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Authors: Creina Mansfield

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T
here was no logic to Dad’s attitude. Helen and Ian had behaved badly, yet I was the child who had to be watched.

I checked with Mum that she felt the same way. It’s always worth asking the other parent if you get the wrong answer from the first, just in case they haven’t conferred on what to say. But Mum was even more adamant than Dad that I should stay with them. Apparently if I wasn’t there, she’d feel old.

‘So I’ve got to live at no 10 just so you can feel young. And it won’t work. You’re getting older all the time,’ I pointed out. It was obvious.

‘Oh, Davy,’ Mum said, starting to look dreamy-eyed, ‘You’re my little baby. I don’t want to lose you yet.’

‘Wouldn’t it be a good idea if I left before you’re sick of me? We could cut out the middle bit, all the arguing and just go straight to the separation.’

‘David, Dad and I aren’t “sick” of Helen and Ian. We just recognise that they’re old enough to have a little more independence. You’re not. What would people say if you didn’t live with us?’

I hate that line of argument. What people? The neighbours again?

But I shut up. I’d have to work on Mum and Dad if I was going to move into no 8.

The advantages were obvious. My friends at school were in no doubt which house would be better.

‘You’ll have much more fun with your brother and sister,’ advised Abbas. ‘You know, her friends round, parties …’

‘And they can’t tell you what to do,’ said Joe. He had little sisters who were always getting in the way.

Helen and Ian wouldn’t have rules about wiping your feet on the doormat and so on. In fact, the way Helen had decorated no 8, there wouldn’t be anything as ordinary as a doormat.

I wasn’t going to ask her for help. She wouldn’t
be keen to have me at no 8, but perhaps I could use that to my advantage. I started by reminding Mum and Dad of my last year’s breakages: the dining-room table, which should have taken my weight, but hadn’t; the lampstand; a telephone; doorknobs too numerous to list.

And I returned to my old habit of head-butting the light switches on and off.

‘How’s Psycho Phil?’ I asked Ian as we sat down to supper one evening. ‘Haven’t seen him since he was thrown off the DART–’

But Helen interrupted. She was full of her plans for no 8. ‘Colourwise, sharpness and vibrancy are in this year, Harry says.’

‘Oh, does he?’ said Dad, with a fair amount of sharpness and vibrancy himself. ‘What’s that to do with furnishing a house?’

‘Dad, don’t you know anything? Sharp colours are deep and clear. They have clarity and contrast. They’re very nineties.’

‘Harry says,’ added Ian.

‘Muted colours are out,’ intoned Helen.

‘I wish muted boyfriends were in,’ complained Dad.

‘Harry’s paying a lot of attention to the
decoration at no 8,’ I observed to no one in particular. ‘Anyone would think he was going to live there.’

‘Over my dead body!’ yelled Dad.

‘Mine too,’ agreed Ian.

I saw my chance. ‘So, er, Ian, you wouldn’t object if I lived at no 8?’

‘No, that’s fine with me.’

‘All right, all right,’ Dad cut in.

He looked across at Mum. But her mind was still on Harry. ‘If he’s so great, why is he still unmarried at his age?’ she asked.

‘If he’s unmarried …’

Dad cleared his throat and turned to Mum. ‘David can live at no 8 if you agree.’

I thought Mum would resist but she nodded. ‘It might encourage Helen and Ian to behave themselves,’ she said.

She’s such a dreamer, my mum.


T
his is great!’

Joe, Abbas and I sloped around no 8, Highfield Road inspecting the facilities. ‘Cool.’

My friends were full of admiration. My bedroom didn’t look very different from the way it was before with the same furniture from 11, Elm Close, apart from Great Uncle Albert’s tall boy on the window sill. But the rest of the house was completely different.

‘Ornaments are just clutter,’ Helen told us all, as she gave the guided tour. ‘And I’m aiming at clean, harmonious lines.’

Hypocritically, Joe and Abbas nodded in agreement, pretending that they knew what she was talking about. For some reason my friends seem to like my sister … Actually, they spent more time looking at her than at the house which was like something from the next century.
Everything was either black or white. The carpets were thick white wool. The television, nearly as big as the screen at The Odeon, was black. Arranged round it were three black and white striped sofas – one for each of us, and littered around the room were large white bean bags. The old grand piano that Ian no longer used, reappeared at no 8 because it fitted in with the decor.

‘You lucky so-and-so,’ said Joe, throwing himself onto one of the sofas.

‘Eight channels,’ I said, flicking through them on the TV remote. I was enjoying myself.

I looked at the empty fireplace as my friends settled down to watch TV. We hadn’t had an open fire at Elm Close, just central heating. I liked the thought of a blazing fire warming the room as we relaxed. Trouble was, we didn’t have any coal.

‘Pity we can’t have a fire,’ I said.

‘Would it ruin the clean, harmonious lines?’ asked Abbas. It’s not always easy to tell when he’s joking.

‘No coal,’ I answered.

He leapt up. ‘I’ll ask my Mum.’

‘Anything to eat?’ asked Joe hopefully after Abbas left. We drifted out to the kitchen in search of food. All the machines, including the fridge, were brand new and empty.

I slammed the fridge door shut, then brightened. ‘The beauty of this system is that Mum is just next door!’

We found Mum enjoying herself unpacking tea chests. Her fridge was new too, but the plastic covering had gone and it was full of food. I took back some bread, peanut butter, biscuits and crisps.

Abbas was trying to light the fire by the time I got back. His Mum had given him a carrier-bag of coal, some firelighters and a box of matches with just two matches in it.

‘She says we mustn’t play with matches,’ Abbas told us. ‘So she emptied most of the matches out.’

‘What does she think we are, babies?’ asked Joe scornfully.

I agreed. Why would we want to play with matches when we had all this to play with? We had a comfortable room, a blazing – well, smouldering – fire and best of all, the knowledge that we
weren’t going to be interrupted by a parent throwing open the door and saying something like, ‘There’s a documentary about dental hygiene on. Why don’t we all watch it together?’

The fire was alight now and beginning to glow. We had hours of undisturbed viewing ahead of us.

‘We could toast the bread if we had a toasting fork or something,’ Abbas suggested.

‘We’ve got one at home, I think,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll try and bring it tomorrow.’

I could see I was going to have a lot of visitors.

‘Ever tried toasted marshmallows?’ asked Joe, who was now sunk deep into a bean bag. ‘They taste really great.’

The fire blazed. I picked up the TV controls and flipped the channels. ‘Who wants wrestling, “Neighbours” or MTV?’ I asked.

The vote was for the wrestling. Terry the King Lawlor was behaving badly again.

‘This is the life,’ said Joe contentedly.

I had to agree.

N
o 8 Highfield Road became the favourite drop-in spot for Ian’s drop-out friends. Most mornings I stepped over a sleeping body or two on the landing and stairs on my way to the bathroom.

One advantage of having the smallest bedroom was that it shared a wall with no 10, and Dad could wake me in the morning by thumping hard on the other side. This began after a few days of Helen, Ian and myself all oversleeping.

I’d get up and go straight round to no 10 – there was no hope of any breakfast appearing at no 8. Even though the fridge lost its protective plastic covering, the only food inside was for Helen and Harry. She had checked with Mum how to cook boeuf en croûte.

‘Learn to cook beef before you try the croûte,’ 
was Mum’s advice. She was torn between wanting to teach Helen to cook and her growing wish to poison Harry.

For an image consultant, he was very unpopular. He even managed to annoy our deaf neighbour by parking his flashy car in the alleyway that led to the back of our houses. The notes started arriving within days of our move. At first it wasn’t clear what the note was about, since it was written in the shakiest handwriting I ever saw – on the back of a Christmas card.

When a Christmas card comes through the letter box in March, you’ve got to wonder.

‘“Merry Christmas from Mabel and Jim”,’ Ian read out. ‘Anyone know a Mabel and Jim? Helen, they sound like the people you mix with nowadays.’

‘You mean the sort of people who don’t feature in police files,’ Helen snapped, snatching the card. ‘The card’s not for us. Someone’s used it to write a note. Here it is, “Please don’t park car in alley. It is causing … causing …” a something or other.’

Ian grinned. ‘Harry’s car,’ he said smugly. The Oily Rags had bought an old van, but kept it locked away in the guitarist’s girlfriend’s
garage. It was cheaper than paying road tax.

‘Dreadful lack of consideration,’ tutted Ian, enjoying himself. ‘Please ask Harry to be more considerate.’

‘One doesn’t want to upset one’s neighbours,’ I added.

At least our next-door neighbours were happy. Mum and Dad were thrilled about the two houses; they seemed to have solved everything. No 10 was neat and tidy from breakfast to supper and Mum and Dad pottered around like two little kids in a Wendy House. ‘A place for everything, and everything in its place,’ had become Mum’s favourite saying, and Dad was trying his best to follow this.

‘The Oily Rags sound quite tolerable when there’s a few cavity walls between them and us,’ Dad said cheerfully over breakfast one morning. We often chatted over breakfast now, instead of continuing the previous day’s argument with Helen and Ian.

‘Yeah, Ian’s real pleased. He’s got a booking, well, sort of.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He met Raw Meat and–’

‘Just straighten your napkin, dear,’ Mum interrupted. ‘It’s lying lopsidedly on your lap.’

‘He met some raw meat!’ Dad repeated, obediently straightening his napkin. ‘Where do you do that – in a butcher’s?’

Mum was hovering. ‘Any more toast? Who can finish these last two sausages?’

‘I can, thanks. Raw Meat – they’re a thrash metal group. Styx’s group. You know, Styx O’Connor. He used to sing in the choir with Ian.’

Mum leaned over to position the salt and pepper in the exact centre of the table. ‘Little Martin O’Connor? He could reach High C,’ she said. She piled two sausages and a leftover fried egg on my plate. ‘I remember him.’

‘Why’s he called Sticks? Has he lost his legs?’ Dad asked.

I groaned. ‘Not that I’ve noticed. Anyway … Raw Meat had double-booked, so they’ve offered the Oily Rags a gig.’

But Mum and Dad were wearing that haunted look that often came over them when the Oily Rags were discussed. I changed the subject.

‘Sullivan’s given me a place in the backs. I’ve
got the speed to play forward, but he says he needs my strength.’

‘Sullivan’s your coach?’ Dad was impressed. As a pupil at St Joe’s, Tim Sullivan had played in the legendary ’82 side, then gone on to play for Ireland. Now he was back as my history teacher and rugby coach.

‘Wonderful!’ said Mum. ‘I’ll have to feed you up. Anything more I can get you, dear? More toast?’ She flicked at the table with a cloth. ‘Please brush up those crumbs, dear.’

‘Got any marshmallows?’ I asked.

‘For breakfast?’

‘I want them for later,’ I answered.

‘I’ll get some when I’m out shopping,’ she promised, adding marshmallows to her shopping list which was kept in alphabetical order.

Thoughtful, considerate, caring. I had perfect parents for neighbours.

‘
T
his is it!' announced Ian. He hadn't been so elated for ages, not since the days when a solo performance in the cathedral had been his idea of fun. He'd walked into my room without knocking, a grin plastered across his face.

‘What happened?' I asked. It was Saturday morning and I was counting Great Uncle Albert's sock money, trying to decide how to spend it. The notes were laid out on the bed.

‘Our first real gig tonight. An audience and a hundred quid! How does that sound?'

‘Sounds fair. I'd listen to you for a hundred quid,' I said encouragingly, as I piled one tenner on another.

‘They pay us. That's what they were going to pay Raw Meat. Styx's checking the address and
phoning with the details. Make sure you get them right.'

‘Where're you going then?' I turned to ask as Ian left my room.

‘Got to pick up an amplifier. One of ours blew up,' he yelled over his shoulder.

‘Well, I'm leaving in half an hour!' I shouted after him. ‘I've got a big game today.'

But he was gone. ‘Good Luck, David,' I muttered to myself.

Then Helen came in, shutting the door quickly behind her. ‘What?' she asked.

‘I'm wishing myself luck. I'm playing today.'

‘What's that money?' Helen asked, ignoring the reference to rugby.

‘Is this a quiz?' I asked, but Helen was listening for noises outside my room. ‘What's up?'

‘I've got a really important date with Harry. I need to get ready – and he's hovering out there …'

‘Psycho?'

‘Yeah, he's going on about Doppelgängers.'

‘What?'

‘Doppelgängers, doubles. He says everyone's
got a look-alike. His is a street-seller he met in Tangiers. I haven't got time for his rubbish. I've got to wax my legs.'

‘Spare me the details.' The phone was ringing. I shot out to answer it, passing Psycho who was loitering on the landing.

I picked up the phone in the hallway. ‘Yeah?'

‘Ian?'

‘No, David.'

‘Styx here. Tell Ian the gig's at–'

‘Hang on, I'll get a pencil.'

‘You can remember this. It's just Hell's Bells tonight, nine. Got it?'

‘Got it.'

I ran upstairs, repeating the message, then grabbed a pencil. Leaning over the banisters, I wrote the message upside down on the wall above the phone: ‘Hell's Bells nine'.

The plain white walls were proving useful. Already the wall by the phone was covered with numbers, details of homework I got from Joe or Abbas and messages for Ian (musical) and Helen (romantic).

By the time I'd listened to Psycho's theory and let Helen into the bathroom, I was in danger
of being late for rugby.

Ian returned, carrying an amplifier, just as I was leaving by the kitchen door, my rugby hold-all over my shoulder.

‘Styx phone?' he asked.

‘Yup.'

‘So where are we playing?'

‘The address is by the phone.'

He put the amplifier down and called through from the hall, ‘This it – “Helmly Hotel, Foxrock”?'

‘Yeah,' I shouted back, hardly listening. I was already focusing on the game ahead.

We had a long journey to St Mary's, our traditional enemies. If ever a school was misnamed, it was St Mary's. Huge, misshapen and vicious, their team was as determined to get through to the next round as we were.

‘Look at the size of them,' complained Frazier, our captain, as the coach drew up and we gazed down at the opposition.

Sullivan, our coach, was ready with final words of encouragement, ‘Remember, lads, it's not how big you are, it's how big you play.' That's why Sullivan was a great coach; he knew
how to inspire the team. We were ready.

The first half of the game moved fast. Our superior speed was matched by their greater strength, so, by half-time the score stood at 16 : 14 to them. They were exhausted, we were battered.

Frazier had pulled a hamstring muscle and sat on the bench massaging it at half-time, an expression of pain on his face. Sullivan went over to speak to him, then turned to me.

‘David, I'm moving you to no 8.' This was Frazier's position.

‘Is Frazier going off?' I asked. The scowl on Frazier's face was answer enough.

‘He's got to get that injury sorted out,' Sullivan said firmly. He patted me on the back. ‘Abbas is coming on in the second row. What I want from you now is speed and accuracy.'

St Mary's started the second half well and increased their lead, but we came back, and, with five minutes of play left, there was again two points difference. The score was 23 : 21.

We were driving forward when the ball came back to me. Luckily the opposition thought the ball was still in the ruck – they'd missed the
move. So I had time to try a drop goal. I took my chance. I kicked the ball. It soared and before it landed I heard yells of delight from St Joe's. It had sailed high over the bar; the score couldn't have been closer, it was 23 : 24!

The whistle blew. St Joe's were jubilant.

‘Through to the next round!' chanted Abbas gleefully. He'd got his opportunity to play in the A team and so had I. We'd won. Our chances of being picked again for the next game must be good. We were only two games away from the Cup Final.

‘What a brilliant day!' I thought, as we made the long journey home.

Wrong again.

BOOK: My Nasty Neighbours
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