John, Michael and I are beneath Swole’s bedroom window. There’s no sign of him so we step inside the wood yard gates. The screaming circular saw warns us that, even though it’s Saturday afternoon and the other men have gone home, Swole’s dad is working. Through the sawdust mist swirling under the shaky fluorescent light, we can make him out in his navy blue overalls, bending to lift several six-foot lengths of four-by-two timber and shove them together into the saw’s whirring bite. Once they’ve been halved, he pulls them back and lines them up for another pass. He clamps the quartered lengths between his big hands to lift and stack them against the wall. He kicks into place any that stick out.
Swole says his dad is quite deaf, yet even in the din of the saw, a half turn of his shoulders tells us that he knows we’re here. There’s little chance of Swole coming out now, so we back towards the gates, hoping Mr Dunn won’t turn around.
I once suggested to Rooksy that it was working in this terrible noise that made Mr Dunn such a miserable, scary, deaf bastard. ‘Nah,’ he said, ‘only the deaf bit.’
As we reach the gates, Dunn slowly cocks his head, from one side to the other. He looks at us and an exasperated closing of his eyes makes it clear that we’ve interrupted important work. We know he likes disappointing people and we wait to hear him say, ‘He won’t be coming out.’
Swole has never heard his dad say, ‘Raymond, your friends are here.’ Or, ‘go on in boys, he’s up in his room.’ Mr Dunn’s dark eyes glare at us from his dusty face. He strides over to the big red and green buttons on the wall and thumps the red one. The saw whines to a halt and in the quiet that follows he becomes more menacing. We hurry through the gates into the street. He follows us. We wait to hear what he’s going to say. He takes a tobacco tin from the pocket on the front of his overalls, pulls off the lid and starts to roll a cigarette.
I glance up. Swole is standing at his bedroom window shaking his head, signalling to us to go. Poor Swole, even when he’s allowed out, it’s only after he’s been put through the ‘have you dones?’ list: washing up, tidying room, errands for your mother, blah, blah. Even if Swole has done them all, his release is conditional: ‘If I hear that you’ve been up to anything …’ or ‘don’t you dare be late back’.
Mr Dunn puts his tin away. ‘What do you want?’
Michael, who is sucking on a gobstopper, says, ‘Oh we were after wonderin’ if our compadré, Swo … Raymond was in.’
‘What?’
Michael speaks louder. ‘Er, Raymond. Is he in at all?’
‘Yes, and “in” is where he’s staying. He has jobs to do. Unlike you lot.’
With a bulge in one cheek, Michael says, ‘Ah well, Mr Donn, I wonder, would he be after comin’ out when he has dem finished?’
‘What?’
‘If he moight be headin’ out when he has de chores done?’ says Michael, loudly enough for the hard-of-hearing.
Dunn frowns and shakes his head.
Michael persists as if Dunn is completely deaf. ‘Maybe tomorrow den? We moight meet up for a spell?’
Dunn comes closer. ‘Don’t you get cocky with me, you fat little Irish git.’
Michael steps back and flicks his imaginary cowboy hat in farewell. ‘Adios, den Mr Donn.’
Dunn isn’t sure whether he’s taking the piss, neither am I.
‘I’ve told you once, now go on, clear off!’ He waves his arm in a ‘sod-off’ fling that sends his newly rolled cigarette spinning to the ground. Michael can’t suppress a laugh. Dunn steps forward and cracks him across the mouth with the back of his hand. The gobstopper squirts out. John, an instinctive slip fielder, fails to catch it before it hits the ground and smashes into multi-coloured shards. Michael tries not to cry. Dunn stoops to pick up the cigarette. Swole’s Mum scurries out with her hands clamped to her face.
‘Oh Arthur, what have you done? Michael, come here love.’
Dunn grabs her arm and swings her around, ‘And you can shut up too, get inside.’
She turns back to us, shaking her head in silent apology.
We pull Michael away. ‘I’m goin’ to get my old fellah on you,’ he screams.
‘Get who you bloody like. Now go on, out of it, all of you.’
Dunn steers his wife back into the wood yard and closes the big gates behind him. Up at his window Swole has an arm raised in a fixed, sad wave.
We make our way home and as soon as John thinks Michael is up to answering, he asks, ‘Are you really going to tell your dad?’
Michael wipes away the tears. He’s rethinking things. Everyone knows what Dunn is like. If Michael doesn’t tell, he’ll save his dad from having to make a hard decision.
‘Feckin’ Comanche. Yeah, I tink so.’
John doesn’t think so. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘Probably,’ says Michael. His shoulders sag. ‘But he is a big bastard, like feckin’ Cheyenne Bodie.’
We nod. No one is as big as Cheyenne but Dunn is the biggest of the dads. If only there was someone to stick up for Mr O’Rourke like Alan Ladd did for Van Heflin in Shane.
John looks at me. What would we do in Michael’s place? A fight involving your own father, especially one that he might lose, is a frightening prospect. We’ve seen fights outside the Queen Anne. They tend to be sprawling, swinging affairs with most punches missing – none of the satisfying thuds you hear in cowboy fights – and too much grabbing, slipping and swearing. When it’s clear that no one is going to win, other men usually intervene to stop it.
Michael won’t tell his dad. Mr O’Rourke is a mild man, good at making kids laugh, and getting drunk on Saturday nights. The most aggressive he’s ever been, according to Dad, is to shed a few angry tears when ‘roaring for his mother’s people’ after he has had a drink. Dunn is rarely seen in the pub but Swole says he drinks whisky at home and that that’s when he gets really scary.
When I tell Mum what happened, John opens wide to signal ‘big mouth’. He has a point but I find it hard to resist passing on news. Later, when Dad asks us about it, John says nothing but I tell the story, and chip in about how Dunn often beats Swole. John is wide-eyed with disapproval. Our parents exchange glances and Dad says, ‘Mr Dunn has never touched you boys, has he?’
‘No,’ we say together.
‘I want you to keep well away from him. And I hope, also, that you’ve not been giving him any cheek.’
‘No Dad,’ I say. ‘Michael wasn’t being cheeky, it’s just that Swole’s … Raymond’s dad gets so angry, so quickly.’
‘Some people are treated best by keeping away. Are you with me boys?’
We nod.
‘Getting involved with them can be …’ he swivels his open hand like he’s turning a large doorknob ‘… tricky.’
‘Yes Dad.’
‘Good. And …’ He hesitates. ‘I want you to be sure to let me know if Mr Dunn ever does anything like this again.’
‘Yes Dad.’
After he leaves the room, John breaks out in a grin.
‘What?’ I whisper.
‘If Dunn hit me, I’d tell Dad all right.’
‘Me too.’