by Roddy Doyle
—That’s not wha’ she said.
—Near enough.
—Fuck off, Davy. Fuck you.
—Wha’? I said. —We were laughin’ a minute ago.
—It wasn’t insultin’ a minute ago.
—Only because she isn’t here.
—Fuck off.
I didn’t want this to happen.
—Explain it then, I said.
—Fuck off.
—I’m listenin’. Go on.
I could hear myself, and I didn’t sound as I felt – how I wanted to feel. I sounded like my forehead was leaning into his; I was pushing him, goading him. I was rushing past myself, out of my own control.
—Sorry, I said.
It didn’t matter. I didn’t care about truth. I didn’t want the fight.
—Fuck you, he said. —Listen.
—Wha’?
—Trish spoke to Faye once.
—When was this?
—Back in the fuckin’ day, he said. —They had a good oul’ chat, Trish said. So listen, pal, don’t be callin’ Jess a fuckin’ clown.
—Ah, fuck off, Joe.
—A right fuckin’ nut job, Trish said.
—Fuck off.
—You fuck off.
—Fuck off.
* * *
—
I looked at my eyes in the toilet mirror. They weren’t too red. They fitted in the face; they weren’t too bad. They belonged.
I’d say sorry again. I’d go back in and say sorry. I’d finish my pint and leave. He’d tell me to fuck off and I’d go. He’d tell me to fuck off and I’d let him have it; I’d rip his fantasy apart. I’d smash my glass across his head. I’d go back in and he’d be gone. I’d go in and he’d be waiting; he’d tell me something that would knock me to the floor, that would make me hit another man for the first time in my life, that would shut me down, destroy me.
I knew the man I was looking at in the mirror. I was okay, I’d be fine.
I’d apologise. And I’d go. We’d go on to George’s, and then I’d go. We’d meet again, we’d keep in touch. He’d let me know he’d gone back to Trish. He’d let me know he’d never really left her. He’d send me a photo of Holly’s graduation. I wouldn’t apologise. I’d stand there with him and pick up my pint. It was up to him; we could move on, or we wouldn’t. He could start a row, continue the row. I didn’t care. He could fuck off – I didn’t care.
I felt the phone in my pocket. I took it out and looked.
* * *
—
—I have to go, I told him.
—Wha’?
—I’ve to go, I said. —Sorry.
—What abou’ the pints? he said. —We haven’t touched them.
—Sorry – I’ve got to go.
—What’s up? he asked.
He could tell I wasn’t just deciding to leave; I hadn’t come back from the toilet ready to storm out. He could see it was something else.
—Is somethin’ wrong?
—My father, I said. —Yeah – my da.
—Is he okay, is he?
I wasn’t sure if he heard my answer. I wasn’t sure if I spoke the word.
—No.
—Wha’?
—No.
—Ah, Christ, he said. —I’m sorry, Davy. Let’s go. Are you goin’ home – to his place? I’ll come with you.
—No, I said.
—Wha’?
—I’m not goin’ home.
I watched Joe lift his fresh pint and take three or four fast gulps from it. The glass was half empty when he took it away from his mouth. I waited.
—Waste not, fuckin’ want not, he said.
I wanted him with me.
And I didn’t.
He put the glass back on the counter, then placed his hand on his stomach.
—Might regret tha’, he said. —I might be climbin’ into the bed beside your da. Come on.
I didn’t want him to come – I don’t think I did – but I got in behind him as he walked quickly to the door. He held it for me and we were out on to Chatham Street.
—Right – where’s best for a taxi? he asked himself.
—Stephen’s Green.
—South William Street, he said. —There’s always a line of empty ones comin’ up tha’ way.
I followed him across to Chatham Row, to the corner of South William Street.
—Are you sure we don’t have time for one in George’s?
—No, I said.
—Only jokin’, he said. —A pity, though. Here we go, look.
There was a taxi, its roof light lit, almost at us. Joe lifted his hand, and it stopped. He went to the nearest back door, and opened it. He stood back.
—In you go, bud, he said.
—Thanks.
—No bother.
I slid across the seat and he followed me in. He shut the door. And again, properly.
—Howyeh, he said to the driver. —Here, Davy, where’re we goin’? Which hospital – Beaumont or the Mater?
—No, I said.
—Your da’s house?
—The hospice.
—Jesus, he said. —Jesus, Davy. You never fuckin’ said. The Raheny one?
—Yeah.
Joe leaned towards the driver’s shoulder.
—Saint Francis Hospice in Raheny, he said. —D’you know it?
—I do, said the driver.
He was our age, maybe ten years younger.
—I do know it, he said. —Unfortunately.
We were moving.
—Brilliant place, though, said the driver.
—Yeah, said Joe. —So I’m told.
—Amazin’ people, said the driver.
We were on Johnson Place.
—There’s George’s now, Davy, said Joe.
We both looked at the corner, and the doors, the porthole windows.
—Are you sure we don’t have time for a fast one? said Joe.
I smiled.
—Sorry.
He spoke quietly now.
—Your father’s in the fuckin’ hospice?
—Yeah.
—How long?
—Two weeks, I said. —Sixteen days.
—Jesus.
The car had turned right; we were on Longford Street. The driver slowed, and stopped. The lights ahead were red.
—Have you been home for two weeks? he asked. The words came from deep inside me. They were wet.
—Four months.
—Fuckin’ hell, Davy.
I heard him breathe.
—In your da’s house?
—Yeah.
The driver took us off Aungier Street, down on to South Great George’s Street. We were passing another of the old pubs.
—We never made it to the Long Hall, said Joe.
—No.
—Next time, he said.
—Yeah.
—Great pub.
—Yeah.
—Smashin’ pub, said the driver. —My da, God rest him, lived in there.
—Is tha’ right?
—Oh, yeah, said the driver. —Lived in the place, he did. More than once my mother, God be good to her, sent me down to get him.
—Was he alright with tha’? Joe asked.
—Ah, he was. He just preferred the pub to the house. And he wasn’t alone there.
—No.
—A lot o’ men would’ve shared that preference.
—They would, said Joe. —An’ still would.
Joe was looking at me.
—Is your belt on there, Davy?
—Yeah.
—Four months.
—Yeah.
—Why didn’t you tell me? Even tonight, like – you didn’t mention it.
—I didn’t want to, I said. —I didn’t th
ink I could. To be honest.
—Okay.
—I’ve been –.
I looked out the window, at College Green and the crowds. I looked at the back of the driver’s seat.
—I’ve been watchin’ the man rot, I said. —For four months.
—Ah, Davy.
—Yeah.
—Alone?
I nodded.
—Davy –.
We were over O’Connell Bridge now, coming up to Beresford Place.
—Come here, said Joe. —I meant to tell you. Back there.
He indicated, with his thumb, the world outside the taxi.
—Wha’?
—The Sackville Lounge, he said.
—What about it?
—Gone.
—Shut?
—Yeah.
—Shut down, you mean?
—Yeah.
—For fuck sake, I said. —Tha’ makes no sense.
—No.
—I often had a quick one in there, meself, said the driver.
—Sad, isn’t it?
—Ah, it is.
—It’s not sad, I said. —It’s outrageous. It makes no fuckin’ sense.
Joe spoke quietly.
—Where’s Faye?
—At home.
—Okay, he said. —In England? Just –. Not in your da’s house?
—No, I said. —Home, in Wantage.
—Okay.
I heard him adjusting himself, moving in the seat. I felt his hand on my shoulder. He patted it, held it, let go.
—You’ve been alone in the house.
—Yeah.
—With your father.
—Yeah.
—No help, no?
—No, I said. —There was –. There was a HSE nurse. Twice a week.
—Okay.
—Mondays and Thursdays. Two of them, actually. Job sharin’.
—Okay.
—They were good, I said. —Nice. Especially one o’ them.
—Four months, Davy, he said. —Why didn’t you fuckin’ call me?
—I did.
—Today, he said. —Ten hours ago.
—I know.
We were past the Five Lamps, over the canal bridge, back the way we’d come earlier in the night, and all the nights decades before, walking home, swaying home, staggering, and running away from the hard men.
—I couldn’t, I said.
—Okay, he said. —But I don’t understand it.
—I don’t either, I said. —I just –.
I had to do it alone. Devote myself to the man. Punish myself. Let him see me, make him see me. I’d had to endure it. Alone.
We were on Fairview Strand. We passed Gaffney’s.
—Good pub.
—I remember it, yeah.
Joe was struggling to get something from his pocket.
—Here, he said. —Here.
I didn’t know what he meant at first. Then I saw the chewing gum, Wrigley’s Extra; he was opening the packet – he was trying to.
—I never come out without them, he said. —Or, I used to. I got them in the Spar on the way to the restaurant.
—What restaurant?
—We were in a restaurant.
—That’s right.
—We met there.
—That’s right, I said. —For fuck sake.
—Sorry, lads, said the driver. —Am I goin’ straight up the Howth Road?
—The coast, I said.
—No, said Joe.
—I’ll drop you off first, I told Joe. —It’s on the way.
—You will in your hole, he said. —I’m comin’ with you.
—No.
—Fuckin’ yeah, Davy.
He put his open hand on my chest, and took it away.
—Howth Road, he told the driver.
—Grand.
—Wha’ was the message, by the way? he said. —I meant to ask you.
—What message?
—From the hospice.
—Oh, I said. —I got a text from the nurse on duty tellin’ me to phone her. She’d tried to phone me a couple o’ times but I didn’t notice.
—Jesus.
—I don’t know why not, I said. —The phone was in my pocket all night. On mute, vibrate, like. I’d normally have felt it. But she phoned me when we were talkin’. In Neary’s.
—Okay.
—Just before she texted me.
—Okay.
—So, yeah, I said. —I’ve been lookin’ after him for four months and now I nearly miss his –.
I cried. Four months – sixty years – were behind my eyes, pushing.
He patted my shoulder again.
—Have a chewin’ gum, go on. You can’t go in stinkin’ o’ the gargle.
—Thanks.
—No bother. Why tonight?
—What?
—Why did you come ou’ tonight?
—Oh.
I thought. I tried to think. The days were mush, my life was mush. The hospice weeks were one long day. The days at home were broken years. Broken sleep, broken talk. Sliding thoughts and memories. My father calling out to me at night, through the night, hauling me awake – a voice I didn’t know, I’d never heard before.
—One o’ the nurses, I said. —She said I should get out for a while. She – well. She persuaded me.
—Nice one. How?
—Keep it clean, Joe.
—Okay – sorry.
—She said she didn’t think there’d be anythin’ dramatic happenin’. She’s really sound – the best o’ them. They’re all brilliant. Anyway, she said I needed a change o’ scenery. I needed to talk to someone who wasn’t a health professional or a priest.
—She sounds good.
—I nearly asked her out.
—Did you?
—No, I said. —Not really. But, anyway. I phoned you.
—Well, I’m glad you did, Davy.
We passed Harry Byrne’s.
—Not a bad pub, said Joe. —Unless there’s fuckin’ rugby on.
We passed the Beachcomber.
—Not a bad pub either.
—That would be my local, said the driver.
—Is tha’ right?
—If I had a local, he said. —I don’t be bothered much these days.
—How come?
—Lost the taste for it.
—How did that happen?
I watched the driver shrug. I saw one shoulder lift above the seat, and drop.
—Ah, sure, he said.
—I’m the same, said Joe. —Except for tonight. An’ it wasn’t planned. Sure it wasn’t, Davy?
—No, I said.
—It just took off, said Joe. —We could stop for one in the Watermill, Davy. On the way.
—No.
—I’m only messin’, he said.
He spoke quietly now – I thought he did. Sound was playing tricks – Joe was sitting to my left but I was hearing him from the right, from the window glass. I was hearing music that wasn’t in the car. I could hear, and feel, something working its way up through me. Something growing, something liquid.
—Wha’ did she say? he asked. —When you phoned the hospice. The nurse.
—She said –. She said there’d been a shift. I think she said a significant shift. In his condition.
—He’s on the way out.
—Yeah, I said.
—I always liked him.
—Thanks.
—I did. I should’ve dropped in to him. Now an’ again. I could’ve.
—Why would you have done that?
—To say hello – I don’t know. See how he was. With you being over in England –. Sorry.
We were in Raheny village.
—He was always nice to me, said Joe.<
br />
The driver was slowing, to turn left on to Station Road.
—See they’ve renamed the Manhattan the Manhattan, said Joe.
I looked out.
—Ah, yeah – that’s good.
—Isn’t it?
—Why?
—Why did they do it – give it back the old name?
—Yeah.
—Don’t know, he said. —D’you know? he asked the driver.
—I heard there was some sort of a referendum, he said.
—A referendum?
—In the area, yeah. So I heard.
—On the same day as the abortion referendum? said Joe.
We went over the bridge, over the railway.
—I don’t know about tha’, said the driver. —It wasn’t a legal thing – I don’t think. More, door to door. Or online – an opinion thing.
—Remind me, said Joe. —What did they call it before they changed it back? The Bull’s Cock?
—The Cock an’ Bull.
They laughed.
—I was close, said Joe.
—Not close enough, said the driver. —And it was the Station House before tha’.
—Why did they change it in the first place?
—No idea.
—New owners, I said.
—That’s right, said Joe. —Tha’ makes sense.
We were nearly there, and we were filling the car – pushing back the dread – with words. I’d have to get out. I’d have to go in. I could see the Hilltop Centre ahead, and the traffic lights. They were green and the road was empty. The driver took us right, on to Belmont – I knew the swerve and potholes by heart – and another quick right, up the hill, and over.
—This is it, said Joe. —Is it?
—Yeah.
The driver stopped at the front door.
—Here we go.
I didn’t move.
—Davy?
—Okay.
I opened my door. The driver, in front of me, did the same; he opened his. He was out ahead of me – he hadn’t been drinking all night. He put his hand out.
—I’m sorry for your trouble, he said.
He shook my hand. He held it.
—I’ve been there, he said. —It’s dreadful. But I’ll be prayin’ for you.
—Thank you.
—No, he said. —The best o’ luck now.
—What do I owe you? I asked him.
—You don’t owe me anythin’, he said. —I’m just glad to be able to help.
—Are you sure?
—I am.
—Thank you – thanks very much.
—I’m off, said the driver.
He got back into his car.