Paddy Clarke, Ha Ha Ha by Roddy Doyle (novel #182)

We owned Barrytown, the whole lot of it. It went on forever. It was a country. ~ Patrick (Paddy)
Clarke on his boyhood realm.

 

Oh my, but this book is reminiscent of my own childhood – in spite of the fact that Paddy grew up in Dublin, and I in southwest Michigan. That’s the charm – people are not that different. From the boy on the cover – who could easily be me age 10, to the “tribe” of innocent terrors – like my own gang, the teachers we hated, family meals, cut knees, fights at schools, torturing little brothers, idolizing dads, loving moms…growing up.

 

I’ve said before, I was Tom Sawyer growing up, but the era is wrong. I was more like Paddy Clarke.

 

The narrative is just a hodgepodge of Paddy’s memories, generally, but not precisely chronological. As I’ve said, it was reminiscent of my own childhood, sometimes quite specifically as when Paddy recounts summer-long sewer construction on his street – yep me too; my buddies and I played in the in the forbidden trenches; my best friend broke his arm.

 

I remember, the world shrinking. Paddy recounts…

 

Our territory was getting smaller.

 

There was another tribe there now, tougher than us, though none of us said it. Our territory was being taken from us but we were fighting back. We played Indians and Cowboys now, not Cowboys and Indians.

 

Bikes became important, our horses.

 

Ah yes! bikes were independence.

 

It is about the innocence of youth. Paddy thought…

 

I thought that the Americans were fighting gorillas in Vietnam.

 

Me too.

 

It was an idyllic life.

 

Until, the comfort and security begins to erode. This is where Paddy’s story and my own diverge. 

 

Patrick notices the growing strife between his ma and da: beautifully and tragically recorded through the eyes of the innocent.

 

I loved him. He was my da. It didn’t make sense. She was my ma.

 

She was lovely. He was nice.

 

It wasn’t lots of little fights. It was one big one, rounds of the same fight.

 

What was wrong with her?

Nothing. She was lovely looking, though it was hard to tell for sure. She made lovely dinners. The house was clean, the grass cut and straight and she always left some daisies in the middle because Catherine liked them. She didn’t shout like some of the other mas. She didn’t wear trousers with no fly. She wasn’t fat. She never lost her temper for long. I thought about it: she was the best ma around here. She really was; I didn’t just reach that conclusion because she was mine. She was.

 

There must have been something wrong with her, at least one thing. I couldn’t see it. I wanted to. I wanted to understand. I wanted to be on both sides. He was my da. 

 

It’s beautiful, heartbreaking, and poignant.

 

My Dad told me the best gift a father can give his child is to love their mother. Thanks Dad!

 

My rating: 3 1/2 of 5 stars

 

This book satisfies a title with a repeated word, in the What’s in a Name? 2021 challenge.

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