by Roddy Doyle
—What’s your name, so? she asked.
I saw brown eyes and some slivers of hair that had escaped from a bun that shone like a lamp behind her head. There were little brown buttons, in pairs, running the length of her brown dress, like the heads of little brown animals climbing quietly to her neck.
—Henry Smart, I said.
—And the little lad?
—Victor Smart, I said.
—Where do you live, Henry?
—Over there, I said, but I didn’t point.—What’s your name?
—Miss O’Shea, she said.—Do you have any friends in my class?
—No, I said.
I held up my father’s leg for her to notice. It was my birth cert. She looked straight at it. Her eyes seemed younger than the rest of her face. She looked at the leg; I could see shock and amusement.
—What’s that? she said.
—A leg that’s made out of wood, said Victor.
—It used to belong to our daddy, I told her.—But he’s gone now.
And Victor started crying.
I put my arm around Victor’s shoulder as his crying turned to coughing and I smiled at her again, although I could feel Victor’s coughs through my arm and they were real. She smiled back and we were elected.
I liked her.
—Come on in, she said.—Tar istigh. That means Come in, the pair of you.
—Tar istigh, I said.
—Very good, she said.—You’re quick.
—I know, I said.—I’ve never been caught.
By the end of the first day I could struggle through the first four pages of a book about a happy woman washing her doorstep and Miss O’Shea had fallen in love with me. In a room that was warmer than anything I’d ever known, full of snuffling and learning off by heart, holy songs and dust that was bright and clean. Victor fell asleep beside me. He coughed but didn’t wake. And she was beside me too. She was fighting the urge to pat me again. I could hear her joints crying, pleading to let her go.
—Two and two? she said.
—Don’t know, I said.—Two and two what?
—Cows, she said.
—Four, I said.
—That’s too easy, a kid behind me complained.
I looked back and he shrivelled.
—Twenty-seven and twenty-seven, she said.
—What?
—Bottles.
—What’s in them?
—Porter.
—Fifty-four.
I heard her elbow give up the fight, then felt her fingers on my shoulder.
—Are you a genius, maybe? she asked.
—What’s a genius? I asked.
—A boy with a big brain, she said.
—More than likely, I said.
I learnt that the best toilets came from Stoke-on-Trent and that God was our father in heaven, creator of heaven and earth. Then someone outside walked past jangling a bell and all the other children stood up. I nudged Victor and held him up as I stood with the rest. The desk came part of the way with me; my legs were squashed into it. I straightened and it fell back to the floor. There was some laughing behind me but it stopped when I lifted a shoulder. They said a prayer I didn’t know - I didn’t know any. Then they trooped out, line by line.
—Will your mammy be waiting for you? Miss O’Shea asked as we passed her at the door.
—Yes, I said.—Can we come back tomorrow?
—Yes, of course. This is where you should be.
—It’s nice, said Victor.
We slept near the school. The memory of the warmth kept us going for the night. Victor’s coughing slowed and levelled and I joined the rhythm of his breathing and rode it to sleep. He woke me up.
—She was nice, wasn’t she? said Victor.
—Yeah, I said.
—Are you going to marry her?
—Don’t know, I said.—I might.
We stood up for the new day. I was hoping for more. Less prayers, more information. That was what I was there for. And reading. I wanted that power.
We were two hours early. We were hungry but I didn’t want to stray. We stayed out of the yard, on the street side of the railings, until we saw her arriving. She carried a basket with books poking out of it. Her coat was open and she was wearing the same brown dress. She went to the door and we followed her. She turned when my foot stopped the door.
—Wait for the bell, she said.—You’re keen, aren’t you?
—Yes, I said.
—Are you married, missis? said Victor.
Anger glanced across her face but didn’t stay.
—No, she said.—Would I be here if I was?
She brought the door over before Victor could answer.
—The bell, she said.—It won’t be long.
And she shut the door.
—Never ask questions, Victor, I said as we turned back to see what was going on in the yard.
—Why not? he said.
—If you just watch and listen, I said,—you’ll get better answers. I could have told you she wasn’t married meself.
—How?
—No rings, son. No rings on her fingers.
—Oh yeah.
—Oh yeah is right. Watch and listen and the answers will come strolling up to you. What do you do?
—Watch and listen.
—Good man.
So we watched the playacting in the school yard. Kids playing. Running and tumbling, hanging on to each other. It didn’t make much sense to us. But there were others there like us, at the sides of the yard, looking at or ignoring the chasing and skipping. There was money changing hands in one corner. I noted the faces, the bare feet, the readiness to run. We weren’t alone in the yard.
Holy God, we praise Thy name. Lord of all, we bow before Thee. We sang for most of the morning. It annoyed me but Victor liked it. He caught on to the words quickly and yelled them at the ceiling. But it wasn’t what I’d come for. I could sing whenever I wanted to - I’d sung for money outside the Antient Concert Rooms. I didn’t need a school or a teacher to show me how. And the songs - hymns, she called them. Angels, saints and nations sing. Praised be Jesus Christ our King. I knew I’d earn no shillings singing that shite on the streets. But it was warm and I sang to the skies whenever Miss O’Shea walked up my aisle, which was a lot more often than she walked up any of the others.
But, eventually, she tapped her tuning fork twice on her desk and we all sat down.
—Now, she said, up at the blackboard.—Sums. Henry?
It took me a while to realise: she was talking to me.
—Yeah?
—Yes, Miss O’Shea.
I didn’t understand. I waited.
—Say Yes, Miss O’Shea, she said.
—Yes, Miss O’Shea.
—Very good. Stand up, please.
—I’m only after sitting down.
More laughing at the back.
—Stand up, Henry.
She said it kindly, so I got out of the desk, tried to hold it down as I rose. Victor’s weight beside me helped.
She picked up a long piece of chalk and wrote 6 + 6 + 14 - 7 = on the blackboard. She did it without looking at the numbers; her eyes roved the classroom. Then, tapping the board under each number, she spoke.
—Now, Henry. Tell us all. If a man has six very valuable male dogs and six very valuable bitches and they have fourteen puppies but he has to sell seven of them because he’s been a bit slow with the rent and the landlord is threatening to evict him, how many dogs will he have left?
—Nineteen, I said.
—Yes, she said.—Six plus six plus the fourteen puppies minus the seven for the rent equals nineteen. See? It’s easy, isn’t it? Thank you, Henry. Now, I want you all to use your heads like Henry.
Victor slapped my leg. He was delighted. And so was I. My first compliment.
—You can sit down again now, Henry.
I slid easily into the desk.
A hand went up in front of me.
—Yes, Cecil?
; —Who did he sell the pups to, miss?
—Different people, Cecil. Now.
She cleaned the board.
—Hey, miss. My uncle buyed one of them pups.
We spent the rest of the morning buying and selling pups and dividing bits of cakes. I was several slices ahead of the rest and Victor was no slowcoach either; I could almost see the jam on his chin. I was learning nothing new. But I was happy. I knew that I’d be able for anything.
But it couldn’t last.
I was writing my first sentence, MY NAME IS HENRY SMART, on a slate with my own piece of chalk, and Victor was busy beside me, MY NAME IS VICTOR SMART, his letters straight and evenly white. The room was quiet, just the noises of fifty-seven concentrating children and the scraping of fifty-seven pieces of chalk, when the door opened and, before I looked up to see who was coming or going, a voice announced the end of our education.
—Two strange boys.
Victor’s chalk skidded across his slate. I couldn’t move. I was too big for my desk again. I was stuck, trapped.
The nun at the door wasn’t even looking at us. She was looking at Miss O’Shea who was standing beside her desk, straight and twitching, like a cornered rabbit. So the first thing I saw of the nun was her profile. A nose shaped like a sail and just as white. The rest of her face hid behind her habit. The nose was aimed at Miss O’Shea.
—We’ve a couple of strangers with us today, said the nun.
—Yes, Mother, said Miss O’Shea.
—You’ve taken over enrolment duty now, have you, Miss O’Shea?
—No, Mother.
Miss O’Shea sounded like a child; it was me and Victor against the nun.
—Good, said the nun.—It’s an onerous, thankless task. Better suited to an old crow like me.
She moved and turned like a boat in water. She was facing us. Glaring at us. Two black eyes divided by the white beak. Coming at us.
—Let me see the strange boys.
And she was in front of us, and over us.
—Do you have a name, the bigger boy?
—Yeah.
—Yes, Mother.
—You’re not my mother.
—You think I’m going to get angry, don’t you? You think I’m going to lose my temper. Don’t you?
—No.
—No, Mother.
—You’re not my mother.
Victor coughed.
—Cover your mouth when you’re coughing, the smaller boy, said the nun who called herself Mother.—We’re all marching towards our eternal rest without needing help from the likes of you. Your name, the bigger boy?
—Henry Smart, I said.
—Are you English, with a name like that?
—No.
—As far as you are aware. Do you know your father, Henry Smart?
My father’s leg was under the desk.
—Yeah, I said.
She sniffed. Her nose and eyes went on Victor.
—And the smaller boy. What do they call you?
—They don’t call me anything, said Victor.—Henry would kill them if they did.
—Yes, she said.—I am sure that he would. Who sent you here?
—Our parents, I said.
—Who are they when they’re at home?
—They’re our mother and father.
—You’re being cheeky again, aren’t you? I don’t think you’ll be staying here. No, I don’t. You were let in by mistake. This is not the place for you. You must be twelve, she said.
—I’m eight, I said.
—He’s nearly nine, said Victor.
—No, he is not, she said.—No, no. I don’t think you’ll be staying with us.
I didn’t care any more. There was no point. I felt stiff and huge and too old for my desk - maybe she was right about my age - so I stayed put. I decided to say nothing until I was angry. I trusted my anger. And answering her without it had only made me feel stupid.
—Have you heard of Our Lord?
She was talking to Victor.
—What?
—Our Lord. Do you know Jesus?
—I do, yeah, said Victor.—That’s him there, your man hanging over the blackboard.
She grabbed his arm.
—Pagans. The pair of them. It’s Saint Brigid’s you should be in, she hissed.—I knew it!
Saint Brigid’s was the orphanage up on Eccles Street. I knew all about Saint Brigid’s.
I was up out of the desk and I grabbed Daddy’s leg on the way. The desk fell apart and Victor fell with it but she held on to him.
—Give him back! I shouted.
I didn’t wait for an answer. I just lifted the leg and whacked at the nose. She rose and flew and skidded across three desks and landed in a black heap on top of half a dozen screaming boys. She’d left Victor behind.
—Come on, Victor.
We ran to the door. I held his hand. He was coughing again. Miss O’Shea let us past. I turned at the open door and shouted into the room.
—MY NAME IS HENRY SMART!
I nudged Victor.
—MY NAME IS—
He coughed. It came from somewhere dark inside him. I watched the colour drop from his face as he waited for the air to turn and let him breathe.
—VICTOR—
He grabbed more air.
—SMART.
—Remember those names, all of you, I said.
I looked at Miss O’Shea.
—And you remember. That you were the woman who taught Henry Smart how to write his name.
She was blushing and her mouth was wobbling. I wanted to stay. But the nun was back on her feet. She was swaying a bit, but getting her head back. She came at us.
—Let her have it, Victor, I said.
Victor filled the room with his roar.
—FUCK OFFFFF!
And we were gone. Out onto the street and away. We ran until we were safe, just two snot-nosed, homeless kids among thousands. We ran to the other side of town.
Far away from Saint Brigid’s.
I’d had two days of schooling. But it was enough. I knew it was in me. I could learn anything I wanted. I was probably a genius. Victor started crying and I knew why. It was the warmth, the singing, making words, the chalk working across his slate, the woman who’d made him feel wanted. I missed it too, already, but there were no tears. We sat under the wall at Baggot Street Bridge and hid from the world.
We were well out of it. Miss O’Shea had just been a bit of good fortune. A lucky knock on the door. The nun had been the normal one. Mother, she’d wanted to be called. Never. Not even Sister. Fuck her. And religion. I already hated it. Holy God we praise Thy name. Fuck Him. And your man on the cross up over the blackboard. Fuck Him too. That was one good thing that came out of all the neglect: we’d no religion. We were free. We were blessed.
—Hey, Victor, I said.—Come here till I tell you. We haven’t had a thing to eat in three days. Are you hungry?
—Yeah.
I got him onto his feet.
—Come on, so. What d’you fancy?
—Bread.
—Fair enough. Is that all?
—Yeah.
—You’re easily pleased. What does V.I.C.T.O.R. spell?
—Victor, said Victor.
—Good man.
We went off looking for a shop with bread in it, with a good wide door for escape and some short-sighted old josser behind the counter. Dublin was full of them.
And then Victor died.
On the same day as the new king was crowned. I woke up but Victor didn’t. But, actually, he did. He woke me. His coughing. I was awake. Terrified, like I’d never slept. Like I’d just been born; empty. It was so dark. I felt something over me, and lifted my hand. I touched something and I remembered where I was. We were under a tarpaulin, behind the Grand Canal Dock. We’d crawled under it, out of the rain, the night before. Victor coughed again and I remembered the noise that had pulled me from sleep. I’d never heard it as bad. It was a cough that brok
e bone, an unbelievable hack that would destroy anything in its way.
—Victor?
I couldn’t see him, although I knew that he was right against me, where he always was when we slept. I could feel him. I touched him, waited for another cough.
—Victor. Stop. Sit up.
I tried to wake him, to get him sitting. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t get a proper grip. I found his cheeks and rubbed them. All I wanted was to hear another cough. I still couldn’t see him. I searched for the edge of the covering, to give him air. To see him. I rolled along under the low tarpaulin and kept rolling until I was out from under it. I stood up and lifted it and peered back in.
I could see him now. I let morning light in by lifting the tarpaulin roof with my back. I knew he was dead, even as I rushed back in. His mouth was open, and his eyes, staring into the darkness. There was a mark, where a line of watery blood had run from his mouth past his ear. I rubbed it away with my sleeve. There was nothing in his eyes now, just what I thought was the memory of his last agony and terror - the last cough and the utter darkness on top of him. I’d been right beside him. He was white and glazed. His mouth was stretched, the cracked, bursting lips were losing colour as I looked. He was changing there under me, hardening, gone. I thumped his chest, and got nothing back. He was dead. I thumped again. I felt his face. He was warm. I put my cheek to his mouth, waited to feel a breath, hoped, any tiny tickle. There was nothing. I pressed my cheek to his mouth, tried to go deeper for signs of my brother’s life. I pushed; I tried to climb into him. I felt wetness on my cheek. My own tears. Victor was dead.
I held his hand. I waited for his fingers to curl around mine. To prove me wrong. I dragged him out from under the tarpaulin, hauled him across to a cinder path. I was a shadow across him. I got out of the way of the sun’s early rays. I still hoped. The heat would loosen him, send a shiver of life through him. His fingers would stretch, curl and squeeze mine. He’d sit up and grin. And cough.
The sun made a wet skin of the frost on the path and weeds but it did nothing to Victor. His neck was crooked, as if he’d been hanged.
I left him there.
He was dead. I wouldn’t let myself be fooled into thinking anything softer. I wasn’t going to see him up there with the other stars, with the first Henry - burning gas, a celestial fart - and all his brothers and sisters, twinkling up there in a happier place. He was dead. I wasn’t even going to look at the sky.