That were better.
Papers were boring. Da sometimes read out to my ma what Backbencher said and it was stupid. Ma listened but only because my da was reading it and he was her husband.
–Very good.
That was what she usually said but it never sounded like she meant it; she said it the same way she said Go to sleep.
–The word was made flesh!
Swish.
–Backbencher!
They were big and the writing was tiny and they took all day to read, especially on Saturday and Sunday. I read a thing about a highcross that was damaged by vandals. It was on the front page of the Evening Press, and it took me eight minutes. There was a picture of a highcross but there wasn’t any damage on it. I could always tell, when I was going down to the shops to get the paper, if it was a real nice day in the summer, sunny all day, there’d be a picture of girls or children at the beach on the front, usually three of them in a row; the children always had a bucket and spade in front of them. That was what happened my da: he started to read the paper and then he had to finish it—he thought he was being good doing it—and it took him all day. He became grouchy and dangerous; he was running out of time. The writing was small so he couldn’t be distracted. Saturday afternoon: Ma was nervous, we hated him and all he’d done was read Backbencher.
I’ll crucify you.
James O’Keefe’s ma always said that to James O’Keefe and his brothers and sister. All she meant was Do what you’re told. I’ll leather you. I’ll skin you alive. I’ll break every bone in your body. I’ll tear you limb from limb. I’ll maim you.
They were all stupid.
I’ll swing for you. I didn’t know what that one meant. Missis Kilmartin roared it at Eric her mentler son. He’d opened up all the bags in six boxes of crisps.
My ma explained.
–It means that she’ll murder him and then she’ll be condemned to hang for it but she doesn’t really mean it.
–Why doesn’t she say what she does mean?
–It’s just the way people talk.
It must have been great being mental. You could do anything you wanted and you never really got into proper trouble for it. You couldn’t pretend you were mental though; you had to be that way all the time. No homework either and you could slobber your dinner as much as you wanted.
Agnes, the woman that worked in Missis Kilmartin’s shop because Missis Kilmartin was busying spying behind the door, she spent ages every day with a scissors cutting bits off the front pages of the newspapers, the bit with the name of the paper and the date under it, only that.
–Why?
–To send them back.
–Why? I asked.
–Because they don’t want the whole paper.
–Why not?
–They just don’t. They don’t need them. They’re out of date, useless.
–Can I have them?
–You can not.
I didn’t want them. I just said it because I knew she was going to say that and I was checking.
–Missis Kilmartin wipes her bum with them, I said.
Not loud.
Sinbad was there. He stared at the window door: she was behind it. Agnes spoke back quietly.
–Get out now, yeh pup, or I’ll tell her.
She lived in the same house as her ma; she wasn’t really a woman at all. They lived in a cottage that was stuck in the middle of the new houses. The grass in their garden was always perfect.
Da’s face was different when he was reading the paper. It was pushed forward, his eyebrows were pushed up. Sometimes his lips were open but his teeth were closed. I heard him grinding his teeth and I didn’t know what it was. I looked all around the room. I stood up. I’d been sitting on the floor beside him waiting for him to finish. I couldn’t see anything. I looked at my ma. She was reading Woman; not really reading, turning the pages, still looking at the page when she was turning, her hand going with it, the exact same amount of time for each page. I looked at my da, to see if he was hearing what I was, strong things going to break, and I saw his mouth moving—I watched: it moved at the same time as the noise; it was the noise. I waited for the snap. I wanted to warn him. I hated him for doing it. Newspapers were bastards.
–I was thinking of getting pork for a change.
He said nothing; he didn’t look.
–It might be nice.
His face was stuck to the page. His eyes weren’t moving down. He wasn’t reading. He made her say it.
–What do you think?
He cracked the paper. He folded it. He concentrated hard on it. He spoke but it was hardly like he was speaking; it was like the words came out with a sigh—not even a whisper.
–Do what you want.
Face on the paper, legs crossed and stiff, no rhythm.
–Whatever you want.
I didn’t look back at my ma yet; not yet.
–You always do.
I still didn’t look.
She didn’t say anything.
I listened.
He was the only one I could hear breathing. He was pushing the air out, of his nose. Oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. Plants did it the other way round. I heard hers now, her breathing.
–Can I turn on the telly? I said.
I wanted to remind him that I was there. There was a fight coming and I could stop it by being there.
–Television, she said, corrected me.
There was nothing wrong. She’d never have said that if there had been. Ma hated halfwords and bits of words and words that weren’t real ones. Only full, proper words.
–Television, I said.
She didn’t mind Don’t and Amn’t and shortened words like that. They were different.—It’s a television, she’d say, not really giving out.—It’s a wellington. It’s a toilet.
Her voice was normal.
–Television, I said.—Can I?
–What’s on? she asked.
I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. The sound would fill the room. He’d look up.
–Something, I said.—There might be, maybe a programme about politics. Something of interest.
–Like what?
–Fianna Fail versus Fine Gael, I said.
That made Da look at me.
–What’s on? he said.
–There might be, I said.—Not for definite.
–A match between them?
–No, I said.—Talking.
The only programmes he didn’t pretend he wasn’t watching were ones with people talking in them, and The Virginian.
–You want the television on? he said.
–Yeah.
–Why didn’t you say just that?
–I did say it, I said.
–Fire away, he said.
His leg was moving, the one on top of the one on the ground, up and down. He sometimes put Catherine and Deirdre on his foot and carried them up and down. He did it to Sinbad as well once—I could remember it—so he must have done it to me as well. I got up.
–Is your homework done?
–Yes.
–All of it?
–Yes.
–The learning?
–Yes.
–What did you get?
–Ten spellings.
–Ten of them; give us one?
–Sediment. Do you want me to do it?
–There’s no point, but yeah.
–S.e.d.i.m.e.n.t.
–Sediment.
–C.e.n.t.e.n.a.r.y.
–Centenary.
–Yeah. That’s the name for a hundredth anniversary.
–Like your mother’s birthday.
I’d done it. It was alright. Normal again. He’d cracked a joke. Ma had laughed. I’d laughed. He’d laughed. Mine lasted the longest. During it, I thought it was going to change into a cry. But it didn’t. My eyes blinked like mad but then it was okay.
–Sediment has three syllables, I told them.
–Very good, said my ma.
–Sediment.
–How many has Centenary?
I was ready; I’d done that one for homework.
–Centenary. Four.
–Very good. How many has Bed?
I got the joke just before I said the answer; my mouth was nearly open.
I stood up quick.
–Okay.
I wanted to go while it was nice. I’d made it like that.
There were two teachers not in because they were sick so Henno had to mind another class. He left us with a load of sums on the board. He left the door open. There wasn’t much messing or noise. I liked long division. I used my ruler to make sure that my lines were absolutely straight. I liked guessing if I’d have the answer before I got to the end of the page. There was a screech and laughing. Kevin had leaned over and drawn a squiggly line all over Fergus Shevlin’s copy, only he’d used the wrong end of the pen so there was no mark but Fergus Shevlin got a fright. I didn’t see it. I was at the top of the second row that week and Kevin was in the middle of the third row.