Charlie Savage

by Roddy Doyle

  Anyway. Here I am. Nearly half a century later, and Eileen Pidgeon is standing right in front of me.

  –Why are we here, Eileen? I ask her.

  It sounds like a line from a film, even if I don’t sound like the actor who should be delivering it.

  –We’ll have a drink first, Charlie, she says.

  And fair enough; I’m forgetting my manners.

  –Where’s Martin? I ask her.

  –He’s at home with his football, she says.

  –Does he know you’re here?

  –No.

  Oh – Jesus.

  –So, I say. –Why are we here?

  My heart is in my head; I’m sure the whole pub can hear it.

  –I want to talk to you about Martin, she says.

  She puts her hand on my arn.

  –I love him so much, Charlie.

  Ah, Jaysis.

  47

  The daughter’s an amazing young one, really.

  I mean, all the kids and grandkids are amazing. It’s the only proper way to look at them.

  I remember years ago, one of the sons broke one of the neighbour’s windows. The neighbour, Typhoid Mary, came charging in and she walloped me with her zimmer when I opened the door. I sorted the glass and put it in, myself. I was up on the ladder; it was a godawful windy day; I was hoping the putty would be as handy to use as it looked; and I was trying not to look too carefully into Mary’s bathroom, especially at the seal in the bath – I swear to God – staring back out at me. But all I could think was, ‘Jesus, that child’s aim is brilliant.’

  Another time, another of the sons came in from school and told us he’d failed an exam.

  –How come? I asked him.

  –It was stupid, he said.

  It was the way he said it: I knew he was right. The exam was stupid and I gave him fifty pence for failing.

  So. All my life I’ve tried, like the song, to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative. And when it comes to the family I’ve never had to try. It’s official: everyone belonging to Charlie Savage is brilliant.

  Anyway.

  Then there’s the daughter. ‘Brilliant’ doesn’t capture that young one; it doesn’t come near. And I don’t think it’s because she’s the youngest and the only girl, after a rake of boys.

  –How many boys is it we have?

  –You’re gas.

  –I’m serious.

  –Four, Charlie. We have four sons.

  –Thanks.

  I am the father of four sons – four men. That fact fills my chest. It’s as if the boys are my vital organs – my heart, my lungs, my kidneys, and the rest. Don’t ask me which boy is which organ. I don’t mean it literally and it’s not a conversation I’d ever want to hear myself having, even on my deathbed.

  –Which organ am I, Da?

  –The bladder, son. You’re the bladder. And I’ll tell you something – you never let me down.

  I suppose what I mean is, I can’t imagine existing if I didn’t have my children and grandchildren. In order of importance, I’d define myself as a father, a man, a Man United supporter, a SuperValu loyalty card holder, and a husband. I’m messing about the loyalty card but I’m dead serious about being a father. It’s the biggest part of me.

  I felt that way long before the daughter arrived. The boys all had their place in behind my ribcage. So, where is she?

  She’s right behind my eyes.

  When I was a kid, I read all the comics – me and the brothers did. The Beano, The Dandy, Sparky, Valiant and The Hotspur. We read them all, over and over. Especially in the bed, when we were supposed to be going asleep. We’d be reading in the dark and thumping one another – that is possible when you’re ten.

  I remember my father’s voice coming up at us through the floor.

  –If I have to go up there, I’ll Desperate Dan yis! We were in stitches, biting our own arms so we wouldn’t laugh too loud.

  But, anyway. There was one cartoon called The Num-skulls – I think it was in The Beezer. It was about these little lads, the numskulls, who lived inside the heads of people and controlled the different compartments of their brains.

  That’s the daughter – although she’s no numskull. But she’s always been behind my eyes.

  I remember the first time she puked on my shoulder.

  –Ah now, will you look at that!

  –Calm down, Charlie, said the wife. –It’s only vomit.

  –I know, I said. –But it’s so precise.

  I had to shut my eyes and keep them shut – I felt so proud, so emotional, so stupid. It was the first time I’d cried at vomit that wasn’t my own.

  The baby looked up at me with a face that said, ‘Deal with that.’ And I did, happily.

  She got right in behind my eyes and she’s been steering me ever since. Or, more accurately, I look at the world through her eyes – or, I try to.

  There’s a woman on the radio. She’s going on about sexual harassment, and she says something about ‘unwanted attention’ from men.

  I come from a line of men who shout at the radio, and I shout now.

  –Some of those wagons should be delighted with the unwanted attention.

  The daughter is in the kitchen. And she looks at me. And she looks at me. And she looks at me.

  I speak first.

  –I’m wrong, I say.

  She nods.

  I know I’m wrong. I know it, I feel it.

  –Sorry.

  She shrugs, and walks out.

  The wife is looking at me. She’s grinning.

  –What?

  –Nothing.

  48

  They’re all in the house, the wife’s family. Her sister, Carmel, and the other sister, Dympna; Carmel’s husband, Paddy, and Dympna’s new partner whose name I won’t bother remembering unless I meet him at least three more times.

  Anyway. There we are. Sitting around the kitchen table, chatting away, having the crack. The food’s been gobbled, the plates are in the dishwasher, the wife is taking the plastic off the After Eights.

  And Carmel is staring at me.

  –What? I say.

  She doesn’t answer, but she nudges the wife.

  –Come here, she says. –Isn’t Charlie a ringer for Dad?

  Then they’re all staring at me, the three sisters – and Paddy.

  –What? I say again.

  I seem to be asking that question on the hour, every hour, these days – and it’s doing me no good. Because the more I ask the question, the less I’m finding out. But I can’t help myself.

  –What?

  It’s not really a question at all. It’s more a cry for help.

  Anyway, they’re still staring at me, the sisters. Paddy, the bastard, is grinning away. Dympna’s chap is demolishing the After Eights, three at a time. I don’t think we’ll be meeting him again.

  –My God, says the wife. –You might be right, Carmel.

  –Yeah, Dympna agrees. –The same head, like.

  She’s passing her phone around; there must be a snap of their da on the screen.

  Paddy sits up.

  –Could be worse, girls, he says. –He could be a ringer for your ma.

  I take my line from the daughter; she has me very well trained.

  –You can’t say that, I tell him.

  –Why not?

  –Well, first of all, I tell him. –They’re not girls, they’re women. Second of all, your comment is totally sexist and unacceptable. And, third of all – fuck off and don’t annoy me.

  None of the women congratulate me. I don’t think they’re even listening. The wife looks a bit pale; she’s staring at the screen, at me, at the screen. Carmel looks a bit confused. Dympna is looking at the black chocolate on the tip of her boyfriend’s nose.

  I have to escape before they decide that I actually am my wife’s father.

  –The jacks, I say.

  And I stand up.

  –I’ll be back in a minute, I say, although I
’m not sure I mean it. I want to get out of the room, out of the house. I want to emigrate.

  But I compromise and just head up to the bathroom. It’s becoming my favourite room. I get in there and I stare in the mirror, at myself.

  The father-in-law is long dead and I can’t really remember what he looked like. I remember his voice – because there was a lot of it. The man would whisper in Dublin and flocks of flamingos would take flight, in Kenya.

  I keep looking in the mirror.

  I seem to be spending a lot of time doing that these days, staring at myself. So the wife says.

  –You’re a bit long in the tooth for vanity, Charles, she said a few days ago.

  –And you’re much too old for sarcasm, I said back.

  She was wrong: it wasn’t vanity – it isn’t vanity. It’s science – I realise that now.

  I go across to our bedroom. The wife keeps some old photos in the locker on her side of the bed. I hate rooting in there. It’s none of my business and I’m always a bit terrified of what I’ll find. Old love letters, new love letters, a flick knife, a moustache – the possibilities are endless and horrible. But I find what I want – a snap of her Da.

  I bring it back to the jacks and I hold it up – I park it beside my face.

  –My God, I whisper, and the flamingos in Kenya give their feathers a shake.

  We’re not exactly peas in the same pod, me and her da. But – there’s no getting away from it – we’re alike.

  I’ll be honest: I feel a bit sick. Was that what she was doing all those years ago, when she grabbed my shoulders, called me an eejit, and kissed me till my head was numb? Was she looking for a man who was going to become her father?

  There’s another photo that has other men in it besides her da. It’s a wedding snap, a line of middle-aged men. I see now: they all look the same. I’ve just become one of them. Paddy downstairs – he looks like them too.

  That’s my discovery: as we get older, we all become the same man. It’s depressing but somehow reassuring. It’s democratic, at least.

  I think of all the women I know and have ever known, and they definitely don’t become the same woman.

  That’s a relief.

  I bounce down the stairs to tell them the news.

  49

  I check to make sure I have everything. I pat my pockets and recite the line my father delivered every time he was leaving the house.

  –My spectacles, my testicles, my wallet and my watch.

  –You’re gas, says the wife.

  She’s smiling.

  Because we’re all set, me and the grandson. We’re men on a mission and we’re heading into town – for the Christmas clothes.

  The Christmas clothes is a tradition that goes right back to the time when the Savages were savages. We had new clothes for Christmas centuries before Christ was even born. The shepherds in the stable were dressed in the rags they’d been wearing for years but one of them, Ezekiel Savage, was wearing a brand new jumper and slacks from the Bethlehem branch of Dunne’s.

  Anyway. It’s just me and the grandson and we’re getting the grandson’s Christmas clobber, with no interference from women. Strictly speaking he doesn’t need the clothes; the daughter has him dressed like Leo Varadkar, stripy socks and all. But it’s tradition we’re talking about here. The Savages, like half of Dublin, always had new clothes for midnight mass.

  There was a chap in my class in school, Terence Halpin, and he wore the Christmas clothes into school after the holidays, and that was what he wore every day – every day – right through the year, until they fell off him. They were the only clothes he had. I remember once – I think we were in second year, in secondary school – he came in after the Christmas holidays wearing a yellow waistcoat. His mother had opted for the waistcoat instead of a jumper. The poor lad was freezing; it was early January. We gave him a terrible time. We called him Tweety, after the bird in the Looney Tunes cartoons. I’d apologise to Tweety – sorry, Terence – if I met him today.

  I actually did meet him about forty years ago. He was with this gorgeous-looking young one.

  –Howyeh, Tweety, I said.

  I couldn’t remember his real name.

  –Fuck off, Shirley, he said back, but I’m betting he could remember my real name. His mott burst out laughing, and I came away feeling happy for him.

  Kind of.

  Anyway.

  It was Shirley Temple, by the way. I had a head of hair that my mother loved and I detested, until I was old enough to shave it off and become Dublin’s least frightening skinhead – and my mother didn’t talk to me for seven years.

  Anyway. The daughter has shown me pictures of some of the clothes she wants for the grandson, and the shops where I can get them – and the credit union where I can arrange the loan. But I ignore her. She wants him ready for The X Factor, but I want him ready for middle-age. He’s getting jeans and a jumper. The jumper will be grey, black or blue.

  Anyway. Here we go. His hand is in my hand. Down Talbot Street, across to Henry Street. I look at what he looks at; I stop when he stops. I’d forgotten that about kids: everything fascinates them. The Christmas lights are on but he’s counting the cigarette butts on the path.

  It takes us three days to get to the Spire. Well, an hour – it’s a journey that would normally take five minutes. He doesn’t notice the Spire when we get there. He’s still looking at the ground.

  So am I.

  –There’s one that’s hardly been smoked, look!

  But he’s moved from butts to chewing gum. He won’t budge off North Earl Street until he’s counted every gob. His concentration is frightening; whoever keeps saying that the young have no attention span hasn’t a clue. He ignores two dreadful choirs, three pissed Santys, four calling birds, and a gang of Italian tourists who seem to be trying to get the statue of James Joyce to talk back to them.

  The day isn’t going as planned but I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.

  Eventually – he stops.

  –Hard ’ork, G’anda!

  –How many was that, love?

  –Un t’ousand, t’ee hundit and nixty–six!

  –My God, I say. –You must be thirsty after all that, are you?

  He nods, and he nods again.

  –We’ll go for a drink, so, I say. –But first we need to get you a drinking jumper.

  He loves that.

  –And d’inkin’ t’ousers!

  –Now we’re talking. Drinking trousers.

  So, off we go again, across O’Connell Street. And now, for the first time, he notices the lights.

  I can feel it, from his hand to my hand – his delight, his excitement. I’m holding his hand but I’m holding all of my children’s hands, and my ma’s hand, and my da’s. I’m holding more than sixty years of living and love, sadness and joy, regret and acceptance.

  –What colour drinking jumper do you want, love?

  –G’ey!

  –Grey?

  Ah Jesus, I’m starting to cry.

  50

  It’s a year since I’ve seen the lads. It’s always a bit hair-raising. Well, it is for me, because I still have stuff on my head that could reasonably be defined as hair. What I mean is, I’m always excited and I’m always a bit worried.

  We meet once a year, us men who grew up together. We’ve been doing it for more than forty years, since we all started going our separate ways – when we left home, got bedsits, mortgages; met women, had kids; emigrated, came back; divorced, remarried, were widowed; had grandkids, great-grandkids; were made redundant, retired; got sick, recovered, or didn’t recover. There used to be six of us. Now there are four. I think.

  We’re meeting where we always meet, in Mulligan’s of Poolbeg Street. Unlike us, Mulligan’s never changes. I can’t see a thing that’s different, except a few of the taps. But the Guinness tap is the one that matters, and it’s exactly where I left it the last time I was in here. I point to it and the barman nods, like he sees me e
very day and not just once a year at Christmas.

  I’m the first to arrive. I always am. I’m unusual; I’m never, ever late. I’ve always been like that. Back in the day when I went to mass, I’d turn up so early for the half-twelve mass that I was actually late for the half-eleven.

  Anyway. The place is busy but there are a few empty stools at the counter. I’m not a big fan of the word ‘perfect’. Everything seems to be bloody perfect these days. I handed the young one in the Spar a baguette and a can of beans this morning and she said, ‘Perfect’. The little grandson showed me dog poo on his football boot, and I said, ‘Perfect’. So, I warned myself to be vigilant – to ban ‘perfect’ from my armoury, unless the thing actually is perfect.

  An empty stool in a full pub qualifies as perfect and I park my less than perfect arse on top of it. Mission accomplished – I’ve established a beachhead. And I don’t have to wait too long for the rest of the Marines.

  First in is Gerry.

  He sees me.

  –For fuck sake!

  Joxer is right behind him.

  He sees us.

  –For fuck sake!

  We’re a gang of oul’ lads but we’re not closed to the lifestyle changes. We hug each other – something we would never have done even a few years back. We get our arms around one another.

  –The state of yeh!

  –Good to see you, man.

  –Ugly as ever.

  –Shag off now.

  I get back up on my stool before it’s kidnapped.

  –Pints? I ask the lads.

  –Good man.

  –Lovely.

  There’s three of us now. We’re waiting for Chester, although we say nothing. Chester lives in England – in Manchester – and he comes over just for the Christmas pints. He used to stay with his parents, then his ma, then one or other of his sisters. They’re all gone now, so he stays the night in one of the hotels out near the airport. There’s no one belonging to him still alive in Ireland. He doesn’t have an email address; he doesn’t do texting. I send him a postcard with the date and the time – every year.