Roddy Doyle: A Star Called Henry

Stephen · 28-12-2000 1:28am #1

I'm only on page ninety-something of this, but am enjoying it immensely. I love Doyle's humour. Take the following extract, for example...

Henry is the "hero" of the story, and at this stage he's 8 years old and big for his age. His father is a one-legged whore house bouncer. Henry is equipped with an old wooden leg belonging to his father.

Victor is Henry's younger brother. Both are illiterate and living on the streets, their parents and (unstable) home just memories.

Here they are after persuading their way into a national school:

<font face="Verdana, Arial" size="2">
But it couldn't last.
I was writing my first sentence, MY NAME IS HENRY SMART, on a slate with my own piece of chalk, and Victor was busy beside me, MY NAME IS VICTOR SMART, his letters straight and evenly white. The room was quiet, just the noises of fifty-seven concentrating children and the scraping of fifty-seven pieces of chalk, when the door opened and, before I looked up to see who was coming or going, a voice announced the end of our education.
--Two strange boys.
Victor's chalk skidded across his slate. I couldn't move. I was too big for my desk again. I was stuck, trapped.
The nun at the door wasn't even looking at us. She was looking at Miss O'Shea who was standing beside her desk, straight and twitching, like a cornered rabbit. So the first thing I saw of the nun was her profile. A nose shaped like a sail and just as white. The rest of her face hid behind her habit. The nose was aimed at Miss O'Shea.
--We've a couple of strangers with us today, said the nun.
--Yes, Mother, said Miss O'Shea.
--You've taken over enrolment duty now, have you, Miss O'Shea?
--No, Mother.
Miss O'Shea sounded like a child; it was me and Victor against the nun.
--Good, said the nun. -It's an onerous, thankless task. Better suited to an old crow like me.
She moved and turned like a boat in water. She was facing us. Glaring at us. Two black eyes divided by the white beak. Coming at us.
--Let me see the strange boys.
And she was in front of us, and over us.
--Do you have a name, the bigger boy?
--Yeah.
--Yes, Mother.
--You're not my mother.
--You think I'm going to get angry, don't you? You think I'm going to lose my temper. Don't you?
--No.
--No, Mother.
--You're not my mother.
Victor coughed.
--Cover your mouth when you're coughing, the smaller boy, said the nun who called herself Mother. -- We're all marching towards our eternal rest without needing help from the likes of you. Your name, the bigger boy?
--Henry Smart, I said.
--Are you English, with a name like that?
--No.
--As far as you are aware. Do you know your father, Henry Smart?
--Yeah, I said.
She sniffed. Her nose and eyes went on Victor.
--And the smaller boy. What do they call you?
--They don't call me anything, said Victor. --Henry would kill them if they did.
--Yes, she said. --I am sure that he would. Who sent you here?
--Our parents, I said.
--Who are they when they're at home?
--They're our mother and father.
--You're being cheeky again, aren't you? I don't think you'll be staying here. No, I don't. You were let in by mistake. This is not the place for you. You must be twelve, she said.
--I'm eight, I said.
--He's nearly nine, said Victor.
--No, he is not, she said. --No, no. I don't think you'll be staying with us.
I didn't care any more. There was no point. I felt stiff and huge and too old for my desk - maybe she was right about my age - so I stayed put. I decided to say nothing until I was angry. I trusted my anger. And answering her without it had only made me feel stupid.
--Have you heard of Our Lord?
She was talking to Victor.
--What?
--Our Lord. Do you know Jesus?
--I do, yeah, said Victor. --That's him there, your man hanging over the blackboard.
She grabbed his arm.
--Pagans. The pair of them. It's Saint Brigid's you should be in, she hissed. -- I knew it!
Saint Brigid's was the orphanage up on Eccles Street. I knew all about Saint Brigid's.
I was up out of the desk and I grabbed Daddy's leg on the way. The desk fell apart and Victor fell with it but she held on to him.
--Give him back! I shouted.
I didn't wait for an answer. I just lifted the leg and whacked at the nose. She rose and flew and skidded across three desks and landed in a black heap on top of half a dozen screaming boys. She'd left Victor behind.
--Come on, Victor.
We ran to the door. I held his hand. He was coughing again. Miss O'Shea let us past. I turned at the open door and shouted into the room.
--MY NAME IS HENRY SMART!
I nudged Victor.
--MY NAME IS--
He coughed. It came from somewhere dark inside him. I watched the colour drop from his face as he waited for the air to turn and let him breathe.
--VICTOR--
He grabbed more air.
--SMART.
--Remember those names, all of your, I said.
I looked at Miss O'Shea.
--And you remember. That you were the woman who taught Henry Smart how to write his name.
She was blushing and her mouth was wobbling. I wanted to stay. But the nun was back on her feet. She was swaying a bit, but getting her head back. She came at us.
--Let her have it, Victor, I said.
Victor filled the room with his roar.
--FÚCK OFFFFF!
And we were gone. Out onto the street and away. We ran until we were safe, just two snot-nosed, homeless kids among thousands. We ran to the other side of town.
Far away from Saint Brigid's.</font>