by Roddy Doyle
He typed in Imelda.
If Noeleen glanced over his shoulder when she was passing, she’d think he was chatting to Imelda May. She’d like that. There was money in Dublin rockabilly.
He left it there – Imelda.
He hadn’t met her. The snow had saved him.
The twit beside him got up.
—Anyone want anything?
It was part of his job, keeping the team in coffee and hot chocolate, some bright idea Noeleen had brought back from a conference.
—You’re grand, said Jimmy.—Thanks.
The coast was clearish. He typed in Quirk.
Nothing. She wasn’t on Facebook. That was kind of comforting. He remembered his da telling him about Bertie’s son picking up older women on Facebook.
Imelda was an older woman.
Anyway, the snow had stopped him – a few days before. He’d texted her. I’m stuck. And she’d got back, Me 2xx. He’d stared at the xx. He’d sent one back. Another timexx. And she’d got back to him. Ah wellxxx. Three of the fuckin’ things.
—Who’s texting you? Aoife had asked.
—Darren.
—What does he want?
—A new life.
It was an old joke.
—Say hello to him for me.
—Will do.
Not a second of guilt, sitting beside the woman he loved, texting the woman he probably wanted to ride. That was death for you.
Work.
He actually loved the job. And it was his own invention. Finding old bands, and finding the people who’d loved them. Loved them enough to pay money for their resurrected singles and albums.
Shiterock.com. His and Aoife’s secret name for it.
He’d been rooting in the attic – this was about five years before – and he came down with a rake of old singles, and himself and Aoife started flicking through them.
—The Irregulars?
—They were good, said Jimmy.
—’Fuck England’?
—The B-side’s better.
He’d gone up to get the old cot, so they could pass it on to one of Aoife’s cousins. Some cousin Aoife was very fond of – they’d gone to the Gaeltacht together or some oul’ shite that women insisted was important. Anyway, he came down with the cot and went back up for more of the singles. He passed handfuls of them down to Marvin.
—What are they?
—Just take them. I’ll explain when I come down. Be careful with them.
—Why?
—Because I said so!
He’d heard them laughing.
He’d climbed back down. He took the risk; there was no one holding the ladder. They’d all gone down to the kitchen. They’d forgotten about him.
The singles were in piles on the table, four towers of the things.
—And you hung on to them all, said Aoife.
She’d guarded the records while the boys and Mahalia circled the table, dying to bring them out the back and throw them.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—I did.
—They’re lovely.
They were. A lot of them had picture sleeves. One of the singles on top was lime green.
—What are they? Marvin asked.
And Jimmy explained. Music in the grooves, the turntable, the needle – the stylus. The whole fuckin’ history.
—But why are they so small? Marvin asked.—I’ve seen the big ones.
—LPs, said Jimmy.
—Yeah.
—These are singles, said Jimmy.—Only one song on each side. The LPs usually had ten tracks – songs, like.
—I know what a track is, said Marvin.
—Good man, sorry.
He took one of the records from its sleeve and showed it to Marvin.
—See?
Marvin put his hand out and Jimmy let him take the vinyl. Marvin held it exactly as he should have. There was religion in the kitchen. A Lion King moment. The other three had seen Marvin, how he’d held the little disc at its sides. They copied him. Jimmy let them.
—Body of Christ, he said, as he handed Mahalia hers.
—Stop that, said Aoife.
She was laughing.
—Would everybody be like you? she asked.
—Wha’ d’you mean? A bit blasphemous?
—No, you eejit.
This was long before the cancer. She hadn’t called him an eejit in ages.
—Would they have held onto all their old singles? she asked. —Like you.
—Some would’ve, said Jimmy.—I suppose.
—There’s no need to be defensive.
—I’m not.
—You are, said Aoife.
He flicked through the singles.
—Well, said Aoife.—Are you going to answer?
—What was the question again, love, sorry?
—Would people like you, said Aoife,—collectors —
—I’ll accept that.
—Would many of them have kept them, like you?
—Some, said Jimmy.
—But a lot wouldn’t.
—No, said Jimmy.
—They wouldn’t all be as obsessive as you.
—No.
And the idea was born in the kitchen. shiterock.com. Her idea – he’d stolen it quickly. But they’d done it together at first. A team – a real one. He’d tracked down old bands, phoned people he’d known who might still know people. He became a private detective for an hour every night.
He’d never forget the first hit, the phone call.
—Hello?
The polite but wary voice at the other end, a man who didn’t know who he was saying hello to.
—Is that Dessie Savage? Jimmy asked.
—Des, yeah, said the other voice.—It’s a long time since anyone called me Dessie.
—Howyeh, said Jimmy.
He couldn’t stay sitting.
He gave Aoife the thumbs up.
—Could I just check, so I don’t waste your time? he said.—It’s nothin’ to do with tax or special offers, by the way.
He heard nothing from the other end.
—You still there, Des?
—Yes.
—Great, said Jimmy.—Yeah. I just want to check. Are you the Dessie – the Des Savage who played drums with the Irregulars?
The other voice laughed.
—God!
—It’s you, is it?
—Yeah!
He laughed again.
—D’you know the last person to ask me that? he said.
—No, said Jimmy.—Who?
—My ex-wife, said Des.
He laughed again.
—She thought it was cool back then.
—It still is in my book, Des, said Jimmy, and immediately thought he was overdoing it. He couldn’t even remember what Dessie Savage had looked like and he didn’t want the man thinking he was stalking him or something.
—So, said Des.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—Look it, my name’s Jimmy Rabbitte. Yeh might remember. I managed a band called the Commitments.
—No.
—No? Doesn’t matter.
Jimmy decided: his wife had been right to leave the cunt.
—Sorry, said Des.
—No worries, Des, said Jimmy.—This is about you. Have you kept in touch with the other lads?
—Well, said Des.—Necko’s dead.
—Shite, said Jimmy.—God, shite. I’m sorry.
—It was years ago, said Des.
—Sorry.
—No, said Des.—No. We hadn’t been in touch for – fallen out of the habit, you know. Before mobiles and email, you know. He’d moved to Manchester.
—What was it? said Jimmy.—D’you mind – ?
—Cancer, said Des.
That was five years ago, and Jimmy would soon be phoning Des to tell him about his own cancer.
But that was just shite. More sentimentality. It was business as usual. Des would never have to know. Until it was too late, and he’d feel guilty.
—Sorry to hear it, said Jimmy, back then.—He’d a great voice.
—That’s true.
—So, said Jimmy.—Look, I haven’t explained why—. D’yeh have a minute, Des?
He felt great. Jimmy the salesman, Jimmy the manager. Talking his way to success.
Yes, Des had a minute and Jimmy filled it for him. The website, like iTunes – he could actually hear Des sit up. Anyone who googled the Irregulars —
—Even Dessie Savage, Des. Maybe even Des Savage.
They would quickly find www.kelticpunk.com, where they could buy and download – or upload, whatever the fuck – the long-lost song that had put the band into their heads in the first place.
—Still there, Des?
—Yeah, said Des.—Yes.
—How’s that sound to you?
—Well, said Des.—Great. Great. It’s been so long. We only ever had one single.
—I know that, yeah. ‘Fuck England’.
Des laughed. Jimmy could hear the excitement, and something else, something a bit more.
—Great song, said Jimmy.—And the B-side. ‘Fuck Scotland and Wales’.
Des laughed again.
—Happy days, said Jimmy.
—Yeah, said Des.—Yeah. I don’t think I even have a copy of it myself.
Jimmy knew that probably wasn’t true. The prick had an attic full of them.
—You can have mine, Des, he said.
—Thanks, eh —
—Jimmy.
—Great, yeah. But I think I gave one to my mother when it came out. She probably still has —
He was laughing again.
—She paid for the studio time, he said.—’Fuck England’. God love her – Jesus. What was I thinking? With the insurance money. My father died a few months before ‘Fuck’ —
He couldn’t go on. He was laughing too much.
—So anyway, said Jimmy.—You’re interested, Des.
—Yeah, said Des.—Yeah. Definitely. I’d have to contact the others – wouldn’t I? I only co-wrote our songs. We did a lot of covers.
—’Walk On By’, said Jimmy.
—Fuck, said Des.—Yeah.
—Before the Stranglers, said Jimmy.
He wasn’t sure if that was true. He was betting it wasn’t. He’d remembered the Irregulars’ cover of ‘Walk On By’ while he was waiting for Des to calm down. It had been shite.
—Yeah, said Des.—But they had their label behind them.
—Yours was better, said Jimmy.
—I’m not sure, said Des.
Jimmy decided: he liked him.
—But, said Des.—You saw us. Back then.
—’Course, said Jimmy.—In the Magnet.
—God, said Des.—The Provos owned that place.
—We didn’t know it at the time though, said Jimmy.
—No.
—Would you have cared?
—No.
—Same here.
—I would now.
—Same here, said Jimmy.
—But anyway, said Des.—God. I feel like I’m in a time machine.
—Same here, said Jimmy.
They met. They liked each other. They knew they would. It was funny that, how you could just decide to like someone. They were home and dry before they were both sitting down.
—What’ll yeh have, Des?
—Coffee, thanks.
—Anything with it?
—No.
They were men who didn’t eat buns in public.
—So, said Des.—Tell me about celticpunk. Dot com.
Des was Southside. Rednecks and southsiders need not apply. But that kind of shite didn’t seem to matter much any more.
—So, said Jimmy.—Here’s what happens. Someone googles the Irregulars and —
—Who’d do that? Des asked.
—Well, I did, said Jimmy.—Before I came out. Did you?
—Yeah.
They laughed.
—There yeh go, said Jimmy.—People like us. Old heads, music fans. And actually. Kids. D’you have kids, Des?
—I do, yeah, said Des.—Well. One.
—Boy or —
—She’s in Germany, said Des.—With her mother.
—That’s messy, said Jimmy.—Is it?
—It is, said Des.—I try to get over every six weeks or so.
—Does she speak English?
—I speak German.
—Do yeh?
—I do, yeah. I lived there for a long time.
—Back to google, yeah?
—Okay.
—So anyway, said Jimmy.—We both googled the Irregulars and we got stuff about Irish history. No surprise there, that shite’s never far away. And grammar. Verbs and shite.
—Yep.
—Nothin’ about the band.
—Nope.
—We’ll sort that, said Jimmy.—That’s what we’ll do. Get it up near the top of the list.
He hadn’t a clue how that was done, but he’d find out – himself and Aoife would.
—You mentioned kids.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—Yeah. I forgot. I got carried away. Yeah, so – kids. Teenagers, like. Like my own lads. They love the old stuff.
—Really?
—Oh yeah, said Jimmy.—Absolutely. And it’s not just mine. All kids. Boys especially. So —
The coffee had arrived. They both drank it black.
—Our job, said Jimmy,—will be to push the Irregulars, the band like, up the charts. I mean, we get a Wikipedia page up and maybe a website, if the other lads are interested. Have yeh spoken to them yet?
—Not yet, said Des.—I wanted to hear a bit more first. To make it a bit more – less vague. And to meet you as well. And, well.
He picked up his cup.
—I haven’t spoken to any of them in years, he said.
—I don’t remember, said Jimmy.—Did yis break up, yeh know, dramatically?
—Not really, no.
—Good, said Jimmy.—That’s probably good. My crowd but. The Commitments. Fuckin’ hell.
—No, said Des.—Only, there’s been no contact. So it would be a bit awkward, I suppose. But if I know a bit more, it’ll make it easier.
He smiled.
—That’s the theory.
—Grand, said Jimmy.—That makes sense. So. We build your presence there. Website, Wiki. Info, discography.
—It was only the one single.
—Doesn’t matter, Des. It’s still a discography. And here’s the real trick. Links.
—Gotcha.
—Links. Wiki to the website. Website to Wiki. Wiki to us.
—celticpunk.
—Exactly.
Jimmy was giving Des Aoife’s research. She’d done most of the early homework while he was at work selling cars.
—Where they’ll find the single and the B-side for sale, upload or download.
—Great.
—Like iTunes, said Jimmy.—But boutique. More personal. Welcomin’. Not just buy or fuck off. There’ll be pictures, info, a where are they now. A nice obituary for Necko.
Des nodded.
Jimmy rested for a bit. He was loving it, too much. He didn’t want to get carried away. Or make Des greedy.
—And, he said.—But this might be a bit tricky. Given the fact that Necko’s no longer with us.
—What? said Des.
Perfect.
—Reunion gigs, said Jimmy.
—Jesus, said Des.—I don’t know. I haven’t played in years.
Jimmy said nothing.
—And Necko, said Des.
Jimmy nodded.
—How would we manage it? said Des.
—Well, said Jimmy.—It’s tricky.
—Tasteless?
That was a surprise.
—No, said Jimmy.—Well, I don’t think so. There were four of yis. Is there a widow?
—There’s, I suppose you’d call her an ex-widow.
—Grand.
—They had two kids.
&
nbsp; —Grand.
—We ask her? said Des.
—I don’t think yeh need to ask, said Jimmy.—Ask for permission. I don’t think that’d be an issue.
He didn’t know; he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t a clue.
—But it’d be nice to let her know, he said.—It’d be good. Get her to come along. What age are the kids?
—I’m not sure, said Des.
—Doesn’t matter, said Jimmy.—It’d be emotional. And I don’t mean that cynically now. I mean really. But then —
Des nodded.
—I know, he said.—Necko was the singer.
—There yeh go, said Jimmy.
Des shrugged. He was handing the problem over to Jimmy.
—Other bands manage it, said Jimmy.
—Yeah, said Des.
—Queen, said Jimmy.
—We weren’t fuckin’ Queen, said Des.
They both laughed.
—But you know what I mean, said Jimmy.—They have your man, Paul Rodgers, instead of Freddie and no one complains or wants their money back because it’s not Freddie. Or that’s what I’m assumin’. Because I wouldn’t be caught dead – sorry, didn’t mean to be insensitive.
—No, no.
—I fuckin’ hate Queen, said Jimmy.—Before and after Freddie. A glorified cabaret band. A bunch of fuckin’ chancers. And I’m guessin’ that you, as drummer of the Irregulars, agree with me.
—No, said Des.—I thought they were brilliant.
There’d never been an Irregulars reunion gig. The bassist wasn’t dead but he was a born-again Christian.
—That’s fuckin’ worse.
He’d turned his back on the evils of rock ’n’ roll.
—Fuckin’ eejit.
Three-quarters of a band was a legitimate reunion, but half a band wasn’t.
—Half the Who are dead, said Des.
—And the other half should just get on with their fuckin’ lives, said Jimmy.
—You’re probably right, said Des.
—So. Des. No reunion?
—No.
But the meeting with Des had been the start. When Jimmy had said –
—We’ll look after you, Des.
– he’d wanted to whoop, because he’d believed every word. He’d found something great for himself – himself and Aoife had. They’d spent a night coming up with the proper name for shiterock. A cousin of Aoife’s had a website that sold all sorts of Irish tack to the Yanks and Germans – bits of sod, teatowels, tins of stew —
—The Corrs’ pubic hair.
—Ah Jimmy – stop!