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Chapter Thirty
New Year’s Eve 1972
‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld land syne,
We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.’
I’m in the middle of the circle holding hands with my sisters Hazel and Linda. My mum, dad and Nanny Noreen are all singing at the top of their voices. My mum looks happy, even though she still has the remainder of a black eye that my dad gave her on Christmas Eve.
‘Open the front door, Tommy,’ orders my dad. He calls New Year’s Eve Hogmanay after an oatcake.
I do as I’m told. Old Mr Cleaver across the road is banging two dustbin lids together. I feel something brush past my leg and then I scream when I realize what it is. It’s a black cat and it’s obviously been run over. It collapses in the hallway right in front of me.
Nanny Noreen goes ballistic and blames me. She’s very religious and believes in Scottish folklore. ‘You stupid boy,’ she bellows. ‘You know the first to step through the door after midnight affects the fortunes of everyone who lives in the house. I’ve told you that enough times, so what do you invite in, a dying black cat. Now we’re going to have bad luck all year. You wait and see.’
I stare at the cat as it takes its last breath. Little did I know at that point Nanny Noreen was speaking the truth.
In a few days’ time, my life as I’d known it would no longer be. Everything was about to change for the worse.
My name is Tommy Boyle and this is my story …
When sorrows come,
they come not single spies,
but in battalions.
William Shakespeare
Christmas 1972
Tommy Boyle pressed his nose against the cold glass of his bedroom window. The weather had taken a turn for the worse this week. It was literally freezing, but Tommy didn’t care about the cold. All he was bothered about was his father coming home from the oil rigs. He was so excited; he’d barely slept last night.
Hearing his sisters squabbling over the record player, Tommy sighed. Three months at a time his father worked away for, and it was difficult being surrounded by females. He missed the simple things: such as watching The Big Match or Match of the Day and discussing the games. Girls knew nothing about football. Nor Cowboys and Indians, or Battleship.
‘Not this rubbish again. Turn it off,’ shouted twelve-year-old Tommy. His younger sister had obviously got her way. Linda was obsessed with little Jimmy Osmond, reckoned she would marry him one day. ‘Long-Haired Lover from Liverpool’ was one of only two songs Linda ever played. Benny Hill’s ‘Ernie (The Fastest Milkman in the West)’ was the other and Tommy hated both. He thought they were silly songs.
‘Breakfast’s ready, kids.’
Tommy ran down the stairs, but slipped, landing in a heap at the bottom.
Valerie Boyle picked her son up. ‘What did you do? You silly sausage. Have you hurt yourself?’
Tommy had hurt himself. His knee was throbbing, but he was determined not to cry. ‘Boys don’t cry,’ his dad had always told him. ‘I’m all right. My pyjamas are too long. I fell over the bottoms of ’em.’
Valerie had only bought her son the fleecy pyjamas the previous day. They were meant to fit a twelve-year-old, but Tommy was small for his age. ‘I’ll get the machine out in a bit, alter them for you. You’ll live, eh?’ Valerie smiled, ruffling her son’s mousy blond hair.
‘Where’s Rex?’ Tommy enquired. Rex was the Alsatian his father had purchased to protect the family in his absence. Tommy loved Rex and the feeling was mutual. He would often take the dog out with him. Rex was too strong on his lead for Tommy, but he would walk happily by his side and never went into the road.
‘Rex is having his breakfast in his kennel, love. You know your dad doesn’t allow Rex indoors while he’s here, and he’ll be home soon, won’t he?’
‘Yeah, but it’s cold. Rex can’t sleep in his kennel this time of year. He’ll freeze.’
‘I’ve put some blankets in there, Tommy. He’ll only be out there for ten days, until your dad goes back to work. Then he can come inside again,’ Valerie replied, wishing her husband wasn’t coming home for Christmas at all. She didn’t love Alexander any more, hadn’t for a long time. But the children did, so she put their happiness first. For all Alexander’s faults, he was a hard worker and good provider. They lived in a nice three-bedroom house: private, not council. Working on those oil rigs paid extremely well.
A deafening scream filled the air, followed by ten-year-old Linda holding two halves of a seven-inch single in her hands. ‘Hazel snapped Jimmy in half,’ she cried.
‘No, I never. It was an accident,’ lied fourteen-year-old Hazel. ‘I wanted to play Alice Cooper and she—’
‘Enough.’ Valerie Boyle held her hands in the air while eyeing her eldest daughter with suspicion. Hazel had a nasty streak at times, just like her father. ‘Go eat your breakfast, now!’
‘I loved that record, Mummy,’ Linda whimpered.
Valerie held her youngest child close to her chest. ‘I know you did, darling. Don’t worry. Mummy will go to the record shop after breakfast and buy you another one.’
Tommy Boyle stared out of the front-room window nervously chewing at his fingernails. His father had been due home at lunchtime and it was now teatime.
‘Sausage rolls are ready. Who wants one?’ Valerie yelled, trying to keep her voice sounding jovial.