by Roddy Doyle
—Brilliant.
They took the left and watched themselves taking it.
—Coolio.
—Here, Smoke, tell it where we’re goin’ and it’ll tell us where to go.
Brian impressed Jimmy, the way all his kids did, with his ability to negotiate the buttons, the confidence, the effortless speed. No grunting from this boy.
—Where’re we goin’? he asked.
—The Spar, said Smokey.
—It’s only over there.
—Drive forward, said the sat nav.
The voice was posh and reassuring, like an Aer Lingus pilot’s.
—Can you choose the voice? Jimmy asked.
—Yeah, said Brian.—Think so.
—Bob Dylan did it, I think.
—Who?
—Oh God. D’yeh have to pay for a different voice?
—Don’t know.
—I’ll pay for Dylan if you want.
They’d found the Spar and were going on to Brian’s school. Jimmy looked at his velour legs. He was going to tell her the truth: they were comfortable.
Brian turned right.
—The wrong way, Smoke.
—I know.
—Turn left, said the voice.
Brian kept going.
—Turn left, said the voice.
Brian looked down at the sat nav.
—Fuck off, he said, and laughed.
He looked at Jimmy. And Jimmy laughed too.
—It’s brilliant, Dad, said Brian.
Six in the morning, out with his youngest, disobeying a brand new sat nav. And none of it had been his idea. He breathed deep; he hauled the tears back in. This was his Christmas present.
—Turn left.
—Will it break if you keep pissin’ it off?
—Don’t be stupid, Dad.
—About turn and proceed.
—That’s more like it, said Brian.—It’s really cool.
They turned back and proceeded.
The phone gave him a jolt. He’d been falling asleep.
He found the zip – another zip; for fuck sake – and got the phone out.
—Hello?
—Jimmy?
—Yeah. Is that Les?
—Yes.
—Great. How are yeh, Les?
—Fine. I’m good. You?
—Good, yeah. Grand. Happy Christmas.
—You too, yeah. Merry Christmas. To you and your family.
—And yours, said Jimmy.—How’s your day goin’?
—Good, yeah, said Les.—Fine.
—How’s the family?
The line wasn’t great. There was a bit of a buzz. Les wasn’t answering.
—Was Santy good to yeh, Les?
—I did alright, said Les.
Jimmy thought he heard him laugh, but he wasn’t certain. The line was shite.
—How’s Maisie?
—She’s fine, said Les.—Look, I’ve to go.
—Okay, said Jimmy.—Great to hear your voice, Les. Happy Christmas. Tell your —
—Bye.
He was gone. The prick.
No.
It was brilliant. It was. Distressing and brilliant.
He was the dad, not the cancer patient. He couldn’t be the first to go up to bed. But then Brian fell asleep during Downton Abbey. What a load of shite that was; he didn’t blame Brian for passing out. He was doing the same, except the dog kept at him, wanting Jimmy to pick up its present, a pig with a squeak, so it could bark and demand it back, the fuckin’ eejit. Then young Jimmy surrendered and went upstairs, and Jimmy decided it was okay for him to stand up —
The dog landed on its back.
—Jimmy!
—Wha’?
—The dog – for God’s sake!
—Is it not supposed to land on its feet?
—That’s, like, cats, said Mahalia.—Hello.
—He’s grand, look.
—She.
—Wha’ev-errr, said Jimmy.
That got a laugh, so he didn’t feel too much of a cripple as he kissed the women goodnight and put his hand on Marvin’s head as he passed him. But he felt like one by the time he got up the stairs. Not in the legs. They were grand. It was the breath, the lungs – he supposed. He was puffing.
He’d been warned about it – by one of the Celtic Rock wankers, Ned O’Hanlon. He’d told Jimmy. He’d held onto Jimmy’s elbow all the time he’d spoken to him, his face bang up against Jimmy’s. He’d told Jimmy that he’d been through it himself. This was at the office do; Jimmy remembered this bit.
—I thought it had gone to the lungs, Ned had told him.
—Yeah.
—But it was the anxiety – the breathlessness. Because, let’s face it, you’re fighting for your life. Aren’t you?
—Yeah.
—It has to come out somewhere.
—Yeah.
—Don’t worry about it.
—No.
Jimmy’s eyes were swimming a bit; your man’s face was right up against his.
—You’ll be fine, said Ned.—You have the spirit.
He let go of Jimmy’s elbow and put his hand, palm open, on Jimmy’s chest, where his heart was – Jimmy wasn’t sure. It was terrible. It was fuckin’ excruciating.
Ned was looking at something over Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy looked. It was the intern, and she’d rescued him.
—Her name’s Ocean, he told Ned.
—Yes, said Ned.
—Some arse on her, wha’.
—Steady on, Jimmy.
Anyway, that was the breathlessness sorted. And he needed exercise. The specialist – Jimmy couldn’t remember his name – the doctor who was a mister, had told him. He had to stay fit, or get fit for the first time since he’d given up the football thirty years ago. Mister Dunwoody.
The cunt.
He slid out of the velour and climbed into the bed. He lay back. But something stopped him. Something hard hit against his feet. He tried pushing it off the bed but it wouldn’t budge. It was tucked in, tangled in the duvet.
—Fuck it.
He leaned across, turned the light on. He sat up and pulled off the duvet.
It was a suitcase. That was what it looked like, black and rectangular. But it was too narrow, like a suitcase had been sawed down the middle. He pulled it towards him. It wasn’t heavy but it didn’t feel empty. It was quite thick, deep – like a suitcase again. He opened it, pulled the zip across the front.
—Fuckin’ hell.
It was a trumpet. A fuckin’ trumpet. It was a beautiful thing, shining brass, in its red plush coffin. He picked it up. It felt heavier than the case had. It was cold too. He put his cheek against the horn – he caught himself doing it. It was amazing, though, the most beautiful thing he’d ever held. It was definitely a woman.
—Do you like it?
It was Aoife. He hadn’t heard her.
—Is it mine?
He knew he sounded stupid, but it was hard to think that he could actually own one of these.
—Yes, she said.—It’s yours. Keepies.
—It’s gorgeous.
—Yes, she said.
He’d seen a trumpet before, of course. An oul’ lad in his first band – Joey the Lips Fagan – had been a trumpet player, and there’d been a trumpet in two of his later bands. But he’d never held one. He brought it up to his mouth.
—Where’s the yoke? The mouthpiece.
It wasn’t there. The trumpet looked unfinished, a bit useless, without it.
—It’s separate, said Aoife.
She pointed at the case.
—See? It has its own little space.
Jimmy took the mouthpiece from the case.
—He said to be sure not to put it in too tightly, said Aoife.
—Sound advice.
He put it to his mouth.
He changed his mind. He took it away.
—Are you not going to give it a go?
—No, he said.—Not now. It’ll be terr
ible. Tomorrow, I’ll try it. But not now.
He looked properly at her.
—Jesus, Aoife. Thanks.
—You’re welcome.
—It’s just – amazin’.
—I know.
He pulled out the mouthpiece and put it back in its hole.
—It’s funny, he said.—I don’t even know how to hold it properly.
—You can have lessons.
—Yep.
He put the trumpet back into the case.
—He said you —
—Who?
—The man I bought the trumpet from. He said you’d be able to play a tune by next Christmas.
—Great.
He looked at her.
—Brilliant.
He closed the case and zipped it.
—You like it, so?
—It’s—, he said.—Well – it’s perfect.
—Good.
—And it looks perfect.
—It does, doesn’t it?
—Yeah.
—And sexy.
—Oh yeah.
She picked up the velour.
—So, she said.—Do you like your new cancer trousers?
—Fuck off now.
He’d whacked Ned.
That fact whacked him at his mother’s. It shook him. He couldn’t remember ever hitting anyone. Anyone else – ever. He’d always avoided fights, and no one had ever really started on him. In a pub or club, or a taxi rank – the usual places – the queue in the chipper. He’d never picked a fight that needed a boot or a fist.
But there it was.
He looked at his right hand. There were no marks or cuts, no sudden pain to match the clout of the memory.
But he’d whacked the man. Outside, after the office do. It was there in his head, something that had definitely happened.
The house was packed. It was the same every Stephen’s Day. All the kids and grandkids, the wives, husbands, and the latest life partners. It had started years ago, when Jimmy and his sister, Sharon, had first moved out. They’d eat the stuff left over from Christmas Day. Now though, there weren’t enough leftovers. It was a whole new turkey, more spuds, ham, the works and the leftovers. They ate in shifts or standing up, or on the stairs. A couple of the kids even ate on the street, holding their plates and kicking a ball.
—This is our big day now, his ma had told him.
She spoke quietly.
—How are yeh, love?
—Grand.
—No, she said.—Listen to me. I’ve been livin’ too long with your father. How are you – really?
His ma had shrunk. She was in under his chin, a hand on his chest and a hand on his back, the way he’d often held onto his own kids.
—Really, he said.—I’m grand.
—Grand, she said.—I hate that bloody word.
His da was pretending to count the grandkids.
—You’re new, he said to Brian.
—I’m not, Grandda.
—Well, yeh weren’t here last year.
—I was.
—And which one is your da?
Brian pointed.
—Him.
—Far as yeh know, said Jimmy’s da.
His ma let go of Jimmy.
—In you go. If you can find a bit of space.
His sisters and brother – No Les! – and the other adults all hugged him carefully or shook his hand, carefully, and gave him enough space to park a car. They were just being considerate but he found himself in front of the only empty chair in the house, probably in Barrytown, and surrounded by loved ones who were waiting to see if he’d manage to sit without his guts spilling onto the carpet.
He stayed standing.
Ned had been walking ahead of him. Jimmy had held back, just for a few seconds. He was getting used to the air, and waiting till he thought he’d be able to walk without strolling out onto the road. But he was fine, he was grand. He was getting the hang of simple things again, how to walk with people close to him, how to talk to more than one person at a time, how not to panic, how not to give up and just go home, how not to worry about the taste of the mulled wine that kept coming back up at him.
He was grand. He was grand.
—Alright, Jimmy?
—Grand, yeah. I’m just waitin’ on Des.
—He’s ahead of us, look.
—Oh, grand.
He could walk. He was fine.
—Sorry.
He’d bumped into someone – the twit.
—No worries.
He’d been walking. There’d been nothing to it. Easy.
There were women ahead. He’d catch up. He’d soak up their sympathy and love. The mulled wine was there again, a ball of it bursting at the top of his throat. He kept going, though. He was grand. There was Noeleen. And girlfriends and wives. He’d nearly caught up. And he saw Ned’s hand. Sliding down the back of your woman Ocean’s jacket, down towards her arse. And Jimmy grabbed Ned’s arm, kind of leaned forward – he remembered this – like he was crossing a finishing line or something. Ned turned and Jimmy thumped him – no, slapped him. That was it – he’d slapped Ned across the face. Jimmy could feel the beard on his open hand.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
—You alrigh’?
It was his da. Worried. Quiet.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—I’m grand.
His eyes were open again. He looked at his da.
—I just remembered somethin’, he said.
—Oh-oh.
They were side by side at the table.
—D’yeh know wha’? his da said now.
—Wha’?
—I see a man cringin’ like tha’. The way you were now. Yeah?
—Okay. Yeah. Go on.
—Well, I say to myself, there’s a man who’s nearly back to normal. He’s done somethin’ stupid. Am I righ’?
—Yeah.
—I knew it, said his da.—An’ between you, me an’ the fuckin’ wall —
He looked around, like he was in a shite film, checking to see if anyone was earwigging. Then he leaned in, even closer to Jimmy.
—I’m delighted, he said.—That’s all I’ll say.
—Thanks.
—Is it serious?
—No, said Jimmy.—No. Not really.
—It won’t kill yeh?
—No.
—Grand.
He’d slapped the cunt twice. At least. He remembered being pulled away, and someone getting between the two of them. It was the father in him. He’d explained it – he’d tried to, to Noeleen.
—When I saw his hand.
—Okay, listen —
—I just saw red. He’s twice – he’s fuckin’ three or four times her age.
—I know, she’d said.—And here’s what, Jimbo. It’s exactly where you wanted to put your own hand. Now, for God’s sake, listen —
He smiled at his da.
—I’ll mingle, he said.
—Good luck, said his da.
He didn’t know how many were in the house. He actually didn’t know how many there were in the family. There were his sisters, Sharon, and the twins, Linda and Tracy. There was his brother, Darren. Where’s Les! There was his gang, the kids and Aoife. There was Sharon’s young one, Gina, tall and gorgeous and twenty-one, and Sharon’s other kid, Craig. Her husband, Martin, had become her ex-husband since last Christmas, so they wouldn’t be seeing him again. Martin had seemed alright when Jimmy had met him the first few times, but he’d turned out to be a bollix. Mean with the money, and just plain mean. But Sharon had stuck with him for a while – a good while. Craig must have been fourteen now, and Martin had only left some time in the summer. Anyway, he was gone, so that was one less.
—What’re yeh doin’?
It was his da again.
—Countin’ the family, said Jimmy.
—Why?
—Just curious.
—How many is there?
—I’m not finished, said Jimmy.—Eleven so far
.
—Did yeh subtract tha’ culchie cunt?
That was Martin.
—I did, yeah.
There was Darren’s pregnant Melanie, and their two, Fay and Fergal. That brought it up to fourteen. Should he include the unborn kid? Better not, he decided. Just in case.
—What’re you smilin’ at?
—Nothin’.
There were his ma and da. Sixteen. Melanie was already huge, even though she wasn’t all that pregnant – Jimmy wasn’t sure. Time had gone weird on him. It was the way she was moving, and the colour of her face. She looked colossal. And lovely.
There was his other sisters, the twins. They were identical but one of them had five kids and the other was a lesbian. How had that happened? They’d been mad about the same boybands and real boys when they were thirteen or so, the last time Jimmy had really known them. Anyway, there was Tracy’s five, Glen, Alex, Shauna, Jordy and he couldn’t remember the name of the youngest, the bullet-headed little bastard who’d charged into him earlier. Five kids, and she was only thirty-three or so. The young one, the only girl, was following Mahalia everywhere, holding onto Mahalia’s new H & M hoodie. There was Glen Sr, Tracy’s husband. He was usually out the back, smoking and avoiding everyone. He was okay, the few times Jimmy had actually spoken to him. That made twenty-two – he thought. Then there was Linda’s partner, Louise. This was her third Stephen’s Day, so she qualified.
—She’s sound enough, his da had said once, when Jimmy had asked him what he thought.
—You’ve no problem with her?
His da shrugged.
—No, he said.—I wish she was better lookin’. A bit more – yeh know. I’d love to be able to flirt with my daughter’s wife, yeh know. But she’s grand. She’s good for Linda.
—What does tha’ mean?
—I don’t know, to be honest. Your mammy said it. So that’s the line. I’ll tell yeh but. She plays a great game o’ pitch an’ putt.
—Wha’?!
—Wha’ d’yeh mean, Wha’?
—You play pitch an’ putt with a lesbian?
—I’ll play pitch an’ putt with annyone. Is there a rule tha’ says I can’t?
So Louise made it twenty-three.
The twins weren’t nearly as identical as they used to be. There was more of Tracy, but she looked happier, or at least smilier. Linda didn’t look unhappy, and maybe she’d just had less to drink than Tracy. Glen Sr must have been the designated driver, wherever he was. Out in their mini-van, waiting for it all to end.