Tom Murphy Chapter 9

I have something I want you to look at, said Dad one evening.

I felt immediate apprehension at his tone. Dad was remarkably sober and therefore something to worry about. I followed Dad to his big chair. I stood at his feet while he sat down and fished inside his pocket. He handed a scrap of paper to me. It was a letter in neat and foreign looking handwriting. It was addressed, I saw with shock, to Vicky McLean. The words were in a decorous and humble tone. They wished her and her family his good wishes for her seventeenth year. The writer hoped she would find ever lasting happiness.
It was signed off – ‘A Friend’.

I immediately had no doubt the source of these strange words. I knew my friend enough not to be surprised that they contrasted oddly with his passion

Do you know who wrote this letter? said Dad.

I shook my head.

The Mayor has reported funny things happening lately to his precious daughter, said Dad gruffly.

I knew Dad was no admirer of the Mayor. His tone had changed to a dangerous hard official sound.

She has complained to her father of a feeling that someone is following her. Strange noises outside her bedroom window at night. A sense of eyes boring down upon her wherever she goes in public.

I knew those eyes. If a wolf had stalked Vicky, she would have felt its eyes less. Now Dad took on a cutting nasal tone. His face hardened. It had the sour look of a man who hated to the depths of his soul all love struck adolescents. Dad went into his bedroom and soon returned in his uniform.

Come with me, said Dad.

I followed Dad to his bicycle and climbed on the bar. We wheeled through our neighbourhood while Dad acknowledged greetings from our respectful neighbours. We stopped at the big house. I led Dad up the rickety staircase to the Rosenblum door. Dad hammered at the door. There was instant silence inside. Then the door opened a crack, and Mrs Rosenblum poked her long nose through. I could see by the fear on her face that she was familiar with policemen.

Good evening, Mrs Rosenblum, this is Sergeant Murphy. I have come to speak to your son Gustav. I have with me my own son, Tom. He is a friend of your son, and will be with me when I speak to Gustav.

Behind the door the voice of Gustav sounded confident.

Don't worry, Mummy. I have not done anything wrong. Sergeant Murphy can speak to me in my room.

Dad's face twisted into a sour grimace. I led Dad to the children's bedroom. Gustav followed us. He sat down on his bed, and gestured to Dad and me to sit on Maria's bed. Gustav shooed his mother back into the sitting room. He fixed his burning eyes upon Dad. Dad stared back at him until the man's greater strength and power overpowered the boy.

Dad handed him the letter. Gustav read it and I could see tears spring into his eyes.

Did you write this missive, boy? suddenly Dad bellowed.

His noise erupted from his deep chest with such a charge that we both jumped and we shrunk down.

We both knew it was all up, and all our ideals were shrivelled into absurd nothingness before that policeman's bellow. Gustav hung his head and whispered assent. He was, I now remembered painfully, just a kid.

You may not know this town, boy, said Dad in a now soothing tone.
Vicky is a well brought up young lady – not for boys to moon over. Her family owns half this town. If you make trouble for them, they will have no scruples or lack of the means to drive you and your family out of the country.

Dad's voice again took on that hard nasal tone. His index finger waggled at the shrinking Gustav.

If I hear anymore of you skulking around the Mayor's daughter, I will personally kick your little backside into the Mayor's office. Your family will be in the next boat back to Germany.

At the word Germany, Gustav froze as if his doom had been just pronounced. He fervently nodded.

Dad tore up the letter and summoned us to follow him. He put the fragments into the coal stove. He saluted Mrs Rosenblum and Maria who gazed at him silently and pleadingly. Dad and I solemnly walked down the rickety staircase. We ascended the bicycle and cycled away.

As we moved down the silent dark streets, Dad became cheerful and talkative.

Your friend has learnt a valuable lesson before he got into real hot water. If he wants to ogle the girls, he should go for the tarts. Her family would drive the Yids out of town, if one so much as wolf-whistled their precious pearl.

Dad gave his old snort to steady himself for another cussing at the stuck ups.

Her old man stole the pearl of the squattocracy, and he is just a carpet bagger Mack. He came into town twenty years ago in leaky old boots and a tongue that could frizzle a rattle snake.

I was, as usual, lost with Dad's nomenclature. I never inquired further as that would work Dad into another red-faced swearing rage. Tomorrow I would apologise to the Rosenblums, and explain this was just Dad on a paid errand for the stuck ups.