THE WINNERS WALL
There’s an old saying in the imaginary world that I once read on a tea towel in my granny’s house:
I was pondering this mysterious nugget of wisdom as I tumbled and bumped my way down the Boyle Road after Wilbert.
Was I not showing him enough affection? I wondered. Was that why he was giving me this rough ride? I didn’t want our friendship to start off on the wrong foot – or hoof, for that matter – so I tried yelling compliments at him in between my shrieks of pain.
‘YOW! OOF! GOOD BOY! OUCH! ARRGH! WHO’S A HANDSOME WONKEY? OW! THAT WAS PRICKLY! WELL DONE!’
But no matter how much praise I hollered at him, I continued to bang, batter and bounce my way through the countryside like I was trapped inside a pinball machine made of roads. One mile and eighty-seven bruises later, Wilbert came to a sudden halt, panting happily. I smacked into his bum and he farted in my face – a fitting end to the worst journey of my life.
In a wobbly, stinky daze, I staggered to my feet, and saw that we’d reached the big yard outside Martin’s school where crowds of kids were arriving, hurrying to get to class before the bell rang.
Every inch of my body was as sore as a savagely stubbed toe, but when Wilbert smiled up at me with his big toothy grin, my aches and pains melted away. How could I blame that big lovable dope? It wasn’t his fault: Wonkeys weren’t known for obedience. Or intelligence. Or pleasant body odour. They were known for being loyal and loving pets – ‘An IF’s Best Friend,’ as Martin had said. Others called them ‘Un-Toilet-Trainable Terrors’ or ‘Slobbery Snot Factories’. But not me, because I was a Wonkey-owner now, and I understood these noble creatures, I thought to myself, as I watched Wilbert run around in a circle, trying to bite his own buttocks.
‘Ah, there ya are, Sean!’ called Martin as he arrived at last. ‘Still alive then?’
‘Ah yes, just bonding with Wilbert here,’ I chuckled, patting him on the nose. He didn’t like that and gave a snarl, so I whipped my hand back, as casually as I could.
‘Maybe I should’ve got you a smaller pet,’ teased Martin. ‘You sure you can handle him?’
I laughed. Martin clearly didn’t know much about Wonkey-care – whereas I had been a Wonkey-owner for a solid seventeen minutes now and was pretty sure I knew what I was doing. ‘It’s not about handling him, Martin. It’s about understanding him. Trusting him. Connecting with him.’
Martin nodded. ‘You’ve got a pine cone in your hair.’
‘Yep, I know.’
Just then we heard a voice hollering at us from across the yard. ‘Hey, Martin!’
It was Padraic – Martin’s round-faced, happy-headed best friend. He was waving excitedly out the window of a rusted bus that was parked beside the school. ‘Hurry up! I got us some top-notch seats here! Only three chewing gums stuck to them! And loads of graffiti to read on the road!’
‘Be right there, P!’ Martin called, then turned back to us. ‘Well, gang – are ya right?*’
But the Wonkey didn’t seem right at all. He was smelling the air furiously like he’d caught some kind of delicious scent, and before I could leap on his leash, he galloped away like a shot.
‘Wilbert!!’ I wailed, watching him tear into school as the morning bell rang out.
A loud ‘HEEE-HOOWWWWWWLLLLLL!’ echoed through the corridor as we raced after the Wonkey, passing kids hurrying into their classrooms. Wilbert’s howls were so loud that we thought for sure they must be able to hear him, but no one batted an eyelid as he bounded right past them.
Ahead of us, our old clown pal, Loopy Lou, came strolling out of Martin’s classroom, on his way to join his Realsie Trevor on the bus. Wilbert skidded to a stop, and I crashed into his stinky rear end for the second time in five minutes as Martin tumbled over us both.
‘Hey, guys! Almost forgot my snacky-snacks for the triperoo!’ chirped Lou, as he munched on a bag of monkey nuts. ‘Oooooh, a Wonkey!’ he marvelled.
‘He’s mine! Isn’t he adorable?’ I gasped proudly, in a daze.
‘He’s a cutie-pie! Want a monkey nut, Wonkey-Donkey?’
Wilbert leaped hungrily at the bag, diving towards Lou with his sharp teeth bared.
‘Argghhh!’ yelped Lou, as he dropped his nuts, and fled as fast as he could, bumbling away in his over-sized clown shoes.
Wilbert pounced on the bag, and I pounced on his leash.
‘Got him! Now let’s get to that bus before they leave without us!’
But Martin stayed put. He was still lying on the floor and was staring up at the wall beside us, with a wistful look. ‘Ya know, Sean,’ he said, a little sadly, ‘I’ve passed this wall a million times, but I don’t think I’ve ever really looked at it before.’
He got to his feet, gazing at the old trophies that were displayed there. Framed photographs showed students clutching silver cups and shiny medals, all celebrating various triumphs – sporting skill, academic accomplishments, musical magnificence, art artistry, maths mastery, chess championery and even bingo brilliance. They were all up there – the school’s high-achievers, past and present, immortalized forever on The Winners Wall. But the face of Martin Moone was nowhere to be seen. Except on his own head, of course. Which was filled with disappointment now.
‘I always thought I’d be up there some day, Sean. I’ve given this school so many years of my young life, and what do I have to show for it? Where is my face on that wall?!’ he lamented.
Trying to perk him up, I pointed to a corner. ‘There’s a patch of mould there that kinda looks like you,’ I offered helpfully. But Martin just sagged glumly.
‘There’s only two months left before EOPS. So I suppose I’ll never be up there now,’ murmured Martin. ‘I’m in a house full of winners and a school full of winners. Where are all the losers?’
As if on cue, a sweaty-faced Padraic came charging down the corridor, with his imaginary friend, Crunchie ‘Danger’ Haystacks.
‘Martin!’ he blurted, out of breath. ‘The bus – (heave!) – is about to – (gasp!) – go without ya!’
‘Whoa! A Wonkey! What a beauty!’ Crunchie said with admiration.
‘He’s mine, but if you share your bus-grub, I might let you pet him later,’ I offered.
‘Done!’
Martin snapped out of his sadness and hopped to his feet. ‘Do we still have our primo seats?’ he asked Padraic.
‘Declan Mannion said he’d – (wheeze!) – mind them, so long as he could – (pant!) – write on them: “Reserved for two big arses”. It seemed like a fair trade.’
‘Nice work, P-Bomb. To the bus!’
I tugged on Wilbert’s leash, and we all hightailed it back outside to the old, crockety coach.
‘You’re late, Moone!’ snapped Martin’s teacher, Mr Jackson, as we boarded the ancient rust-mobile. ‘We’ve got a date with Science and she doesn’t like to be kept waiting! So sit down, the pair of you! Brostaígí, brostaígí!*’
I hoisted Wilbert into the luggage rack, wedging him in tightly. He gave a confused yowl as the boys scrambled into their freshly graffitied seats.
‘Let’s roll, Pat!’ shouted Mr Jackson to the driver. ‘The sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll be back, and I’ll be damned if I miss my step-aerobics class because of this lot!’
The bus roared into life as Pat the Driver steered us out of the school gates, and the whole class gave a cheer as we took to the open road, belching thick clouds of black smoke behind us.