–A match between them?

–No, I said.—Talking.

The only programmes he didn’t pretend he wasn’t watching were ones with people talking in them, and The Virginian.

–You want the television on? he said.

–Yeah.

–Why didn’t you say just that?

–I did say it, I said.

–Fire away, he said.

His leg was moving, the one on top of the one on the ground, up and down. He sometimes put Catherine and Deirdre on his foot and carried them up and down. He did it to Sinbad as well once—I could remember it—so he must have done it to me as well. I got up.

–Is your homework done?

–Yes.

–All of it?

–Yes.

–The learning?

–Yes.

–What did you get?

–Ten spellings.

–Ten of them; give us one?

–Sediment. Do you want me to do it?

–There’s no point, but yeah.

–S.e.d.i.m.e.n.t.

–Sediment.

–C.e.n.t.e.n.a.r.y.

–Centenary.

–Yeah. That’s the name for a hundredth anniversary.

–Like your mother’s birthday.

I’d done it. It was alright. Normal again. He’d cracked a joke. Ma had laughed. I’d laughed. He’d laughed. Mine lasted the longest. During it, I thought it was going to change into a cry. But it didn’t. My eyes blinked like mad but then it was okay.

–Sediment has three syllables, I told them.

–Very good, said my ma.

–Sediment.

–How many has Centenary?

I was ready; I’d done that one for homework.

–Centenary. Four.

–Very good. How many has Bed?

I got the joke just before I said the answer; my mouth was nearly open.

I stood up quick.

–Okay.

I wanted to go while it was nice. I’d made it like that.

There were two teachers not in because they were sick so Henno had to mind another class. He left us with a load of sums on the board. He left the door open. There wasn’t much messing or noise. I liked long division. I used my ruler to make sure that my lines were absolutely straight. I liked guessing if I’d have the answer before I got to the end of the page. There was a screech and laughing. Kevin had leaned over and drawn a squiggly line all over Fergus Shevlin’s copy, only he’d used the wrong end of the pen so there was no mark but Fergus Shevlin got a fright. I didn’t see it. I was at the top of the second row that week and Kevin was in the middle of the third row.

You could always tell when Henno came back. Everything in the room went really still for a few seconds. He was in the room; I could tell. I didn’t look up. I was near the end of a sum.

He was standing beside me.

He put a copy under my eyes. It was open. It wasn’t mine. There were wet streaks in the ink all the way down the pages. They’d made the ink a lighter blue; there were bars of light blue across the page where someone had tried to rub the tears away.

I expected to be hit.

I looked up.

Henno had Sinbad with him. They were Sinbad’s tears; I could tell from his face and the way his breath jumped.

–Look at that, Henno said to me.

He meant the copy. I did what I was told.

–Isn’t it disgraceful?

I didn’t say.

All that was wrong was the tears. They’d ruined the writing, nothing else. Sinbad’s writing wasn’t bad. It was big and the lines of his letters swerved a bit like rivers because he wrote very slowly. Some of the turns missed the copy line but not by much. It was just the tears.

I waited.

–You’re damn lucky you’re not in this class, Mister Clarke Junior, Henno said to Sinbad.—Ask your brother.

I still didn’t know what was wrong, why I was supposed to be looking at the copy, why my brother was standing there. He wasn’t crying now; his face was the proper way.

It was a new feeling: something really unfair was happening; something nearly mad. He’d only cried. Henno didn’t know him; he’d just picked on him.

He spoke to me.

–You’re to put that copy in your bag and you’re to show it to your mother the minute you get home. Let her see what a specimen she has on her hands. Is that clear?

I wasn’t going to do it but I had to say it.

–Yes, Sir.

I wanted to look at Sinbad, to let him know. I wanted to look around at everyone.

–In your bag now.

I closed the copy gently. The pages were still a bit wet.

–Get out of my sight, Henno told Sinbad.

Sinbad went. Henno called him back to close the door after him; he asked him was he born in a barn. Then Henno went over and opened the door again, to listen for noise from the other class.

I gave the copy to Sinbad.

–I’m not going to show the copy to Ma, I told him.

He said nothing.

–I won’t tell her what happened, I said.

I needed him to know.

She didn’t get up one morning. Da was going down to Mrs McEvoy to get her to take the babies for the day. Me and Sinbad still had to go to school.

–Get your breakfasts here, he said.

He unlocked the back door.

–Are you washed yet?

He’d gone before I could tell him that I always washed myself before I had my breakfast. I always made my own cornflakes, got the bowl and put in the flakes—never spilt them—put in the milk. Then the sugar. I used to flick my fingernail under the spoon so the sugar would be sprinkled evenly all over. But I didn’t know what to do this morning; I was all mixed up. There was no bowl. I knew where she kept them. I put them away sometimes. There was no milk. It was probably still on the front step. There was only the sugar. I went over to it. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to think about my ma up in their bedroom. About her sick. I didn’t want to see her. I was afraid.

Sinbad followed me.

If she wasn’t sick, if she was just up in the bed, I’d have to know why she hadn’t got up. I didn’t want to know. I couldn’t go up there. I didn’t want to know. It would be back to normal when we came home from school later.

I had a spoon of sugar. I didn’t keep it long enough in my mouth for it to become nice. I wasn’t hungry. I wouldn’t bother having any breakfast. I’d make toast. I liked the gas.

–What’s wrong with Mam?

I didn’t want to know.

–Shut up.

–What’s wrong with her?

–Shut up.

–Is she sick?

–She’s sick of you; shut up.

–Is she not well?

I liked the hiss the gas made and the smell for a little bit. I grabbed Sinbad. I made his face go close to the gas. He pushed back. He wasn’t as easy to control as he used to be. His arms were strong. He couldn’t beat me though. He’d never be able to do that. I’d always be bigger than him. He got away.

–I’m telling.

–Who?

–Da.

–What’re you goin’ to tell him? I said, moving towards him.

–You were messin’ with the gas, he said.

–So what?

–We’re not allowed.

He ran into the hall.

–You’ll wake Ma, I said.—Then she’ll never get better and you’ll be to blame.

He wouldn’t tell anything.

–There must have been the pair of you in it.

That was what Da nearly always said.

I opened the back door to get rid of the smell of the gas.

If Ma wasn’t really sick; if they’d had another fight—. I hadn’t heard anything. They’d laughed before I went to bed. They’d talked to each other.

I closed the door.

Da was coming back. I could hear his feet. He opened the door and came in, both steps at once. He left the door open.

–Nice day out, he said.—Have your breakfast?

–Yes, I said.

–Francis as well?

–Yes.

–Good lads. Good man. Missis McEvoy is going to look after Cathy and Deirdre. She’s very good.

I watched his face. It wasn’t tight or white; I couldn’t see veins in his neck. He looked nice and calm: nothing bad had happened. Ma was sick.

–It’ll give your mammy a chance to get better, he said.

I wanted to see her now; it was alright. She was only sick.