Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha

by Roddy Doyle

  His eyes looked mad. At first—when he came out of the hedge—they’d just looked like he’d been in the dark and the light had been turned on, but they’d changed; mad, scared and sticking out, pushing out over his eyelids.

  Then he started howling.

  His mouth didn’t move, or his hand. The noise was just there. The eyes told me that it was his.

  —Oh mammy—!

  —Listen to him.

  It was like someone doing a ghost but they weren’t any good at it; they were trying to scare us but we knew; we didn’t even start being scared. But this was scary; this was terrible. This was Liam right in front of us, not behind a curtain. He was making this noise but he wasn’t pretending. His eyes said that; he couldn’t do anything else.

  If it had been ordinary, an ordinary accident, we’d have run; we’d have run before we were given the blame for it just because we were there. That always happened. A fella kicked a ball and it broke a window and ten fellas got the blame for it.

  —I’m holding you all responsible.

  That was what Missis Quigley’d said when Kevin had smashed her toilet window. She’d shouted over her high side wall at us. She couldn’t see us but she knew who we were.

  —I know who you are.

  Mister Quigley was dead and Missis Quigley wasn’t that old, so she must have done something to him; that was what everyone thought. We decided that she’d ground up a wine glass and put the powder in his omelette - I’d seen that in Hitchcock Presents and it made a lot of sense. Kevin told his da about it and his da said that she’d just bored Mister Quigley to death, but we stuck to our version; it was better. That didn’t make us scared of her, though. She hated it when we sat on her wall. She knocked on her window to make us go, not always from the same window, sometimes upstairs, sometimes downstairs.

  —That’s just to let us think she isn’t in the front room looking out all the time.

  We weren’t scared of her.

  —She can’t make us eat anything.

  That was the only way she could get us, by poisoning us. She didn’t know any other way. She wasn’t small and wrinkly enough to be frightening. She was bigger than my ma. Big women - not big, fat ones—big women were normal. Little ones were dangerous; little women and big men.

  She had no children.

  —She ate them.

  —No, she didn’t!

  That was going too far.

  Kevin’s brother knew why.

  —Mister Quigley couldn’t get his mickey to go hard.

  We never went over the wall. I told my parents this when Missis Quigley complained to them about me. She’d never done anything before. They did their usual, made me stay in my bedroom till they were good and ready to deal with me. I hated it; it worked. They made me stay in there for hours. I had all my stuff in the room with me, my books and my cars and stuff, but I couldn’t concentrate on the sentences in the books and it was stupid to be playing with my Dinkies when I was about to be hammered by my da—it was Saturday. I didn’t want to be on the floor playing when he came in; I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. I wanted to look right. I wanted it to look like I’d already learnt my lesson. It was getting dark but I didn’t go near the light switch. It was too near the door. I sat on the bed in the corner made by the walls. I shivered. I let my teeth chatter. My jaws went sore.

  —Explain yourself.

  It was a terrible question, a trap; everything I’d say was wrong.

  —Explain yourself I said.

  —I didn’t do any -

  —I’ll decide that, said my da.—Go on.

  —I didn’t do anything.

  —You must have.

  —I didn’t, I said.

  There was a gap. He stared at my left eye, then my right one.

  —I didn’t, I said.—Honest.

  —Then why did Missis Quigley come all the way down here—

  It was only five doors.

  —to complain about you?

  —I don’t know; it wasn’t me.

  —What wasn’t you?

  —What she said.

  —What did she say?

  —I don’t know. I didn’t do anything, I swear, Dad. Dad. Cross my heart and hope to die. Look.

  I crossed my heart. I did it all the time; nothing ever happened and I was usually lying.

  I wasn’t lying this time, though. I hadn’t done anything. It was Kevin who broke her window.

  —She must have had a reason, said my da.

  Things were going well. He wasn’t in the right mood, when he wanted to hit me. He was being fair.

  —She prob’ly thinks I did something, I said.

  —But you didn’t.

  —Yeah.

  —You say.

  —Yeah.

  —Say Yes.

  -Yes.

  That was the only thing my ma said. Say yes.

  —I only—

  I wasn’t sure if this was right - wise - but it was too late to stop; I could tell from his face. My ma sat up when I started speaking and looked at my da. I thought about changing, and telling him about Missis Quigley poisoning Mister Quigley, but I didn’t. My da wasn’t like that; he didn’t believe things.

  —I only sat on the wall, I said.

  He could have hit me then. He spoke.

  —Well, don’t sit on her wall. Again. Okay?

  —Yeah.

  —Yes, said my ma.

  —Yes.

  Nothing else; that was it. He looked around for something to do, to get away. He plugged in the record player. His back was turned; I could go. An innocent man. Wrongly convicted. Trained birds while I was in jail and became an expert on them.

  Liam’s howling stuck us to the grass; we couldn’t move. I couldn’t touch him or run away. The howl went into me; I was part of it. I was helpless. I couldn’t even fall.

  He was dying.

  He had to be.

  Somebody had to come.

  The hedge he fell out of wasn’t Missis Quigley’s. It had nothing to do with Missis Quigley. It was the only really big hedge on our road. Liam and Aidan’s was bigger and branchier but they didn’t live on our road; they lived off it. This one grew quicker than the others, and it had smaller leaves that weren’t as shiny or as green as normal. The leaves were nearly not green at all; the backs of them were grey. Most of the hedges weren’t that big; the houses weren’t old enough. Only this hedge; it was the last jump, we kept it till last.

  The hedge was in the Hanleys’ front garden. It was their hedge. It was Mister Hanley’s. He did everything in the garden. They had a pond in their back, but with nothing in it. There used to be goldfish but they froze to death.

  —He just left them in there till they rotted.

  I didn’t believe that.

  —Floating.

  I didn’t believe it. Mister Hanley was always in his garden, picking up things, bits of leaf, slugs - he picked them up with his hand; I saw him. His bare hands. He was always digging, leaning in near the wall. I saw a hand when I was going to the shops, Mister Hanley’s hand, on the wall, holding himself up as he dug; only his hand. I tried to get past before he stood up, but I couldn’t run—I could only walk fast. I wasn’t trying not to let him see me; I wasn’t scared of him; I just did it. He didn’t know I was doing it. I once saw him lying down in the front garden, on his back. His feet were in the flower bed. I waited to see if he was dead; then I was afraid someone was looking at me through the window. When I came back Mister Hanley was gone. He didn’t have a job.

  —Why not?

  —He’s retired, said my ma.

  —Why is he?

  That was why he had the best garden in Barrytown and that was why invading the Hanleys’ garden was the biggest dare of all. And that was why the Grand National ended there. Over the hedge, up, through the gate, the winner. Liam hadn’t been winning.

  In a way, winning was easiest. The winner was the first out onto the path. Mister Hanley couldn’t get you there, or h
is sons, Billy and Laurence. It was the ones that came over the hedge last that were in the biggest danger. Mister Hanley just gave out and spits flew out of his mouth; there was always white stuff in the corners. A lot of old people had mouths like that. Billy Hanley and especially Laurence Hanley killed you if they got you.

  —It’s about time those two slobs went and got married or something.

  —Who’d have them?

  Laurence Hanley was fat but he was fast. He grabbed us by the hair. He was the only person I knew who did that. It was weird, a man grabbing people by the hair. He did it because he was fat and he couldn’t fight properly. He was evil as well. His fingers were stiff and like daggers, much worse than a punch. Four stabs on the side of your chest, while he was holding you up straight with your hair.

  —Get out of our garden.

  One more for good measure, then he let go.

  —Now—stay out!

  Sometimes he kicked but he couldn’t get his leg up far. He sweated through his trousers.

  There were ten fences in the Grand National. All the walls of the front gardens were the same height, the exact same, but the hedges and the trees made them different. And the gardens between the fences, we had to charge across them; pushing was allowed in the gardens, but not pulling or tripping. It was mad; it was brilliant. We started in Ian McEvoy’s garden, a straight line for us. There was no handicapping; no one was allowed to start in front of the rest. No one would have wanted it anyway, because you needed a good run at the first wall and no one was going to stand in the next garden alone, waiting for the race to start. It was Byrne’s. Missis Byrne had a black lens in her glasses. Specky Three Eyes she was called, but that was the only funny thing about her.

  It always took ages for the straight line to get really straight. There was always a bit of shoving; it was allowed, as long as the elbows didn’t go up too far, over the neck.

  —They’re under starter’s orders—, said Aidan.

  We crept forward. Anyone caught behind the group when the race started could never win and would probably be the one caught by Laurence Hanley.

  —They’re off!

  Aidan didn’t do any more commentating after that.

  The first fence was easy. McEvoy’s wall into Byrne’s. There was no hedge. You just had to make sure that you had enough room to swing your legs. Some of us could swing right over without our legs touching the top of the wall—I could—but you needed loads of space for that. Across Byrne’s. Screaming and shouting. That was part of it. Trying to get the ones at the back caught. Off the grass, over the flower bed, across the path, over the wall—a hedge. Jump up on the wall, grip the hedge, stand up straight, jump over, down. Danger, danger. Murphy’s. Loads of flowers. Kick some of them. Around the car. Hedge before the wall. Foot on the bumper, jump. Land on the hedge, roll. Our house. Around the car, no hedge, over the wall. No more screaming; no breath for it. Neck itchy from the hedge. Two more big hedges.

  Once, Mister McLoughlin had been cutting the grass when we all came over the hedge, and he nearly had a heart attack.

  Up onto Hanley’s wall, hold the hedge. Legs straight; it was harder now, really tired. Jump the hedge, roll, up and out their gate.

  Winner.

  I looked over their heads.

  —I MARRIED A WIFE - OH THEN - OH THEN - I

  MARRIED A WIFE - OH THEN -

  My auntie and my uncle and my four cousins were looking at me. They were sitting on the couch, and two of the cousins on the floor.

  —I MARRIED A WIFE—

  SHE’S THE PLAGUE OF MY LIFE—

  I liked singing. Sometimes I didn’t wait to be asked.

  —OH I WISH I WAS SINGLE AGAIN-NNN -

  We were in my auntie and uncle’s house, in Cabra, but I didn’t know where that was really. It was Sinbad’s Holy Communion. One of my cousins wanted to see his prayer book but Sinbad wouldn’t let go of it. I sang louder.

  —I MARRIED ANOTHER - OH THEN - OH THEN -

  My mother was getting ready to clap. Sinbad would get the money off my uncle; his hand was looking around in his pocket. I could see him. He straightened his leg so he could get his hand to the coins at the bottom.

  My auntie had a hankie up her sleeve; I could see the bulge where it was. We had two more auntie’s and uncle’s houses to go to. Then we were going to the pictures.

  —I MARRIED ANOTHER—

  AND SHE’S WORSER THAN THE OTHER—

  AND I WISH I WAS SINGLE AGAIN-NNN -

  They all clapped. My uncle gave Sinbad two shillings, and we went.

  When Indians died - Red ones - they went to the happy hunting ground. Vikings went to Valhalla when they died or they got killed. We went to heaven, unless we went to hell. You went to hell if you had a mortal sin on your soul when you died, even if you were on your way to confession when the lorry hit you. Before you got into heaven you usually had to go to Purgatory for a bit, to get rid of the sins on your soul, usually for a few million years. Purgatory was like hell but it didn’t go on forever.

  —There’s a back door, lads.

  It was about a million years for every venial sin, depending on the sin and if you’d done it before and promised that you wouldn’t do it again. Telling lies to your parents, cursing, taking the Lord’s name in vain - they were all a million years.

  —Jesus.

  —A million.

  —Jesus.

  —Two million.

  —Jesus.

  —Three million.

  —Jesus.

  Robbing stuff out of shops was worse; magazines were more serious than sweets. Four million years for Football Monthly, two million for Goal and Football Weekly. If you made a good confession right before you died you didn’t have to go to Purgatory at all; you went straight up to heaven.

  —Even if the fella killed loads of people?

  —Even.

  It wasn’t fair.

  —Ah, now; the same rules for everybody.

  Heaven was supposed to be a great place but nobody knew much about it. There were many mansions.

  —One each?

  -Yes.

  —Do you have to live by yourself?

  Father Moloney didn’t answer quickly enough.

  —Can your ma not live with you?

  —She can, of course.

  Father Moloney came into our class on the first Wednesday of every month. For a chat. We liked him. He was nice. He had a limp and a brother in a showband.

  —What happens to her mansion, Father?

  Father Moloney raised his hands to hold our questions back. He laughed a lot and we didn’t know why.

  —In heaven, lads, he said, and waited.—In heaven you can live wherever and with whoever you like.

  James O’Keefe was worried.

  —Father, what if your ma doesn’t want to live with you?

  Father Moloney roared laughing but it wasn’t funny, not really.

  —Then you can go and live with her; it’s quite simple.

  —What if she doesn’t want you to?

  —She will want you to, said Father Moloney.

  —She mightn‘t, said James O’Keefe.—If you’re a messer.

  —Ah there, you see, said Father Moloney.—There’s your answer. There are no messers in heaven.

  The weather was always nice in heaven and it was all grass, and it was always day, never night. But that was all I knew about it. My Granda Clarke was up there.

  —Are you sure? I asked my ma.

  —Yes, she said.

  —Positive?

  -Yes.

  —Is he out of Purgatory already?

  —Yes. He didn’t have to go there because he made a good confession.

  —He was lucky, wasn’t he?

  —Yes.

  I was glad.

  My sister was up there as well, the one that died; Angela. She died before she came out of my ma but they’d had time to baptise her, she said; otherwise she’d have ended up in Limbo.

  �
�Are you sure the water hit her before she died? I asked my ma.

  -Yes.

  —Positive.

  —Yes.

  I wondered how she managed, a not-even-an-hour-old baby, by herself.

  —Granda Clarke looks after her, said my ma.

  —Till you go up?

  —Yes.

  Limbo was for babies that hadn’t been baptised and pets. It was nice, like heaven, only God wasn’t there. Jesus visited there sometimes, and Mary his mother as well. They had a caravan there. Cats and dogs and babies and guinea pigs and goldfish. Animals that weren’t pets didn’t go anywhere. They just rotted and mixed in with the soil and made it better. They didn’t have souls. Pets did. There were no animals in heaven, only horses and zebras and small monkeys.

  I was singing again. My da was teaching me a new one.

  —I WENT DOWN TO THE RIVER

  TO WATCH THE FISH SWIM BY-YY -

  I didn’t like it.

  —BUT I GOT TO THE RIVER—

  SO LONESOME I WANTED TO DIE-EE-IE - OH LORD—

  I couldn’t get the DIE-EE-IE bit properly; I couldn’t get my voice to go up and down the way Hank Williams on the record did.

  I liked the next bit though.

  —THEN I JUMPED INTO THE RIVER

  BUT THE DOGGONE RIVER WAS DRY-YY—

  —Not bad, said my da.

  It was Sunday, the afternoon, and he was bored. That was when he always taught me a new song. He came searching for me. The first time it had been Brian O’Linn. There was no record, just the words in a book called Irish Street Ballads. I followed Da’s finger and we sang the words together.

  —BRIAN O‘LINN - HIS WIFE AND WIFE’S

  MOTHER -

  THEY ALL LAY DOWN IN THE BED TOGETHER—

  THE SHEETS THEY WERE OLD AND THE BLANKETS

  WERE THIN—

  LIE CLOSE TO THE WAW-ALL SAYS BRIAN

  O’LINN—

  It was all like that, funny and easy. I sang it in school and Miss Watkins stopped me after the verse about Brian O‘Linn going a-courting because she thought it was going to get dirtier. It didn’t but she didn’t believe me.