SHE’S THE PLAGUE OF MY LIFE—

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

–OH I WISH I WAS SINGLE AGAINNNN—

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 AGAINNNN—

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 notevenanhourold 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 BYYY—

I didn’t like it.

–BUT I GOT TO THE RIVER—

SO LONESOME I WANTED TO DIEEEIE—OH LORD—

I couldn’t get the DIEEEIE 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 DRYYY—

–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 WAWALL 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 acourting because she thought it was going to get dirtier. It didn’t but she didn’t believe me.

I sang the last verse in the yard during the little break at eleven o’clock.

–It’s not dirty, I warned them.

–Sing it anyway; go on.

–Okay, but—

–BRIAN O’LINN—HIS WIFE AND WIFE’S MOTHER—

They laughed.

–It’s not—

–Shut up and keep singing.

–WERE ALL GOING HOME O’ER THE BRIDGE TOGETHER—

THE BRIDGE IT BROKE DOWN AND THEY ALL TUMBLED IN—

WE’LL GO HOME BE THE WATER SAYS BRIAN O’LINN—

–That’s stupid, said Kevin.

–I know, I said.—I told you.

I didn’t think it was stupid at all.

Henno came over and broke us all up because he thought there was a fight. He grabbed me and said that he knew I was one of the ringleaders and he was keeping an eye on me and then he let me go. He didn’t have our class yet—that was the year after—so he didn’t know me.

–You mind yourself, sonny, he said.

–SHE’S A LONGHONG GOHHON—

I couldn’t do it; I didn’t even know what Hank Williams was singing.

Da hit me.

On the shoulder; I was looking at him, about to tell him that I didn’t want to sing this one; it was too hard. It was funny; I knew he was going to wallop me from the look on his face a few seconds before he did it. Then he looked as if he’d changed his mind, like he’d controlled himself, and then I heard the thump and felt it, as if he’d forgotten to tell his hand not to keep going towards me.

He hadn’t lifted the needle.

–A MAN NEEDS A WOMAN THAT HE CAN LEAN ON—

BUT MY LEANING POST IS DONE LEHEFT AND GONE

I rubbed my shoulder through my jumper and shirt and vest; it was like it was expanding and shrinking, filling and shrinking. It wasn’t that sore.

I didn’t cry.

–Come on, said Da.

He lifted the needle this time, and we started again.

–I WENT DOWN TO THE RIVER

TO WATCH THE FISH SWIM BYYY—

He put his hand on my shoulder, the other one. I wanted to squirm it away but after a while I didn’t mind.