There was something else I’d just found out. There was an Introduction on page eleven, beside the page with the George Best photograph. I read it, and then the last bit, the last paragraph, again.

–When I was first shown the manuscript of this book, I was especially pleased to see how the records and statistics had been integrated with the general narrative—

I didn’t really know what that meant but it didn’t matter.

–The book certainly represents the happiest marriage of education and entertainment I can ever recall. You will enjoy it.

And under all that was George Best’s autograph.

George Best had signed my book.

My da hadn’t said anything about the autograph. He’d just given it to me and said Happy Birthday and kissed me. He’d left me to find it for myself.

George Best.

Not Georgie. I never called him Georgie. I hated it when I heard people calling him Georgie.

George Best.

His jersey was outside his nicks in the photograph. The other two had theirs tucked in. No one I knew tucked theirs in, even the ones that said that George Best was useless; they all wore their jerseys outside.

I brought the book in to my da to let him know I’d found the autograph and it was brilliant, easily the best thing I’d ever got for a present. It was called A Pictorial History of Soccer. It was huge, much fatter than an annual, real heavy. It was a grownup’s sort of book. There were pictures, but loads of writing too; small writing. I was going to read all of it.

–I found it, I told him.

My finger was in the book, where George Best’s autograph was.

My da was sitting in his chair.

–Did you? he said.—Good man. What?

–What?

–What did you find?

–The autograph, I told him.

He was messing.

–Let’s see it, he said.

I put the book and opened it on his knees.

–There.

My da rubbed his finger across the autograph.

George Best had great handwriting. It slanted to the right; it was long and the holes were narrow. There was a deadstraight line under the name, joining the G and the B, all the way to the T at the end and a bit further. It finished with a swerve, like a diagram of a shot going past a wall.

–Was he in the shop? I asked my da.

–Who?

–George Best, I said.

Worry began a ball in my stomach but he answered too quickly for it to grow.

–Yes, he said.

–Was he?

–Yes.

–Was he; really?

–I said he was, didn’t I?

That was all I needed, for certain. He didn’t get annoyed when he said it, just calm like he’d said everything else, looking right at me.

–What was he like?

I wasn’t trying to catch him out. He knew that.

–Exactly like you’d expect, he said.

–In his gear?

That was exactly what I’d have expected. I didn’t know how else George Best would have dressed. I’d seen a colour picture of him once in a green Northern Ireland jersey, not his usual red one, and it had shocked me.

–No, said Da.

–He, a tracksuit.

–What did he say?

–Just—

–Why didn’t you ask him to put my name on it?

I pointed to George Best’s name.

–As well.

–He was very busy, said my da.

–Was there a huge queue?

–A huge one.

That was good; that was right and proper.

–Was he in the shop just for the day only? I asked.

–That’s right, said my da.—He had to go back to Manchester.

–For training, I told him.

–That’s right.

A year after that I knew that it wasn’t George Best’s real autograph at all; it was only printing and my da was a liar.

The front room was not for going into. It was the drawing room. Nobody else had a drawing room although all the houses were the same, all the houses before the Corporation ones. Our drawing room was Kevin’s ma’s and da’s living room, and Ian McEvoy’s television room. Ours was the drawing room because my ma said it was.

–What does it mean? I asked her.

I’d known it was the drawing room since I could remember but today the name seemed funny for the first time. We were outside. Whenever there was even a bit of blue in the sky my ma opened the back door and brought the whole house out. She thought about the answer but with a nice look on her face. The babies were asleep. Sinbad was putting grass in a jar.

–The good room, she said.

–Does Drawing mean Good?

–Yes, she said.—Only when you put it with Room.

That was fair enough; I understood.

–Why don’t we call it just the good room? I asked.—People prob’ly think we draw in it, or paint pictures.

–No, they don’t.

–They might, I said.

I wasn’t just saying it for the sake of saying it, like I said some things.

–Especially if they’re stupid, I said.

–They’d want to be very stupid.

–There’s lots of stupid people, I told her.—There’s a whole class of them in our school.

–Stop that, she said.

–A class in every year, I said.

–That’s not nice, she said.

–Stop it.

–Why not just the good room? I said.

–It doesn’t sound right, she said. That made no sense: it sounded exactly right. We were never allowed into that room so it would stay good.

–Why doesn’t it? I asked.

–It sounds cheap, she said.

She started smiling.

–It—I don’t know—Drawing room is a nicer name than good room. It sounds nicer. Unusual.

–Are unusual names nice?

–Yes.

–Then why am I called Patrick?

She laughed but only for a little bit. She smiled at me, I think to make sure that I knew she wasn’t laughing at me.

–Because your daddy’s called Patrick, she said.

I liked that, being called after my da.

–There are five Patricks in our class, I said.

–Is that right?

–Patrick Clarke. That’s me. Patrick O’Neill. Patrick Redmond. Patrick Genocci. Patrick Flynn.

–That’s a lot, she said.—It’s a nice name. Very dignified.

–Three of them are called Paddy, I told her.—One Pat and one Patrick.

–Is that right? she said.—Which are you?

I stopped for a minute.

–Paddy, I said.

She didn’t mind. I was Patrick at home.

–Which one’s Patrick? she asked.

–Patrick Genocci.

–His grandad’s from Italy, she said.

–I know, I said.—But he’s never gone there, Patrick Genocci.

–He will sometime.

–When he’s big, I said.—I’m going to Africa.

–Are you? Why?

–I just am, I said.—I have my reasons.

–To convert the black babies?

–No. I didn’t care about the black babies; I was supposed to feel sorry for them, because they were pagans and because they were hungry, but I didn’t care. They frightened me, the idea of them, all of them, millions of them, with stickout bellies and grownup eyes.

–Why then? she asked.

–To see the animals, I said.

–That’ll be nice, she said.

–Not to stay, I said.

She wasn’t to give my bed away.

–What animals? she said.

–All of them.

–Especially.

–Zebras and monkeys.

–Would you like to be a vet?

–No.

–Why not?

–There’s no zebras and monkeys in Ireland.

–Why do you like zebras?

–I just do.

–They’re nice.

–Yeah.

–We’ll go to the zoo again; would you like that?

–No.

Phoenix Park was brilliant—the Hollow and the deers; I wanted to go back there again. The bus, where you could see over the wall into the park when you were upstairs. We went there on my Holy Communion after we were finished with my aunties and uncles; on buses all morning, before my da got his car. But not the zoo, I didn’t want to .go there.

–Why not? said my ma.

–The smell, I said.

It wasn’t just the smell. It was more than the smell; it was what the smell had meant, the smell of the animals and the fur on the wire. I’d liked it then, the animals. Pets’ Corner—the rabbits—the shop; I’d loads of money—they’d made me buy sweets for Sinbad, Refreshers. But I remembered the smell and I couldn’t remember the animals much. Wallabies, little kangaroos that didn’t hop. Monkeys’ fingers gripping the wire.