You ran down the jetty and jumped and shouted Voyage To The Bottom Of The Sea, and whoever got the most words out before they hit the water won. No one ever won. I once got as far as the second The but Kevin, the ref, said that my bum had gone into the water before I got to Of. We threw stones at each other, to miss.

I hid behind the sideboard when the Seaview was being swallowed by a giant jellyfish; it was terrible. I didn’t mind it at first and I put my fingers in my ears when my da told my ma that it was ridiculous. But when the jellyfish kind of surrounded the submarine I crawled over to the sideboard. I’d been lying on my tummy in front of the telly. I didn’t cry. My ma said that the jellyfish had gone but I didn’t come back out till I heard the ads. She brought me to bed after it and stayed with me for a while. Sinbad was asleep. I got up for a drink of water. She said she wouldn’t let me watch it next week but she forgot. Anyway, the next week it was back to normal again, about a mad scientist who’d invented a new torpedo. Admiral Nelson gave him a box that sent him bashing into the periscope.

–That’s the stuff, said my da.

He didn’t see it; he just heard it. He didn’t look up from his book. I didn’t like that; he was jeering me. My ma was knitting. I was the only one let up to watch it. I told Sinbad it was brilliant but I wouldn’t tell him why.

I was in the water down at the seafront, with Edward Swanwick. He didn’t go to the same school as most of us. He went to Belvedere in town.

–Nothing but the best for the Swanwicks, said my da when my ma told him that she’d seen Missis Swanwick buying margarine instead of butter in the shop.

She laughed.

Edward Swanwick had to wear a blazer and tie and he had to play rugby. He said he hated it but he came home on his own in the train every day so it wasn’t too bad.

We were flinging water at each other. We’d stopped laughing cos we’d been doing it for ages. The tide was going out so we’d be getting out in a minute. Edward Swanwick pushed his hands out and sent a wave towards me and there was a jellyfish in it. A huge seethrough one with pink veins and a purple middle. I lifted my arms way up and started to move but it still rubbed my side. I screamed. I pushed through the water to the steps. I felt the jellyfish hit my back; I thought I did. I yelled again; I couldn’t help it. It was rocky and uneven down at the seafront, not like the beach. I got to the steps and grabbed the bar.

–It’s a Portuguese man of war, said Edward Swanwick.

He was coming back to the steps a long way, around the jellyfish.

I got onto the second step. I looked for marks. Jellyfish stings didn’t hurt until you got out of the water. There was a pink lash on the side of my belly; I could see it. I was out of the water.

–I’m going to get you, I told Edward Swanwick.

–It’s a Portuguese man of war, said Edward Swanwick.

–Look at it.

I showed him my wound.

He was up on the platform now, looking over the railing at the jellyfish.

I took my togs off without bothering with the towel. There was no one else. The jellyfish was still floating there, like a runny umbrella. Edward Swanwick was hunting for stones. He went down some of the steps to reach for some but he wouldn’t get back into the water. I couldn’t get my Tshirt down over my back and chest because I was wet. It was stuck on my shoulders.

–Their stings are poisonous, said Edward Swanwick.

I had my Tshirt on now. I lifted it to make sure the mark was still there. I thought it was beginning to get sore. I wrung out my togs over the railing. Edward Swanwick was plopping stones near the jellyfish.

–Hit it.

He missed.

–You’re a big spa, I told him.

I wrapped my togs in my towel. It was a big soft bath one. I shouldn’t have had it.

I ran all the way, up Barrytown Road, all the way, past the cottages where there was a ghost and an old woman with a smell and no teeth, past the shops; I started to cry when I was three gates away from our house; around the back, in the kitchen door.

Ma was feeding the baby.

–What’s wrong with you, Patrick?

She looked down for a cut on my leg. I got my Tshirt out to show her. I was really crying now. I wanted a hug and ointment and a bandage.

–A jelly—a Portuguese man of war got me, I told her.

She touched my side.

–There?

–Ouch! No, look; the mark across. It’s highly poisonous.

–I can’t see—. Oh, now I do.

I pulled my Tshirt down. I tucked it into my pants.

–What should we do? she asked me.—Will I go next door and phone for an ambulance?

–No; ointment—

–Okay, so. That’ll mend it. Have I time for me to finish feeding Deirdre and Cathy before we put it on?

–Yeah.

–Great.

I pressed my hand hard into my side to keep the mark there.

The seafront was a pumping station. There was a platform behind it with loads of steps down to it. When there was a spring tide the water spread over the platform. There were more steps down to the water. There were steps on the other side of the pumping station as well but it was always cold over there and the rocks were bigger and sharper. It was hard to get past them to the water. The jetty wasn’t really a jetty. It was a pipe covered in cement. The cement wasn’t smooth. There were bits of stone and rock sticking out of it. You couldn’t dash along to the end. You had to watch your step and not put your foot down too hard. It was hard to play properly down at the seafront. There was too much seaweed, slime and rocks; you always had to keep your eyes down searching under the water. All you could really do was swim.

I was good at swimming.

Sinbad wouldn’t get in unless our ma was with him.

Kevin once dived off the jetty and split his head. He had to go into Jervis Street for stitches. He went in a taxi with his ma and his sister.

Some of us weren’t allowed to swim down at the seafront. If you cut your toe on a rock you’d get polio. A boy from Barrytown Drive, Sean Rickard, died and it was supposed to have been because he’d swallowed a mouthful of the seafront water. Someone else said he’d swallowed a gobstopper and it got caught in his windpipe.

–He was by himself in his bedroom, said Aidan.—And he couldn’t slap his back to get it up.

–Why didn’t he go down to the kitchen?

–He couldn’t breathe.

–I can slap mine, look it.

We looked at Kevin thumping his back.

–Not hard enough, said Aidan.

We all tried it.

–It’s a load of rubbish, said my ma.—Don’t mind them.

She spoke softer.

–The poor little lad had leukaemia.

–What’s leukaemia?

–A disease.

–Can you get it from swallowing water?

–No.

–How?

–Not from water.

–Sea water?

–No kind of water.

The seafront water was grand, my da said. The Corporation experts had tested it and it was perfect.

–There, said my mother.

My Granda Finnegan, her father, worked in the Corporation.

The teacher we had before Henno, Miss Watkins, brought in a teatowel with the Proclamation of Independence on it because it was fifty years after 1916. It had the writing part in the middle and the seven men who’d signed it around the sides. She stuck it up over the blackboard and let us up to see it one by one. Some of the boys blessed themselves in front of it.

–Nach bhfuil sé go h’álainn,lads? she kept saying after every couple of boys went past.

–Tá,[2] we said back.

I looked at the names at the bottom. Thomas J. Clarke was the first one. Clarke, like my name.

Miss Watkins got her bataand read the proclamation out for us and pointed at each word.

–In this supreme hour the Irish nation must, by its valour and discipline, and by the readiness of its children to sacrifice themselves for the common good, prove itself worthy of the august destiny to which it is called. Signed on behalf of the provisional government, Thomas J. Clarke, Seán MacDiarmada, Thomas MacDonagh, P. H. Pearse, Eamonn Ceannt, James Connolly, Joseph Plunkett.