Minnie decided that if she couldn’t achieve what she wanted with Jimeen she’d get it from someone else. That’s when herself and Bud Brady became an item. Jimeen was a bit too naïve and innocent and didn’t question why Minnie was so frequently spending nights at her mother’s house. The neighbours talked as they always do about such liaisons. Minnie and Bud were seen at various locations: coming out of hotels, walking the beach far from home. Jimeen appeared to be the last to know. That is until someone wrote him an anonymous letter at his place of work, stating: You stupid idiot. Don’t you know Bud Brady is knocking off your wife?
Jimeen read it and his face turned pale, his knuckles turned white. He asked permission to go home saying he was feeling unwell.
He was working the late shift so his return home would be unexpected. Minnie and Jimeen lived in a cottage up a twisty laneway. Their house, after passing Kirwan’s farm, was the last on the road. As Jimeen got near he decided to traverse the final two hundred yards on foot. He switched off the engine and the headlights, parked the car in a gateway and advanced on the house.
As he got near he became aware of a car parked to the rear. As silently as possible he used his key to let himself in. Taking off his shoes he tiptoed down to the bedroom door and listened. The lights were on inside. He heard the bed-springs creaking and low moans.
He threw open the door and burst in, jumping on top of the two on the bed. Bud and Minnie got the shock of their lives. A ferocious fight erupted. Jimeen rained punches at both Bud and Minnie. Jimeen and Bud tumbled out onto the floor where they punched and bit and kicked in a no-quarter-asked-or-given encounter. Minnie ran to the kitchen and came back with the frying-pan. She swung it with force and hit Jimeen on top of the head with the bottom of the pan. He collapsed in a heap.
Some time later he awoke, gingerly feeling the lump on the top of his head. He looked around at the devastation in the room. Practically everything seemed to be knocked over or was in a collapsed state. There was no sign of life so obviously he was on his own. Unsteadily he got to his feet and looked at himself in the mirror. His face was in a bit of a mess. Still, he felt he had given as good as he’d got—if not more. He splashed water on his face and felt better. If nothing else, he felt he had restored his dignity. He explored the rest of the house and noticed some items of value were gone, including the large television. He’d miss the telly.
“The bandy legged whore!” he spat through his teeth.
Also, and more pointedly, all the wedding photos had been removed from the wall, the mantelpiece and the dresser. He sat down by the table and cupped his head in his hands, taking stock of the situation—his wife was gone. That was the stark reality. What a bitch she turned out to be. He again felt his head. His job ran out in a month’s time. His cash flow was serious—he owed small amounts of money all over the place. He’d have to cut back on things. The car was due to be taxed.
“Christ above!” He thumped the table with his fist. “She’s gone off with that prick. I’ll kill the bastard.” He’d get himself a cup of tea—at least the electric kettle was still there.
Bud had rented out a small dwelling outside the town. Nobody knew what he did for a living but he always appeared to have plenty of money. Minnie had joined him to unload what they had taken from the house. Bud was feeling very stiff and sore as Jimeen had landed some heavy shots. He had also got a hard kick in the groin which was getting progressively sorer. Could it be that Minnie had landed herself with another dud? Bud struggled with the forty two inch television—Jimeen’s pride and joy. Jimeen loved to sit back with a few cans of beer and watch the racing. “It’s almost the same as being there,” he used to say. Finally, they succeeded in getting the television inside.
“Jesus, I got a terrible shock when the door burst open,” Minnie said. “I’m not in the better of it.”
“Same here,” Bud responded. “My heart nearly stopped—and I do have a little heart murmur, as a matter of fact.”
“Do you?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Well,” he said, glancing about, “this will be your new home from now on.”
“It’s fine,” Minnie said. She was familiar with the layout in any case. She went down to the bathroom and shouted, “Jesus, I have a black eye!” She quickly came back up. “The little shit hit his own wife.”
“Show me. It’s not bad.”
“Not bad! I’ll have to wear dark glasses.” Then, in a concerned tone she added, “I wonder did I hurt him bad with the pan?”
“You knocked him out—thank God.”
“I hardly killed him, did I?”
“It would take a lot more than that to kill him—he’s a tough, wiry kind of guy. I know,” he said, feeling his side.
“What a way to end a marriage,” Minnie lamented. “The people will talk about us now. We won’t be invited to many houses, that’s for sure.”
“Don’t worry. We have each other. Here, we’ll have a drink.”
“I need something to steady my nerves. Look, my hands are still shaking.”
Bud poured out two large vodkas and added a slice of lemon.
“These things blow over,” he reassured her. “It’s not like the old days.”
“When things quieten down we’ll have to try and talk to him. Legal things will have to be straightened out.”
“In a civilized manner, I hope,” Bud said, his hand moving down to the groin area again.
Jimeen and Minnie’s split-up soon became common knowledge. Various comments were passed. Some blamed Minnie’s fiery temper: “How could any sane man listen to that woman giving tongue day and night.” Another said, “She’s always complaining. She should learn to wash her dirty clothes in private.” Mrs McLoughlan commented, “That one is nothing but a trollop—isn’t she after proving it.” A few others concluded that Jimeen wasn’t blameless: “Sure he spends every penny he earns on booze, horses and that bloody motor car. Hard for her to put up with it.” Another said, “He’s a madman driving—the speed he tears around the roads in—mark my words, he’ll be killed yet. I hate saying it, but it looks that way.”
Minnie finally hung Jimeen out to dry when she confided to Roy Lacey’s wife Jackie that Jimeen was useless in bed ever since Samson shattered his testicles with the football. This gave rise to a lot of merriment amongst Jimeen’s peers. Perhaps black humour might be a better description.
Jimeen found the going tough on his own. He was fond of company and found the solitude he was now experiencing a wee bit disconcerting, to say the least. His job at the factory was demanding and he found he needed regular sleep. “That bloody job will be gone too,” he moaned. “What will I do then?” Work was getting harder and harder to find. The bills were starting to mount up. He toyed with the idea of emigrating to Australia. He was a bad cook. He was living on boiled eggs, tea and bread. There were egg-shells all over the place.
Wednesday turned out to be a particularly bad day: when he got home from work he found the house had been ransacked. It must have been Minnie and Bud, he concluded—knowing he was away at work they called and stripped the place. Nothing was left but the bare essentials. He decided he’d buy an Alsatian—a ferocious dog who’d tear strips off anyone who crossed the threshold.
Down at Kirwan’s farm, Dickie, Samson and Harry Kirwan were standing over a large modern rotovator. There was something wrong with the machine and they couldn’t figure out what the problem was. Samson, the tractor driver, said he noticed a rattling sound first and then a loud screeching noise. He thought at first it might free itself, but then decided it was wiser to take it home to the yard.
“You took a chance travelling the road with that thing behind you,” Harry said. “You took a big risk.”
“I suppose I did,” Samson replied.
“Look at the width of it. You had right to use your mobile.”
“To tell the truth it never entered my head,” Samson admitted.
“Sure there’s no traffic on that road,” Dickie ven
tured.
“Jimeen is on it,” Harry reminded him. “And he travels that road the same as if it was Brand’s Hatch or Silverstone. In all seriousness you’d want flashing lights ahead and behind with that machine.”
“Christ I can’t see anything,” Samson mumbled from underneath. He stood up wiping his oil-stained hands on a piece of cloth. “We’ll have it taken asunder the way we’re going.”
“I can’t get this feckin’ nut loose,” Dickie grumbled, straining himself.
“Show me,” Samson said. Using his strong arms he prised the nut loose with little or no effort.
“I was afraid it would shear,” Dickie remarked.
“It was in there somewhere,” Samson now pointed. “It sounded like steel rubbing on steel.”
“And the forecast is bad for tomorrow evening,” Dickie informed Harry.
“You always have the bad word, you know that” Harry shot back, adding, “You’re worse than the blight.”
“The long range forecast is bad. I’m just telling you.”
“I know it is. But them fellas in the Met can be wrong too.”
“Could a stone be caught somewhere? Often times it’s a silly thing,” Samson suggested.
“I know,” Harry agreed, “but still you can’t take a chance. That bloody machine cost a fair penny. Christ, the price of everything is gone up in the moon.”
“I hear the price of diesel is going up again,” Dickie now tells Harry.”
“Did you ever hear anything good, did you?”
“Maybe if I kept going it might have freed itself.”
“God no, don’t ever do that—it would be too chancy,” Harry advised him. “This kind of thing now would get under your skin. Look,” he pulls on a belt, “everything seems free enough.”
Breda, Harry’s wife, appears and calls, “Come on in for a bit of supper. It’s ready.”
“Come on, I’m hungry,” Harry said. “We’ll come back to it with fresher minds.”
Jimeen was taking the top off his second boiled egg. Earlier he had noticed red spots breaking out on his legs and upper arms. It could be too many eggs, he surmised. Maybe he’d better start striking into town for some takea-ways. He looked around at his miserable surroundings. He thought he heard a mouse scratching.
He suddenly remembered that this was Wednesday evening—Lotto night. Minnie was the one who usually bought the tickets. For the main prize they always did the same numbers: 10, 12, 17, 23, 30, and 36, with 37 as the bonus number.
He glanced at his watch and realized he’d better get a move on. How many times did they mark down those numbers? Jimeen was afraid that he might forget some night, and that’s the very night the bloody numbers might come up. What would he do then? Jump in the river.
He decided he’d call to White’s pub for a pint or two on the way back. He quickly changed out of his working clothes, had a quick wash, put on a clean shirt, jeans and jacket, grabbed his wallet and headed out to the car. He didn’t even bother locking the door—he had no reason to now. Whatever else, he thought, as he started up the car, I’ll have to buy a television. He missed the racing and the football. Them other two whores-ghosts are probably sitting on their fat arses right now, watching fuckin’ Coronation Street on my forty-two inch.
He moved onto the road. Then he thought, What if my numbers came up? She’d be demanding half the money. Christ, I never thought of that. She always threw in twenty euro at the start of every month. Even if I denied it she could still make big trouble. There could even be court cases. Feck it, I’ll change a couple of numbers. I’ll change the twelve to thirteen and the thirty to thirty-one. From now on I’ll be living a new lifestyle, so I might as well have new numbers. It’s all a waste of money anyhow. I’m nothing but an idiot.
He revved up the car. He loved driving. The car, which he kept spotless, was his pride and joy.
Harry, Samson and Dickie came out from their supper and were recommencing work on the rotovator. They heard the roar of the car coming down the road and Jimeen whizzed past the gate.
“Christ, he’s some madman,” Harry commented.
“There’s no sense to that,” Dickie said, shaking his head. “If a child stepped out on the road he couldn’t stop.”
“I’m afraid something will stop him one of those days,” Harry added. “He’ll come to grief I’m afraid. That’s the sad part of it.”
“Remember the evening of the match—the penalty?” Dickie said to Samson. “I think you gelded him, you know that.”
“Don’t be reminding me of it.” Samson said, worried looking. Samson was a big, soft guy, who would hate to injure anyone.
“That’s what I heard,” Dickie continued.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Harry remarked.
“That’s the reason Minnie left him. Jimeen can’t produce the goods anymore.”
“Idle gossip—and gossip can be a dangerous thing,” Harry commented.”
“Did you see the way he stood in the goal that evening?” Dickie grinned, “With his two hands out like that, like a scarecrow. And the roars out of him when the ball connected. We all nearly fell down laughing.” He laughs again.
“If you were on the receiving end of it you wouldn’t laugh,” Harry reminded him.
“You have a kick like a mule, Samson, you know that. That ball was travelling like a Scud missile.”
“I was never so sorry about anything in my life,” Samson sighed. “That’s as true as I’m standing here. I keep thinking of it.”
“Ah, sure it was an accident,” Dickie consoled him.
“Put your minds to what we’re at here and don’t mind your penalty kicks. I have to go out later on or she’ll lose the head. We have arranged to meet a couple in town.”
Harry, Dickie and Samson grew up together in the same townsland. Dickie and Samson worked for Harry, but apart from that they were also friends. They often stayed on after hours, free of charge, to help Harry repair machinery. They enjoyed that type of work and the banter that went with it. On midweek evenings Dickie and Samson had nothing much better to do.
Jimeen went into the shop and purchased his National Lottery ticket.
“It’s a big one tonight,” Mr. Finch, the shopkeeper, informed him, as if he didn’t know already.
“It would be worth winning tonight all right,” Jimeen responded.
“What would you do if your numbers came up?” Mr. Finch asked as he counted out the change.
“I often heard people ask that,” Jimeen said. What would I do?” He scratched his head. “I’d go to Thailand where all the sexy women are and spend the rest of my life there.”
“Would you?” Mr. Finch repeated eagerly, giving off the distinct impression that he would like to do exactly the same himself.
“I might as well now, seeing that the squaw is after leaving me. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“That’s a wonder. Everybody else seems to know. They keep reminding me anyhow.”
“Don’t worry, Jimeen—you’re not the only one.”
“She went off with that basterin’ Bud Brady. He’s a bad whore, that fella.”
“Is he?”
“I’m telling you, you couldn’t meet worse. If he comes in here don’t leave him out of your sight. I heard he’d rob the cross off an ass’s back.”
“That so?”
What Jimeen said wasn’t actually the truth, but then all’s fair in love and war.
“I gave him a hiding though,” he next told Mr. Finch. “A real hiding.”
“Good man.”
“The bandy-legged bastard! I’ll give you one bit of good advice, Mr. Finch—beware of a bandy-legged man. He’s over-sexed, for one thing.”
“What about a bandy-legged woman?” Mr. Finch, queried eagerly.
“The very same—even worse.”
“Bandy-legged women are fond of it then?” Mr. Finch concluded, eyes agape.
“They can’t get enough of it.”
“Can’t they?”
It was widely rumoured that Mrs. Finch never let Mr. Finch near her sexually. She felt it was all dirty. That could explain why Mr. Finch had such an inordinate interest in all things sexual.
“I’ll be off then,” Jimeen said, as another customer came up to the counter.
“No, hold on…”
But Jimeen was gone. He went out, jumped into the car and headed for White’s pub. Bud, he felt, wouldn’t be welcome the next time he called on Mr. Finch. He swung in to the car park behind the pub, sending pebbles flying.
When he entered there was no greeting from the others as they were all too familiar with each other to bother.
“A pint of Heineken, is it?” Alfie the publican asked from habit.
“Yeah, a Heineken,” Jimeen replied, taking the money from his pocket. Roy, Denny and Jerry, three young men, were in conversation close by.
“How are things Jimeen?” Jerry asked.
“Not too bad,” Jimeen responded.
“Could be better, I’d say,” Roy remarked with a grin.
Jimeen never liked Roy. The ignorant pig was always giving digs.
“Did the woman come back yet?” Denny asked.
“No, nor she won’t, so don’t be fuckin’ asking me about her.”
“You’re not alone. People are breaking up all over the place,” Jerry said, holding out his fingers. “I could name several from round here.”
“Still, it’s hard coming home to a lonely house,” Roy said.
“It grows on you, you know that?” Jimeen responded. “I’m starting to enjoy it.”
“That’s the ticket,” Alfie said.
“No one to rear up on you,” Jimeen continued. “You couldn’t please the bitch I was saddled with.”
“I always thought Minnie was a nice girl,” Roy commented.
“You should try living with her then. A bit of peace in the head is what I want now.”
Tales of the Bright, the Dark & the Bizzare Page 11