Free A Star Called Henry by Roddy Doyle Page A

a man who’d walked all over Dublin.
    He was on his way back, to the hole under Dolly Oblong’s stairs, when he turned a corner, into a huge crowd. Flags and bunting flapped above him, lots of red, white and blue, some green and gold, and there was a band off somewhere ploughing through The Minstrel Boy . The crowd stretched all along the road, through Ballsbridge, over the canal, on into town. There was a roar that was getting louder, as if coming nearer.
    —They’re coming! They’re coming!
    He saw hats being waved, hats thrown into the air. The flags became frantic. The Minstrel Boy was getting nearer, beginning to sound like well-played music. Henry didn’t venture into the crowd; tight crowds made him feel like a one-legged man. He stayed at the back. God Bless Our King : the banner across the road explained it all to him. Edward VII was in town. Henry had forgotten: it was a holiday. He’d be busy later, on the steps. He’d need some sleep.
    He couldn’t see, but he could tell by the agitation running along the crowd that the King and Queen were on their way past. People got up on their toes, leaned on strangers’ backs for a second’s glimpse of the approaching carriage. There were children on their fathers’ shoulders. Servants hung from upstairs windows. There were more kids clinging to lampposts. There was clapping and cheering. The girls would be on their backs all night, raking it in for Dolly Oblong. Some of the older girls still talked about Victoria’s last visit; they still said God save the Queen every time they scratched themselves. He could see the plumes of horsemen. He watched the crowd as shoulders and heads turned with the passing carriage.
    —Fuck off!
    There were gasps. He saw people looking for the owner of the treacherous roar.
    —Fuck off!
    And he saw men grabbing at the legs of a small lad clinging to a lamppost, a small lad with an even smaller lad parked on his shoulders.
    Who was the angry little man hanging on for his life?
    —Fuck off with your hat!
    It was me up there, ankles scratched, the trousers being yanked off me. It was five-year-old me - July, 1907. I kicked at grabbing hands and tried to bury my fingers in the green-painted iron of the lamppost. Victor kicked and spat; he was doing his best to save us. But, inch by inch, we were slipping into the crowd. The King’s loyal Irish subjects admired our guts but they still wanted to box the ears off us. We were sliding down into their hands.
    —UCK, said Victor, and I loved him so much just then I let go of the lamppost to hug his legs. And we fell into the angry crowd.
    Why had I done it?
    We were under the feet of the crowd but I was far from ready to surrender. Victor already had his teeth, three tiny sharp needles, in a leg. I heard screaming above us. The socked leg went up and Victor went with it.
    Why had I told the King of Great Britain and Ireland to fuck off? Was I a tiny Fenian? A Sinn Feiner? Not at all. I didn’t even know I was Irish. I saw the procession from my perch on the lamppost and I saw the fat man at the centre of it. I saw the wealth and colour, the shining red face, the moustache and beard that were better groomed than the horses, and I knew that he didn’t come from Dublin. I didn’t know that he was the King or that the floozy beside him was the Queen. I didn’t even know what a king was; no one had ever read me a fairy tale. He looked like an eejit, yet thousands and thousands of people were cheering and waving for him. I was angry. He didn’t belong. I looked at his carriage and thought of the cart that had carried us from house to house to basement. And they climbed over one another to get half a goo at him. And I remembered women, face after face, looking down at me in my zinc crib, smiling faces, all the smiles and love, and my mammy and daddy safely behind them. This picture lit up for a second, less than a second, then was gone. And they were still cheering and smiling for the fat