to cry. My pants are wet, my wee has run down into my socks and shoes but I don’t know what to do. Mammy usually changes them for me. What do I do here? There is no window in the room and I can’t see anything. I hope he won’t keep me in here long. My eyes adjust to the darkness and the light that comes from under the door helps me to see. I’m in a storage room. I see a ladder, and a bucket and a mop with no stick, just the head. It smells rank. An old bicycle is hanging upside down, the chain missing. There’s two wellington boots but they don’t match and they’re both for the same foot. Nothing in here fits together. I don’t know why he put me in here and I don’t know how long it’ll be. Will Mammy be looking for me?

It feels like forever has passed. I close my eyes and sing to myself. The songs that Mammy sings with me. I don’t sing them too loud in case he hears me and thinks I’m having fun in here. That would make him angrier. In this place, fun and laughing makes them angry. We are not here to be leaders, we are here to serve. This is not what my daddy taught me, he said that I was a natural leader, that I can be anything I want to be. I used to go hunting with him, he taught me everything, he even let me walk first, he said I was the leader. He sang a song about it. ‘Following the leader, the leader, the leader, Fergus is the leader, da da da da da.’ I hum it to myself but I don’t say the words. The priest won’t like me saying I’m the leader. In this place we’re not allowed to be anybody we want to be, we have to be who they tell us to be. I sing the songs my daddy used to sing when I was allowed to stay up late and listen to the sing-songs. Daddy had a soft voice for a strong man, and he sometimes cried when he sang. My daddy never said crying was only for babies, not like the priest said, crying is for people who are sad. I sing it to myself now and try not to cry.

Suddenly the door opens and I move away, afraid that it will be him again, with that leather strap. It’s not him but it’s the younger one, the one who teaches the music class with the kind eyes. He closes the door behind him and crouches down.

‘Hi, Fergus.’

I try to say hi but nothing comes out of my mouth.

‘I brought you something. A box of bloodies.’

I flinch and he puts a hand out. ‘Don’t look so scared now, they’re marbles. Have you ever played with marbles?’

I shake my head. He opens his hand and I see them shining in his palm like treasures, four red rubies.

‘I used to love these as a boy,’ he says quietly. ‘My granddad gave them to me. “A box of bloodies,” he said, “just for you.” I don’t have the box now. Wish I had, could be worth something. Always remember to keep the packaging, Fergus, that’s one bit of advice I’ll give you. But I’ve kept the marbles.’

Somebody walks by the door; we can feel their boots as the floor shakes and creaks beneath us and he looks at the door. When the footsteps have passed he turns back to me, his voice quieter. ‘You have to shoot them. Or fulk them.’

I watch as he puts his knuckle on the ground and balances the marble in his bent forefinger. He puts his thumb behind and then gently pushes the marble; it rolls along the wooden floor at speed. A red bloodie, bold as anything, catching the light, shining and glistening. It stops at my foot. I’m afraid to pick it up. And my raw hands are paining me still, it’s hard to close them. He sees this and winces.

‘Go on, you try,’ he says.

I try it. I’m not very good at first because it’s hard to close my hands like he showed me, but I get the hang of it. Then he shows me other ways to shoot them. Another way called ‘knuckling down’. I prefer it that way and even though he says that’s more advanced I’m best at that one. He tells me so and I have to bite my lip to stop the smile.

‘Names given to marbles vary from place to place,’ he says, getting down and showing me again. ‘Some people call them a taw, or a shooter, or tolley, but me and my brothers called them allies.’

Allies. I like that. Even with me locked in this room on my own, I have allies. It makes me feel like a soldier. A prisoner of war.

He fixes me with a serious look. ‘When aiming, remember to look at the target with a steady eye. The eye directs the brain, the brain directs the hand. Don’t forget that. Always keep an eye on the target, Fergus, and your brain will make it happen.’

I nod.

The bell rings, class over.

‘Okay.’ He stands up, wipes down his dusty robe. ‘I’ve a class now. You sit tight here. It shouldn’t be much longer.’

I nod.

He’s right. It shouldn’t be much longer – but it is. Father Murphy doesn’t come to get me soon. He leaves me there all day. I even do another wee in my pants because I’m afraid to knock on the door to get someone, but I don’t care. I am a soldier, a prisoner of war, and I have my allies. I practise and practise in the small room, in my own little world, wanting my skill and accuracy to be the best in the school. I’m going to show the other boys and I’m going to be better than them all the time.

The next time Father Murphy puts me in here I have the marbles hidden in my pocket and I spend the day practising again. I also have an archboard in the dark room. I put it there myself between classes, just in case. It’s a piece of cardboard with seven arches cut in it. I made it myself from Mrs Lynch’s empty cornflakes box that I found in her bin after I saw some other boys with a fancy shop-bought one. The middle arch is number 0, the arches either side are 1, 2, 3. I put the archboard at the far wall and I shoot from a distance, close to the door. I don’t really know how to play it properly yet and I can’t play it on my own but I can practise my shooting. I will be better than my big brothers at something.

The nice priest doesn’t stay in the school long. They say that he kisses women and that he’s going to Hell, but I don’t care. I like him. He gave me my first marbles, my bloodies. In a dark time in my life, he gave me my allies.