Read Online Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha by Roddy Doyle - Free Book Online Page A

on the path. They had newspapers and cartons of cream. They were going to see. Kevin’s ma and da were there. And girls. She was going to catch me and shout.
    I crossed the road and went home the wrong side. She knew. Someone had told her. She definitely knew. She was waiting. She’d followed me into the shop to see if I’d go red. She’d seen it. My face was still red; I could feel it. Her hair was longer than my ma’s. It was fatter as well, thicker. Brown. She never said Hello. She never walked to the shops. They always drove and their house was only a bit down the road. He was the only grown man in Barrytown with locks, and he had a moustache as well.
    I looked back. Safe; she wasn’t following. I crossed back to our side. She was lovely. She was gorgeous. She was wearing jeans on a Sunday. Maybe she was waiting, for the right moment to catch me.
    I whisked the ice-cream with my spoon till it was soft. I made mountains on it. The ripple was gone. All the ice-cream had gone pink. I always used a small spoon; it made it last longer. My face went hot again, thinking, not as bad though as earlier. I could hear my blood. I could see me going to the door and Missis Kiernan would be there; she’d want to see my ma and she’d tell her about what I’d done to her knickers, and my da. I could hear the steps. I waited for the bell.
    If the bell didn’t ring by the time I’d finished all the ice-cream she wouldn’t be coming. But I couldn’t rush it. I had to eat it the slow way I always did, always the last one to finish. I was allowed to lick the bowl. The bell didn’t ring at all. I felt like I’d done something; my mission had been accomplished. I waited till my face felt normal again. It was very quiet. I was the only one left at the table with them. I didn’t look at them when I asked.
    —Are you allowed to wear jeans on a Sunday?
    —No, said my da.
    —It depends, said my ma.—Not till after mass anyway.
    —No, said my da.
    My ma looked at him with a face, like the look she had when she caught us doing something; sadder, though.
    —He doesn’t have any jeans, she said.—He’s just asking.
    My da said nothing. My ma said nothing.
     
    My ma read books. Mostly at night. She licked her finger when she was coming to the end of her page, then she turned the page; she pulled the corner up with her wet finger. In the mornings I found her book marker, a bit of newspaper, in the book and I counted back the number of pages she’d read the night before. The record was forty-two.
     
    There was a smell of church off the desks in our school. When I folded my arms and put my head in the hollow, when Henno told us to go asleep, I could smell the same smell as you got off the seats in the church. I loved it. It was spicy and like the ground under a tree. I licked the desk but it just tasted horrible.
    Ian McEvoy really went to sleep one day when Henno told us all to go to sleep. Henno was having a chat with Mister Arnold at the door and he told us to fold our arms and go to sleep. That was what always happened when Henno was talking to anyone or reading the paper. Mister Arnold had big locks that nearly met under his chin. He was on the Late Late Show once, singing a song and playing the guitar with another man and two ladies. I was allowed to stay up and watch him. One of the ladies played the guitar as well. She and Mister Arnold were on the outside and the other two were in the middle. They all had the same kind of shirts on but the men had cravats and the ladies didn’t.
    —He should stick to the day job, said my da.
    My ma told him to shush.
    James O’Keefe’s foot tapped the seat of my desk. I shifted my arms so I could lift my head, and looked back at him quickly.
    —Gee, he said.—Pass it on.
    His head went back into his arms.
    I slipped down in my seat so I could reach the seat of Ian McEvoy’s desk. I tapped it. He didn’t move. I did it again. I slipped down further and my foot went past the seat and