I had started shopping in the small Gala supermarket on the village’s main street. It took me a while to orientate myself and get used to what was on offer in each aisle. They had a surprisingly large range of goods, and when I asked for fresh curry leaves (for one of Jamie Oliver’s recipes), the nice lady said they would order some in especially. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think we need to expand our range of ethnic ingredients here. We don’t want to lose all our business to the supermarket in Roscommon.’
I showed her another recipe and she noted all the ingredients and assured me that they’d definitely be stocking them in future. Her name badge said Laura. I began to introduce myself. ‘Oh, we know who you are!’ she said. ‘You’re famous around here.’
‘Not infamous?’ I said. I thought it was a good joke and so did she, because she laughed.
I told her about my attachment to routines.
‘You figure out your routine here and I’ll make sure I advise you of any changes. How about that?’ she said.
I walked out of that shop feeling lighter and taller, and happy. I felt like I’d made yet another friend.
32
Peter, 1982
The neighbour boy’s name was Rangi. I heard the old lady call him by that name. He never paid any attention to me until, one day, he kicked the ball awkwardly and it landed on my side of the fence. I ran from our porch to pick it up but, instead of throwing it back, I held on to it, standing by the fence, waiting for him to approach. After a minute of glaring at me, he did.
‘What’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you just kick the ball back?’
‘I’m Steve,’ I said.
‘Rangi.’
‘I know.’
‘Give me the ball, eh?’
I threw it towards him and, even though I fumbled the throw, he caught it deftly with one hand under his leg.
He didn’t thank me and began to walk away. I had to stop him.
‘Do you go to school? Is that where you go every morning?’
‘Yeah?’ He said it as if my question had been an accusation.
‘You’re lucky,’ I said. ‘I have a medical condition which means I can’t mix with other kids. If they touch me, I could die.’
‘Yeah? How did you get that? I’d love not to have to go to school.’
‘It’s bad,’ I said, self-pity taking over. ‘I have no friends.’
‘You got a television?’ he said.
‘Yes. You can come and watch it if you like, before my dad gets home?’
‘Where’s your accent from?’ he said.
I didn’t think I had an accent. ‘I’m Irish,’ I said before correcting myself in line with our story. ‘Well, I was born here, but I lived in Ireland since I was a baby. I came home two years ago.’
‘Yeah? It’s got a rugby team, right? That place where the war is on. You ever get bombed?’
He seemed disappointed when I admitted that I’d never seen a bomb or a gun and that the war was confined to one small part of Ireland that was under British rule. I could see he was losing interest so I changed tack.
‘What age are you?’ I asked.
‘Fifteen. You?’
‘Fourteen. Are you allowed to drive that truck?’
