Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha (20 page)

We got caught.

My ma saw us and she blabbed to my da. She was out on a walk with the girls and she saw us grabbing a pile of Woman’s Ways. I saw her before I went down the lane. I pretended I didn’t. My legs weren’t there for a few seconds; my stomach felt empty and full; I had to stop a moan from getting out. What was she doing in Raheny? She never went to Raheny. It was miles from Barrytown. I had to go to the toilet, immediately. The others kept watch. I’d told them about my ma. They were in trouble too. I wiped myself with Sinbad’s hankie. He wanted to run after Ma; he was crying. Kevin gave him a Chinese torture. He looked over at me to make sure it was alright. But Sinbad was crying already; he didn’t seem to notice the pain, so Kevin stopped. We looked at my gick. It was like a plastic one, perfect. None of them jeered at me when they saw it.

There was only one way out of the lane, back the way we’d run in. I hated my ma. She’d be waiting behind the wall, waiting. She’d smack me, and give me Sinbad’s share as well, in front of the others.

Kevin had done it. I’d only been with him.

I tested it.

I was still in trouble.

Ian McEvoy went out onto the path first. I could tell from his face that my ma wasn’t there. We cheered and ran out onto the path. She hadn’t seen us.

She’d seen us.

She hadn’t seen us. She’d have come after us and made us bring the Woman’s Ways back and say Sorry to the women. She’d been too far away to recognise us. She hadn’t seen what we’d done, just us running away. We hadn’t been running away, we’d only been running - having a chase. We’d paid for the Woman’s Ways; they were old ones and the women had said that we could take them, they’d asked us to. She’d been too far away. I looked like two of my cousins. I took my jumper off. I’d hide it and go into the house in just my shirt. It couldn’t have been me if it had been a boy in a blue jumper like mine cos I wasn’t wearing it. She’d been looking at Cathy in the pram. She’d been too busy.

She’d seen us.

She told my da and I got killed. He didn’t give me a chance to deny it. It was just as well. I would have denied it and I’d have got into even bigger trouble. He used his belt. He didn’t wear a belt. He kept it just for this. The back of my legs. The outside of my hand that was trying to cover my legs. The arm that he held onto was sore for days after. Round in a circle in the living room. Trying to get well in front of the sweep of the belt so it wouldn’t hurt as much. I should have done it the other way, backed into the belt, given him less room to swing. Everyone else in the house was crying, not just me. The whistle of the belt; he was trying to get in a good shot. Messing, playing with me, that was what he was doing. Then he stopped. I kept moving, jerking ahead; I didn’t know he’d stopped for good. He let go of my arm, and I noticed the pain there. Up where it joined the shoulder, it was very sore there. I was heading into uncontrollable sobs. I didn’t want that; I didn’t enjoy it any more. I held my breath. It was over. It was over. Nothing more would happen. It had been worth it.

He was sweating.

—Go up to your room now. Go on.

He didn’t sound as hard as he’d wanted to.

I looked at my ma. She was white. Her lips had disappeared. It served her right.

Sinbad was already up there. He’d only got a few belts; it had all been my fault. He was lying face-down on his bed. He was crying. When he saw it was me he slowed down.

—Look.

I showed him the backs of my legs.

—Show me yours.

He didn’t have half as many marks. I didn’t say anything. He could see for himself; some of them should have been his. I could see that that was what he was thinking, and that was enough for me.

—He’s a big bastard, I said.—Isn’t he?

—Yeah.

—He’s a big bastard, I said again.

—He’s a big bastard, said Sinbad.

We got under our blankets and had a war. I liked the dark under the blankets. You could get rid of it easily when you wanted to. And it was nice the way the blankets pressed me down; I could feel it in my head. It was warm. Light came in. The blanket had been lifted up. It was Sinbad. He climbed in.

 

Our venetian blinds were different colours. One day - it was raining - I realised that there was a pattern. The bottom one was yellow, the one next was light blue, then pink, then red. Then yellow again. The top one was blue. The frame at the top was white. So was the cord. I lay on the floor with my feet towards the window and counted the slats, faster and faster.

There were lots of venetian blinds in Barrytown but we were the only ones I knew that had them in the back of the house as well as the front. Me and Kevin went around all the houses and there were seventeen blinds in the front windows that were crooked. There were fifty-four houses in Barrytown, not counting the new Corporation ones and the other ones that were just finished and had no one in them yet. We went around again; eleven of the seventeen were crooked on the left side. The blinds came down to the window ledge on the right but were stuck about five slats up on the left. Worst was the Kellys’ with ten slats. We could see Missis Kelly in the front room doing nothing. O‘Connell’s weren’t only crooked, they were buckled; not Mister O’Connell’s bedroom ones upstairs - they were perfect, and closed - the front-room ones, the room we played in. Only twenty houses didn’t have blinds.

—Useless.

Kevin’s house had coloured ones as well.

—Multi-coloured are best.

—Yeah.

My ma filled the bath with water when she was washing them. She only ever did it once. I wanted to help but there wasn’t room; I wanted to make sure that she put them back in the right order. She pulled the cord out of all the holes in the slats and put each slat in the bath, one at a time. I looked at a new washed yellow one and a dirty yellow one while she was feeding the babies; I put them beside each other. They were different colours now. I pulled my finger through the dirt; the new yellow was underneath it.

I asked her not to wash one of each colour.

—Will you not? I asked again.

—Why?

She always stopped and listened; she always wanted to know.

—Just-

I couldn’t explain it; it was kind of a secret.

—To compare.

—But they’re filthy dirty, love.

I knew when I was going to bed that I’d never lie on the floor and look up at the colours again. She came in to turn off the light. She put her hand on my forehead and hair. Her hand smelt of water and the dirt behind the fridge. I got my head from under her hand; I shifted to the corner.

—Is it because of the blinds?

—No.

—What is it?

—I’m hot.

—D’you want one of the blankets off?

—No.

 

She spent ages tucking me in; I wanted her to go but I didn’t as well.

Sinbad was asleep. He’d once got his head caught in the bars of his cot and he’d cried all night, till daylight when I saw him. That was years ago. He slept in a bed now. My Uncle Raymond had brought it on the roof of his car. The mattress was wet because it had started raining when he was half-way between his house and our house. We said it was because of all our cousins’ wee-wees, me and Sinbad. We didn’t know till two days later, when the mattress was dry, that it was Sinbad’s bed. Then Uncle Frank took Sinbad’s cot away on the roof of his car.

—They were dirty, Patrick, she said.—You have to wash things when they’re dirty. Specially with babies. D’you understand?

If I said Yes that would mean more than I just understood. I said nothing, the way Sinbad always did.

—Patrick?

I said nothing.

—Have you any tickles?

I tried like mad not to laugh.

 

Aidan was the commentator. He was brilliant at it. We had to tell him our names before the match. We were playing across the road. Our pitch was gone. The gates on each side were the goals. There were eight of us, just right, four a side. Whoever had the ball when a car was coming got a throw-in when the car had gone. If you decided to risk it but the driver blasted the horn before you took your shot the goal was disallowed, if it was a goal. You couldn’t use the kerb for shielding the ball. Anything higher than the top of the pillar was over the bar.

I had to fight for George Best.

Kevin didn’t follow Manchester United. He followed Leeds. He’d once followed United but then he’d changed because of his brother; his brother followed Leeds.

It was Kevin’s turn to pick.

—Eddie Gray, he said.

No one else wanted to be Eddie Gray. Ian McEvoy followed Leeds as well but he was always Johnny Giles. Kevin was sick once, and Ian McEvoy picked Eddie Gray.

—Why not Johnny Giles?

—Just—

I’d caught him.

Four of us followed Manchester United. All of us wanted to be George Best. We always made Sinbad be Nobby Stiles so he stopped following United and started following Liverpool, although he didn’t really follow anyone. For a while I nearly changed to Leeds as well, but I couldn’t. They’d have said that it was just because of Kevin but, mostly, it was because of George Best.

What we did was, Kevin got four ice-pop sticks and broke one of them and each United supporter picked a stick and whoever got the broken stick got to choose first.

Aidan picked the small stick.

—Bobby Charlton, he said.

He picked Bobby Charlton because he knew what would happen to him if he picked George Best. I’d do him. There was no ref. You could do what you wanted, even tackle one of your own team. I could beat Aidan. He was a good fighter but he didn’t like it. He always let you up before you surrendered properly; then you could get him back.

Kevin threw away one of the big sticks. I picked the small one this time.

—George Best.

Liam was Denis Law. If he’d picked the small stick he’d have been George Best. I wouldn’t have stopped him. He was different. I’d never had a fight with him. There was something; he’d have won. He wasn’t that much bigger. There was something. It hadn’t always been like that. He’d been very small once. He wasn’t that big now. His eyes. There was no shine on them. When the brothers were together, standing beside each other, it was easy to see them the way we saw them; little, jokes, sad, nice. They were our friends because we hated them; it was good to have them around. I was cleaner than them, brainier than them. I was better than them. Separate, it was different. Aidan got smaller, unfinished looking. Liam became dangerous. They looked the same together. They were nothing alike when you met one of them alone. That nearly never happened. They weren’t twins. Liam was older than Aidan. They both followed United.

—It’s cheaper, said Ian McEvoy when they weren’t there.

—The game’s about to commence, said Aidan.

Me, Aidan, Ian McEvoy and Sinbad versus Kevin, Liam, Edward Swanwick and James O‘Keefe. We were given a two-goal lead because we had Sinbad. He was much smaller than everyone else. Teams with Sinbad in them usually won. We all thought it was because of the automatic two-goal lead but it wasn’t. (The score in one match was seventy-three, sixty-seven.) It was because Sinbad was a good player. But none of us knew this; he was a twirp; we were stuck with him because he was my little brother. He was a brilliant dribbler. I didn’t know until Mister O’Keefe, James O’Keefe’s da, told me.

—He has the perfect centre of gravity for a soccer player, said Mister O’Keefe.

I looked at Sinbad. He was just my little brother. I hated him. He never wiped his nose. He cried. He wet the bed. He got away with not eating his dinner. He had to wear specs with one black lens. He ran to get the ball. No one else did that. They all waited for it to come to them. He went through them all, no bother. He was brilliant. He wasn’t selfish like most fellas who could dribble. It was weird, looking at him. It was great, and I wanted to kill him. You couldn’t be proud of your little brother.

We were two-nil up before we started.

—The captains shake hands.

I shook hands with Kevin. We squeezed real hard. We were Northern Ireland. Kevin was Scotland. Bobby Charlton was playing for Northern Ireland because he was on his holidays there.

—Scotland to kick off.

These games were fast. It was nothing like being on grass. The road wasn’t wide. We were packed in together. The gates were closed. The smack of the ball against the gate was a goal. Goalkeepers scored about half the goals. We tried to change the rules but the goalkeepers objected; they wouldn’t go in goal if they weren’t allowed score goals. The useless players went in goal but we still needed them. Once, James O’Keefe, the worst player of us all, kicked out from goal. He scored a goal but the ball whacked off the gate and back across the road, into his own goal. He’d scored a goal and an O.G. with the one shot.

—My word, said the commentator.—Extraordinary.

Scotland kicked off.

—Denis Law taps to Eddie Gray-

I got a foot in; the ball hit the gate.

—Yessss!

—My word, said the commentator.—A goal by Best. One-nil to Northern Ireland.

—Hey! I reminded him.—Sinbad’s goals.

—Three-nil to Northern Ireland. What a start. What can Scotland do now?

Scotland scored three.

It made you dizzy. The ball bombed over the road, and over. It was a bit burst. It hurt when it got you in the leg.

—I can’t recall a game quite as exciting as this one, said the commentator.—My word.

He’d just scored a goal.

It always slowed down after a while. If it hadn’t we’d never have played it. It would have been just stupid. Your feet got sore blemming a burst ball.

—Seventeen, sixteen to Northern Ireland.

—It’s seventeen-all!

—It isn’t. I’ve been counting.