They were fighting all the time now. They said nothing but it was a fight. The way he folded his paper and snapped it, he was saying something. The way she got up when one of the girls was crying upstairs, sighed and stooped, wanting him to see that she was tired. It was happening. They probably thought they were hiding it.
I didn’t understand. She was lovely. He was nice. They had four children. I was one of them, the oldest. The man of the house when my da wasn’t there. She held onto us for longer, gripped us and looked over us at the floor or the ceiling. She didn’t notice me trying to push away; I was too old for that. In front of Sinbad. I still loved her smell. But she wasn’t cuddling us; she was hanging on to us.
He waited before he answered, always he did, pretended he hadn’t heard anything. She was always the one that tried to make them talk. He’d answer just when I thought she’d have to ask again, to change her voice, make it sound angry. It was agony waiting for him.
–Paddy?
–What?
–Did you not hear me?
–Hear what?
–You heard me.
–Heard what?
She stopped. We were listening; she saw us. He thought he’d won; I thought he did.
–Sinbad?
He didn’t answer. He wasn’t asleep though; I knew the breathing.
–Sinbad.
I could hear him listening. I didn’t move. I didn’t want him to think that I was going to get him.
–Sinbad?—Francis.
–What?
I thought of something.
–Do you not like being called Sinbad?
–No.
–Okay.
I said nothing for a bit. I heard him change, move nearer the wall.
–Francis?
–What?
–Can you hear them?
He didn’t give an answer.
–Can you hear them? Francis?
–Yeah.
That was all. I knew he wouldn’t say any more. We listened to the sharp mumbles coming up from downstairs. We did, not just me. We listened for a long time. The silences were worst, waiting for it to start again, or louder. A door sort of slammed; the back door—I heard the glass shake.
–Francis?
–What?
–That’s what it’s like every night.
He said nothing.
–It’s like that every night, I said.
Breath came out sharp between his lips. He did that a lot since his lips had been burnt.
–It’s only talking, he said.
–It’s not.
–It is.
–It’s not; they’re shouting.
–No, they aren’t.
–They are, I said.—Quietly.
I listened for proof. There was nothing.
–They’ve stopped, he said.—They weren’t.
He sounded happy and nervous.
–They’ll do it again tomorrow.
–No, they won’t, he said.—They were only talking, about things.
I watched him putting on his trousers. He always brought the zip up before he did the button at the top and it took him ages, but his face never changed. He stared down at his hands and made two chins. And he forgot about his shirt and his vest, so he had to do it all over again. I wanted to go over and help him, but I didn’t. One move and he’d change; he’d back away, turn sideways and moan.
–The button should be first, I told him.—At the top. Do it first.
I just said it in a normal voice.
He kept doing what he’d been doing. The radio downstairs sounded nice; the voices.
–Francis, I said.
He had to look at me. I was going to look after him.
–Francis.
He held the two sides of the front of his trousers.
–Why are you calling me Francis? he said.
–Cos Francis is your name, I said.
His face said nothing.
–It’s your real name, I said.—You don’t like being called Sinbad.
He put the sides into one of his hands and did the zip with the other, still the old way. It annoyed me. It was just stupid.
–Sure you don’t? I said.
My voice was still just normal.
–Leave me alone, he said.
–Why? I said.
He said nothing.
I tried a different way.
–Do you not want me to call you Francis?
–Leave me alone, he said.
I gave up.
–Sinnnnbadd—!
–I’ll tell Ma.
–She won’t care, I said.
He said nothing.
–She won’t care, I said again.
I waited for him to say Why not. I was going to get him. He didn’t. He said nothing. He turned sideways and got his trousers done.
I didn’t hit him.
–She won’t care, I said when I was opening the bedroom door.
I tried again.
–Francis.
He wouldn’t look at me. He hid himself in his jumper when he was putting it on.
–I kneed you, I said, and I gave him a dead leg.
He collapsed before he understood the pain, straight down like something heavy. I’d done it and seen it done so often it wasn’t funny any more. It was just an excuse; pretending that hurting someone was for a joke. I didn’t even know his name. He was too small to have one. His scream died out once he knew there was nothing else going to happen.
The other one was getting your finger and digging it into someone’s ribs real hard, like a knife, twisting it and saying, Am I boring you? It was new, in school on Monday after the weekend. You couldn’t relax. Your best friend could get you: it was a joke. Or grabbing one of your diddies and saying, Whistle. Some fellas tried to whistle. Sinbad got a pulled diddy and a dead leg at the same time. Everyone got it done to them, except Charles Leavy.
Charles Leavy didn’t do it to anybody. That was weird. Charles Leavy could have made us all line up, like Henno on a Friday morning, and kneed all our legs dead. You wanted to show off in front of Charles Leavy. You wanted to say bad words. You wanted him to look at you the proper way.
They said nothing for long bits but that wasn’t bad; they were watching the television or reading, or my ma was doing a hard bit of knitting. It didn’t make me nervous; their faces were okay.
My ma said a thing during The Virginian.
–What did we see him in before?
My da liked The Virginian. He didn’t pretend he wasn’t watching.
–I think, he said,—I’m not sure; something though.
Sinbad couldn’t say Virginian properly. He didn’t know what it meant either, why they called him the Virginian. I did.
–He comes from Virginia.
–That’s right, said my da.—Where do The Dubliners come from, Francis?
–Dublin, said Sinbad.
–Good man.
Da nudged me. I did it back, with my knee against his leg. I was sitting on the floor beside his chair. Ma asked him did he want any tea during the ads. He said No, then he changed his mind and shouted in Yes.
They always talked during The News; they talked about the news. Sometimes it wasn’t really talk, not conversation, just comments.
–Bloody eejit.
–Yes.
I was able to tell when my da was going to call someone a bloody eejit; his chair creaked. It was always a man and he was always saying something to an interviewer.