A Star Called Henry (11 page)

And then the drovers weren’t so happy to see us when we came out of the bushes at Lucan. Their sticks and anger were no good against us, so they paid us to make sure that none of the cattle or sheep got lost. And butchers with back doors and deeper pockets paid us to make sure that a few of the beasts went astray. There was money in cattle. The police started to join us. The gombeen men from down the country paid them, their younger brothers, to escort the cattle, to make sure that they got to the yards and onto the boats to England. But there was no stopping us. We heard the horses of the mounted rozzers stumbling on the wet, slippery cobbles and we laughed. Eventually, the drovers stopped coming through Lucan. They headed north and south and tried to get the cattle and sheep into the city by backways and along different rivers. But they were wasting their time. It was our city. The destinations were always the same and we didn’t mind waiting. There were other ports in Ireland but they were all full of starving children and cute butchers. They had to come our way.

And then there was another source of income from the cattle. Men came to us when we were eating a bullock off a fire. They had beards and hard eyes, two of them, big men made bigger by their greatcoats. We were ready to run or fight - I grabbed a hold of Victor - but they made soothing noises and one of them showed us money in his hand. We were used to strange men offering us money; they were usually uncomfortable and worried, a doddle to confuse and rob. These men were different. They were serious-looking men. They looked straight at us; they weren’t interested in what was behind their backs. I stood my ground and the others stood with me.

—Do you love Ireland, lads? said one of them.

They got no answer.

We didn’t understand the question. Ireland was something in songs that drunken old men wept about as they held on to the railings at three in the morning and we homed in to rob them; that was all. I loved Victor and my memories of some other people. That was all I understood about love.

I waited for more.

The other man spoke.

—Do you want to earn a few shillings for yourselves?

He wasn’t from Dublin. Or from the country. The voice was English but the head on the shoulders was definitely Irish.

One of the bigger kids answered him.

—We might.

He’d taken the words out of my mouth. So I stayed quiet.

—Easy money, said the second one.

—And noble, said the first.

—What do you want us to do?

—Strike a blow for the smallholder.

—What?

They wanted us to join the fight against the ranchers, the absentee bastards who were pushing the small men off the land, to help them win back the land that had been stolen from us. They wanted us to go into the yards and maim the cattle. With tar and feathers, and they’d pay us by the tail. They gave us a leg up and we slid into the pens, in among the cattle. We listened for the muttering of watchmen, climbed on gates and poured buckets of the black stuff over the backs and heads of the eejit cows. (I’ve always loved the smell of tar. It’s the smell of life.) They were slow to react but, once they started howling, there was no end. It was Cowtown falling apart. They bucked and slammed into each other. It was no place for children. I got Victor onto the wall and tied the tails around my waist. I slipped among the hoofs and shit, and cut, and draped more tails over my shoulder. For the smallholder. For Ireland. For me and Victor.

I watched and listened, sniffed the air, grew up. Things were happening. I made my own vending licence, hammered out a piece of metal from a biscuit tin one of the tuggers let me have, and I sold old newspapers, week-old news. I listened to the men and women reading the headlines as they walked away, before they realised that they’d read them before. A thing called Sinn Féin was mentioned. The name Carson was followed by curses or spitting. And Home Rule. It meant nothing to us who had no homes, but I listened and tried to understand. King Edward died and I didn’t see anyone weeping as the news got carried around Dublin. They’d wanted to kill me when I’d insulted the King but, now that he was dead, they just shrugged and kept walking.

 

 

I was eight and surviving. I’d lived three years in the streets and under boxes, in hallways and on wasteland. I’d slept in the weeds and under snow. I had Victor, my father’s leg and nothing else. I was bright but illiterate, strapping but always sick. I was handsome and filthy and bursting out of my rags. And I was surviving.

But it wasn’t enough. I was itching for more.

—Come on, Victor, I said.—We need to better ourselves.

I washed myself and Victor from a bucket at the back of Granny Nash’s house and then we went down to the national school behind the big railings. It was late morning; the yard was empty. We went into a huge hall. I stopped at the first door. We could hear children reciting something on the other side. I knocked and waited. I held Victor’s hand.

—Yes, said a voice that belonged to a woman.

I didn’t look yet. By not looking, I could hope that the face would be smiling and lovely. I could even expect it. I could keep talking.

—We’ve come for our education, I said.

—Have you, indeed? said the voice.

—Yeah.

I looked at brown boots that had a woman’s toes neatly packed into their points.

—What age are you?

—Nearly nine, I said.

—You are not, said the voice.

—Yes, I am, I said.

—You’re certainly a fine lad, she said.—But, you know, you’re four years late.

—I was busy, I said.

—And what about the little man beside you?

—He’s me brother, I said.—He wants his education too. Where I go he goes.

—Is that so, now?

—Yeah, I said.—Once you know that, you’ll have no trouble from either of us. We’ve come here to learn.

She started laughing. I looked. She was looking down at me, a big-sized mess of a lad, with eyes made khaki by ancient scabs and hair that stood up to get away from the nits. But I had a smile that made women wonder and I used it now. I smiled up at her and watched the results.

She blinked, and coughed. She reached out, then stopped herself. But she had to touch me; I could see that. And she reached out again; she braved the filth and rested her hand on my hair. I looked straight back at her.

—What’s your name, so? she asked.

I saw brown eyes and some slivers of hair that had escaped from a bun that shone like a lamp behind her head. There were little brown buttons, in pairs, running the length of her brown dress, like the heads of little brown animals climbing quietly to her neck.

—Henry Smart, I said.

—And the little lad?

—Victor Smart, I said.

—Where do you live, Henry?

—Over there, I said, but I didn’t point.—What’s your name?

—Miss O’Shea, she said.—Do you have any friends in my class?

—No, I said.

I held up my father’s leg for her to notice. It was my birth cert. She looked straight at it. Her eyes seemed younger than the rest of her face. She looked at the leg; I could see shock and amusement.

—What’s that? she said.

—A leg that’s made out of wood, said Victor.

—It used to belong to our daddy, I told her.—But he’s gone now.

And Victor started crying.

I put my arm around Victor’s shoulder as his crying turned to coughing and I smiled at her again, although I could feel Victor’s coughs through my arm and they were real. She smiled back and we were elected.

I liked her.

—Come on in, she said.—
Tar istigh
. That means Come in, the pair of you.

—
Tar istigh
, I said.

—Very good, she said.—You’re quick.

—I know, I said.—I’ve never been caught.

By the end of the first day I could struggle through the first four pages of a book about a happy woman washing her doorstep and Miss O’Shea had fallen in love with me. In a room that was warmer than anything I’d ever known, full of snuffling and learning off by heart, holy songs and dust that was bright and clean. Victor fell asleep beside me. He coughed but didn’t wake. And she was beside me too. She was fighting the urge to pat me again. I could hear her joints crying, pleading to let her go.

—Two and two? she said.

—Don’t know, I said.—Two and two what?

—Cows, she said.

—Four, I said.

—That’s too easy, a kid behind me complained.

I looked back and he shrivelled.

—Twenty-seven and twenty-seven, she said.

—What?

—Bottles.

—What’s in them?

—Porter.

—Fifty-four.

I heard her elbow give up the fight, then felt her fingers on my shoulder.

—Are you a genius, maybe? she asked.

—What’s a genius? I asked.

—A boy with a big brain, she said.

—More than likely, I said.

I learnt that the best toilets came from Stoke-on-Trent and that God was our father in heaven, creator of heaven and earth. Then someone outside walked past jangling a bell and all the other children stood up. I nudged Victor and held him up as I stood with the rest. The desk came part of the way with me; my legs were squashed into it. I straightened and it fell back to the floor. There was some laughing behind me but it stopped when I lifted a shoulder. They said a prayer I didn’t know - I didn’t know any. Then they trooped out, line by line.

—Will your mammy be waiting for you? Miss O’Shea asked as we passed her at the door.

—Yes, I said.—Can we come back tomorrow?

—Yes, of course. This is where you should be.

—It’s nice, said Victor.

We slept near the school. The memory of the warmth kept us going for the night. Victor’s coughing slowed and levelled and I joined the rhythm of his breathing and rode it to sleep. He woke me up.

—She was nice, wasn’t she? said Victor.

—Yeah, I said.

—Are you going to marry her?

—Don’t know, I said.—I might.

We stood up for the new day. I was hoping for more. Less prayers, more information. That was what I was there for. And reading. I wanted that power.

We were two hours early. We were hungry but I didn’t want to stray. We stayed out of the yard, on the street side of the railings, until we saw her arriving. She carried a basket with books poking out of it. Her coat was open and she was wearing the same brown dress. She went to the door and we followed her. She turned when my foot stopped the door.

—Wait for the bell, she said.—You’re keen, aren’t you?

—Yes, I said.

—Are you married, missis? said Victor.

Anger glanced across her face but didn’t stay.

—No, she said.—Would I be here if I was?

She brought the door over before Victor could answer.

—The bell, she said.—It won’t be long.

And she shut the door.

—Never ask questions, Victor, I said as we turned back to see what was going on in the yard.

—Why not? he said.

—If you just watch and listen, I said,—you’ll get better answers. I could have told you she wasn’t married meself.

—How?

—No rings, son. No rings on her fingers.

—Oh yeah.

—Oh yeah is right. Watch and listen and the answers will come strolling up to you. What do you do?

—Watch and listen.

—Good man.

So we watched the playacting in the school yard. Kids playing. Running and tumbling, hanging on to each other. It didn’t make much sense to us. But there were others there like us, at the sides of the yard, looking at or ignoring the chasing and skipping. There was money changing hands in one corner. I noted the faces, the bare feet, the readiness to run. We weren’t alone in the yard.

Holy God, we praise Thy name. Lord of all, we bow before Thee
. We sang for most of the morning. It annoyed me but Victor liked it. He caught on to the words quickly and yelled them at the ceiling. But it wasn’t what I’d come for. I could sing whenever I wanted to - I’d sung for money outside the Antient Concert Rooms. I didn’t need a school or a teacher to show me how. And the songs - hymns, she called them.
Angels, saints and nations sing. Praised be Jesus Christ our King
. I knew I’d earn no shillings singing that shite on the streets. But it was warm and I sang to the skies whenever Miss O’Shea walked up my aisle, which was a lot more often than she walked up any of the others.

But, eventually, she tapped her tuning fork twice on her desk and we all sat down.

—Now, she said, up at the blackboard.—Sums. Henry?

It took me a while to realise: she was talking to me.

—Yeah?

—Yes, Miss O’Shea.

I didn’t understand. I waited.

—Say Yes, Miss O’Shea, she said.

—Yes, Miss O’Shea.

—Very good. Stand up, please.

—I’m only after sitting down.

More laughing at the back.

—Stand up, Henry.

She said it kindly, so I got out of the desk, tried to hold it down as I rose. Victor’s weight beside me helped.

She picked up a long piece of chalk and wrote 6 + 6 + 14 - 7 = on the blackboard. She did it without looking at the numbers; her eyes roved the classroom. Then, tapping the board under each number, she spoke.

—Now, Henry. Tell us all. If a man has six very valuable male dogs and six very valuable bitches and they have fourteen puppies but he has to sell seven of them because he’s been a bit slow with the rent and the landlord is threatening to evict him, how many dogs will he have left?

—Nineteen, I said.

—Yes, she said.—Six plus six plus the fourteen puppies minus the seven for the rent equals nineteen. See? It’s easy, isn’t it? Thank you, Henry. Now, I want you all to use your heads like Henry.