by Roddy Doyle
—Howyeh, Barry.
—Where?
—I’m on my way, Barry, said Jimmy.—I’ve been smoothin’ the path for yeh. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Are they lookin’ after yeh?
He hung up before he had to hear the answer. He stood and wiped the crumbs off his hoodie.
—Yis right? he said.
—We’ll follow you.
—No, said Jimmy.
He looked at Outspan.
—Are you up for all o’ this, Liam?
Outspan shrugged.
—I’m not goin’ in without you, said Jimmy.
—We’ll all go.
—All for fuckin’ one.
—We can always come back out, said Les.—If we need to.
They gathered up the things they’d be needing.
—Will it rain?
—No.
Les put the cylinder up on his shoulder and they started to make their way slowly to the entrance.
—Jacks first, lads?
—They should put you in charge of the fuckin’ country. Outspan took the cylinder with him into the phone box. They waited.
Noeleen texted. Gate 8. Jimmy texted Marvin. Gate 8. Remember your bulgarian X.
Outspan kind of fell out of the box. But he was okay.
—Success?
—We used to ask tha’ after a night ou’, remember?
—Yeah.
—Now it’s if I can go for a shite withou’ passin’ out or dyin’, said Outspan.—For fuck sake.
Les took a babywipe from his bag and started to wipe the cylinder.
—No offence.
—Don’t blame yeh, said Outspan.
Then they were moving again.
—I’ll have to charge when we get through, said Jimmy.
—No problem.
—I’ll be back but.
—Who gives a fuck, said Outspan.
The thought hit them all, even Des, just as they reached the security barrier.
—Oh Christ.
They’d never get through with the oxygen.
The security guy actually looked frightened when he saw the cylinder and followed the tube to the mask and he saw the state of Outspan.
—Can’t let you through with that, he said.—Sorry.
—He needs it, said Jimmy.—It’s medical.
—Sorry. It’s too heavy – if someone threw it. There’s no way.
Jimmy half expected Les to take over; this should have been something he’d trained for. Negotiating, mediating. But Jimmy was still in charge.
—Listen, he said.—Have you anny idea how many laws you’ll be breakin’ if you stop him from bringin’ his oxygen in?
Jimmy had no idea if they’d be breaking any laws at all.
But it worked.
—Okay.
—Sound – thanks.
—Hold on to it though, said the security guy.
—Don’t worry – thanks.
—Do they think I’m goin’ to sell it?
—Shut up, for fuck sake.
They were in.
—Righ’, said Jimmy.—I’ll see yis outside the Crawdaddy tent in half an hour.
—Okay.
—Good luck.
He saw the sign for Gate 8, and he was on his way, charging across the field. It was early for the crowds so the going was straight. The next four hours would be mad. All his acts – his job, his fuckin’ career – were compressed into the afternoon.
That was shite, too dramatic, but it was still going to be mad.
Noeleen was at the gate, and she was with someone – a man.
—Jimbo!
—Howyeh.
—This is Christian.
—Howyeh, Christian.
She had wristbands, passes, bits of important laminated paper.
—Great, grand, great – thanks. I’ve to run. The Halfbreds are waitin’ on me.
—Poor you, she said.
—I know. Nice meetin’ yeh, Christian.
—And you, Jimbo, said Christian.—Nice to be able to put a face on a name.
—Exactly.
The fuckin’ eejit.
They both laughed.
Then Jimmy saw Marvin and the Bulgarians coming out of the trees.
—Here’s Moanin’ At Midnight, he said.
—They’re gorgeous, said Noeleen.—So sweet.
—They haven’t a word of English, said Jimmy.
He hoped she’d forgotten that Boris the drummer was also the manager, and that his English was fuckin’ excellent.
—The education system must be shite over there, he said.
—Like here, said Christian.
—Spot on.
A thing in Jimmy’s guts – his stomach – burst and charged through him; it nearly doubled him up.
Joy.
This was fuckin’ great.
Fuckin’ madness.
—Where – is – stage? said Marvin.
—Come, said Jimmy.—Come.
The lads followed Jimmy.
—See yis later, he shouted back to Noeleen and Christian.
—Great job, he whispered to Marvin.
—Thanks.
The other two lads were laughing.
—All set? said Jimmy.
—For – sure.
They were a good bit ahead of Noeleen now. Jimmy handed them new wristbands and passes.
—Backstage passes.
—Cool.
—VIP area.
—Cool.
—Remain in character.
—This – no – worries.
—I’ve to look after another band for a bit, said Jimmy.—You know where to go?
—Yeah.
—Here.
He gave Marvin his last twenty.
—Do you need this?
—Not really, said Marvin.
—Grand.
He took it back.
—I’ll look after you later.
He was gone, back across to the Crawdaddy.
The field was starting to fill. The first gigs of the day would be starting soon. Jimmy passed two drunk heads. Left over from the night before, or fresh? It didn’t matter. Connie and Barry would be going spare, backstage. But fuck them, they’d be loving it.
There was a fence that blocked the backs of all the gig tents. Jimmy followed it, left. He was walking, trotting a good while before he saw the sign, Artists and Crew. He showed the girl at the narrow entrance his pass – and he was through. Backstage. The holy of fuckin’ holies. He was in his natural habitat.
He heard Connie before he saw her.
That wasn’t true. He saw her but he didn’t realise it was Connie. She was wearing the dress she must have worn to her young one’s graduation. She’d done something to her hair as well. She’d become a middle-aged woman, happy in her years. She was laughing – with her kids.
For fuck sake.
A text. From Aoife. We’re here. X
—Hi, Jimmy, said Connie.
—Brenda.
—Lovely day.
—Yeah.
—I’m so excited.
—Great.
—We’re trying out some new songs, she told Jimmy.
Oh fuck.
—Great. Where’s Barry?
—Around somewhere, said Connie.
The kids looked nice. Like his own.
—Well done on the Leaving results, he told the girl.
—Thanks, she smiled.
—Did the soundcheck go okay? he asked Connie.
—Great, she said.—They couldn’t be nicer.
There was something wrong. Something very wrong. He smiled again at the kids. Is your mammy on tablets? he wanted to ask – he nearly did ask. He checked his watch. They’d be on in a few minutes.
—So, he said.—New songs.
—You’ll love them, she said.
—Grand.
—I’m worried about the polar bears.
—Yeah.
She’d become Cat Stevens, pre-Islam. Or Joan Baez.
—Will you still be playin’ the drums? he asked her.
—God, yes.
He wanted to hug her.
—And the old songs?
—We’ll lead with them, said Connie.
—Good.
—Don’t worry, Jimmy, she said.—We know our fucking fans.
That sounded like Connie. She was in there somewhere.
—Here’s Barry, she said.
Barry looked like Barry. He was pushed into his leathers.
—The Minister’s son is here, he said.—Fuck.
—Howyeh, Barry.
—Yeah, said Barry.
—Good luck with the new songs.
—She told you?
—She did, yeah, said Jimmy.—There’s one – is there? – about polar bears?
—It’s a whopper, said Barry.
Barry smiled. And Jimmy smiled.
—Can’t wait, said Jimmy.—Great, listen. I’m goin’ to go round to the front. So I can see the show like a fan.
He legged it, and texted Aoife as he went. Great. X. There was one in from Des. Tent is nearly empty. That was fine. It would start to fill once the punters outside heard the opening bars of ‘Erectile Dysfunction’. They’d charge in, hoping for a look at the young one in the video. Another from Aoife. Where u? X. He had to stop, so he could spell out Halfbreds Crawdaddy don’t miss x. Then he was off again. The backstage area was actually backstages; it was like the back garden of four or five circus tents. It was huge. He’d been moving now for minutes and he still wasn’t out. He heard the Halfbreds kick off. He knew the song immediately – ‘Your Happiness Makes Me Puke’. Connie would look great, standing behind the drums in her party frock. If they gave ‘Erectile Dysfunction’ a good lash and the polar bear delivered, Jimmy’s phone would soon be hopping – gigs, sales, telly.
He was back out with the public, charging across the field to the Crawdaddy. He thought he could hear ‘Erectile Dysfunction’. Guitar chords drifted, stopped, then all he could hear was cheering. And all he could see as he came up to the tent was people pouring out. He spotted the lads. He got through the crowd to them.
—That was fuckin’ short.
—They broke up, said Des.
—It was brilliant, said Outspan.
—They were great.
—Wha’ happened?
—The song about the erectile wha’-d’yeh-call-it, said Outspan.
—Yeah.
—Oh yes she does.
—It’s great.
—Annyway, said Outspan.—She hit him across the head with one of her sticks.
—And he kicked her bass drum.
—She hopped on him.
—It was hilarious.
—Fuck, said Jimmy.—An’ I missed it. It sounds better than usual.
—Have they broken up before?
—Fuck, yeah. Every time. They’re married. Would yeh go see them again?
—Fuckin’ sure, said Outspan.
—If they stayed together a bit longer. If you were buying a ticket.
—She was gorgeous, said Les.
—Connie?
—Gorgeous.
—Really?
The three lads were nodding.
They heard the noise. Music. Drums.
—They’re back.
They charged into the tent. It was empty, then full and dangerous in ten seconds. And they were right: Connie was gorgeous. A middle-aged ma, just in from the hairdresser, standing behind the drums and beating the living fuck out of them.
—THE ICE CAP IS MELTING—AH —
IT’S MELTING IN THE SUN —
THE POLAR BEAR —
THE POLAR BEAR —
THE POLAR BEAR —
THE POLAR BEAR —
Jimmy could hear it now, the crowd shouting with Connie.
THE POLAR BEAR —
THE POLAR BEAR —
They’d never heard the song before but they’d a good idea of where it was going.
—THE POLAR BEAR’S AN ENDANGERED LITTLE CUNT—TAH —
The cheer ripped a hole in the roof of the tent.
And a brilliant thing happened. The crowd grabbed the song.
Five hundred people shouted at the same time.
—OH YES HE IS —
And five hundred cheerfully disagreed.
—OH NO HE ISN’T —
It was a national debate, the country’s response to climate change.
—OH YES HE IS —
OH NO HE ISN’T —
The thing – the joy – went off in Jimmy again. He nearly pissed.
—THE POLAR BEAR —
THE POLAR BEAR —
HE’S A—HE’S A — HE’S A—HE’S A —
THE FURRY LITTLE POLAH BEAR-AH —
HE’S A—HE’S A—HE’S A —
The crowd took over.
—ENDANGERED LITTLE CUNT —
ENDANGERED —
LITTLE CUNT —
Outspan had the mask to his face between shouts.
—ENDANGERED LITTLE —
CUNT—TAH —
Connie pushed the drums out of her way. She threw her sticks into the crowd. She didn’t lob them. She aimed and threw. The St John’s Ambulance would be needed at the front. And she walked off. Barry lifted his guitar, ready to smash it on the stage. He held it high and stepped up to the mic.
—You’re not fuckin’ worth it!
And he followed his wife offstage.
They were done.
And Jimmy finally knew it: they were geniuses. This wasn’t a middle-aged couple reliving the glory days in front of a few friends. This was the Sex Pistols in Manchester. Jimmy had another sensation on his hands. He’d seen at least ten people filming it. The gig and both break-ups would be up on YouTube. They were probably up already.
They went back outside.
—Fuckin’ hell.
—Amazin’.
Jimmy looked at his watch. It wasn’t even one o’clock. The phone hopped. It was Aoife. Cudnt get in, packed. He sent one back. We’re outside.
He saw it now. The inflatable chair. A big purple armchair. They’d parked it in against the side of the Crawdaddy canvas, at the backstage fence. Outspan dropped into it and tucked the cylinder in beside him.
—Where did tha’ come from? said Jimmy.
—They’re on sale over there, said Les.
—Les bought it for me, said Outspan.
He loved it.
Another text from Aoife. Any toilet paper? X. She could wait a while for the answer, after the slagging she’d given him yesterday, before he’d left the house.
—Where now?
—Grub?
—Great.
—I’ve to go to Body and Soul, said Jimmy.
—What’s that?
—It’s the fuckin’ hippy place, said Outspan.
—There’s a stage there, said Jimmy.—I’ve another band on.
—Who?
—The Bastards of Lir.
—Good as that lot?
—No way, said Jimmy.—Celtic Rock.
—Great.
—Christy on fuckin’ acid, said Outspan.
—We’ll follow you over, Jim, said Les.
Jimmy didn’t want to leave them, especially when he saw Les and Des take a side each of Outspan’s chair and hoist it and Outspan up onto their shoulders.
—I’m your man from The Jungle Book, said Outspan.—King Louie.
They marched away –
—See you in a bit.
– across to the food stalls. Jimmy wanted his shoulder under the chair but they were getting on fine without him. But then, he thought, he’d just given them the gig of their lives. He was at work and the elderly Bastards of Lir were waiting for him.
He texted Connie. Brilliant. He texted Barry. Fuckin brilliant. He texted Aoife and told her where he was headed. She’d appreciate the jacks paper better in a place called Body and Soul.
He texted young Jimmy. Enjoyin y
rslf?
He texted Marvin. Excited?
He texted Noeleen. Halfbreds brilliant. We’ll make a few €.
He texted Ned the Celtic wanker, the Bastard of Lir himself.
On way. Looking forward to it.
He was dreading it.
The only reason Ned was on the ticket was because Jimmy still felt guilty for calling the da’s attention to the daughter’s arse at the Christmas do. It still made him weak – the guilt, not the arse. And there was the awful fact that the Bastards of Lir sold. No one went to see them live, but middle-aged men and women who didn’t venture out after dark still craved the sound.
The Body and Soul stage, when he found it, was like something from Lord of the Rings. It was in among the trees, in a hollow, a tiny natural amphitheatre.
The Bastards of Lir were waiting there.
—Ned.
—Jimmy.
Five men, four ponytails. Three leather waistcoats.
—You’re being looked after?
—We expected a tent, said Ned.
—This is your venue, Ned.
—It’s an afterthought.
—It fuckin’ isn’t, said Jimmy.
He wasn’t taking this.
—Some of the best gigs happen here, said Jimmy.—Look at it.
Now that he was down in the hollow, it was great, and a bit magic. The place would fill.
—The whole festival is built around Body and Soul, said Jimmy.
Ned wasn’t looking at him.
—What if it was raining? he said.
—It isn’t rainin,’ said Jimmy.—How many times have you played the Picnic before?
Ned didn’t answer.
—Do you think they actually wanted you? said Jimmy.
He got to an answer before Ned could.
—Yes, they fuckin’ did, said Jimmy.—And they wanted you here. In Body and Soul. That was the ask.
He was saving the day, lying through his arse, and impressing himself again.
—Okay, said Ned.—I hear you.
—Read the email I sent you, said Jimmy.—You knew what you were gettin’.
The tin whistle player spat on the ground.
—You’ll be brilliant, said Jimmy.
He looked at his watch. The stage manager was waving at them. —You’re on, said Jimmy.
The hollow was filling. There were no bald patches. Ned looked a bit happier.
The fiddle player sawed the strings with his bow.
—Whooo, said Ned, into the mic.—He’s raring to go. No introductions, you know who we are. Here’s one you might recognise.
Jimmy got off the stage.
—ON TARA’S HILL THERE STANDS A MAN —
For fuck sake.
—IN THE MISTY EARLY MORNING —
Jimmy climbed out of the hollow. He had to get away.