Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha

  It wasn’t lots of little fights. It was one big one, rounds of the same fight. And it wouldn’t stop after fifteen rounds like in boxing. It was like one of the matches from the olden days where they wore no gloves and they kept punching till one of them was knocked out or killed. Ma and Da had gone way past Round Fifteen; they’d been fighting for years - it made sense now - but the breaks between the rounds were getting shorter, that was the big difference. One of them would soon fall over.

  My ma. I wanted it to be my da. He was bigger. I didn’t want it to be him either.

  I could do nothing. Sometimes, when you were thinking about something, trying to understand it, it opened up in your head without you expecting it to, like it was a soft spongy light unfolding, and you understood, it made sense forever. They said it was brains but it wasn’t; it was luck, like catching a fish or finding a shilling on the road. Sometimes you gave up and suddenly the sponge opened. It was brilliant, it was like growing taller. It wouldn’t happen this time though, never. I could think and think and concentrate and nothing would ever happen.

  I was the ref.

  I was the ref they didn’t know about. Deaf and dumb. Invisible as well.

  —Seconds away -

  I wanted no one to win. I wanted the fight to go on forever, to never end. I could control it so that it lasted and lasted.

  —Break -

  In between them.

  —Burr-rreak!

  Bouncing; my hands on their chests.

  Ding ding ding.

  Why did people not like each other?

  I hated Sinbad.

  But I didn’t. When I asked myself why I hated him the only reason was that he was my little brother and that was all; I didn’t really hate him at all. Big brothers hated their little brothers. They had to. It was the rule. But they could like them as well. I liked Sinbad. I liked his size and his shape, the way his hair at the back went the wrong way; I liked the way we all called him Sinbad and at home he was Francis. Sinbad was a secret.

  Sinbad died.

  I cried.

  Sinbad died.

  There’d have been nothing good about it; I couldn’t think of any advantage. Nothing. I’d have had no one left to hate, to pretend to hate. The bedroom, the way I liked it, needed his noises and his smell, and his shape. I really started crying now. It was nice, missing Sinbad. I knew I’d see him in a while. I kept crying. There was no one else. I’d see him and I’d probably hit him, maybe give him a dead leg for himself.

  I loved Sinbad.

  The tears on the left were going faster than the ones on the right.

  Why didn’t Da like Ma? She liked him; it was him didn’t like her. What was wrong with her?

  Nothing. She was lovely looking, though it was hard to tell for sure. She made lovely dinners. The house was clean, the grass cut and straight and she always left some daisies in the middle because Catherine liked them. She didn’t shout like some of the other mas. She didn’t wear trousers with no fly. She wasn’t fat. She never lost her temper for long. I thought about it: she was the best ma around here. She really was; I didn’t just reach that conclusion because she was mine. She was. Ian McEvoy’s was nice but she smoked; there was a smell of it off her. Kevin’s one frightened me. Liam and Aidan didn’t have any. I thought about Missis Kiernan a lot but she wasn’t a ma because she didn’t have any children. She was only Missis because she was married to Mister Kiernan. My ma was best of them and all the others as well. Charles Leavy’s ma was colossal, her face was all nearly purple. She wore a girl’s raincoat all the time when she was out and she tied the strap in a knot instead of using the buckle. I couldn’t even imagine getting a kiss from her when I was going to bed; trying to make it look like I was kissing her so I wouldn’t hurt her feelings or get into trouble, getting my lips close enough without touching. She smoked as well.

  Charles Leavy could kiss her.

  My da had more wrong with him than my ma. There was nothing wrong with my ma except sometimes she was too busy. My da sometimes lost his temper and he liked it. He had black things across the top of his back, like black insects clinging onto him. I’d seen them; about five of them in a bendy row. I’d seen them when I was watching him shaving. His vest didn’t cover up two of them. He was useless at lots of things. He never finished games. He read the newspapers. He coughed. He sat too much.

  He didn’t fart. I’d never caught him.

  If you put a match to your hole when you were going to fart it came out like a flame; Kevin’s da told him that - but you had to be older for it to work, at least in your twenties.

  It was all him against her.

  But it took two to tango. He must have had his reasons. Sometimes Da didn’t need reasons; he had his mood already. But not all the time. Usually he was fair, and he listened when we were in trouble. He listened to me more than to Sinbad. There must have been a reason why he hated Ma. There must have been something wrong with her, at least one thing. I couldn’t see it. I wanted to. I wanted to understand. I wanted to be on both sides. He was my da.

  I went up to bed just after Sinbad, before I had to. I kissed my ma goodnight, and my da. There’d been no words so far; they were both reading; the television was on with the sound down waiting for The News. My lips hardly touched my da. I didn’t want to disturb him. I wanted him to stay the way he was. I was tired. I wanted to sleep. I hoped it was a brilliant book.

  I listened on the landing. It was silent. I brushed my teeth before I went into our room. I hadn’t brushed them the proper way in a while. I looked at my da’s razor but I didn’t take the blade out. The bed was cold but the blankets were heavy on me; I liked that.

  I listened.

  Sinbad wasn’t asleep; there wasn’t a big enough gap between the in and the out breathing. I didn’t say anything. I checked again, listened: he definitely wasn’t sleeping. I listened further - I’d left the door a bit open. There was still no talking from downstairs. If there was none before we heard The News music there’d be no fighting at all. I still said nothing. Somewhere in the minute I’d been in bed, while I’d been listening, my eyes had learned how to see in the dark; the curtains, the corners, George Best, Sinbad’s bed, Sinbad.

  —Francis?

  —Leave me alone.

  —They’re not fighting tonight.

  Nothing.

  —Francis?

  —Patrick.

  He was jeering me, the way he’d said it.

  —Pah-trick.

  I couldn’t think of anything.

  —Pahh-twick.

  I felt like he’d caught me doing something, like I was falling into trouble, but I didn’t know what. I wanted to go to the toilet. I couldn’t get out of the bed.

  —Pahhh-

  It was like he’d become me and I was him. I was going to wet the bed.

  —twick.

  I didn’t.

  I got the blankets off.

  He’d found out; he’d found out. I’d wanted him to talk because I was scared. Pretending to be protecting him, I’d wanted him close to me, to share, to listen together; to stop it or run away. He knew: I was frightened and lonely, more than he was.

  Not for long though.

  There was a small hole in the top sheet just at where my big toe usually was; I liked searching my toe in it, the rough feel of the blanket, and taking my toe away. Now, the sheet ripped there when I pulled it off. I knew why: he didn’t. He’d heard it. I’d scared him. The ripping sheet.

  —Sinbad.

  I stood up out of the bed. I was in charge again.

  —Sinbad.

  I was going to the toilet but I didn’t have to hurry now.

  —I’m going to strangle you, I said.

  I went to the door.

  —But first I’m going to the toilet. There’s no escape.

  I wiped the seat. The bathroom light was off but I’d heard the wee smashing on the plastic. I wiped all around and threw the paper into the toilet. Then I flushed it. I got bac
k into the bedroom without touching the door. I crept to his bed but I made one step heavier.

  -Francis.

  I was giving him one more chance.

  —Move over.

  It was even: we’d scared each other. There was no noise; he wasn’t moving. I got right up to his bed.

  —Move over.

  It wasn’t an order; I said it nice.

  He was asleep. I could hear it. I hadn’t scared him enough to make him keep awake. I sat on the bed and lifted my feet.

  —Francis -

  There wasn’t room. I didn’t push him. He was much heavier when he was asleep. I didn’t want to wake him. I went over to my own bed. There was still some warm left. The sheet hole was bigger, too big. My foot got caught in it. I was afraid I’d rip it more.

  I was going to sleep. I knew I’d be able to. In the morning I’d tell Sinbad that I hadn’t woken him up.

  I listened.

  Nothing, then they were talking. Her, him, her, him for longer, her, him long again, her for a bit, him. It was only talking, normal talk. Him talking to her. Man and wife. Mister and Missis Clarke. My eyes had closed by themselves. I stopped listening. I practised my breathing.

  —I didn’t wake you up, I told him.

  He was ahead of me. It was going all wrong.

  —I could have, I told him.

  He didn’t care; he’d been asleep. He didn’t believe me.

  —But I didn’t.

  We’d be at the school soon and we couldn’t be together there. I made myself get up beside him, and then in front. He didn’t look at me. I got in his way. I spoke when he was going around me.

  —He hates her.

  He kept going, wide enough for me not to grab him, the same speed.

  —He does.

  We were into the field in front of the school. The grass was long where there were no foundations yet but there were paths worn through the grass and they all joined one path at the end of the field right opposite the school. It was all hay grass in the middle, and nettles and devil’s bread and sticky-backs where the ditches were left.

  —You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to, I said.—It’s true though.

  That was all. There were piles of boys coming through the field, joining up on the big path. Three fellas from the scholarship class were sitting having a smoke in the wet long grass. One of them was pulling the hay off the grass and spilling it into his lunch box. I went slower. Sinbad got past some fellas and I couldn’t see him any more. I waited for James O’Keefe to catch up.

  —Did you do the eccer? he said.

  It was a stupid question; we all did the eccer.

  —Yeah, I said.

  —All of it?

  —Yeah.

  —I didn’t, he said.

  He always said that.

  —I didn’t do some of the learning, I said.

  —That’s nothing, he said.

  The eccer was always corrected, all of it. We could never get away with anything. We had to swap copies; Henno walked around giving the answers and looking over our shoulders. He spot-checked.

  —I’m analysing your writing, Patrick Clarke. Tell me why.

  —So I won’t write in any of the answers for him, Sir.

  —Correct, he said.—And he won’t write in any for you.

  He thumped me hard on the shoulder, probably because he’d been nice to me a few days before. It hurt but I didn’t rub it.

  —I went to school once myself, he said.—I know all the tricks. Next one: eleven times ten divided by five. First step, Mister O’Keefe.

  —Twenty-two, Sir.

  —First step.

  He got James O’Keefe in the shoulder.

  —Multiply eleven and ten, Sir.

  —Correct. And?

  —That’s all, Sir.

  He got another whack.

  —The answer, you amadán.21

  —One hundred and ten, Sir.

  —One hundred and ten. Is he correct, Mister Cassidy?

  —Yes, Sir.

  —For once, yes. Second step?

  Miss Watkins had been much easier. We always did some of the homework but it was easy to fill in the answers when we were supposed to be correcting the ones we’d already done. Henno made us do the corrections with a red colouring pencil. You got three biffs if the point wasn’t sharp. Twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, we were allowed, two by two, to go up to the bin beside his desk and sharpen them. He had a parer screwed to the side of the desk - you put the pencil in the hole and turned the handle - but he wouldn’t let us use it. We had to have our own. Two biffs if you forgot to bring it in, and it couldn’t be a Hector Grey’s one, Mickey Mouse or one of the Seven Dwarfs or any of them; it had to be an ordinary one. Miss Watkins always used to write the

  —Hands up who got it right? Go maith.22 Next one, read it for me, em -

  Without looking up from her knitting.

  —Patrick Clarke.

  I read it off the board and wrote it down in the space I’d left for it. Once, she stood up and came around the desks and stopped and looked at my page; the ink was still wet and she didn’t notice.

  —Nine out of ten, she said.—Go maith.

  I always made one of them wrong, sometimes two. We all did, except Kevin. He always got ten out of ten, in everything. A great little Irishman, she called him. Kevin did Ian McEvoy in the yard when Ian McEvoy called him that; he gave him a loaf in the nose.

  She’d thought she was nice but we’d hated her.

  —Still awake, Mister Clarke?

  They all laughed. They were supposed to.

  —Yes, Sir.

  I smiled. They laughed again, not as much as the first time.

  —Good, said Henno.—What time is it, Mister McEvoy?

  —Don’t know, Sir.

  —Can’t afford a watch.

  We laughed.

  —Mister Whelan.

  Seán Whelan lifted the sleeve of his jumper and looked under.

  -Half-ten, Sir.

  —Exactly?

  —Nearly.

  —Exactly, please.

  —Twenty-nine past ten, Sir.

  —What day is it, Mister O’Connell?

  —Thursday, Sir.

  —Are you sure?

  —Yes, Sir.

  We laughed.

  —It is Wednesday, I’m told, said Henno. And it is half past ten. What book will we now take out of our málas,23 Mister

  ——Mister——Mister O’Keefe?

  We laughed. We had to.

  I went to bed. He hadn’t come home. I kissed my ma.

  —Night night, she said.

  —Good night, I said.

  There was a hair growing out of a small thing on her face. Just between her eye and her ear. I’d never seen it before, the hair. It was straight and strong.

  I woke up. It was just before she’d come up to get us out of bed. I could tell from the downstairs noises. Sinbad was still asleep. I didn’t wait. I got up. I was wide awake. I dashed into my clothes. It was good; the curtain square was bright.

  —I was just coming up, she said when I got into the kitchen.

  She was feeding the girls, feeding one and making sure that the other one fed herself properly. Catherine often missed her mouth with the spoon. Her bowl was always empty but she never ate that much.

  —I’m up, I said.

  —So I see, she said.

  I was looking at her feeding Deirdre. She never got bored with it.

  —Francis is still asleep, I said.

  —No harm, she said.

  —He’s snoring, I said.

  —He isn’t, she said.

  She was right; he wasn’t snoring. I’d just said it; not to get him into trouble. I’d just wanted to say something funny.

  I wasn’t hungry but I wanted to eat.

  —Your dad’s gone to work already, she said.

  I looked at her. She was bent down, behind Catherine, helping her get the last bit onto her
spoon, touching her arm, not holding it, aiming the spoon at the porridge.

  —Good girl -

  I went back upstairs. I waited, listened; she was safe downstairs. I went into their room. The bed was made, the eiderdown up over the pillows and tucked behind them. I pulled it back. I listened. I looked at the pillows first. I pulled it back more, and the blankets. She hadn’t done the bottom sheet. Only her side had the mark of a body, the right creases; they matched the pillows. The other side was flat, the pillows full. I put my hand on the sheet; it felt warm on her side, I thought it did. I didn’t touch his.

  I didn’t tuck the eiderdown back in; to let her know.

  I listened. I looked in the wardrobe. His shoes and ties were there, three pairs of shoes, too many ties, tangles of them.

  I changed my mind; I tucked in the eiderdown and flattened it.

  I looked at her. She was cleaning the baby chair. She looked the same. Except for the hair, and I couldn’t see that now. I tried hard, I looked at her, I tried to see what her face meant.

  She looked just the same.

  —Will I get Francis?

  She threw the cloth and it landed hanging over the sink.

  She never threw things.

  —We both will, she said.

  She got the baby up and fitted her into her hip. Then she put her hand out, for me. Her hand was wet. We crept up the stairs. We laughed when they creaked. She squeezed my hand.

  The funeral would be colossal. And a flag on his coffin. The saved person’s family would give me and Sinbad money. My ma would have one of those veils on, right over her face. She’d look lovely behind it. She’d cry quietly. I wouldn’t cry at all. I’d put my arm around her when we were walking out of the church with everyone looking at us. Sinbad wouldn’t be able to reach up to her shoulders. Kevin and them would want to stand near me outside the church and beside the grave but they wouldn’t be able to because there’d be so many people, not just the relations. I’d have a suit with long trousers and a good pocket on the inside of the jacket. The saved boy’s family would get a plaque put up on our wall beside the front door. My da had died saving a little boy’s life. It wasn’t going to happen like that though; that was only stupid. Dreaming was only nice while it lasted. Nothing was going to happen to my da. Anyway, I didn’t really want him to die or anything else; he was my da. I preferred to imagine my own funeral; it was a much better dream.