Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha by Roddy Doyle Page B

flask. He sipped it, then he said Thanks, like he didn’t mean it.
    —Can we get out?
    —No.
    —Why not?
    —No.
    —It’s too wet, said Ma.—You’d catch your death out in that.
    Sinbad put his hand under his arm and slammed his arm shut. It made a fart noise. Margaret, Mister O’Connell’s girlfriend, had taught us how to do it. Sinbad did it again.
    —Once more—, said Da.
    He didn’t turn around.
    —See what happens.
    Sinbad put his hand under his arm again. I held his arm up so he couldn’t slam it; I’d get the blame. He smiled at me trying to stop him. He never used to smile at all. Even when Da was taking photographs of us, Sinbad wouldn’t smile. We had to stand side by side in front of our ma - it was always the same - and Da would walk away and turn around and look at us through the camera—it was one of those box ones; my ma bought it with her first wages before she got married, before she met my da - and he’d tell us to move a bit and then he’d take ages looking down into the camera and then up at us, and then he’d notice that Sinbad wasn’t smiling.
    —Smile now, he’d say, to all of us first.
    Smiling was easy.
    —Francis, he’d say, sounding ordinary.
    —Head up; come on.
    Ma would put her hand on Sinbad’s shoulder and still try to hold one of the babies.
    —God damn it; the sun’s gone behind a cloud.
    But Sinbad kept his head down. And Da lost his temper. All the photographs were the same, me and Ma smiling like mad and Sinbad looking down at the ground. We held the smile for so long, they weren’t really smiles any more. When Ma swapped so Da could be in the photograph Da looked like he was really smiling and Sinbad’s face disappeared completely he was looking down so much.
    There were no photographs this day.
    Ma had the biscuits wrapped in tinfoil for each of us. That way we didn’t have to share and there were no fights. I could tell from the shape of the foil what biscuits were inside; four Mariettas, two together like a sandwich with butter in the middle, and the square shape at the bottom was a Polo. I’d keep the Polo till last.
    Ma said something to Da. I didn’t hear it. I could tell by the look on the side of her face, she was waiting for him to answer. But it was more than that, her face.
    You got the Mariettas and you squeezed them together and the butter came out the holes. We called them botty bickies sometimes, because of the way the butter came out, but Ma wouldn’t let us call them that.
    I took the Fanta off Sinbad. He let me. It was empty, and it shouldn’t have been.
    I looked at Ma again. She was still looking at Da. Catherine had one of Ma’s fingers in her mouth and she was biting real hard - she had a few teeth - but Ma didn’t do anything about it.
    Sinbad was eating his biscuits the way he always did, and I did as well. He was nibbling all around the edge till he went all the way round and the Mariettas were the same shape again, only smaller. He licked where the butter had come out of the holes. When he got to the end of his first lap he stopped. I grabbed the hand the biscuit sandwich was in and I squashed his hand in my hands and made him smash the biscuits into crumbs that were too small to rescue. That was for drinking all the Fanta.
    Ma was getting out of the car. It was awkward because of Catherine. I thought we were all getting out, that it had stopped raining.
    But it hadn’t. It was lashing.
    Something had happened; something.
    Ma left the door open; it closed back a bit but it was still open. Me and Sinbad waited for Da to move, to see what we were supposed to do. He leaned over and grabbed the passenger door handle and pulled the door shut. He grunted when he was straightening up.
    Sinbad was licking his hand.
    —Where’s Ma gone to? I asked.
    Da sighed, and turned a bit so I could see some of the side of his face. Then he didn’t say anything. He was looking in the windshield mirror at us. I couldn’t see his eyes. Sinbad