by Roddy Doyle
—Did yeh fuckin’ jump on it?
—No, said his da.—It went off the minute I fuckin’ looked at it. I was only walkin’ over.
—Anyway, said Jimmy.—I’m gone.
—Grand, said his da.
—To face the music.
—It must feel like tha’, does it?
—A bit, said Jimmy.—But look it. Thanks.
—You’re grand, said Jimmy Sr.
He rubbed his hand across his mouth.
—It hasn’t sunk in, he said.
—I know.
—I’ll say nothin’ at home.
—No. Thanks.
—Well —
Jimmy’s da put his hand out, high. He touched Jimmy’s neck.
—Fuckin’ hell, son.
—I know.
—Go on.
—I’m goin’.
—Phone me, said Jimmy Sr.—Any time, righ’?
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—Thanks.
He opened his door.
—D’you want a lift?
—No. You’re grand. I’ll walk.
—Righ’. Good luck.
Jimmy got into the car. It was warm. There’d been heat in the sun, although it was getting dark now. He waited till his da was walking away before he shut the car door.
He filled the dishwasher. He took a white wash out to the line and hung the clothes in the dark. He kept an eye on the kitchen window while he did it, to see if Aoife was alone in there. She wasn’t. He watched her, angry and gorgeous, giving out shite to Mahalia. He came back in – she was gone. He made tea. He didn’t drink it. He emptied the dishwasher. She came in, followed by Brian, then Mahalia.
He tapped Brian on the shoulder.
—Come here. You as well, May.
He brought them in to the telly. He pointed at it.
—That’s a television.
Brian laughed.
—Now, said Jimmy.—You sit in front of it. That’s right, good man. Perfect.
He held up the remote.
—Have yeh seen one of these before?
—Yep, said Brian.
—Good man again, said Jimmy. – You can watch it for half an hour, okay?
—I already had my half-hour, said Brian.
—You’re too honest, Smoke, said Jimmy.—I told yeh. Be a bit sneaky.
—Sneaky.
—That’s right, said Jimmy.—Have you had your telly today yet, Smokey?
—No!
—Have you not? Well, here yeh go.
Jimmy lobbed the remote at him, and Smokey – that was Brian – caught it.
—I don’t want to watch telly, said Mahalia.
Jimmy kept forgetting she was thirteen – although she looked it. He’d never get used to it. His oldest child, Marvin, was a seventeen-year-old man. The youngest, Brian, was too big to be picked up.
—Just do me a favour, May, said Jimmy.—Stay here for a bit. I need to talk to your mother.
—Begging forgiveness, are we? said Mahalia.
—Somethin’ like that, he said.
—Good luck with that, she said.
—Is that eye shadow you’re wearin’?
—Did you just ask me to do you a favour, Dad?
—I did, yeah.
—The eye shadow is my business then, said Mahalia.
—You don’t need it, yeh know.
—That’s not an argument.
—I love you.
—So you should.
He left them there. Brian wouldn’t budge and Mahalia loved being involved in the messy, stupid world of the adults, even if involvement meant staying out of the kitchen for half an hour.
But Aoife was gone. There was a kid with his head in the fridge and he wasn’t one of Jimmy’s.
—Who are you?
The kid stood up and, fair play to him, he blushed.
—I’m hungry, he said.
—Good man, Hungry, said Jimmy.—But what’re you doin’ pullin’ the door off my fridge?
The kid looked confused, his red got redder. Jimmy felt like a bollix.
—Jimmer said you wouldn’t mind. Or Missis – your wife, like. Are you Mister Rabbitte?
—Yeah.
—Jimmer said she – Missis Rabbitte, like – wouldn’t mind if I, like, got something to eat.
Jimmer was young Jimmy, another of Jimmy’s sons.
The kid’s face had gone past red; he was turning black in front of Jimmy. He was holding a chicken leg.
—Will I put it back?
He was an old-fashioned young fella.
—Did you eat any of it? said Jimmy.
—Kind of, said the kid.
He looked at the leg.
—Yeah.
—You’d better eat the rest of it so, said Jimmy.
—Thanks.
—Where’s Jimmy?
—Your son, like?
—Yeah.
—Upstairs.
—Grand.
—We’re doin’ a project, said the kid.
—What’s your name?
—Garth.
—What?
—Garth.
—And what’s the project about, Garth?
—Supertramp.
—Wha’?
—The group, like.
—You mean, the group tha’ were shite back in the ’70s twenty years before you were born and are probably even shiter now?
—No way are they shite, said Garth.
—Who listens to them?
—I do, said Garth.
Jimmy liked Garth, and he liked the feeling that he liked him.
—And tell us, Garth? he said.—Are you some kind of a born-again Christian, tryin’ to convert my son to Supertramp?
—No way, said Garth.—He converted me.
—He what?
—He says the CD’s yours.
—It isn’t.
—He says it is, said Garth.—It’s old looking and the price on the sticker is in old punts, like, not euros.
Aoife walked in.
—Tell Garth here, said Jimmy.
Garth was turning black again and he was trying to put the chicken leg into his pocket.
—Tell him what?
—That I hate Supertramp, said Jimmy.
—You don’t, said Aoife.
—I do!
—Don’t listen to him, Garth, said Aoife.—He loves them. Or he used to.
She walked across the kitchen. Garth was trying to get away from her. He looked like he was going to climb up into the sink.
—Go on then, Jimmy said to Aoife—Name one Supertramp song.
She hadn’t a clue – she never had.
—’Dreamer’, said Aoife.—’The Logical Song’, ‘Breakfast in America’, ‘Take the Long Way Home’, ‘It’s Raining Again’. I think that’s the order they’re in on the Greatest Hits collection you used to play all the time. Is your dad a music fascist too, Garth?
—Don’t know.
Jimmy gave up. There was no point in trying to talk to Aoife now – not about Supertramp; fuck Supertramp – about the cancer.
He went in and sat with Brian for a while. He sent Brian up to bed, then sent Garth home, and the others went to bed. It was running taps and the toilet flushing for about an hour, and quiet shouts, and a loud thump that must have been Marvin giving young Jimmy a dig or young Jimmy giving Marvin a dig. He hadn’t seen either of them all night but the house was full of them. And he could hear Mahalia singing. He sat in the dark and listened to the life above him.
I’ll miss this.
He hadn’t felt it coming and he got rid of it quickly.
Sentimental shite.
Now he lay on the bed with Aoife. She was crying onto his chest.
And he liked it.
—I bet Supertramp have a song about cancer, he said.
—Fuck off you.
—I never liked them.
She lifted her head.
—You did.
—Okay.
She
put her head back down.
—You’re such a baby.
—It’s why you love me.
He heard her gulping back her tears, trying to stop.
—Sorry, he said.
She said nothing.
—I had to tell you.
—I knew, she said.
—Knew?
—Yes.
She patted his stomach.
—How? said Jimmy.—Did someone phone you? They’d no right —
—No.
They spoke softly. The bedroom door was open, a bit. In case Brian woke.
—I just knew, said Aoife.—You weren’t yourself.
—So I had cancer?
—Something was wrong. It was in your face.
—I should’ve told you.
—Yes.
—I was goin’ to.
—Why didn’t you?
—I was goin’ to tell you that I was goin’ for the test, said Jimmy.—Then I decided – I suppose – to wait till after. If it was clean —
She hit him. He hadn’t – he could never have expected this. It was like she’d driven her fist right through him.
—Jeee-zuss!
He got his hand to her shoulder and shoved her away, almost over the side of the bed.
—Shit —
He reached out to grab her. But she wasn’t falling. They were both breathless and scared. Her hair was shorter these days but it was still hanging over her eyes.
The silence was loud and colossal.
A mobile phone buzzed.
—Fuck – !
They’d both jumped – the shock.
—Yours, said Aoife.
She exhaled, and breath lifted her fringe.
—It doesn’t matter, said Jimmy.
—Go on, she said.
—It doesn’t matter, I said. It’s only a fuckin’ text.
—It’s your dad, she said.—He’s the only one who texts you this late.
There was no hostility in what she said.
He found the phone and she was right. It was from his da. Wayne fuckin Rooney!!
—Is anything wrong? Aoife asked.
—No, said Jimmy.—Not really. It’s grand. I’m sorry.
—Me too.
She was on her knees, on the side of the bed. Jimmy leaned across and she let him hug her. Her face was wet. He kissed it. He didn’t cry, and that seemed good.
—I’d better answer him, he said.
He knew she was looking at him, looking for difference or slowness – or bloodstains. He picked up the phone. He wrote, or whatever it was called – texted. Complete cunt. He sent it back to his da. He put the phone on the floor, and lay back.
—I know I should have told you, he said.
—It’s okay.
—I thought it would go away. Fuckin’ stupid. Once I did the right thing an’ made the appointment.
—I understand.
—It was stupid.
—So are lots of things.
—I suppose. Anyway. I didn’t want to worry you. That’s the truth. Then I found out.
He stopped for a while. He was grand.
—And I was stunned, he said.—Fuckin’—. When I went back to work after. And I eventually had to talk – this fuckin’ twit wonderin’ where an order was supposed to go. When I opened my mouth there was no jaw. I couldn’t feel it. Like I’d been at the fuckin’ dentist. As if goin’ to the – here we go – oncologist. Impressed?
—Good lad.
—As if goin’ to the fuckin’ oncologist hadn’t been enough, I had to drop in on the dentist on the way back. But your man didn’t notice.
—Is he really a twit?
—No. No, he’s grand. He’s young.
—Oh, that.
—Yeah. So anyway. I came home. And I was goin’ to tell you. That was the plan. I even stopped off at SuperValu an’ bought a bottle of wine. Remember?
—Yes.
—I had it all mapped out. The two of us in the kitchen. Some fuckin’ hope.
—Brian had a match.
—That’s right.
—I drank the wine while you were gone.
—That’s right.
—Well, I opened it.
—You drank it.
—Okay. Not all of it.
—Grand.
—Anyway. I wasn’t pissed.
—You were all over me, said Jimmy.—Later, like.
He looked at her.
—You rode a man with cancer.
—Jesus.
—And I couldn’t tell you after that.
—I wouldn’t have believed you.
—That’s music to my fuckin’ ears.
Now he cried. He couldn’t help it. Actually, he wanted to. He felt no better and he felt no worse but it seemed natural, something she’d have wanted to see. Reassurance. And then he couldn’t stop for a while.
—Can I not just text everyone?
—No, said Aoife.—It wouldn’t be right.
—But last night you said —
She’d said this after she’d made him come in about three seconds.
—You said I was to think about nice things, said Jimmy.
It was Saturday morning. The kids – he hadn’t told them yet; Jesus – were either out or still in bed. Brian was on a sleepover and the mother of his pal, Ryan, was bringing them both to the football. The father was in England, working. Jimmy would go and watch the second half and bring them back here. But now Jimmy and Aoife were alone.
—I said that? said Aoife.
—Look on the bright side, you said. That kind o’ shite. And now I’ve to —
He picked up the sheet of paper, the list.
—I’ve to go from door to door. From Barrytown —
He was going there today, later, to tell his mother. He looked at some of the names.
—to Castlepollard.
His sister, Linda, lived there. It was in Meath or Westmeath, miles away.
—I’ve to tell —
He looked at the list again. He pretended to count.
—fifteen or sixteen people that I have cancer. And I’ve to do it in a rush so no one feels upset because I told him or her before I told him or fuckin’ her.
She was smiling and he loved it.
—I’ve to travel the length and breadth of fuckin’ Ireland and tell them all. And this is goin’ to cheer me up?
—I’ll come with you, she said.
—No.
—I want to.
—No, he said.—I’m not doin’ it. It’s mad.
—How then?
—Don’t know, he said.
She took the list.
—I’ll phone Sharon and Linda and Tracy, she said.
They were Jimmy’s sisters.
—It makes sense, he said.—Is it okay?
—Yeah, she said.—No, you’re right. But you didn’t put my side on the list.
—I wasn’t finished, he lied.
—We’ll have to go to my parents’.
—Okay.
—I’ll phone the others.
She added names to the list, the brother Jimmy thought was a wanker, the sister who was mad and getting madder.
—Sound, he said.—I’ll phone – let’s see. Darren. She’s pregnant, by the way.
—I know.
—Who told you?
—She did.
—Melanie?
—Yeah. I met her.
—I thought you didn’t like her.
—What’s that got to do with anything? Jesus, Jimmy, grow up.
—I hope to, he said.
—Haha. Anyway, I do like her. She just annoys me.
—Grand.
—Sometimes.
—Okay.
It wasn’t too bad. If he’d been asked what it was like, that was what he’d have said. He had his mother coming up, and the kids. Telling them was going to be dreadful. And his boss – he’d have to tell her. Although she wasn’t really his boss. But anyway, other than tha
t, it really wasn’t too bad. He had no dates yet; he wasn’t counting down the days. He was in limbo for a while, and it was okay.
Mahalia was going to look after Brian and his pal, Ryan. Her first big professional job. Five euro for the hour, or however long it took.
—Will we go to my parents after? said Aoife.
—Ah Christ.
—It makes sense.
—Okay.
—We can go for a coffee on the way.
—Fuckin’ wonderful.
She smiled.
Mahalia wasn’t having it.
—Five euro for most of the day, nearly? No way, like.
—Ah look —
—I have a life, like.
—I know, said Jimmy.—Ten euro.
He watched her face. A tenner was a fortune. The excitement, the little grin – it was lovely.
—Fifteen, she said.
He’d bargained her down to twelve, and now they – himself and Aoife – were on their way to Barrytown.
He was driving.
—Can you manage? she’d asked when they were walking out to the car.
—I remember where my parents live, he’d said.—I grew up there.
—I mean, I thought you might be a bit anxious.
—I’m grand.
—And I don’t want to die on the way, she’d said.
—Fuck off now.
He drove onto the roundabout and indicated left – the turn-off for Barrytown. He decided to avoid the shopping centre. It was Saturday afternoon. Although it was never busy. It had started to look like a monument to a different era a couple of years after it had been built, when Jimmy was still a kid. When his Uncle Eddie from Australia had seen it the first time, he’d thought it was the local jail, all the barbed wire on the roof. It wouldn’t be busy now but Jimmy didn’t particularly want to see it.
—When’s best to tell the kids?
—Before The X Factor, said Aoife.
They laughed.
—Seriously but, said Jimmy.
—Tonight, said Aoife.—We can make sure they’ll all be there.
—Chinese, said Jimmy.—Special occasion. I want to tell the boys first though. Marv and Jimmy.
—Yes.
—I’m right, yeah?
—Yeah.
He drove past his old school, then left, onto the green.
—No one here.
—It’s lovely, said Aoife.
—No kids any more. All grown up and gone.
They sat outside his parents’ house, holding their door handles.
—When are you going to tell your friends? said Aoife.
He thought about this.
—I don’t have any.
—Ah, you do.
—Ah, I don’t.
—You do.