Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha

  Morning was the start of a new day; everything should have been clean and tidy. I used to have to get up on a chair when I wanted to play at the sink - I remembered pushing the chair in front of me and the noise it made, like it was trying to stop me. I didn’t need the chair any more. I didn’t even have to stretch much to reach the taps. If the sink was too full my jumper got wet when I leaned over. With jumpers you didn’t know you were wet for a while, unless you got really soaked. I didn’t mess at the sink much any more. It was stupid. The neighbours could see you from the window and you couldn’t pull the curtains over in the daytime. I was supposed to do the dishes on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. I’d shown my ma how I could reach the taps and that was what happened; she said she’d let me do the dishes on those three days. Sometimes she let me off, sometimes without asking. I washed. Sinbad dried, but he was useless. He was as slow as anything. It took him years even to hold a plate when he was holding the tea-towel as well. He didn’t trust his hands through the cloth. The only bit he liked was the cups, because they were hard to drop. He covered his fist with the tea-towel and put the cup upside-down on his fist and turned the cup round on his fist. I made sure that he got all the suds out of the bottom. Suds weren’t supposed to be drunk; they tasted like poison.

  He didn’t want to let me see.

  -Show.

  —No.

  —Show me.

  —No.

  —I’ll get you.

  —It’s my job.

  —I’m in charge.

  —Who says?

  —Ma.

  —I don’t want to do this.

  —I’ll tell her you said that. I’m the oldest.

  He held the cup up for me to look into.

  —Okay, I said.—Pass.

  He always gave in when I told him I was the oldest. He made sure the cup was flat on the table before he let go of it and he jumped back when he took his hand away, so he wouldn’t get the blame if it fell. When I was let do something and he wasn’t all Ma and Da had to do was remind him that I was older than him and he stopped complaining. He got smaller Christmas presents as well sometimes and less money on Sundays and it didn’t matter much to him.

  —I’m glad I’m not you, I told him.

  —I’m glad I’m not you, he said back.

  I didn’t believe him.

  He held up the cup for me, without me asking him.

  —Suds, I said.

  —Where?

  -There.

  And I flicked them into his eyes. Ma came in when she heard him.

  —I didn’t mean to get his eyes, I told her.—He kept them open.

  She stopped him crying; she was great at it. She could make him go from cry to laugh in a few seconds.

  It was Thursday morning now. Wednesday wasn’t our dishes night. She should have done them. I asked her.

  —Why did you not do the dishes?

  Something happened when I was asking it; it was in my voice, a difference between the beginning and the end. The reason - it fell into me. The reason she hadn’t done the dishes. I’d been in a lift once - twice - up, then down. This was like going down. I nearly didn’t finish: I knew the answer. It unwrapped while I was talking. The reason.

  She answered.

  —I didn’t have the time.

  She wasn’t telling a lie but that wasn’t the right answer.

  —Sorry, she said.

  She was smiling at me. It wasn’t a real smile though, not a full one.

  They’d had a fight again.

  —You’ll have your work cut out for you, I said.

  One of their quiet ones.

  She laughed.

  Where they whispered their screams and roaring.

  She laughed at me.

  And she was always the first one to cry and he kept stabbing at her with his face and his words.

  —I know I will, she said.

  The first one hadn’t been like that. She’d cried, and they’d stopped. It had been nice after that one.

  —You’ll have to use plenty of elbow grease.

  She laughed again.

  —You’re a gas man, Patrick, she said.

  It had been nice. We didn’t have to creep, pretend we weren’t hearing. Sinbad was no good at pretending. He had to look to listen. Like everything was television. I had to get him away.

  —What’s happening?

  —They’re having a fight.

  —They’re not.

  —They are.

  —Why are they?

  —They just are.

  And then when it was over Sinbad always said that nothing had happened; he wouldn’t remember.

  —Blood, sweat and tears, I told her.

  She laughed again, not as good as the time before.

  The first fight had ended. My da won because my ma cried; he made her. It ended; back to normal, but better. The fight was over, no more fights. I made the plates into a pile, all the knives and forks on the top plate, all of them pointing the same way. The fights didn’t end now. There were breaks, long ones sometimes, but I didn’t believe in them any more. They were only gaps. I pushed the plates slowly over to the edge until the slope part of the bottom plate and the ones on top of it were out past the end of the table. I wondered was my brain strong enough to get my arms to push them the rest of the way.

  —They should be put in the thicks’ class.

  Kevin was right. We hated them. It was September, the first day back, and two of the boys from the Corporation houses got put into our class. Charles Leavy and Seán Whelan were their names. Henno was putting them into the roll-book.

  —Tell him, I said.

  I whispered it.

  —What? said Kevin.

  —Tell him there’s room in the thicks’ class for them.

  -Okay.

  Kevin put his hand up. I couldn’t believe it. I’d only been messing; we’d be killed if Kevin said it. I tried to grab Kevin’s arm without making noise.

  Henno was looking down at the roll-book, writing real slowly. Kevin clicked his fingers.

  —Sea?13 said Henno.

  He didn’t look up.

  Kevin spoke.

  —An bhfuil cead agam dul go dtí an leithreas?14

  —Níl,15 said Henno.

  —Fooled you, Kevin whispered.

  We were having Henno for the second year, fourth class. I was ten. Most of the others were ten. Ian McEvoy was only nine but he was nearly ten and he was the tallest. Charles Leavy was two months younger than me; they had to call out their ages and Henno put them in the book. Seán Whelan was nearly the exact same age as me. He had to stop when he was telling Henno his date of birth; he knew the day and the month but he had to think before he said the year. I could tell.

  —Thick.

  He was put sitting beside David Geraghty. He nearly tripped over David Geraghty’s crutches. We laughed.

  —What’s so funny now? said Henno, but he was busy; he didn’t care.

  Seán Whelan knew that the laughing was against him. His face was hurt but he tried to join in, but he was too late.

  —D’you see him, laughing at himself?

  Charles Leavy was next. Henno had to put him in a place. Henno stood up.

  -Right.

  Two of the boys were sitting by themselves. Liam was one of them. No one had sat beside him when he’d grabbed the seat at the back beside the window, the best desk. He’d looked delighted; he’d expected me or Kevin to charge over to him. He was by himself and so was Fluke Cassidy.

  —Right, Mister Leavy. Let’s see what we have for you.

  Fluke tried to sneak over to Liam’s desk.

  —Stay where you are, Mister Cassidy.

  He was going to put Charles Leavy beside Fluke for definite after that.

  —Over there, Henno pointed to Liam’s desk.

  We laughed. Henno knew why.

  —Qui-etttt.

  It was great. Liam was finished now; Kevin and me wouldn’t even talk to him any
more. I was delighted. I didn’t know why. I liked Liam. It seemed important though. If you were going to be best friends with anyone - Kevin - you had to hate a lot of other people, the two of you, together. It made you better friends. And now Liam was sitting beside Charles Leavy. There was just me and Kevin now, no one else.

  David Geraghty was the fella with the polio. That was why there’d been no one sitting beside him. You had to help him with his school bag and there was a smell of medicine off him. I’d had to sit beside him one week after I’d done well in a spelling test and David Geraghty had done badly. It had been brilliant. I’d sat right at the edge of the desk, nearly off it, one half of my bum hanging over the ground. Then David Geraghty had started talking. And he never shut up. All day, out of the side of his mouth like the other side was paralysed. You could hardly hear it but it wasn’t a whisper. Henno could hear it, I was sure he could, but he never did anything about it, probably because David Geraghty had to go around on crutches and was easily the best in the class.

  —You can see the hairs in his nose, you can count them. Five in one hole and seven in the other.

  Like that all day. When I realised that David Geraghty was never going to get into any trouble and that I wasn’t going to get into trouble because I was sitting beside him I sat into the desk properly and started to enjoy myself.

  —He has seventeen hairs on his arse. Divided by three equals five and two over. His wife combs them for him gach maidin.16

  All day.

  He gave me a go on his crutches. My arms wobbled. I couldn’t hold them straight for very long. They weren’t like the metal crutches you got when you broke your leg. They were old fashioned, wood and leather, like the ones the boy on the polio poor-box had; you couldn’t adjust them. David Geraghty’s arms were as strong as legs. I sometimes hoped that I’d be put beside David Geraghty again but I was always glad when I wasn’t.

  Seán Whelan wore glasses. They were in a black case that he put at the top of the desk above the hollow for pens and pencils. Whenever Henno went near the blackboard Seán Whelan would pick up the case and when Henno wrote on the board he took the glasses out and put them on. Every time Henno stopped he took them off, and put them back on when Henno started again. I stopped looking at Henno for a while and just looked at Seán Whelan. I could tell where Henno was by looking at Seán Whelan’s hand. It would creep towards the case, stop and go back to his side; up to the case again, pick up the case, open it and put on the glasses. He took them off and put both his hands to his sides. I waited for him to start moving again. Henno stopped talking. I kept my eyes on Seán Whelan, waiting for a signal. Seán Whelan just kept staring straight at the back of Thomas Bradshaw’s head. He looked slightly towards me. And that was when Henno hit me, a hard slap on the back of the head. Seán Whelan jumped, I saw him just as I ducked and shut my eyes for more.

  —Wakey wakey, Mister Clarke!

  The class laughed and stopped.

  Henno had held his open hand stiff; it was as hard as a plank. I was going to get Seán Whelan back for that. It was his fault. I was going to get his glasses case and do something with it, and the glasses. He had brown crinkly hair. It grew up straight but someone, probably his ma, was trying to make it grow to the side. It looked like half a hill on top of his head. He’d be easy to get. He wouldn’t hit back. I’d get him. He wasn’t rough looking.

  Like Charles Leavy.

  Charles Leavy wore plastic sandals, blue ones. We laughed at them but we were careful. He brought nothing into school the first day. When Henno asked why not he said nothing, he just looked at his sleeves on the desk. He didn’t squirm. There was nearly a hole in one of his elbows. You could see lots of his shirt through it. His hair was very short, the same all over his head. Now and again he stretched his neck and sort of shot his head out to the side, like he was heading a ball but not bothering to look at it. He looked, and I looked away. I felt hot, scared.

  —Irish books. Leabhair Gaeilge.17 Page - What page would you say, Mister Grimes?

  —One, sir.

  —Correct.

  —A h-aon,18 sir.

  —Thank you, Mister Grimes. - Sambo san Afraic.19 There he is in his canoe.

  We laughed quietly; the way he’d said Canoe. The picture under the name of the story was black and red on top of the white of the page, a black boy with no shirt on in a red canoe under black trees, the jungle. I looked across. Liam was sharing his book with Charles Leavy. He was pressing his hand up the middle of the book so it would stay open. Charles Leavy waited till Liam was finished, then leaned forward to read the book. The other way: Seán Whelan had his own book, covered in wallpaper. He didn’t wear his glasses for reading.

  During little break, the eleven o’clock one, I pushed up against Seán Whelan when we were lining up to go back in.

  —Watch it.

  Seán Whelan didn’t do anything or say anything. He just looked like he was very determined not to look at me, and I was happy with that. I shoved so I could be beside Kevin.

  —I’m going to get Whelan, I told Kevin.

  —Sure you are, said Kevin.

  I was surprised, nearly upset.

  —I am, I said.—For definite. He pushed me.

  I’d have to get him now. I looked back at Seán Whelan. He had a way of looking past you, looking ahead but around a corner.

  He was dead.

  The fight took me by surprise. I was going to wait for a good excuse but Kevin pushed me into Seán Whelan - this was outside the gate, across the road in the field that was being dug up—and Seán Whelan elbowed me or his elbow was just there and I was thumping him and being thumped and that surprised me as well. I swung my fists stiff-armed; I hadn’t the time to ready myself, to remember to punch properly, and it was too late now. Seán Whelan’s head got my chin; my teeth banged. I stepped back out of Seán Whelan’s arms, and kicked. I drew back my left foot and kicked again. Seán Whelan tried to hold onto my foot, to knock me over. I got my foot back away from him and I didn’t fall. Seán Whelan was going backwards, the boys behind him were letting him, because I was going to kick him again. I ran and kicked. I’d got him hard. A good bit over his knee. He skipped back like his legs had gone from under him. He grunted. I had him; I was winning. I was going to get his hair now, and knee his face. I’d never done it before. I’d nearly done it to Sinbad but pulling his head down had been enough; he’d screamed and I couldn’t get my leg to go up hard; I could lift it but not to smash him. Seán Whelan wasn’t Sinbad though. I’d grab a tuft of his stupid hair -

  The pain knocked me sideways, buckled me for a second.

  I’d just been kicked, just under my left hip and the tips of two fingers. Seán Whelan was in front of me. It took me a while to -

  Charles Leavy had kicked me.

  There was no cheering now. This was serious. I wanted to go to the toilet. My fingers stung like freezing cold. Seán Whelan was in the crowd now, looking in. I tried to pretend that I was still fighting him.

  The same place. Charles Leavy kicked me again.

  No one jumped in. No one said anything. No one moved. They knew. They were going to see fighting they’d never seen before. Blood and teeth, torn clothes. Things broken. No rules.

  I couldn’t pretend any more. I wished I hadn’t kicked Seán Whelan. I couldn’t kick Charles Leavy back. I couldn’t do anything. I had to do nothing; it was the only way.

  He kicked me.

  —Here! None o’ that!

  It was one of the workmen. He was up on a wall. He was building it. Some of them ran when they heard him and stopped to see what was going to happen.

  —No kicking, said the workman.—That’s not the way to fight.

  He had a huge belly. I remembered now: we’d shouted things at him and he’d chased us earlier in the summer.

  —No kicking, he said again.

  Kevin was further away from him than me.

  —Mind your own business, Fatso.

  We ran. It wa
s brilliant. I was nearly crying. I could hear my books and copies shaking in my school bag, a noise like galloping horse feet. I’d escaped. The pain of the laughing was great. We stopped when we got to the new road.

  No one had jumped in for me when Charles Leavy had been going to kill me; it took me a while to get used to that, to make it make sense. To make it alright. The quiet, the waiting. All of them looking. Kevin standing beside Seán Whelan. Looking.

  There was a huge brown suitcase under our parents’ bed. It was like leather but it made a noise like wood. There were creases on it. When I rubbed it hard a brown stain came off on my hand. There was nothing in it. Sinbad got in. He lay down like he did in bed. I closed it over.

  —What’s it like?

  —Nice.

  I got the clasp on one side and shoved it in; it made a big click. I waited for Sinbad to do something. I did the other one as well.

  —What’s it like now?

  —Still nice.

  I went away. I stamped my feet on the floor, bang bang on the lino, and I got the door and I swung it so there’d be a whoosh and closed it with just less than a slam. My da went mad when we slammed doors. I waited. I wanted to hear Sinbad kicking, crying, scratching his hands on the lid. Then I’d let him out.

  I waited.

  I sang as I went down the stairs.

  —SON YOU ARE A BACHELOR BOY -

  AND THAT’S THE WAY TO STAY-EE-AY -

  I crept back up; I got over the creaks. I slid to the door. It was brilliant. But suddenly I was up on my feet, through the door; I was scared.

  —Sinbad?

  I pushed down the lock thing to release the clasp. It sprang out and hurt my hand.

  —Francis.

  The other one wouldn’t come up, the lock thing. I pulled up a corner of the lid but it only came up a small bit; I couldn’t see anything. I got about two fingers in but I couldn’t feel anything and I scraped the skin. I kept the fingers there so air would get in, but then I felt teeth on them, I thought I did.

  I heard a whimper. It was me.

  I closed the door after me, so nothing could follow. I held onto the banister all the way. It was dark in the hall. My da was in the living room but the television wasn’t on.