by Roddy Doyle
—I’ll stop you there. This isn’t some fitness-for-parenthood test. That isn’t why we’re here.
—I know – thanks.
—I don’t doubt that yourself and Missis Egan-Rabbitte – . Is she on her way, by the way?
—I think so, said Jimmy.—Yes.
—Fine, said Missis Halpin.—Good.
—How long will she – Miss Traynor – be, d’yeh think?
—Classes end in —
Missis Halpin lifted her sleeve and took a look at her watch.
—Ten minutes.
—Ten – I can’t wait till then, sorry.
He stood up.
—Where’s the sickbay?
—Mister Rabbitte —
Where the fuck was Aoife?
—Sorry, he said.—I don’t mean to be obstructive or anythin’. We’ll back whatever the school decides to do. I’m sure we will. But I have to see May.
He went to the door.
—I’m her dad.
His voice wobbled a bit, shook, like a bubble had passed through it. But he was grand.
—Mister Rabbitte.
She was standing too now.
—I’ll go with you.
—I just want to see her, he said.—Let her know I’m here. She’s probably feelin’ —
He said it; he got over it.
—Nauseous.
They were on the corridor.
—This way.
Don’t look at her arse.
They turned on to a different corridor, and another one. They didn’t speak.
—Here we are.
They were in front of a door with no window. She held the handle. She seemed to be listening. Her ear was an inch from the green-painted wood.
She opened the door.
It was a small room and it was full. He couldn’t see Mahalia – there were ten Mahalias. The air was damp with old tears and sweat. He could feel it. And the smell of puke and something sharply sweet, some sort of cleanser or spray. There were two of the girls – no, three – lying down, and the rest were sitting in a row.
She was sitting between two orange girls – it was the fake tan, and she probably looked even paler than she was because of that.
She saw him.
—Hiya, love, he said.
He saw her eyes fill. She smiled – it wasn’t easy.
He went further into the room.
—Mister Rabbitte.
He went across to Mahalia. There was a woman he saw now, to his left. She was smiling but she looked worried. He kept his eyes on Mahalia. God love her, she looked desperate. White, blotchy skin, panda eyes; her lips were dry. A confused little girl.
He kneeled in front of her. The oompa-loompas on each side of her stared at him.
—Alright?
She nodded. He put his hand to the side of her head, over her right ear. She tilted her head to meet it, the way she’d always done, since she was a little thing. Her head felt hot, the hair was a bit sticky.
—Want to go home?
She nodded again.
—Come on.
He stood up, and so did she. She looked okay; she was steady enough on the pins. He walked back to the door and Missis Halpin. He spoke before she did.
—I’m bringin’ her home. I’ll come back.
—Alright, she said.
And he saw: she smiled at Mahalia as Mahalia went around her. Mahalia didn’t look at her.
—But could you sign her out at the office, please?
Jimmy was heading for the door at the end of the corridor. He waited for Mahalia. He held out his hand. She took it.
He pointed at the exit door.
—Is this the quickest way out, love?
—Yeah.
He turned as he walked.
—I’ll be back.
He couldn’t fuckin’ believe he’d just said that.
—Where were you?
—The vet, said Aoife.
She was holding the dog.
He was coming down the stairs. Mahalia was in bed. She’d puked again, and said Sorry so many times it had stopped being a word.
—You’re home early, said Aoife.
Something thumped Jimmy.
She looked guilty – caught. Is she doin’ what I’ve been fuckin’ doin’?
—I phoned you, he said.
—I left my phone here.
—I texted you.
—My phone – I told you. What’s wrong?
He told her.
—I don’t believe it.
—I know, he said.—But I saw it. She’s grand now.
Aoife went past him, up the stairs. She was still holding the dog. He followed her.
She was sitting at the side of May’s bed. Jimmy could hear May sobbing, and Aoife whispering.
—It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s fine.
—I’ve to go back, he said.
—What?
—To the school. I’ve to go back.
—Oh, she said.—Why?
—Face the music, I suppose.
He heard Mahalia moan.
—It’s okay, love, he said.—It’s grand. You’ll be fine.
He went out to the landing. He came back.
—What’s wrong with the dog?
—Nothing.
She hadn’t looked at him. She was gazing down at Mahalia.
—Okay, he said.—See yeh later.
—Okay.
The dog was her fuckin’ alibi.
Cop on.
He drove back to the school and found he’d missed his place in the queue. He sat beside a woman who seemed to have been crying – she’d definitely been. She had that blotched thing, and she looked angry and confused. Like her daughter, probably. She wasn’t interested in talking. There was a man to his right. He’d arrived just after Jimmy. He’d smiled, raised his eyes to heaven, shrugged, but didn’t seem to speak any English. He was standing. They’d run out of chairs. The secretary, across the way, kept looking out of her hatch. She might have been the woman who’d phoned him earlier; she had the head to match the voice.
There were five people ahead of him.
He got his phone out.
He texted Des. Cant make it. Srry. Truble wth kids sch. He deleted the last bit, and sent it. He texted Aoife. How is she? x
The door opened. A woman came out, with one of the orange girls. They left without glancing at anyone. They’d both been crying. Jesus. He thought he recognised the ma. Someone he’d known years ago, when they were kids – teenagers. He wasn’t sure. The phone shook in his hand. It was Aoife. Fine. Asleep. Messi ate my knickers. X
The phone hopped again. Des. No prob. Tues? He’d pay Des for the missed lesson. Cant. Chemo. Wed?
He could get through a few bars of ‘Abide With Me’, and he thought it sounded okay, sometimes, when he didn’t panic and rush. He was thinking he’d record himself, for when they carried the coffin. That would be dramatic – heartbreaking – the man himself playing at his own funeral. Such a fuckin’ loss. Who’s tha’ playin’? It’s Jimmy himself. He was shite, wasn’t he?
His life was an awful fuckin’ mess.
Des again. Ok.
Even texting – it was a nightmare. He’d send the wrong message to the wrong person. The wrong woman. A good name for a film. Starring Jimmy Rabbitte. Fuckin’ eejit. He’d fuck up, fire off the wrong text, call her the wrong name.
It was fuckin’ great.
—Mister Rabbitte?
—Wha’?
It was your woman, the Principal. He was next – he hadn’t noticed.
—Sorry, he said.—I was —
He held up the phone.
—Work.
—I know.
He followed her into the office.
—When the word expulsion was mentioned —
—Oh Christ no. Expulsion?
—Yep.
—Oh God – Jimmy – ! They can’t —
—Hold on, he said.—It’s not too bad. She was just tellin’
me they could. That the offence justified it.
—That’s ridiculous.
—I know, yeah. But I didn’t argue with her. I heard someone doin’ that – before me, like. It didn’t last long. Anyway, look, they’re not goin’ to expel ten girls all at once. It’d be a national scandal. The press would jump on it. Joe Duffy. It’d take their minds off Anglo an’ the fuckin’ Household Charge —
—Jimmy, tell me.
—I let her have her say. Expulsion, suspension, all the options and procedures. And then I told her I had cancer.
—You – ?
—So it’s grand. She’s not bein’ expelled.
—Because you told Fionnuala Halpin you had cancer?
—No, he said.—But I told her before she said what they’d decided to do. Just to be on the safe side.
The dog was beside him, at his leg. He picked him up and parked him.
—Suspended, he said.—For a week.
—That’s not too bad.
—Includin’ today.
—We’ll ground her.
—Yep.
—Take her phone.
—No pocket money.
—Yes.
—I’m to phone her tomorrow, said Jimmy.—To let her know what we’re doin’ from our end.
—And a letter of apology, said Aoife.
—Good idea. An’ I’ll send her an mp3 of ‘Erectile Dysfunction’ as well.
Aoife smiled.
—Maybe this is – .
—What?
—To do with you.
—Wha’?
—Mahalia, said Aoife.—She’s never as much as got a negative remark in a Christmas report. Ever. And now – this.
—Because of me?
—Don’t dismiss it, she said.
—I’m not, said Jimmy.—But no – fuck it. There were ten o’ them. I only recognised one. Shannon I think her name is. She’s been in the house. But, like – they didn’t all get pissed because they’re worried about me.
—Forget the others —
—You should’ve seen them, by the way. In the sickbay. Jesus, it was chillin’.
—Just think about it.
—Okay.
The dog’s front paws were on his chest.
—Vodka, he said.
—They drank?
—She had – your woman, Nuala —
—Fionnuala.
—She had the empty bottle on her desk. Exhibit A.
—They didn’t drink it neat?
—No, said Jimmy.—That was Exhibit B. A Coke bottle, one o’ the two-litre jobs. Oh, and that’s another thing.
—What?
—She wants to know who brought the bottle into school.
—That’s fair enough.
—I told her we don’t have much drink in the house.
—I could do with one.
—We’ll have to interrogate May.
—Tomorrow.
—Could they all have got hammered on one bottle of vodka?
—Well, it wouldn’t be easy. But there’s the context. Where were they?
—Behind the gym.
—In the right circumstances ten girls together could probably get drunk without actually drinking anything at all. They’re amazing things really, teenage girls.
—They’re terrifyin’.
—Probably.
—I’ll go up to her and say hello.
—She’ll like that, said Aoife.—She feels wretched.
—Good.
They smiled – grinned.
—But anyway, said Jimmy.—I thought I handled it well. The school.
—Calling in the cancer was a masterstroke.
—I thought so.
—Did she ask for a doctor’s cert?
He laughed. She loved that, making him laugh.
—And this fella, he said.
He held up the dog.
—The vet. Another of today’s shocks.
—God, yeah, said Aoife.—I’d forgotten.
—What happened?
—He was lying on the floor, she said.—Over there. And he wouldn’t move his eyes or respond. I called his name and he wouldn’t wag his tail. But it was his eyes really. They were – dead.
—Christ, said Jimmy.
—So I just picked him up and ran. There was no one else in the vet’s, thank God, and Eamon —
—Who’s he?
—The vet – hello.
They laughed at her Mahalia impression.
—So he put Messi down on the table. The stainless steel one he has. And he felt Messi’s tummy. Then —
She started laughing.
—He put his finger —
She couldn’t talk for a while. He was laughing now as well.
—Was he wearin’ rubber gloves?
—Yes! But he put his finger up poor Messi’s bum and said, Aha, and pulled out something. It was horrible at first. I thought it was a worm or a lizard. But then I knew.
She wiped her eyes.
—I think I recognised them before Eamon did —
—I fuckin’ hope so.
—Stop, she said.—I mean, I knew what they were before he did. But he was still pulling away when Messi stood up and —
She was laughing again.
—started —
She couldn’t stop. She waved a hand, like she was surrendering to it; she’d be back in a minute.
—No hurry, said Jimmy.
—He started —
—Go on.
—He started wagging his tail.
—The vet?
—Messi, she said – she actually screamed it.—While Eamon was still pulling them out! Oh God —
He wondered if Mahalia could hear them laughing. The boys – all three of them – had wandered in. That often happened when they heard their parents laughing. They hovered around the door and the fridge.
—You must’ve been pleased, said Jimmy.
—Relieved, she said.—Mortified.
—Still, said Jimmy.—Your knickers able to fit inside a dog this small. At your age.
—Fuck off.
They loved hearing their mother use bad language.
—Poor May, said Jimmy.—I’ll go on up and say hello.
He handed the dog to Brian.
—Here yeh go, Smoke. Mind he doesn’t eat your jocks.
It was always a surprise to know he’d been asleep. He hadn’t been breathing; he’d been holding his breath, smothering – he didn’t know. And quickly enough, he didn’t care. He was up and out, trotting ahead of the dark thoughts.
He got up before the gang. He let out the dog, he fired off a few emails, he let the dog back in. The Halfbreds were demanding a meeting. They wanted to know why more than three hundred thousandYouTube hits had produced less than two thousand sales. They were entitled to an explanation. But they had kids, so they knew that kids didn’t buy the vital musical moments they’d be bringing with them for the rest of their poxy lives; they expected them all for nothing. And their parents were beginning to share the attitude. Mammies wearing Uggs, dads in skinny jeans – they were stealing their music now as well. Anyway, two thousand – so far – was very good. This was Ireland, a small country on the brink of collapse. Barry and Connie could fuck off.
The Dangerous Dream’s coast-to-coast return tour had to be sorted. The middle-aged prog rockers were refusing to stay in B&Bs, and they wouldn’t accept that they could drive home after most of the gigs. Their main man, Andrew Belton, had been living in Kenya for the last twenty years, so Jimmy didn’t know what his problem was. Sleeping in the van should have been a fuckin’ luxury. But My Life On the Planet Behind You had been Jimmy’s solid seller all year, and he’d made the big mistake of telling Andrew. A nice enough head was becoming a bit of a bollix. Jimmy would have to book a couple of rooms in a hotel beside one of the roundabouts outside Athlone – the same hotel every night, even for the Dublin gig.
He had to lavish emails on the clients he’d been neglecting s
ince the chemo started, especially the Celtic Rock brigade. And he had a mobile number for a chap he thought had once been called Brendan Goebbels. He was the founder, if it was the right guy, of a Dublin punk outfit called the High Babies. Jimmy’d read somewhere – it might have been in The Ticket – that the Edge and Bono were doing the soundtrack for a new HBO series, set during the hunger strikes, starring Colin Farrell and Bono’s daughter. And he’d remembered a song the High Babies used to do, around the time of the hunger strikes, called ‘Snap, Crackle, Bobby’. Eat your Krispies Bobby – Or you’re goin’ to die. He didn’t know if they’d recorded it. But if they had, he knew someone who knew the Edge’s cousin, who might get the song to the Edge. If this was the right man, if Jimmy could grab the man’s interest, and if the other man could grab the Edge’s interest. If, if, fuckin’ if. On the good days, Jimmy loved that word.
He’d phone Les. He’d phone Darren. And Des. And Imelda – instead of just texting. He’d talk to her properly. He’d phone Outspan.
He still didn’t have the song.
But he had an idea.
He was at chemo, scrolling through the iPod again.
He’d make it up.
It was there, as solid a thought as he’d ever had, already a fact, as if he’d made the decision months ago. He’d invent the song.
He attacked the iPod again. It was different now, though. It wasn’t cheerful self-pity. This was research.
He looked up.
The knitting, the books, the fuckin’ eejit over there with his iPod. Jimmy knew what that poor cunt was doing.
He was nearly done here. Then he’d be running again, charging. There was no stopping him.
—We’ve no money, she told him.
—Wha’?
They weren’t broke like Des, just normal broke. They’d insufficient funds. Aoife hadn’t been able to take any money from the Pass machine in the Spar. They were paying for the lunch with her credit card.
—My treat, she said.
It was nothing to worry about.
But it was.
Jimmy remembered a conversation he’d had with Noeleen that had shocked him. But he’d forgotten about it – he couldn’t believe it.
They were all taking a pay cut.
—How much? said Aoife.
This was before they’d started eating, just after she’d asked him how the chemo had gone.
—I think she said 30 per cent, he said.
—Jesus.
—Yeah, he said.
It was like news he’d just heard.