–Jews go to mass on Saturdays, I told my da.
–That’s right, he said.—In synagogues.
–They don’t believe in Jesus.
–That’s right.
–Why don’t they?
–Ah now.
I waited.
–People believe different things.
I wanted more than that.
–Some believe in God, others don’t.
–Communists don’t, I said.
–That’s right, he said.—Who told you that?
–Mister Hennessey.
–Good man, Mister Hennessey, he said.
I knew by the way he said the next thing that it was a part of a poem; he did that sometimes.
–And still they gazed and still their wonder grew that one small head could carry all it knew. Some people believe that Jesus was the son of God and others don’t.
–You do, don’t you?
–Yes, he said.—I do. Why? Was Mister Hennessey asking you?
–No, I said.
His face changed.—The Israelis are a great people, he said.—Hitler tried to exterminate them, nearly did, and look at them now. Outnumbered, outgunned, outeverythinged and they’re still winning. Sometimes I think we should move there, to Israel. Would you like that, Patrick?
–I don’t know. Yeah, I might.
I knew where Israel was. It was shaped like an arrow.
–It’s hot there, I said.
–Ummm.
–It snows in the winter though.
–Yep. A nice mix. Not like here, all rain.
–They don’t wear shoes, I said.
–Do they not?
–Sandals.
–Like what’s his name, your man—
–Terence Long.
–That’s right. Terence Long.
We both laughed.
–Terence Long—
Terence Long—
Wears no socks—
What a pong.
–Poor oul’ Terence, said my da.—Up the Israelis, anyway.
–What was World War Two like? I asked him.
–Long, he said.
I knew the dates.
–I was a kid when it started, he said.—And I was nearly finished with school when it ended.
–Six years.
–Yep. Long ones.
–Mister Hennessey said he never saw a banana till he was eighteen.
–I’d believe him.
–Luke Cassidy got into trouble. He asked him what the monkeys ate during the war.
–What happened to him? said Da when he’d stopped laughing.
–He hit him.
He said nothing.
–Six.
–Rough.
–Luke didn’t even think it up for himself. Kevin Conroy told him to say it.
–Serves him right then.
–He was crying.
–All because of bananas.
–Kevin’s brother’s joining the F.C.A., I said.
–Is that right? That’ll straighten his back for him.
I didn’t get it. His back was straight already.
–Were you ever in it?
–The F.C.A.?
–Yeah.
–No.
–During the—
–My father was in the L.D.F.
–What’s that?
–Local Defence Force.
–Did he have a gun?
–I suppose so. Not at home; I think anyway.
–I’m going to join them when I’m old enough. Can I?
–The F.C.A.?
–Yeah. Can I?
–Sure.
–Was Ireland ever in a war?
–No.
–What about the Battle of Clontarf?
He laughed, I waited.
–That wasn’t really a war, he said.
–What was it then?
–A battle.
–What’s the difference?
–Well, let’s—Wars are long—
–And battles are short.
–Yes.
–Why was Brian Boru in a tent?
–He was praying.
–In a tent though. You don’t pray in a tent.
–I’m hungry, he said.—What about yourself?
–Yeah.
–What are we having; any idea?
–Mince.
–Righto.
–How goes gas kill you?
–It poisons you.
–How?
–You’re not supposed to breathe it. Your lungs can’t cope. Why?
–The Jews, I said.
–Oh, he said.—Yes.
–If Ireland was in a war would you go into the army?
–It won’t be.
–It might be, I said.
–No, he said.—I don’t think so.
–World War Three looms near, I said.
–Don’t mind that, he said.
–Would you?
–Yes, he said.
–So would I.
–Good. And Francis.
–He’s too young, I said.—They wouldn’t let him.
–There won’t be a war, he said.—Don’t worry.
–I’m not, I said.
–Good.
–We were in a war against the English, weren’t we?
–Yes.
–That was a war, I said.
–Well, it wasn’t really—I suppose it was.
–We won.
–Yes. We murdered them. We gave them a hiding they’ll never forget.
We laughed.
We had our dinner. It was lovely. The mince wasn’t too runny. I sat in the chair beside Da, Sinbad’s chair. Sinbad said nothing.
–It’s not Adidas. It’s Addeedas.
–It’s not. It’s Adidas.
–It isn’t. It’s eee.
–eee.
–i.
–Spaface; it’s eeeeeeee.
–i i i i i i i i.
None of us had Adidas football boots. We were all getting them for Christmas. I wanted the ones with the screwon studs. I put that in my letter to Santy but I didn’t believe in him. I only wrote to him because my ma told me to, because Sinbad was writing to him. Sinbad wanted a sleigh. Ma was helping him to write his letter. Mine was finished. It was in the envelope but she wouldn’t let me lick the flap yet because Sinbad’s letter had to go in as well. It wasn’t fair. I wanted an envelope of my own.
–Stop whinging, she said.
–I’m not whinging.
–Yes, you are; stop it.
I wasn’t whinging. Putting two letters in one envelope was stupid. Santy would think it was only one letter and he’d just bring Sinbad’s present and not mine. I didn’t believe in him anyway. Only kids believed in him. If she said I was whinging again I’d say that, and then she’d have to spend all day making Sinbad believe in him again.
–I don’t know if Santy brings sleighs to Ireland, she told Sinbad.
–Why doesn’t he?
–Because there’s hardly ever any snow, she said.—You wouldn’t get a chance to use it.
–There’s snow in winter, said Sinbad.
–Only sometimes.
–Up the mountains.
–That’s miles away, she said.—Miles.
–In the car.
She didn’t lose her temper. I stopped waiting. I went into the kitchen. If you held an envelope over the steam coming out of a kettle you could open it, and close it again without anyone knowing. I needed a chair to plug in the kettle. I checked to make sure that there was enough water in it, over the element. I didn’t just lift it up and weigh it; I took the lid off and looked in. I got off the chair and put it back. I didn’t need the chair any more.
I went back to the living room. Sinbad still wanted the sleigh.
–He should bring you what you want, he said.
–He does, love, said my ma.
–Then—
–But he doesn’t want you to be disappointed, she said.—He wants to give the children presents that they’ll be able to play with all the time.
Her voice hadn’t changed; she wasn’t going to bully him.
I went back to the kitchen. I took my letter out of the envelope and put it on the table, well away from the round wet mark that the milk bottle had left. I licked the gummy part of the flap and stuck it down. I pressed hard. The steam was coming out of the kettle spout now. I waited. I wanted the gum to be dry. More steam; it was singing out now. I held the envelope enough into the steam so I wouldn’t scald my fingers. It was too close; the envelope was getting wet. I raised my hand. I brought the envelope over and across the steam. Not for too long; the envelope was beginning to droop, like it was going asleep. I got the chair and pulled the plug out and put it back right beside the tea caddy where it had been before I’d plugged it in. There were Japanese birds on the caddy with their tails all tied together and in their mouths. The envelope was soggy, a bit. I brought it out into the back garden. I got my thumb nail in under the flap. A little bit lifted. I held it up. It had worked. I pressed the gum bit. It was still sticky. It worked. I went back in; it was cold and windy and getting dark. I wasn’t afraid of the dark, only when it was windy as well. I put my letter back in the envelope.