by Roddy Doyle
—Hi.
He couldn’t talk.
—Jimmy?
She sounded frightened now. This was fuckin’ dreadful.
—Are you alright?
—I —
—Jimmy?
—I can’t drive.
—Where are you?
He knew the answer. But he couldn’t look – he didn’t know.
—Jimmy, I’m getting a taxi. If I phone you in a minute, will you be able to tell me?
What she’d said – what was it?
—Jimmy?
—No. I —
—I’ll leave the phone on. I’m calling the taxi with the landline. Jimmy?
—Yeah.
—I’m phoning for the taxi. Try to see where you are. I’m coming.
He could hear her. Moving in the kitchen.
It was shifting, receding – the wave. He could breathe. He knew where he was – he couldn’t remember the street. But he saw the sign.
—Mattress Mick.
—Jimmy?
—Mattress Mick.
—Great. Brilliant.
She knew what he meant. They’d seen the billboard the first time together. The sham with the glasses and the ’70s footballer’s hair.
—Mattress Mick.
—You’re great, she said.—I’m on my way.
He heard her shoes in the hall. Heard the front door opening – closing. He read the billboard.
—The Mattress Pricefighter.
He read another bit.
—Finance available.
—A few minutes, Jimmy, she said.—I’m on my way.
She was outside. The sounds – the wind.
—Here’s the taxi now. I told them it was an emergency. They’re brilliant. Remember with the kids? When we had to get them in to Temple Street? They were always here in a few minutes.
He heard her getting into the taxi. He heard her door close.
—Aoife?
He heard her talk to the driver.
—Do you know the Mattress Mick sign? I can’t remember the name – .
He couldn’t hear the driver.
She had the phone up to her mouth again.
—I’m in the taxi. Jimmy?
—Yeah.
—We’re moving. He knows the sign. Seville Place. How long?
She spoke again.
—We’ll be there in a few minutes.
—I love you.
—Oh, Jimmy.
—I’m sorry.
—There’s no need.
—I’m sorry.
—Stop saying that.
He was frightening her.
—Jimmy?
—Yeah.
—Have you any money? I came out without —
—Yeah.
—Great. Phew.
He could hear the radio in the taxi. Nova. Fuckin’ Genesis.
—Aoife.
—Yes?
—Tell him to put on Lyric, will yeh. John Kelly’s on.
He heard her asking him to change the station.
—Blues, Marv.
—Too American, said Marvin.
He was right.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—Good man.
He was sitting on a couple of pillows with his back to the cold radiator. He could manage it that way; he was fine. He was wearing the cancer trousers. He knew there’d be no slagging or objections, not the way he was, his face the colour of rain.
The boys were sitting on the bed, making sure their toes didn’t touch him. It was awkward, fuckin’ excruciating. But – strangely, and brilliant; he couldn’t wait to tell Aoife – the fact that he was sick was an advantage. It kept him back, stopped him taking over, smothering the thing before they got going – taking out his fuckin’ trumpet.
He was getting the hang of terminal illness. Fuckin’ typical too, just when he was getting better.
—But maybe, he said,—we could give our man some blues records.
—No, said young Jimmy.
—Why not?
—Modern Irish music tries too hard to be American, he said.
—That’s right, said Jimmy.
Brilliant.
—Where’d you hear that? he asked.
—You.
—Oh.
—When I was about five.
—Oh. Did you understand?
—I do now, said young Jimmy.
He was saying more than Jimmy had heard from him in years.
—You were slagging U2, said young Jimmy.
—When you were five.
—I might’ve been six.
—Grand.
—And you were shouting at the car stereo.
—Oh yeah, said Marvin.—I remember that.
—Why is he pretending to be American?! He’s from fuckin’ Glasnevin!
—Why were you always playing U2, Dad? You hate them.
He took a deep breath – scare them a bit.
—I don’t hate them, he said.—They disappoint me.
—But why – ?
—I was educatin’ yis, said Jimmy.—I did it for you.
They were smiling. Beginning to enjoy this new thing.
—Anyway, said Jimmy.—You’re right. He can’t be too American.
He closed his eyes. They were looking at him, he knew. This was madness.
—Just give me a minute.
Marvin strummed away.
—TODAY – IS GONNA BE THE DAY —
—No fuckin’ way, Marv.
He could hear them laughing. He really had educated them. They knew exactly what chords and poxy lyrics could make a dying man feel even worse.
He heard young Jimmy.
—What’s he called?
—The 1932 man? said Marvin.
—Yeah.
—Don’t know.
—Kevin something.
—Kevin – why?
—Don’t know, said young Jimmy.—It’s just – I don’t know – it sounds right.
—Kevin what? said Marvin.
—O’Leary.
—No way.
—Kevin Keegan.
—There’s a real one of them.
—Is there?
—Football. ESPN.
—Pity.
—Yeah.
—Kevin Tankard, said young Jimmy.
—Unreal.
The boys tested the name, with different voices and accents. Jimmy let them at it. He kept his eyes shut.
—With yis in a minute, lads.
—D’you like the name?
—Love it.
He pushed through the last of the nausea. That was what he actually did. He felt it coming up on him and he shoved it away, the plunge, the sweat.
He just kept going.
It was all fuckin’ mad.
Kevin Tankard became a man. He stopped being a joke, although he looked at the boys sometimes and they burst out laughing.
—I WANT HER ARMS —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
They’d be sneaking into the studio in a couple of days. He wasn’t sure if he’d told Aoife. He thought he had; he’d tell her again.
—I WANT HER LEGS —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
Now, Noeleen was saying something.
—I’d say you were drunk.
—What?
—Are you drunk?
—No, I’m not.
She was smiling. It couldn’t have been too bad.
—Painkillers?
That would get him out of jail.
He nodded.
—Go on though, he said.—I’m grand.
They’d gone through the list – the Electric Picnic, the other festivals, the Eucharistic Congress. They’d agreed things, deferred a few things. He’d told her he was on to a song. He agreed, they were running out of time. He’d agreed, it was a pity the Pope was playing chicken, and that no one seemed to know about the Eucharistic Congress. They’d plough ahead. He’d deliver the song by the end of the week, or they’d just go
for one of the ones that Ocean had brought in.
That was it – the meeting. He thought he’d read it right. Where was Gavin the accountant? He hadn’t asked. He’d looked for anger, or anxiety, eyes about to give him bad news. He was awake, aware, especially after she’d asked him if he’d been drinking – at half-nine in the morning.
But this was the thing: he wasn’t sure. Hours later, he wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t certain if it was that meeting or another one he’d been to. It was mad – he knew that. But it didn’t worry him.
—I WANT THAT PLACE —
He’d be grand. He’d never felt better.
—I’M GOING TO HELL —
—Sing like a man who really would take eternity in hell for – yeh know – .
—What?
—You know. A girl.
—You hate songs about girls, Dad, young Jimmy reminded him; the little prick had a memory like a fuckin’ PowerBook.—Remember when you played the Rolling Stones?
Jimmy listened to young Jimmy doing a good impression of Jimmy.
—Hear that, lads? It’s women – women! Honky tonk women.
—What age were you tha’ time? Two?
—Eight, said young Jimmy.—And you were wrong.
—How was I?
—Simple. The song says honky tonk girls as well. Honky tonk girls.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.—But you knew what I meant.
Young Jimmy and Marvin answered him together.
—We do now.
—Leave the girls to the boybands. You said.
—Well, I was right, said Jimmy.—Go on, Marv.
Marvin sang like a man who’d have sawn off his one remaining arm for a ride. Because his dad had told him to.
—I PROWL THE STREETS —
I’M GOING TO HELL —
Jimmy felt like a bit of a pimp. He worried that he might be polluting the boys, shoving their faces into stuff they weren’t ready for.
—I KISS HER FEET —
I’M GOING TO HELL – I think I should say lick there.
—Lick her feet? said young Jimmy.
—Good idea, Marv, said Jimmy.
—Why would he want to lick her feet? said young Jimmy.
Marvin shrugged.
Aoife told Jimmy he’d put on weight. She said it the way women do, pretended it was a question.
—Have you put on a bit of weight?
—No.
—It suits you.
—It can’t fuckin’ suit me. It isn’t there.
—Just saying, she said.—Take a chill pill.
He didn’t see it. The weight. He didn’t feel it. A bit puffy around the face. That was how his da had described it.
—It suits yeh.
—Fuck off.
He was paying for the studio time himself. He had to. There was no way of avoiding it, if the scam was going to work.
—An’ your hair never fell ou’.
—No.
—Will yeh keep shavin’ it?
—Don’t know – probably.
—I WANT HER NOW —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
He hadn’t a clue how much they had in their account. He hadn’t gone onto banking 365 in months. And he hadn’t had that chat with Noeleen. He’d kept waiting for Aoife to tell him they were skint again. It would have been the trigger. But she hadn’t, so he hadn’t. So they were grand.
—WON’T SAVE MY SOUL —
—I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
It was a song now, a real thing. Marvin had gone off with it, to batter it into oldness with his buddies.
—DON’T HAVE A SOUL —
I’M GOIN’ TO HELL —
He’d got the all-clear. Himself and Aoife sat there, at the victim side of Mister Dunwoody’s desk. The prick glanced down at the file before he looked at them and smiled. He told Aoife. Jimmy watched the fucker flirt with Aoife as he told her that her husband’s biopsy specimen had presented negative margins, how he’d gone up her life partner’s arse and come back empty-handed. They’d promised each other they wouldn’t cry, if the news was good. They thanked Dunwoody and went for a pint.
—He was tryin’ to get off with yeh, said Jimmy.
—No, he wasn’t.
—He fuckin’ was.
—No.
—He never looked at me.
He loved the way she drank her pint, like a man.
—Why? she said.—Are you jealous?
—No.
—No?
—No, said Jimmy.—If I was ever gettin’ off with a man, it definitely wouldn’t be him. I’m fuckin’ starvin’.
—D’you think I’ve put on weight? he asked.
—Big time, said Imelda.
—But it suits me.
—Ah yeah.
This was – this was mad now – outside his parents’ house. She’d been driving past, and she stopped when she saw Jimmy getting out of his car. He watched her get out of her Punto. There was a chunk off the side of it – useless prick she was married to, couldn’t get that sorted. She seemed a bit shy and that made him want to run at her – and run away, up to his parents’ front door. God, she was lovely. She’d always be lovely.
—Hiya.
—Imelda, he said.
—I saw yeh there, she said.
—I was hopin’ you’d stop, he said.
—And I did.
—D’yeh miss me?
—Ah yeah. Fuck off.
She was smiling.
—How are yeh? she asked.—I’d been meanin’ to ask, to phone yeh, like.
—I’m grand, he said.
He told her the news, the all-clear; he even mentioned the negative margins.
She put her hands on his shoulders and kissed his cheek, and stayed there for a while.
—Brilliant, she said.
He stepped back – impressed himself. And fuckin’ cursed himself.
—I’ve to go in, he said.
He nodded sideways at his parents’ gaff, kept his eyes on her.
—How are they?
—Grand.
—So. Anyway. That’s brilliant news.
—Yeah, thanks, he said.
She stepped back, and turned, and turned again.
—Give me a bell, she said.
She knew he was watching as she climbed back into her car. She flung back one last word.
—Whenever.
And she shut the door.
He wouldn’t. Whenever.
There’d been a bit of grief at home about the studio date. He’d booked a different day – today, now that he thought of it – and then found out that Marvin had his Irish oral – the Leaving Cert. Marvin hadn’t told him. Aoife had hit the fuckin’ roof.
—Your oral, Marvin!
—I’ll fail anyway.
—You won’t! Jimmy!
—What?
—Did you not think of checking?
—He never —
—It’s May! He’s doing his Leaving.
—Okay, grand. I can change it, it’s not a problem. For God’s sake, Marvin.
He looked at his watch. He was still at work. Marvin would be finished by now. He took out the phone. He’d text him.
Hows it goin?
But he sent it to Imelda.
Fuck, fuck, fuck – fuck fuck. Eejit, eejit. He double-checked that it had gone to Imelda and not someone else. And, yeah, it had gone to the right woman, the wrong woman, and, actually, he didn’t feel like an eejit at all.
For fuck sake.
Hows it goin?
He fired it off to Marvin.
He’d had enough – he was going home.
All these posters. Yes, No, Yes, Yes, No. There was another referendum coming up. Stability, austerity. Say yes to Europe. Tell Europe to get fucked. He’d no real idea what it was about. But he’d educate himself.
He’d ask his da.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Two messages. One from Marvin – Grand. One from Imelda – Grand X. He was a s
ick cunt, all the same. Trying to think of more messages that would produce the same answer from his eldest son and his floozy.
Glad it went well. X He sent that one back to Marvin. A proper dad message. He really didn’t want to destroy his life.
He texted his da. Pint?
He’d meet up with his da or go straight home. The phone hopped. What kept u? That was that. A pint on the way home. A bit of reality. There in hlf hr.
—Y’alrigh’?
His da was looking at him. He felt like he’d been caught.
—I’m grand, he said.—Why?
—Yeh seem distracted or somethin’, said his da.
—No, I’m grand, said Jimmy.—A bit – eh – jumpy, I suppose.
His da was talking again – he had to concentrate.
—Wha’ has yeh tha’ way?
—Don’t know, said Jimmy.—I think it might be the news.
—More news?
His da looked scared.
—No, no, said Jimmy.—No. Sorry. The same news. The all-clear, like.
—Grand.
—I’m – I don’t know. I’ve to get used to – I suppose – normality. Again.
—It’s borin’, said his da.—I don’t know if you remember tha’.
—I do, yeah, said Jimmy.—No, but – I’m grand.
—How’s Aoife?
Did his da know something?
—Grand, said Jimmy.—Great.
—Good, said his da.
—Marvin did his oral Irish today.
—How’d tha’ go?
—Grand, I think, said Jimmy.—We’ll have the autopsy when I get home. Actually —
He dug out his phone.
—I’ll text Aoife, he said.—He’ll be home by now. She’ll’ve got more out of him than I could.
How did he do? X – and an extra one – x. He didn’t like the way his da kept looking at him.
He read out Aoife’s answer.
Ok – he says. X
—Tha’ sounds righ’, said his da.—He’s too brainy to say it was easy.
—Talkin’ about brains, said Jimmy.
He told his da about the song. And he watched his face start to relax. He wasn’t examining Jimmy now. Jimmy was over the hump – whatever it was. Whatever his da had seen and hated.
—So, he said.—We’re in tomorrow.
His da sat back.
—Brilliant, he said.—I love tha’.
Jimmy had been able to feel it, the pull on his lip, his da dragging some kind of confession out of him. But he’d let go – his da had let go. Jimmy wasn’t going to be stupid.