The Snapper

by Roddy Doyle

  —She’s a fuckin’ lyin’ bitch, said Yvonne.—I don’t care wha’ yeh say.

  Jimmy Sr was in the kitchen. So were Sharon and Veronica. Veronica wished she wasn’t.

  So did Sharon.

  —D‘yeh expect us to believe tha’? Jimmy Sr asked her, again.—Yeh met this young fella. Yeh—yeh clicked with him. An’ yeh went to a hotel with him an’—an’ yeh can’t even remember his fuckin’ name.

  —I was drunk I said, said Sharon.

  —I was drunk when I met your mother, said Jimmy Sr. —But I still remember her name. It’s Veronica!

  —Don’t shout, said Veronica.

  —Ah look, I was really drunk, said Sharon.—Pissed. Sorry, Mammy.

  —How do yeh know he was Spanish then? said Jimmy Sr.

  He had her.

  —Or a sailor.

  He had her alright.

  —He could’ve been a Pakistani postman if you were tha’ drunk.—Well?

  Sharon stood up.

  —Yis needn’t believe me if yeh don’t want to.

  There wasn’t enough room for her to run out so she had to get around Jimmy Sr’s chair as quick as she could. Jimmy Sr turned to watch her but he didn’t say anything. He turned back to the table.

  —Wha’ d’yeh think? he asked Veronica.

  Veronica was flattening the gold paper from a Cadbury’s Snack—she always had a few of them hidden away from the kids for when she wanted one herself—with a fingernail.

  —I think, she said,—I’d be delighted if the father was a Spanish sailor and not George Burgess.

  —God, yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Why don’t you leave her alone then?

  —Wha’ d’yeh mean, Veronica?

  —If she says he was a Spanish sailor why not let her say it?

  —An’ believe her?

  Veronica shrugged.

  —Yeah.

  —I don’t know, said Jimmy Sr.—It’d be great.—If she’d just give us a name or somethin’.

  —Does it matter?

  —Wha’?—Maybe you’re righ’.

  He stood up.

  —Fuck it annyway.—I’ll, eh, give it some thought.

  —You do that, said Veronica.

  Tracy stayed at the bedroom door. She had something she had to ask Sharon.

  She got it out.

  —Sharon, sure the baby won’t look like Mister Burgess?

  —Aaah! No, he won’t! He’s not the daddy, Tracy; I told yeh.

  She eyed Tracy.

  —Who said that annyway?

  —Nicola ’Malley, said Tracy.

  —Well, you tell Nicola ’Malley—to fuck off.

  They grinned.

  —I did already, said Tracy.

  —Good.

  —An’ I scraped her face as well.

  -Good.

  —An’ Linda scribbled all over her sums.

  Sharon laughed.

  —Brilliant.

  They were nearly finished talking about Bertie’s shirt and tie and jacket and why he was wearing them. He’d done a mock interview that afternoon.

  —He said he‘d’ve given me the job if there’d been a real job goin’, Bertie told them.

  —Did he say yeh did annythin’ wrong? Paddy asked him.

  —Yes, indeed. He said I’d have to stop scratchin’ me bollix all the time.

  They laughed, but Jimmy Sr didn’t.

  —Jimmy, said Bertie.—Compadre mio.

  —Wha’?

  —I just said somethin’ funny. Why didn’t yeh laugh?

  —Sorry, Bertie. I wasn’t listenin’.—I was just lookin’ at the soccer shower over there. I think they were laughin’ at me.

  —Ah cop on, will yeh, said Paddy.

  —No; they were, said Jimmy Sr.—Lookin’ over, yeh know, an’ laughin’.

  —No one’s laughin’ at yeh, said Bertie.

  —Not at all, said Bimbo.—They’d want to try.

  —Ah sorry, lads.—It’s just—

  —You’re alrigh’, said Bertie.

  Jimmy Sr forced himself to smile. They said nothing for a short while.

  —She says that it was a Spanish sailor now, said Jimmy Sr.—Sharon.

  —So yeh said.

  —Why did Burgess fuck off then? Paddy wanted to know.

  His wife at home wanted to know as well. So did Bertie and Bimbo.

  —That’s it, said Jimmy Sr.—I don’t fuckin’ know. If I knew tha’ I’d be able to—yeh know?

  —He must’ve had some reason, said Paddy.

  —Tha’ doesn’t mean tha’ Sharon was the reason, said Bimbo.—It could’ve been annythin’. Your mot left you for a bit, remember.

  —Tha’ was different.

  —Annyone’d leave him, said Bertie.

  —Fuck off, you, said Paddy.

  —The way I see it, said Bimbo,—just cos Georgie Burgess ran away an’ said he got some young one pregnant an’ Sharon is pregnant, yeh know, tha’ doesn’t mean it has to be Sharon.

  He drank.

  —That’s wha’ I think annyway.

  —Si, said Bertie.

  —Sharon’s a lovely lookin’ young one, Bimbo told Jimmy Sr.—She’d have young lads queuein’ up for her. Burgess wouldn’t get near her. I’d say it was the sailor alrigh’.

  —This hombre, he speaks the truth, said Bertie.

  —A good lookin’ young lad, yeh know, said Bimbo.—A bit different as well, yeh know. Dark an’ tall. An’—

  —Exotic, said Bertie.

  —Exactly, said Bimbo.

  —An’ a hefty langer on him, said Bertie.

  They all laughed, even Jimmy Sr.

  —Christopher Columbus, said Bertie.

  They roared.

  —You believe her, don’t yeh? said Bimbo.

  Jimmy held his glass up to the light so he wouldn’t have to look at Bimbo or the other two.

  —I’d—, he began.

  —Course yeh do, said Bimbo.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.—I suppose I do. I def’ny would if I knew—Veronica says I should believe her whether it’s true or not.

  —She’s righ’, said Bimbo.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.—Yeah. Whose round is it?

  Sharon wasn’t sure, but she thought they’d all swallowed it. It made more sense anyway, the lie; it was more believable. No one would ever have believed that herself and Mister Burgess had—she couldn’t think of any proper name for it—except for she was pregnant and Mister Burgess had told Missis Burgess that he’d got a young one pregnant. But everyone would easily believe that she’d got off with a Spanish sailor.

  So it made more sense. But she knew this as well: everyone would prefer to believe that she’d got off with Mister Burgess. It was a bigger piece of scandal and better gas. She’d have loved it herself, only she was the poor sap who was pregnant. Yeah definitely, Sharon and Mister Burgess was a much better story than Sharon and the Spanish sailor.

  So that was what she was fighting against; Barrytown’s sense of humour. She’d keep telling them that it was the Spanish sailor and they’d believe her alright, but every time they thought about Mister Burgess with his trousers down and pulling at her tits and watering at the mouth they’d forget about the Spanish sailor.

  She should have given him a name. It was too late now. Anyway, her daddy would have been down to the Spanish embassy looking for his address then.

  She hated this time of the day, when there weren’t enough customers and some of the girls on the check-out had to do the shelves. She was straightening the ranks of shampoo and then she was going to do the same with the soap so she wouldn’t have to bend down too much because they were on the middle and top shelves.

  She’d keep at it anyway, telling them about her Spanish sailor. She was sorry now she hadn’t thought of this earlier, before Mister Burgess ran away and started writing letters to everyone. It was a pity. None of this would have happened then.

  —Ah cop on, Sharon, she told herself.
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  It was a good idea and it was working. Jackie believed her. Jackie said Mary believed her as well. Her mammy believed her. She wasn’t so sure about her daddy. But she’d keep at him, telling him until she believed it herself. She’d have loved that, to believe it herself.

  She’d been noticing all the Spanish students that were always upstairs on the buses at this time of year. They looked rich—their clothes were lovely—and snotty. There were a lot of fat ones. But most of them had lovely skin and hair. Black eyes and black hair.

  Sharon was fair. Mister Burgess was—pink and white. His hair was like dirty water.

  Maybe she should have said it was a Swedish sailor.

  Too late now.

  She’d have to start eating polish or something.

  She grinned although she didn’t really feel like it. The shampoos were done and now she crossed the aisle to the soap.

  —Fuck it annyway.

  The Palmolives were nearly all gone and Simple section was empty. She’d have to fill them and that meant she’d have to bend down.

  It wasn’t fair on the lads either, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo at his gate a few nights later, after closing time.

  —I should stay at home maybe.

  —Don’t be thick, said Bimbo.

  Jimmy Sr reckoned they’d been talking about him. He knew it. Nothing surer. Let’s be nice to Jimmy. He’s having it rough. Don’t mention babies or Burgess or Sinbad the fuckin’ Sailor. It was terrible. He’d had a good one tonight about a young lad getting up on an oul’ one but he couldn’t tell it. They’d have laughed too loud.

  —They’re just bein’, eh, considerate, said Bimbo.—It’ll pass.

  —I suppose you’re righ‘, said Jimmy Sr.—But I felt like a leper tonigh’ the way they were smilin’ at me.

  —Bertie an’ Paddy wouldn’t smile at a leper, Jimmy. Cop on now. They just see that you’re not the best these days so —It’ll pass. It’ll pass. They’re just bein’ nice.

  —I don’t like them nice. I prefer them the other way; bollixes.—Did yeh see the way the other shower were gawkin’ over at me?

  —Ah Jaysis, Jimmy.—You’re not startin’ to get sorry for yourself, are yeh?

  —Go home to bed, you.

  —I will.

  He yawned.

  —Nigh’ now, Jim.

  —Good luck.

  —See yeh.

  Jimmy Sr had chips for Veronica but they were cold so he ate them on the step, looking across at the Burgess’s, and then he went in.

  It was Thursday night and Sharon was going upstairs after work. Jimmy Jr was coming down.

  —Howyeh, Larry, said Sharon.

  —Ah, don’t start, Sharon.

  —How’s the practice goin’?

  —Shite, to be honest with yeh. The tape sounds woeful. I sound like a fuckin’ harelip.—I’m thinkin’ o’ gettin’ elocution lessons.

  Sharon screamed.

  —You!

  —Yeah; why not. Don’t tell Da, for fuck sake.

  Sharon laughed. Jimmy grinned.

  —It’d be worth it, he said, still grinning.

  —How much?

  —Don’t know. I’m only thinkin’ about it. Don’t tell him but; righ’?

  —Don’t worry, said Sharon.

  Sharon had asked about him and listened so Jimmy thought he’d better ask about her, and listen.

  —How are yeh yourself an’ annyway? he said.

  —Grand.

  —Gettin’ big, wha’.

  He nodded at her belly.

  —Yeah, said Sharon.

  —Does it hurt?

  —No!—I do exercises for the extra weight an’ tha’.

  —Yeah?

  —Yeah. Sometimes only.

  —Nothin’ wrong then?

  -No. Not really.

  —D’yeh get sick?

  -No. Not annymore.

  —That’s good. I was in bits meself this mornin’.

  —Were yeh?

  —Yeah. The oul’ rum an’ blacks, yeh know.

  —Oh Jesus.

  —I know. Never again. I puked me ring; Jesus. And me lungs. The oul’ fella was batterin’ the door.—Come here, d‘yeh eat annythin’ funny?

  —No.

  —I saw yeh eatin’ tha’ long stuff; what’s it—celery.

  —That’s not funny.

  —S’pose not. Never ate it.

  —It’s nice.

  —Mickah’s ma ate coal when she was havin’ him.

  —Jesus!

  —He says annyway. She said she used to nibble it when no one was lookin’.

  —That’s gas

  Jimmy looked at his watch. It wasn’t there.

  —Bollox! I’ve left me watch in work again.

  —I’m goin’ to me check-up tomorrow, Sharon told him.

  —Yeah?

  —Yeah. Me second one, it is.

  —That’s great. I’m—

  —Not a complete physical this time. Thank God. It took fuckin’ ages the first time, waitin’. They even checked me heart to see if I have a murmur.

  She didn’t know why she was telling Jimmy all this. She just wanted to.

  —I’d a murmur once, said Jimmy.—But a lorry splattered it.

  —Ha ha. Anyway, it’s at eleven.

  —Wha’?

  Sharon looked at the ceiling.

  —Me antenatal check-up, yeh simple-head yeh.

  —Oh yeah. That’s great.

  He looked at where his watch usually was.

  —Meetin’ the lads, yeh know. See yeh, righ’.

  —Yeah. See yeh.

  He stopped a few steps down.

  —An’ come here, he said.

  He was reddening a bit.

  —Abou’ Burgess bein’ the da an’ tha’.

  —He’s not!

  —I know, I know tha’. No; I mean—IF he was.

  —He’s not.

  —I fuckin’ know. Will yeh shut up a minute. —There’s people tha’ still say he is, righ’.

  He was getting red again.

  —An’ they’ll prob’ly always say it.—I couldn’t give a shite who the da is. D’yeh know what I mean?

  —Yeah.—Thanks.

  —No; I wanted to say tha’. An’ the lads couldn’t give a fuck either.

  Sharon grinned.

  —Mickah says it’s great.

  Sharon laughed.

  —He says there’s hope for us all if fuckin’ Burgess can—

  —Jimmy!

  They laughed.

  —Seriously, Jimmy, though, said Sharon.—They don’t really think it was him, do they?

  —No, not really. It’s just, yeh know—funnier.

  —Yeah.

  —Good luck.

  He had the door open.

  —Jimmy.

  —Wha’?

  Sharon looked over the landing rail.

  -How. Now. Brown. Cow.

  —Fuck off, said Jimmy Jr.—You’re the only brown cow around here.

  —Thanks very much!

  —I’m not takin’ this, said Jimmy Sr.

  He pushed his chair back and stood up and walked away, towards the bar.

  —What’s he on abou ? Bimbo asked Bertie.

  —Don’t know, compadre, said Bertie.

  They got up to follow Jimmy Sr.

  —These are reheats, Jackie complained, but she kept eating them.

  —Mine aren’t too bad, said Sharon.—Look it. That’s a lovely one.

  She held up a huge, healthy-looking chip.

  —Come here, said Jackie.—I wouldn’t mind seein’ tha’ on a young fella.

  -Jesus, Jackie!

  They screamed laughing.

  They were going across the Green to Jackie’s house. It hadn’t rained in ages so the ground was nice and hard.

  —I shouldn’t be eatin’ these, said Sharon.

  —Wha’ harm can they do yeh?

  —They’re all fat an’ things. I don’t know; things that’ll
clog me up, I can’t remember.—She asked me did I eat chips an’ tha‘, your woman this mornin’.

  —None of her fuckin’ business.

  —Yeah. I said I didn’t. Ah, she’s nice though. She says I have the right kind o’ nipples.

  —Lezzer.

  —Ah stop; for breast feedin’. Me blood pressure’s grand.

  —I’m very happy for yeh.

  —Fuck off, you.

  They got to Jackie’s gate.

  —Come here, Jackie, said Sharon.—Did Yvonne say annythin’ else about me?

  They’d been talking about Yvonne Burgess before they bought the chips.

  —Only; she said you led him on.

  —God, said Sharon.—Poor Yvonne. Still, I’ll break her head for her if I see her.

  —Yeh know wha’ else though? said Jackie.—She said he paid yeh.

  —He did, said Sharon.

  Then she laughed.

  Jackie looked at her, and then she laughed as well.

  —I’m pissed, d‘yeh know tha’, said Sharon.

  She patted the lodger.

  —He’s playin’ fuckin’ tennis in there.

  —He’s prob‘ly eatin’ your chips, said Jackie.

  —Yeuuh; stop.

  Jackie remembered what she’d wanted to ask Sharon earlier but she’d been a bit afraid to. Now, with a few vodkas inside her, she was still afraid but it was easier.

  —Come here, Sharon, she said.—Why didn’t yeh tell me earlier? Yeh know; abou’ your sailor.

  —Aah. I don’t know—

  Sharon couldn’t tell her the truth: because I only made it up a few days ago and you ARE the first person I told. Or the realler truth: because we’re not that close; or weren’t anyway.

  —I just—I was too embarrassed. Sorry; I should’ve.

  —No, it’s okay. I was only—

  —Here, I’ll tell yeh the next time, righ’.

  They screamed again, but quieter because people were in bed.

  Jimmy Sr came in with a bloody nose. The blood was dry and there wasn’t much of it but it was there to be seen. He put a brown paper bag with grease marks down on the table.

  Veronica took off her glasses and scooped up the loose sequins and poured them into a tobacco tin. She put the lid on the tin. Then she saw Jimmy Sr and his nose.

  —Where in the name of God did you get that?