by Roddy Doyle
I had a picture of Geronimo. He was kneeling on one knee. His left elbow was resting on his left knee. He had a rifle. He had a scarf around his neck and a shirt with spots on it that I didn’t notice for ages until I was sticking the picture on my wall. He had a bracelet that looked like a watch on his right wrist. Maybe he’d robbed it. Maybe he’d cut someone’s arm off to get it. The rifle looked homemade. The best part was his face. He was looking straight into the camera, straight through it. He wasn’t frightened of it; he didn’t think it would take his soul, like some of them did. His hair was black, parted in the middle, straight down to his shoulders; no feathers or messing. He looked very old, his face, but the rest of him was young.
—Da?
—What?
—What age are you?
—Thirty-three.
—Geronimo was fifty-four, I told him.
—What? he said.—Always?
He was fifty-four when the photograph was taken. He might have been older. He looked fierce and sad. His mouth was upside-down, like a cartoon sad face. His eyes were watery and black. His nose was big. I wondered why he was sad. Maybe he knew what was going to happen to him. The part of his leg in the photograph was like a girl’s, no hair or bumps. He was wearing boots. There were bushes around him. I put my fingers on the hair to cover it. His face was like an old woman’s. A sad old woman. I lifted my fingers. He was Geronimo again. It was only a black-and-white photograph. I coloured in his shirt; blue. It took ages.
I saw another picture in a book. Of Geronimo with his warriors. They were in a big field. Geronimo was in the middle, in a jacket and a stripey scarf. He still looked old and young. His shoulders looked old. His legs looked young.
None of the pictures in books were like the Indians in the films. There was one of the Snake and Sioux Indians on the warpath. The main fella in the picture had a pony tail and the rest of his head was bald, and shiny like an apple. He was riding hunched down sideways on his horse so that the others couldn’t fire their arrows at him. The horse’s eye was looking down at him; the horse looked scared. It was a painting. I liked it. There was another great one of an Indian killing a buffalo. The buffalo had its head in under the horse; the Indian would have to kill it quick or the buffalo would turn the horse over. Something about the way the Indian was on the horse, with his back up and his arm stretched, ready, with his spear, made me know that he was going to win. Anyway, the picture was called The Last of the Buffalo. There were other Indians on the edge of the picture chasing after more buffalo. The field was covered in buffalo skulls and there were dead buffalos lying all around. I couldn’t put this one on my wall because it was from a library book. I went to the library in Baldoyle. I went with my da. One room was the grown-ups’ and there was another room for children.
He was always interfering. He’d come into our part of the library after he’d changed his books and he’d start picking books for me. He never put them back properly.
—I read this one when I was your age.
I didn’t want to know that.
I could take two books. He looked at the covers.
—The American Indians.
He took out the tag and slipped it into my library card. He was always doing that as well. He looked at the other one.
—Daniel Boone, Hero. Good man.
I read in the car. I could do it and not get sick if I didn’t look up. Daniel Boone was one of the greatest of American pioneers. But, like many other pioneers, he was not much of a hand at writing. He carved something on a tree after he’d killed a bear.
—D. Boone killa bar on this tree 1773.
His writing was far worse than mine, than Sinbad’s even. I’d never have spelled Bear wrong. And anyway as well, what was a grown-up doing writing stuff on trees?
—DANIEL BOONE WAS A MAN
WAS A BI-IG MAN
BUT THE BEAR WAS BIGGER
AND HE RAN LIKE A NIGGER
UP A TREE—
There was a picture of him and he looked like a spa. He was stopping an Indian from getting his wife and his son with a hatchet. The Indian had spiky hair and he was wearing pink curtains around his middle and nothing else. He was looking up at Daniel Boone like he’d just got a terrible fright. Daniel Boone was holding his wrist and he had his other arm in a lock. The Indian didn’t even come up to Daniel Boone’s shoulders. Daniel Boone was dressed in a green jacket with a white collar and stringy bits hanging off the sleeves. He had a fur hat with a red bobbin. He looked like one of the women in the cake shop in Raheny. His dog was barking. His wife looked like she was annoyed about the noise they were making. Her dress had come off her shoulders and her hair was black and went down to her bum. The dog had a collar on with a name tag on it. In the middle of the wilderness. I didn’t like the Daniel Boone on the television either. He was too nice.
—Fess Parker, said my da.—What sort of a name is that?
I liked the Indians. I liked their weapons. I made an Apache flop-head club. It was a marble, a gullier, in a sock, and I nailed it to a stick. I stuck a feather in the sock. It whirred when I spun it and the feather fell out. I hit the wall with it and a bit chipped off. I should have thrown away the other sock. My ma gave out when she found the one I didn’t use, by itself.
—It can’t have gone far, she said.—Look under your bed.
I went upstairs and I looked under the bed even though I knew that the sock wasn’t there and my ma hadn’t followed me up. I was by myself and I got down and looked. I climbed in under. I found a soldier. A German World War One one with a spiky helmet.
I read William. I read all of them. There were thirty-four of them. I owned eight of them. The others were in the library. William The Pirate was the best. I say! gasped William. I’ve never seen such a clever dog. I say! he gasped, he’s splendid. Hi, Toby! Toby! Come here, old chap! Toby was nothing loth. He was a jolly, friendly little dog. He ran up to William and played with him and growled at him and pretended to bite him and rolled over and over.
—Can I’ve a dog for my birthday?
—No.
—Christmas?
—No.
—Both together?
—No.
—Christmas and my birthday?
—You want me to hit you, is that it?
—No.
I asked my ma. She said the same. But when I said two Christmases and birthdays she said,—I’ll see.
That was good enough.
William’s gang was the Outlaws; him, Ginger, Douglas and Henry. It was Ginger’s turn to push the pram and he seized it with a new vigour.
—Vigour, I said.
—Vigour!
—Vigour vigour vigour!
For a day we called ourselves the Vigour Tribe. We got one of Sinbad’s markers and did big Vs on our chests, for Vigour. It was cold. The marker tickled. Big black Vs. From our diddies to our tummy buttons.
—Vigour!
Kevin threw the cap of Sinbad’s marker down a shore, an old one on Barrytown Road with goo at the bottom. We went into Tootsie’s shop and showed her our chests.
—One two three—
—Vigour!
She didn’t notice or say anything. We ran out of the shop. Kevin drew a big mickey on Kiernan’s pillar. We ran. We came back for Kevin to draw the drops coming out of the mickey. We ran again.
—Vigour!
The Kiernans were only Mister and Missis Kiernan.
—Did their children die? I asked my ma.
—No, she said. -No. They had no children.
—Why didn’t they?
—Oh, God knows, Patrick.
—That’s stupid, I said.
They weren’t old. They both went to work, in his car. She 58 drove it as well. We got into their back when they were at work. It was a corner house; it was easy. The wall was higher because of the corner so we could stay in there for ages and no one would see us. The biggest risk was climbing out and that was brilliant. It was great being second; first was too
scary. Your ma could have been walking by with the pram. You weren’t allowed to look first; that was the rule. You had to climb straight and slide over the wall without looking to see if there was anyone there. We were never caught. Missis Kiernan’s knickers were on the line once. I took the pole away and the line dropped closer to us. We grabbed Aidan. We hadn’t said anything but we knew. We made him, we shoved his face into the knickers. He sounded like he was being sick.
—Lucky they’re not dirty ones.
I put the pole back. We took turns. We ran, jumped and headed the knickers. It was brilliant. We did it for ages. We didn’t take them down off the line.
My ma saw the V when we were having our bath on Saturday after tea. Me and Sinbad were in together. She always gave us five minutes to splash. She saw the V. It was nearly faded. Sinbad had one as well.
—What are they? she asked.
—Vs, I said.
—What are they doing there? she asked.
—We just did them, I said.
She made the face-cloth real soapy. She held my shoulder while she rubbed the V off. It hurt.
I was in Mister Fitz’s shop getting a half block of ice-cream. It was Sunday. Ripple ice-cream. I was to tell Mister Fitz to put it on my ma’s list. That meant she’d pay him on Friday. He wrapped the ice-cream in the paper he wrapped Vienna rolls in. He folded it up. It was already wet.
—There now, he said.
—Thanks very much, I said.
Missis Kiernan was at the door; she was coming in, her shape was in the door. My face went hot. She was going to see my face and catch me. She’d know.
I got past her. She was going to stop me, going to grab my shoulder. There were people; they were talking on the path. They had newspapers and cartons of cream. They were going to see. Kevin’s ma and da were there. And girls. She was going to catch me and shout.
I crossed the road and went home the wrong side. She knew. Someone had told her. She definitely knew. She was waiting. She’d followed me into the shop to see if I’d go red. She’d seen it. My face was still red; I could feel it. Her hair was longer than my ma’s. It was fatter as well, thicker. Brown. She never said Hello. She never walked to the shops. They always drove and their house was only a bit down the road. He was the only grown man in Barrytown with locks, and he had a moustache as well.
I looked back. Safe; she wasn’t following. I crossed back to our side. She was lovely. She was gorgeous. She was wearing jeans on a Sunday. Maybe she was waiting, for the right moment to catch me.
I whisked the ice-cream with my spoon till it was soft. I made mountains on it. The ripple was gone. All the ice-cream had gone pink. I always used a small spoon; it made it last longer. My face went hot again, thinking, not as bad though as earlier. I could hear my blood. I could see me going to the door and Missis Kiernan would be there; she’d want to see my ma and she’d tell her about what I’d done to her knickers, and my da. I could hear the steps. I waited for the bell.
If the bell didn’t ring by the time I’d finished all the ice-cream she wouldn’t be coming. But I couldn’t rush it. I had to eat it the slow way I always did, always the last one to finish. I was allowed to lick the bowl. The bell didn’t ring at all. I felt like I’d done something; my mission had been accomplished. I waited till my face felt normal again. It was very quiet. I was the only one left at the table with them. I didn’t look at them when I asked.
—Are you allowed to wear jeans on a Sunday?
—No, said my da.
—It depends, said my ma.—Not till after mass anyway.
—No, said my da.
My ma looked at him with a face, like the look she had when she caught us doing something; sadder, though.
—He doesn’t have any jeans, she said.—He’s just asking.
My da said nothing. My ma said nothing.
My ma read books. Mostly at night. She licked her finger when she was coming to the end of her page, then she turned the page; she pulled the corner up with her wet finger. In the mornings I found her book marker, a bit of newspaper, in the book and I counted back the number of pages she’d read the night before. The record was forty-two.
There was a smell of church off the desks in our school. When I folded my arms and put my head in the hollow, when Henno told us to go asleep, I could smell the same smell as you got off the seats in the church. I loved it. It was spicy and like the ground under a tree. I licked the desk but it just tasted horrible.
Ian McEvoy really went to sleep one day when Henno told us all to go to sleep. Henno was having a chat with Mister Arnold at the door and he told us to fold our arms and go to sleep. That was what always happened when Henno was talking to anyone or reading the paper. Mister Arnold had big locks that nearly met under his chin. He was on the Late Late Show once, singing a song and playing the guitar with another man and two ladies. I was allowed to stay up and watch him. One of the ladies played the guitar as well. She and Mister Arnold were on the outside and the other two were in the middle. They all had the same kind of shirts on but the men had cravats and the ladies didn’t.
—He should stick to the day job, said my da.
My ma told him to shush.
James O’Keefe’s foot tapped the seat of my desk. I shifted my arms so I could lift my head, and looked back at him quickly.
—Gee, he said.—Pass it on.
His head went back into his arms.
I slipped down in my seat so I could reach the seat of Ian McEvoy’s desk. I tapped it. He didn’t move. I did it again. I slipped down further and my foot went past the seat and I hit his leg. He didn’t turn. I sat up properly again and waited, and turned to James O’Keefe.
—McEvoy’s gone asleep.
James O’Keefe bit his jumper to stop himself from laughing. Someone in the class was in big trouble, and it wasn’t him.
We all waited. We shushed each other so we wouldn’t wake Ian McEvoy, even though we weren’t making any noise anyway.
Henno closed the door.
—Sit up now.
We did, quickly; we sat up straight. We looked at Hennessey, to see when he’d see Ian.
We were doing spellings, English ones. Henno had his book out on the desk. He put all our scores and marks into the book and added them up on Fridays, and made us change our places. The best marks sat in the desks along the windows and the worst were put down the back beside the coats. I was usually in the middle somewhere, sometimes near the front. The ones at the back got the hardest spellings; instead of asking them, say, eleven threes, he’d ask them eleven elevens or eleven twelves. If you got put into the last row after the marks were added up it was very hard to get out again, and you were never sent on messages.
—Mediterranean.
-M.e.d. -
—The easy part; continue.
—i.t.—
—Go on.
He was going to get it wrong; it was Liam. He usually sat behind me or in the row beside me nearer the coats, but he’d got ten out of ten in sums on Thursday so he was sitting in front of me, in front of Ian McEvoy. I only got six out of ten in the sums test because Richard Shiels wouldn’t let me have a look in his copy, but I gave him a dead leg later for it.
-t.e.r.—a.—
—Wrong. You’re a worm. What are you?
—A worm, Sir.
—Correct, said Henno.—Urr-wronggg! he said when he was marking Liam’s mistake into the book.
He didn’t only make us change our places on Fridays; he biffed us as well. It gave him an appetite for his dinner, he told us. It gave his appetite an edge, and he needed that because he didn’t like fish as a rule. One biff for every mistake. With the leather he soaked in vinegar during the summer holidays.
Kevin was next, then Ian McEvoy.
-M.e.d., said Kevin.—i.t.e.r.r.a.n—
—Yes?
—i.a.n.
—Urr-wrong!—Mister McEvoy.
Ian McEvoy was still fast asleep. Kevin sat in the same desk as him and he
told us later that Ian McEvoy was smiling in his sleep.
—Dreaming about a molly, said James O’Keefe.
Henno stood up and stared over Liam at Ian McEvoy.
—He’s gone asleep, Sir, said Kevin.—Will I wake him up?
—No, said Henno.
Henno put his finger to his lips; we were to be quiet.
We giggled and shushed. Henno walked carefully down to Ian McEvoy’s side of the desk; we watched him. He didn’t look like he was joking.
—Mis-ter McEvoy!
It wasn’t funny; we couldn’t laugh. I felt the rush of air when Henno’s hand swept through and smacked Ian McEvoy’s neck. Ian McEvoy shot up and gasped. He groaned. I couldn’t see him. I could see the side of Kevin’s face. It was white; his bottom lip was out further than his top one.
Hennessey warned us about being sick on Fridays. If we weren’t in school on Friday for our punishment he’d get us on Monday, no excuses.
All the desks smelt the same, in all the rooms. Sometimes the wood was lighter because the desk was near a window where the sun could get at it. They weren’t the old-fashioned desks where the top was a lid on hinges that you lifted and there was a place for your books under it. The top was screwed down on our desks; there was a shelf in under it for books and bags. There was a hollow for your pens and a hole for the inkwell. You could roll your pen down the desk. We did it for a dare cos Henno hated the noise when he heard it.
James O’Keefe drank the ink.
When we had to stand up, when we were told to, we had to lift the seat back and we weren’t allowed to make noise doing it. When there was a knock at the door, if it was a master coming in or Mister Finnucane, the headmaster, or Father Moloney, we had to stand up.
-Dia duit,8 we said.
Henno just raised his hand like he was holding something on his palm and we all said it together.
There were two boys in each desk. When a boy in front of you got up to go to the blackboard or the leithreas9 you could see a red mark from the seat across the back of his legs.
I had to go down to my parents. Sinbad kept crying, bawling over and over like a train. He wouldn’t stop.