Open Writing

One fine summer’s day in 1961 my oldest brother was in the garden, cultivating his potatoes. I took the opportunity to have a nosey around his room, opening a wardrobe. An air rifle fell out. I picked it up and stared at it.

Under my brother's supervision I had fired air rifles at the local fair. I opened the barrel and noted that it was empty, so I took another look in the wardrobe. There was a small box of pellets on the bottom shelf. I took one of these pellets and loaded it into the rifle. Then I carried the rifle into the bathroom, where I could inspect it closely without being disturbed.

The bathroom window was open. I could see my brother, hard at work in the garden. I placed the barrel of the rifle on the windowsill, pointing it towards my brother. I was pretending to fire it, the way kids do when they play cowboys and indians. But my finger squeezed the trigger.

The pellet hit my brother's bum. He jumped up.

My initial reaction was one of shock. Then I was terrified. My brother was looking around. He too was shocked.

"Oh please don't look up here...'' I was thinking. Of course, he did. He saw me, and he saw the rifle.

‘You little bugger!’ he shouted, and began to run towards the house.

I dropped the rifle and ran into my bedroom. There I opened the window, climbed out and dropped onto the glass below. I had done this lots of times, as kids do.

I ran off.

Evenutally I had to go back home. There was no sign of my brother. With renewed confidence, thinking that I was alone, I went upstairs to my room. My brother was sitting on my bed, waiting for me.

‘Hello Michael,’ he said, sarcastically.

I turned to run, but behind me was my other brother, blocking the doorway.

‘Gotcha!’ he snarled.

I placed my hands over my head to protect myself from the belting that I expected to follow.

All was quiet for a while, then there was laughter. My oldest brother was laughing so hard tears were trickling down his face.

"I was going to clout you Mick,'' he said eventually "but seeing how shocked you looked I couldn't help but laugh.''

‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

‘Oh yeah,’ he replied. ‘I was more surprised than hurt,. But why did you fire at me?’

‘I wasn’t firing at you,’ I replied, 'You just got in the way.’

He insisted on explaining the dangers involved in handling a rifle. He emphasised that a rifle should never be pointed at anyone, not even in jest.

I never saw that gun again, and I didn't want to see it. A lesson had been learned.

‘You can help me in the garden tomorrow,’ he informed mewith a grin. ‘I need a hand with the spuds.’