I went over to the fridge.
K.E.L.V.I.N.A.T.O.R.
She’d taught me those letters. I remembered it.
I liked the way the handle tried to stop me from opening it and I always won. There were four pints, one opened. I carried the opened one, two handed—glass made me nervous—to the table. I filled my mug to an inch before the top. I hated spilling.
–Francis, I said,—d’you want me to put milk in your mug?
I wanted Ma to see.
–Yes, he said.
I didn’t do anything, I’d been so sure he was going to say nothing or No.
–Yes, thank you, said Ma.
–Yes, thank you, said Sinbad.
I put the groove of the top of the bottle right on the rim of his mug and poured, the same amount as I’d given myself. There wasn’t much left in the bottle.
–Thank you, Patrick, said Sinbad.
I didn’t know what to say back. Then I remembered.
–You’re welcome.
I got back from the fridge. Ma sat down. Da was at work.
–Have you two been fighting again? she said.
–No, I said.
–Are you sure?
–No, I said.—Yeah. Sure we haven’t?
–No, said Sinbad.
–I hope you haven’t been, she said.
–We haven’t, I said.
Then I got her to laugh.
–I assure you.
And she laughed.
I looked over at Sinbad. He looked at Ma laughing. He smiled. He tried to laugh but she stopped before he could get going.
–I appreciate this dinner very much, I said. But she didn’t laugh much more.
I looked at him for a long time, trying to see what was different. There was something. He’d just come home, late, just before my bedtime. He was supposed to check my homework, to test my spellings. His face was different, browner, shinier. He picked up his knife slowly and then looked as if he’d just discovered the fork on the other side of the plate, and he picked it up like he wasn’t sure what it was. He followed the steam coming off his plate.
He was drunk. It hit me. I sat down at the table with my spelling notebook for an excuse, English at the front, Irish at the back. I was fascinated. He was drunk. It was new. I’d never seen it before. Liam and Aidan’s da howled at the moon, and here was mine. He was telling himself to do everything he did, I could see that, concentrating. His face was tight on one side and loose on the other. He was nice. He grinned when he had time to notice me.
–There y’are, he said.
He never said that.
–Have you spellings for me?
And he made me test him. He got eight out of ten. He couldn’t spell Aggravate or Rhythm.
But that wasn’t it. They weren’t falling apart because my da was getting drunk. There was only a bottle of sherry in the house. I checked it. It was always the same. I knew nothing about it, how you got drunk, how much it took, what was supposed to happen. But I knew that that wasn’t it. I looked for lipstick on his collar; I’d seen it in The Man From Uncle. There wasn’t any. I wondered, anyway, why there’d be lipstick on the collar. Maybe the women were bad shots in the dark. I didn’t really know why I was looking at my da’s collar.
I couldn’t prove it. I sometimes didn’t believe it; I’d really think that there was nothing wrong—the way they were chatting and drinking their tea, the way we all looked at the television—but I’d swing back again before happiness could trap me. She was lovely. He was nice.
She looked thinner. He looked older. He looked mean, like he was making himself look mean. She looked at him all the time. When he wasn’t looking; like she was searching for something or trying to recognise him; like he’d said he was someone whose name she recognised but she wasn’t sure that she’d like him when she remembered properly. Sometimes her mouth opened and stayed there when she was looking. She waited for him to look at her. She cried a lot. She thought I wasn’t looking. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and made herself smile and even giggled, as if the crying had been a mistake and she’d only found out.
There was no proof.
Mister O’Driscoll from the house at the top of the old road didn’t live there any more. He wasn’t dead either; I’d seen him. Richard Shiels’s da sometimes didn’t live in their house. Richard Shiels said he had to go to a job somewhere—
–Africa.
but I didn’t believe him. His ma had a black eye once. Edward Swanwick’s ma ran away with a pilot from Aer Lingus. He used to fly low over their house. One of their chimneys was cracked. She never came back. The Swanwicks—
–The ones that are left, said Kevin’s ma.
moved away, to Sutton.
We were next. We never saw Edward Swanwick again. We were next. I knew it, and I was going to be ready.
We watched them. Charles Leavy was in goal, the gate closed behind him. Seán Whelan whacked the ball into the gate. It was his turn in goal. Charles Leavy got the ball, hit the gate. They swapped again. Charles Leavy’s head was twitching. The ball made the gate bounce.
–He’s not trying to stop it, said Kevin.
–He doesn’t want to be in goal, I said.
Only spas went in goal.
There was just the two of them. Most of the new houses still had no one in them but their road looked more finished because the cement went all the way to Barrytown Road now; the gap had been filled. My name was in the cement. It was my last autograph; I was sick of it. The road had a name now as well, Chestnut Avenue, nailed to the Simpsons’ wall cos theirs was the corner house. It was in Irish as well, Ascal na gCastán. When the ball skidded on the road you could hear the stones and gravel. The dust was everywhere even though it was nearly the winter now. The turns off Chestnut Avenue didn’t make any sense yet. You couldn’t tell what shape it was all going to be when it was finished.
Charles Leavy was back in goal. He saved a shot because he couldn’t help it, it went straight into his leg. Seán Whelan blemmed in the rebound. He was able to keep it low. The gate clattered.
We made our move.
–Threeandin, said Kevin.
They ignored us.
–Hey, said Kevin.—Threeandin.
Charles Leavy waited for Seán Whelan to get the gate properly closed again. His shot hit the pillar, the corner of it, and flew past us all. I ran after it. I was doing it for Charles Leavy. I kicked to him, careful that it went straight to him. He waited till it stopped, as if that meant that he didn’t have to admit that I’d got it for him, because he didn’t even look at me.
Kevin had another go.
–D’you not want to play threeandin?
Charles Leavy looked at Seán Whelan. Seán Whelan shook his head, and Charles Leavy turned to us.
–Fuck off, he said.
I wanted to go; I’d never heard it like that before, like he meant it. It was an order. There was no choice. He’d kill us if we didn’t. Kevin knew this as well. I could see him loosening to go. I didn’t say anything else till Charles Leavy could see that we were going.
–We’ll go in goal, I said.—Me and him.
We kept going.
–You can be out all the time.
Charles Leavy smacked the ball into the gate and Seán Whelan came out. Seán Whelan scored before Charles Leavy had even got to the gate and they swapped again. This time Seán Whelan shrugged and Charles Leavy tapped the ball to me, to me, not to Kevin.
I let him win the ball off me. I let him win all the tackles. I put the ball too far ahead of me so he wouldn’t have to tackle me. I nearly passed the ball to him. I wanted him to win. I needed him to like me. I went in hard on Seán Whelan. I was in my good clothes—my ma made us wear our clothes all day Sunday. I didn’t have to go in goal even once, because I didn’t win. I let Charles Leavy get past me when he was out, and Kevin when Charles Leavy was in. One of them was out all the time so I never won. I didn’t mind. I was playing football with Charles Leavy. I was getting up close to him. I was pretending to try and get the ball off him. He was playing with me.