Read Online The Street and other stories by Gerry Adams - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gerry Adams
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too, as he clambered outside and climbed into the back. Angrily he selected a carton of whiskey from among its fellows and handed me a yellow bucket which was wedged in among the boxes.
“Here, hold this,” he ordered gruffly. As I did so he held the whiskey box at arm’s length above his head and then, to my surprise, dropped it on the road. We heard glass smashing and splintering as the carton crumpled at one corner. Geordie pulled the bucket from me and sat the corner of the whiskey box into it.
“Breakages,” he grinned at my uneasiness. “You can’t avoidthem. By the time we get to Paddy’s Silent bloody Valley there’ll be a nice wee drink for us to toast him and the border
and
that bloody foreign language of yours. Take that in the front with you.”
I did as he directed. Already the whiskey was beginning to drip into the bucket.
“That’s an old trick,” Geordie explained as we continued our journey. He was still in bad humour and maybe even a little embarrassed about the whiskey, which continued to dribble into the bucket between my feet on the floor. “The cardboard acts as a filter and stops any glass from getting through. Anyway, it’s Christmas and Paddy isn’t the only one who can enjoy himself,” he concluded as we took the side road at Glassdrummond and commenced the climb up to the Silent Valley.
The view that awaited us was indeed breathtaking, as we came suddenly upon the deep mountain valley with its massive dam and huge expanse of water surrounded by rugged mountains and skirted by a picturesque stretch of road.
“Well, Paddy was right about this bit anyway,” Geordie conceded as he parked the van and we got out for a better view. “It’s a pity we didn’t take a camera with us,” he said. “It’s gorgeous here. Give’s the bucket and two of them glasses.”
He filled the two glasses and handed me one.
“Don’t mind me, our kid. I’m not at myself. Here’s to a good Christmas.”
That was the first time I drank whiskey. I didn’t want to offend Geordie again by refusing, but I might as well have for I put my foot in it anyway the next minute. He was gazing reflectively up the valley, quaffing his drink with relish while I sipped timorously on mine.
“Do you not think you’re drinking too much to be driving?” I asked.
He exploded.
“Look, son, I’ve stuck you for a few weeks now, and I never told you once how to conduct your affairs; not once. You’ve gabbledon at me all week about every bloody thing under the sun and today to make matters worse you and that oul’ degenerate that I was stupid enough to give a lift to, you and him tried to coerce me and talked about me in your stupid language, and now you’re complaining about my drinking. When you started as my helper I didn’t think I’d have to take the pledge
and
join the fuckin’ rebels as well. Give my head peace, would you, wee lad; for the love and honour of God, give’s a bloody break!”
His angry voice skimmed across the water and bounced back at us off the side of the mountains. I could feel the blood rushing to my own head as the whiskey and Geordie’s words registered in my brain.
“Who the hell do you think you are, eh?” I shouted at him, and my voice clashed with the echo of his as they collided across the still waters.
“Who do I think I am? Who do you think you are is more like it,” he snapped back, “with all your bright ideas about history and language and all that crap. You and that oul’ eejit Paddy are pups from the same Fenian litter, but you remember one thing, young fella-me-lad, youse may have the music and songs and history and even the bloody mountains, but we’ve got everything else; you remember that!”
His outburst caught me by surprise.
“All that is yours as well, Geordie. We don’t keep it from you. It’s you that rejects it all. It doesn’t reject you. It’s not ours to give or take. You were born here same as me.”
“I don’t need you to tell
“Here, hold this,” he ordered gruffly. As I did so he held the whiskey box at arm’s length above his head and then, to my surprise, dropped it on the road. We heard glass smashing and splintering as the carton crumpled at one corner. Geordie pulled the bucket from me and sat the corner of the whiskey box into it.
“Breakages,” he grinned at my uneasiness. “You can’t avoidthem. By the time we get to Paddy’s Silent bloody Valley there’ll be a nice wee drink for us to toast him and the border
and
that bloody foreign language of yours. Take that in the front with you.”
I did as he directed. Already the whiskey was beginning to drip into the bucket.
“That’s an old trick,” Geordie explained as we continued our journey. He was still in bad humour and maybe even a little embarrassed about the whiskey, which continued to dribble into the bucket between my feet on the floor. “The cardboard acts as a filter and stops any glass from getting through. Anyway, it’s Christmas and Paddy isn’t the only one who can enjoy himself,” he concluded as we took the side road at Glassdrummond and commenced the climb up to the Silent Valley.
The view that awaited us was indeed breathtaking, as we came suddenly upon the deep mountain valley with its massive dam and huge expanse of water surrounded by rugged mountains and skirted by a picturesque stretch of road.
“Well, Paddy was right about this bit anyway,” Geordie conceded as he parked the van and we got out for a better view. “It’s a pity we didn’t take a camera with us,” he said. “It’s gorgeous here. Give’s the bucket and two of them glasses.”
He filled the two glasses and handed me one.
“Don’t mind me, our kid. I’m not at myself. Here’s to a good Christmas.”
That was the first time I drank whiskey. I didn’t want to offend Geordie again by refusing, but I might as well have for I put my foot in it anyway the next minute. He was gazing reflectively up the valley, quaffing his drink with relish while I sipped timorously on mine.
“Do you not think you’re drinking too much to be driving?” I asked.
He exploded.
“Look, son, I’ve stuck you for a few weeks now, and I never told you once how to conduct your affairs; not once. You’ve gabbledon at me all week about every bloody thing under the sun and today to make matters worse you and that oul’ degenerate that I was stupid enough to give a lift to, you and him tried to coerce me and talked about me in your stupid language, and now you’re complaining about my drinking. When you started as my helper I didn’t think I’d have to take the pledge
and
join the fuckin’ rebels as well. Give my head peace, would you, wee lad; for the love and honour of God, give’s a bloody break!”
His angry voice skimmed across the water and bounced back at us off the side of the mountains. I could feel the blood rushing to my own head as the whiskey and Geordie’s words registered in my brain.
“Who the hell do you think you are, eh?” I shouted at him, and my voice clashed with the echo of his as they collided across the still waters.
“Who do I think I am? Who do you think you are is more like it,” he snapped back, “with all your bright ideas about history and language and all that crap. You and that oul’ eejit Paddy are pups from the same Fenian litter, but you remember one thing, young fella-me-lad, youse may have the music and songs and history and even the bloody mountains, but we’ve got everything else; you remember that!”
His outburst caught me by surprise.
“All that is yours as well, Geordie. We don’t keep it from you. It’s you that rejects it all. It doesn’t reject you. It’s not ours to give or take. You were born here same as me.”
“I don’t need you to tell
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