Charlie Savage

by Roddy Doyle

  The glasses on the head – the wife doesn’t like the look.

  –When did your dandruff start reading, Charlie? she says.

  I don’t even defend myself and my dandruff – or the absence of it.

  I miss my buddy, the Secret Woman. The time has come to name him. His name is Martin and I miss him.

  We didn’t have a row, exactly – although that’s what I told the wife. Martin came with me when I was going to meet Eileen Pidgeon in Greystones a few months back. Eileen was my first real girlfriend. We went with each other for two days and a bit; that’s a lifelong commitment when you’re sixteen and you measure your life in hours. I met her again on Facebook. I’ll be honest: I went out of my way to meet her on Facebook.

  I’m definitely a gobshite.

  So anyway, we were in a café in Greystones, myself, Eileen and Martin. I went to the jacks and the other pair availed of the opportunity to get off with each other. They were holding hands – or they had been, if that makes sense – when I got back. And – I’ll be honest again – I was happy enough to have the excuse to storm out and leg it home.

  But it was humiliating. Martin told me just after Christmas that he identified as a woman, so I’d never have expected him to do the dirty on me. And he’d also assured me, hand on heart, that he wasn’t a lesbian. I know, we’re living in an age of what I think the daughter calls gender fluidity, and I’m grand with it – or I’m trying to be. But Martin with Eileen – that was just having his cake and eating it.

  So, sitting on the Dart out of Greystones, I was relieved but hurt. And I haven’t seen Martin since. I’ve been tempted to text him or just wander up to the local. But I’m afraid of what I might find there: Eileen Pidgeon with her arse parked on the stool where my arse should be.

  I don’t want to meet Eileen.

  Listen: I’m a happily married man – although I’m not sure what ‘happily married’ actually means. We’ve been together more than forty years and I can’t say I’ve been deliriously happy all that time. But I’m betting I’ve been happier because I’ve been sharing the years – the house, the kids, the grandkids, the bed, the crisps, the books, the hoodies, the laughs and the grief – with her. She walks into the room and I sit up. She kisses me like she means it. She laughs at my jokes, especially the intentional ones. And she makes me laugh.

  I love her. Simple as that. And as complicated.

  So I don’t want to see Eileen Pidgeon.

  But I do want to see Martin. A man without friends isn’t really a man. I’ve no idea what that means – but it feels true.

  So I send him a text. The usual text – or what used to be the usual one. Pint? I’m not waiting long; he’s back in twenty seconds. Yep.

  So far, so good.

  I tell the wife.

  –I’m going for a pint with Martin.

  –I’m glad, she says.

  –Yeah, I say. –I texted him.

  –Good, she says.

  She hugs me.

  –You even shaved for the occasion, she says.

  –I did.

  –And you’re wearing your Old Spice, she says.

  –I am.

  She pats my chest.

  –And your Jamie Redknapp shirt.

  –Yep.

  –And you ironed it and all.

  –Yep.

  –To meet Martin.

  –Well, I say. –Like – it feels a bit special.

  –I know, she says, and she kisses me.

  I really, really – true as God – do not want to meet Eileen Pidgeon.

  32

  I push the pub door open.

  No, that’s a mistake. I pull it open. But the point is: I feel like I’m pushing it. I’m a cowboy – a desperado – pushing the swinging saloon doors open with both hands and striding right in. Although I’m guessing that striding successfully would be tricky enough after four days on a horse.

  Anyway, I walk into the local.

  And he’s there, ahead of me. My pal, Martin – the Secret Woman – is sitting exactly where I wanted to see him, one stool to the left of the Guinness tap.

  And he’s alone. He has his phone out, texting – I think. The stool beside him – my stool – is empty. I walk right up and park myself.

  –Alright?

  –Pint?

  –Go on ahead.

  He lifts a finger to Raymond the barman, who goes to the Guinness tap and picks up an empty glass on his way. He’s only three feet away but he leaves us alone. I look around. All is as it should be. Familiar heads, and not too many of them. Tennis on the telly – no one watching it.

  Martin fires off a text and puts the phone in his pocket. He looks at me.

  One thing: Martin doesn’t do smiling. And it’s not because he’s a bit older and has become, like most men our age, facially confusing. And he didn’t stop smiling when his wife died. He’s never been a smiler. He only has the one face, a bit like Buster Keaton. You have to know him well to know when he’s happy or amused. It’s in the shoulders; he sits up or stands straighter – becomes a taller man.

  Anyway, he looks at me.

  –I hate this time of the year, he says.

  And that gets us on our way. He means the lack of football. We’re miserable in the summer and have always enjoyed being miserable together. We fill the hungry months with transfer rumours, the Dubs, the holidays, the state of the world and, occasionally, the state of ourselves.

  We don’t talk about Greystones or Eileen Pidgeon. We don’t even mention Greystones or Eileen Pidgeon.

  We practise the pronunciation of the players our teams – I’m Man United; he, God love him, is Chelsea – might be buying during the summer.

  –Bakayoko.

  –Is it not Bakayoko?

  –No, I think it’s Bakayoko.

  –Is he French or what?

  –He’s French.

  –And he’s good?

  –Brilliant.

  –You’ve seen him play?

  –No. But he’s brilliant.

  For a while we say nothing at all. And that’s grand too; we’re men who are happy in our silence. He picks up his pint. I pick up mine.

  –Good pint tonight, he says.

  –Yeah, I answer.

  The pint is good – the same – every night. But we like to remind ourselves that we’re veterans of the Bad Pint Wars. We grew up with stories of bad pints, bad pubs, vomiting, hospitalisations, pints so dreadful the drinkers were hallucinating for weeks after, waking up in Korea after going to the jacks; tales of evil landlords emptying slop trays into Guinness kegs, when every pint was a potential near-death experience. It was our Vietnam.

  I put my pint back down.

  –Adequate.

  He puts his down.

  –Yep.

  I know she’s there before I see her. Eileen Pidgeon has just sashayed into the saloon – sorry, pub. It’s a fact before I know it. Because of Martin’s face.

  He smiles.

  For the first time in the decades I’ve known him, his face – well, it transforms. Buster Keaton becomes Cary Grant – or Cary Grant’s da. I’m sitting beside a stranger. And a handsome stranger – the bastard.

  I turn, and Eileen is already sitting on the stool beside me. She’s not actually on it but she’s getting there; she’s negotiating it, hoisting herself like a determined toddler.

  That’s not fair.

  Eileen had a hip replacement a few years back – I read that on her Facebook page – and, taking that into consideration, she’s up on the stool like Nadia Comaneci on the beam. If I had a card and a marker, I’d give her a 9.7.

  I’m stuck between them – sandwiched between them.

  I look at him. I look at her. I look at him.

  –Charlie, she says.

  I look at her.

  –How are you, pet?

  –Grand, I say.

  I look away.

  Pet?

  I can’t cope with this. One minute I’m having a quiet
pint with my best friend, the next I’m in the Rover’s Return, in a scene from Coronation Street, one of those dramatic ones just before the ads, when someone’s going to get thumped. That’s what it feels like. No one’s going to hit me but I still feel like I’ve just woken up in the middle of a shite drama. I half-expect the Corrie music.

  But I look at Martin. I mightn’t be happy but – Christ now – he is.

  33

  There are things that we give up on as we get older, and things that give up on us. Eyesight, hair, self-respect; they all walk out the door. Memory strolls out too, and it leaves the door wide open.

  But it’s not all bad. Take blushing, for example. I used to be a shocking blusher, the redner king of the Northside. I couldn’t lie with any sort of aplomb; I was hopeless. I could come up with a good porky, no bother – there was nothing wrong with my imagination. But I couldn’t deliver it. My cheeks, my whole face, my neck would be scarlet before I’d finished talking, before I’d even started. I was my own lie detector. My ears would actually hurt, they got so hot.

  There’s one lie I remember particularly well. I was seventeen and my mother had just smelled bottled Guinness off my breath.

  –I was just tasting it for Kevo’s granda, I told her. –His taste buds are gone so he asked me to check it for him.

  It was a good lie, I thought. I’d have believed it, myself. At least I’d have given it serious consideration, before pronouncing sentence and booking the executioner.

  But my mother was looking at me turning into Poolbeg Lighthouse in a Thin Lizzy T-shirt and elephant flares. I was announcing the lie as I was making it up.

  So I gave up telling fibs; there was no point. I composed some good ones for my brothers and sisters.

  –Here, Charlie. I’ll be staying out all night, so I need two good lies and a verifiable alibi.

  It was a good little earner for the last few years of school – fifty pence a porky. But, really, I yearned to tell my own lies. But I couldn’t. I blushed well into my thirties.

  I remember when it stopped. I told the wife her hair was lovely and she believed me. The hair was a disaster; she looked like your man from Kajagoogoo.

  –What d’you think? she asked.

  She was terrified.

  –It’s lovely, I said.

  The terror dropped off her face. And my own face – I could feel it; it wasn’t hot. My blushing days were over and I could lie with impunity.

  –It accentuates your cheekbones, I told her.

  I had no idea what that meant but she was all over me for days.

  I never expected to blush again. And I didn’t – until now.

  Eileen Pidgeon has just sat on the stool beside me. My pal, Martin, is on the other side. One minute I was chatting about the football, the next I’m the spare prick at the wedding.

  And my face goes on fire. It’s not just my imagination. I can see myself in the mirror behind the bar. I’m the same colour as the Man United jersey – and not their away jersey. I start scratching my neck. There are fire ants starting to nest right under my chin; they’re digging in and stinging like bejaysis – that’s what it feels like.

  But the lovebirds don’t seem to notice. They’re chatting over my head.

  –Did you get anything interesting in town?

  –Ah no, not really – just the usual, you know.

  –Grand.

  Is it possible to be mortified and bored at the same time?

  –I got us a couple of lasagnes from Marks and Sparks, she tells him.

  –Brilliant.

  –And strawberries.

  –Ah, massive, he says. –I love a good strawberry.

  A minute ago we were analysing some of the world’s best football talent. Now he’s writing poetry about soft fruit.

  The man is clearly in love.

  It’s unbearable. I’m going to have to leave. I’m in the way. There won’t be enough lasagne for three. Anyway, I’ve already had lasagne today and I made it myself – none of your shop-bought shite.

  I feel homeless – even though I’ll be going home.

  –Are you having a drink, love? he asks her.

  Love?

  –Ah, no, she says. –I just came in to say hello to Charlie.

  She kisses me on the cheek – I’m burning again – and slides down off the stool. Then she gathers up her bags.

  I’ve hardly looked at her. But I look at her now. I think I smile. She definitely does.

  –See you later, pet, she says to Martin.

  –Yeah, seeyeh.

  I watch her leave, and turn to him.

  –Yis are living together?

  –Tuesdays and Thursdays, he says.

  –It’s Wednesday, I tell him.

  –I know, he says. –But I didn’t have the heart to tell her.

  He smiles.

  –Thanks for introducing us, by the way.

  It only occurs to me now: that’s what I actually did. And, I’m not sure why, but it makes me happy – kind of.

  –Does she know you identify as a woman? I ask him. He stares at me now.

  –I told her, yeah.

  –And she’s fine with it?

  –Yeah, he says. –I think it’s why she couldn’t wait till Thursday.

  34

  The holidays used to be easier. They were nearly always disastrous; I’m not denying that. But they were more straightforward. You went into Joe Walsh or Budget Travel just after Christmas and got their brochures. You went home and sat with the wife until she decided where you were going. Then you went back in the next day, got into the queue and booked it.

  Done.

  You’d seen a photograph of the outside of the apartment in the brochure. You knew it would be ‘a two-minute walk’ from the beach and five minutes on the bus from the ‘old’ town. Disappointment was inevitable – ‘That was the longest two minutes of my life; I’ve worn a hole in my fuckin’ espadrilles’ – but that was part of the package. You could sit around the pool, if there actually was a pool, and give out.

  We’re good at that, the Irish, having a laugh at our collective bad luck. We never really minded when we discovered that the apartment was miles from the beach, or that it wasn’t even in Spain. We’d burst our shites laughing as it dawned on us that the locals weren’t speaking Spanish. As long as we got badly scorched and at least one of the kids had to be rushed to the local hospital, we were happy enough. Just as long as we had a good story to bring home with us.

  –I was sitting on the jacks all of the second week.

  –That’s gas.

  –Ah now – it was a bit more than gas.

  These days, though, booking a holiday is as tricky as open-heart surgery. I wouldn’t dream of performing surgery on myself or anyone else. I’m not a surgeon or a plumber or a chef, but I’m expected to be my own travel agent. It’s terrifying. One mistake and you’re broke or lost.

  Last year we – myself and the wife, the daughter and her little lad – went to the Algarve. It’s a nice enough spot but it took us five days to get there.

  The wife booked the apartment and that was straightforward enough. We went on an online tour of it – and there it all was, the kitchen, bedrooms, sitting room with a bowl of fruit, a little balcony with a chair.

  –That’ll do us, I said.

  I was standing beside her, looking at the laptop.

  –I don’t know, she said. –It won’t let us see the view from the balcony.

  –More balconies is my bet, I said. –With loads of Paddies waving back at us.

  The problems were planted when she booked the flights. It’s a rule that will never make any sense to me: the more connecting flights, the cheaper the journey. We’d left it late, so a direct flight to Faro was going to cost us an arm and a good bit of a leg. But we could get there for €37 each if we went via Tirana, Prague and Samarkand.

  –Four countries for the price of one, I said. –Brilliant.

  She laughed and booked us.

>   I’ll say just one thing: the full Irish breakfast in Tirana Airport isn’t the best. The Albanians are a proud and hospitable people but they haven’t a clue what to do with a rasher.

  We lost the grandson in Prague Airport and found him just as he was boarding a flight to Chile.

  But anyway, we had four terrific days in Portugal before we had to head home.

  –Never again, said the wife.

  She actually got the words tattooed on her shoulder – in Tirana Airport, during the seventeen-hour stopover.

  So this year we decided to go nowhere. We told the family we were doing the Camino, from Sarria to Santiago de Compostela. But we’re hiding in the house. I had to sneak out last night to get milk but, other than that, we’ve been at home, behind closed curtains, for the last two weeks.

  And it’s been brilliant. We’ve been going through all those programmes we can’t watch when the grandson’s in the house. We’re well into the second series of The Affair. It’s absolutely filthy.

  –Beats the Camino, says the wife.

  And I’m with her.

  We’ve got through all of Game of Thrones and I’ve started calling her Cersei.

  She stares at me.

  –Everyone who isn’t us is our enemy, she says, and takes a bite of the beef and bacon pizza I’m holding out for her.

  Her phone rings.

  It’s the daughter, checking on us.

  –Hi, love, says the wife. –No, no, it’s not too hot today. It’s just nice.

  I get her iPad and turn on the thing we found on YouTube, a gang of nuns saying the Hail Mary in Spanish.

  –I can’t hear you, love, says the wife. –I’ll phone you back when the nuns have passed.

  She throws the phone on the couch.

  We look at each other and howl.

  35

  The world’s in a desperate state. There’s a nut in charge of North Korea and an even bigger nitwit in charge of America. Nuclear war seems inevitable, or death by Brexit. The monotony of that thing – Jesus. Soon, we’ll all just lie down where we are and die of boredom. But the news – terrorist attacks, famines, disasters, intolerance – it’s relentlessly dreadful. Even the good murder stories have become too gruesome for me. Our parents left the world in reasonably good shape but I’ve a horrible feeling we’ll be leaving it in rag order.