Roddy Doyle - Paddy Clarke, Ha Ha Ha

– 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 his 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.