by Roddy Doyle
He heard the toast hop in the toaster. He stood up. His eyes danced, swam a bit. Low blood pressure – he thought he remembered being told he had it. He went to collect the plate from her.
—Brilliant, he said.—Perfect.
There were two plates, two mounds of scrambled egg on toast.
—Are you eatin’ as well? he asked her.
—Is that okay?
It wasn’t a real question; she was slagging him. But it took him a while.
—’Course.
He took both plates from her.
—Yeh deserve it.
—Fuck off, Jimmy.
He liked the sound of that. He put the plates down on the table, no bother, and sat.
—Knives and forks, he said.
—I’m ahead of you, said Aoife.
She sat beside him, not at the other side of the table. Strange, he thought. She slid the cutlery at him.
—There you go, she said.
She was sounding a bit like his da.
—What’s funny?
—Nothin’, he said.—I just – I don’t know. I’m happy.
It was true. But the phone. The phone. He got a mouthful of the egg into his mouth.
—Lovely.
He cut some of the toast, brought it up to his mouth.
—Really lovely, he said.
—It’s not bad, is it?
—Fuckin’ lovely.
—Pepper?
—No.
—What’s the magic word?
—Thanks.
She nudged him. Some egg fell back onto his plate.
—Sorry.
—No problem, he said.—Did you phone Imelda?
He’d never felt more alive – low blood pressure me hole.
—Yes, she said.
—Yeh did?
—Yes, she said.—I phoned everyone.
—Okay.
He got egg to his mouth.
—I was worried, Jimmy, said Aoife.—Jimmy.
—Wha’?
—I was really worried.
—Okay.
—I still am.
—Okay.
He decided to speak before he took another mouthful.
—So am I, he said.
—Okay.
He ate. So did she.
—I think I’m better.
—You’re fine. Oh —
—Wha’?
—I have something for you.
She stood up and went to the fridge. She stretched and took down a bag from the top of it – an Eason’s bag. She handed it to him.
—There.
—What is it?
—It’s in an Eason’s bag, Jimmy. Chances are it’s a book.
She is my fuckin’ da.
He took the book from the bag. Adventures of a Waterboy, Mike Scott’s autobiography. He hated the Waterboys, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. Anyway, it probably wasn’t true. He was quite fond of the Waterboys.
—Thanks, he said.—Brilliant.
—I bought it a while ago, she said.—I read a review. But I thought I’d hold onto it till —
—I know. Thanks.
—You like them, don’t you?
—God, yeah.
—Who is Imelda?
—Old friend, he said.—Lovely cover.
—How old?
—Same age as meself. Remember the Commitments?
—I didn’t know you then —
—But you remember me talkin’ about them?
—God, I do.
—Fuck off, Aoife. She was one.
—One what?
—One of the band, he said.—Singer. Like Outspan – Liam. He was in the Commitments as well.
—She sounded nice.
—She is, he said.—She’s sound. She lives near my folks.
—She sends her regards.
—I’ll phone her. You’d like her.
He patted the new book.
—I have This Is the Sea on vinyl.
He didn’t.
—Up in the attic.
He polished the plate. There was no evidence that there’d ever been food on it.
—Any news? he asked.
—Well, we won’t be going to Syria this year for the holidays, she said.
She is so my fuckin’ da!
—Where are we goin’? he asked.
She looked at him.
—You tell me.
It was July. Was it late July?
—Where’re the kids?
The house was empty, except for them and the dog.
—May stayed in Lauren’s house last night, said Aoife.
—Cocktails at sundown.
—Stop, she said.—Jesus. Lauren’s parents are good. They’re terrifying. I think they’re Christians or something. So I think she’ll still be teetotal when she gets home.
—Grand. Brian?
—Football camp.
—Great, said Jimmy.—I’ll collect him.
—He wants to come home on his own.
—Great.
—And Jim’s out, said Aoife.—Whereabouts unknown. I think there’s probably a girlfriend.
—Great.
—But I’m not sure.
—You didn’t check his phone, no?
She looked at him.
—Are you letting your hair grow? she said.
He rubbed a hand over his scalp. There was a couple of weeks of hair up there.
—I suppose so, he said.—Yeah.
—Good, she said.
He checked his face. He’d shaved earlier – he remembered.
—Why is it good? he asked.
—You look less like a drugged convict, she said.
—Jesus.
—The shaved head only suits you when you’re healthy, she said.
—I am healthy.
—Good.
—I am.
The new him.
—Where’s Marv?
—Bulgaria, she said.
She was looking at him again.
—That’s right, he said.
He remembered saying goodbye to Marvin, holding his shoulder, whispering something about Bulgarian women; he couldn’t remember what. But he’d felt poor Marv’s embarrassment coming up through his T-shirt.
—How’s he gettin’ on?
—Fine. He says.
—Good.
—It’s all he says.
—What’s he doin’ in Bulgaria anyway?
—He did the Leaving, she said.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.
—And it’s become normal for kids to go away together and destroy a foreign country after they’ve finished.
—Yeah, said Jimmy.
—Look, said Aoife.—How much do I have to tell you?
—Better give me the lot.
—Okay, she said.—So one of his friends. Ethan.
—Ethan?
—You know Ethan. He’s ludicrously tall. And a bit gorgeous.
—Gotcha.
—His aunt has an apartment in Sozopol and she must be lovely or a bit naive. Because she’s letting them all stay there.
—How much is all?
—I don’t know, she said.—His band buddies, and Ethan, and probably twenty-seven others.
—Grand, said Jimmy.—I’ll text him.
—Phone him.
—Yeah.
—Do.
—Oh my God!
—Hey there.
—What’re you doing down there, like? Mahalia asked.
He was on the kitchen floor.
—Chattin’ to the dog, he said.
—You’re hilarious.
She went to the fridge and stood in front of it the way her brothers did. She was taller. She opened the fridge door, looked in, closed it again.
—D’you want me to make you a pancake? said Jimmy, and the thought of it delighted him.
—No, she said.
—Okay.
She opened the fridge door again and took out the milk. He stood
up, felt a bit wobbly. Mahalia moved away as he approached.
He opened the fridge door. There was the usual amount of stuff in there, half-eaten, uneaten. It looked like it always did – no less. There was nothing in there he wanted.
—Sure about the pancake, May?
—Yeah, she said.—I’m not hungry, like.
—Are you okay? he asked.
She looked a bit caught.
He said it again.
—Are you okay?
He smiled.
—Yeah.
Her eyes were huge and watery. She looked like she wanted to run.
—What’s wrong? May?
—Are – like – ? Are you better?
Oh Jesus. He wanted to die.
—Yeah, he said.—I’m grand – I’m fine. I don’t think – . I’m not sure what was wrong. But I’m better. D’you want a pancake?
—Yeah.
He texted Des.
Up to a lesson?
He texted Outspan.
Hows it goin?
He texted Noeleen.
In 2moro. Thanks. X
He couldn’t phone her. Couldn’t face it.
He took out the trumpet. He blew. Not too bad. He held the one long note – no valves. He couldn’t remember which it was, C or G. He tried another. It slid away from him. He heard clapping from downstairs. He blew again.
Shite. Yrsefl?
That was Outspan. He sent one back.
Want to meet?
The phone hopped again – Des this time.
Cool. Friday nite?
He went back downstairs. He left the phone on the kitchen table, so Aoife and the kids would notice the blips and buzzes, the social interaction.
—We heard you playing the trumpet.
—I’ve a lesson on Friday.
—Great.
The air was full of wet hope.
He started to fill the dishwasher. He remembered now, he enjoyed it. Fitting everything in. All the things he did in the house, the washing, the hanging up. He enjoyed it all; he always had. Except ironing.
There was no word back from Noeleen.
His phone rang.
—Hello, he said.
—Where?
It was Outspan.
—Howyeh, Liam.
—Where’ll we meet?
—Pub.
—No.
—Starbucks.
—Fuck sake, said Outspan.—Which one?
—College Green.
—Grand.
He looked around casually, hoped Aoife was listening. The room was empty.
—I’m going back in to work tomorrow, he said.
—Lucky cunt, said Outspan.
—Fuck off, Liam, said Jimmy.—After work? Five or so?
—Okay.
He felt wobbly going in. Nervous, like he was going in for a job interview.
He probably was.
—Did you talk to Noeleen? he’d asked Aoife the night before.
—When?
—Well. Recently.
—Yes, she said.—I did.
—Okay.
—I had to, Jimmy, she said.—You weren’t going to work.
—Grand.
—She was worried too, you know.
—Okay.
—She phoned me every few days.
—Great.
—And we went out a couple of times.
—Out?
—Yes, said Aoife.
She pointed at the bedroom window.
—Out there, she said.—We had a drink. And an early bird.
—Wha’?
—Something to eat.
—Early.
—Smart boy.
Noeleen’s car wasn’t in the car park. He was ahead of her, back in action.
Maybe she’d offer him a lump sum. Maybe he’d take it.
July, but it was freezing. It had been raining for days. There’d been spectacular stuff in England. Flooding and chaos, the roof on at Wimbledon. He thought about phoning Les.
He got down to the emails. He watched them pour in. 97 became 167, became 298, became 407. They were still coming. He’d wait till they’d all arrived before he’d start to delete them.
There was something else Aoife had said to him last night.
—When I went through your phone.
Here goes.
—Yeah?
—Your address book, she said.
—What about it?
—You’ve no friends.
He looked up from the Mike Scott book. He kept having to start it again, even though he liked it.
—I’ve a few, he said.
—Not many.
—No, he agreed.
—It made me sad, she said.
—I’m grand.
—How can you fucking say that, Jimmy?
He slid through the emails now and deleted the ads and spam, the daily stuff he had sent to him but never looked at, StumbleUpon, RCRD LBL.com, PledgeMusic. All that shite. He was down to less than two hundred.
He was finishing a reply, just the one, to the Halfbreds’ sixty-two messages when he knew Noeleen had come into the room.
—Barry and Connie want to support the Stone Roses at the Phoenix Park, he told her.—No – hang on.
He read their last one again.
—They want the Stone Roses to support them. Are they too late?
—That was last weekend, she told him.
—Okay, he said.—I’ll offer them the Ballybunion Arts Festival.
—When is that?
—Doesn’t exist, said Jimmy.—Yet.
—Welcome back, said Noeleen.
—Thanks.
He actually wrote that he was looking into a slot at the Electric Picnic for them, apologised for the delay in answering – holidays, kids, family bereavement, no mention of health or the state of his head – and finished up with the hope that their eldest got the points she needed for veterinary – he remembered Connie saying something about it. JXx. Then he hit Send, and listened to the whoosh.
—Good to be back?
—Yeah.
He stood up and they hugged. She held his shoulders and looked straight at him.
—How are you? she asked.
—Grand.
—Great.
It was a bit awkward, a bit embarrassing. But she wasn’t sacking him.
—You can unfold your arms now, Jimmy, she said.—You’re safe.
It occurred to him now, properly; she’d been talking to Aoife. They’d been swapping the notes. Aoife was always on about him folding his arms. He even did it in his sleep, apparently.
They sat in the meeting corner. She’d brought him a coffee from across the street. They were the only two people in the place.
She looked at him, and laughed.
—Where will I start?
—Give me the bad stuff first, he said.
—We’re fucked.
She laughed again, sent her hair behind her head.
—No, she said.
She put a hand on his knee, and took it away.
—It’s not too bad, she said.—And it ain’t too good.
She had her own iPad now, and she started flicking through pages. He’d have sold the house to buy an iPad, the way she was using it there.
—So, she said.
The news was actually dreadful. He hated spreadsheets; they made him dizzy and useless – the numbers never stayed put. But he was able to listen, and every aspect of the business was being hammered.
—So, she said.—There you go.
—Jesus.
He didn’t feel too bad.
—You said it wasn’t too bad, he said.—All bad.
—It could be a lot worse.
—Could it?
—We’re still here, Jimmy, she said.—We’re surviving. Sales are down but they’re not gone, totally. We just need a haircut. Actually, needed.
He looked around.
—There’s no one else comin’ in, is there?
—No, she said.—Sorry. I didn’t want to tell you – to start with that. I let them – I had to let them go. It couldn’t wait.
—Okay.
He’d always been on his own, his own branch of the business. That wasn’t going to change. But it was bad. He’d loved the fact that he’d made some of those jobs. It had been one of the measures of the thing. When Jimmy had been the same age as the twit – he couldn’t even remember the poor kid’s name – he’d never had a proper job. He’d always done stuff, sold things that needed selling, organised gigs, done a bit of band promotion. He’d sold sandwiches at the early festivals – sandwiches and toilet paper. He’d hired a taxi for himself and about two thousand egg sandwiches, all the way to Lisdoonvarna, with the windows wide open all the way, and he’d still made a fuckin’ fortune. And T-shirts – always weeks ahead of the official merchandise. He’d sold Smiths T-shirts, printed by a chap called Smelly Eric, outside the Smiths’ first Dublin gig at the SFX, long before the Smiths copped on that selling their own T-shirts might be a good idea.
When things picked up in the country, he’d ignored it. All the pyramid schemes, timeshares in Bulgaria, ‘it’ll pay for itself’ deals, the no-brainers – he hadn’t been interested. It had always been about music – even the egg sandwiches; he’d sold them to people like himself. There’d been guys making fortunes selling ad space on the jacks walls of pubs, an idea Jimmy had every time he went for a piss. They were welcome to it. Because it was boring. He’d taken the old records down from the attic because he loved music. They’d invented shiterock because of the music. It had made work for him, a good income, jobs for others – success.
The times had caught up with him.
Fuck it.
Fuck them.
—What’s the good news? he asked.
—Well.
She started doing the flick thing with the iPad again. Then she stopped.
—You might have seen this already, she said.
—What?
—Our big success story, she said.
—What?
—More Songs About Sex and Emigration, she said.
He’d nearly forgotten about it.
—Really?
—It’s done okay, she said.—We won’t be retiring on it. And we still have to move.
—Hang on, said Jimmy.—We’re movin’?
—Did I not mention it?
—No.
—Sorry. Yes.
—Shite.
—Agreed. But it has to be done. But – now. This.
She still wasn’t offering to show him what was on the screen – the tablet – in her hand.
—This is where we’re going to make money, said Noeleen.—Just look at this.