by Roddy Doyle
—I speet on them, said Bertie.
—Yeh can’t stop people from comin’ in if they want, said Bimbo.—It’s a pub.
—’Course yeh can, said Jimmy Sr.
—He’s righ’, compadre, Bertie told Bimbo.
—How is he? said Bimbo.—A pub is a pub; a public house.
Leo arrived with Jimmy Sr’s pint.
—Now, said Leo.
—Good man, Leo, said Jimmy Sr.—Fuck me, it looks lovely.
They agreed; it did.
The head of the pint stood higher than the glass, curving up and then flat and solid looking. The outside of the glass was clean; the whole thing looking like an ad. Jimmy Sr tilted the glass a little bit but the head stayed the way it was. They admired it.
—My Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr.—Wha’.
They got down off their stools and headed for an empty table.
—Anyway, said Bimbo.—Anyone should be able to come into a pub if they want.
—No way, said Jimmy Sr.
They sat down at their table and settled themselves in; sank into the seats, hooshed up their trousers, threw the dried-up, twisted beermats onto the table beside them—they were dangerous.
There wasn’t much of a crowd in.
—Come here, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr.—Do yeh think annyone should be allowed in here? Annyone now?
—Eh—, said Bimbo.
He didn’t want to answer, but he had to.
—Yeah.
—Then what’s Malcolm doin’ outside then?
He had him.
—In the fuckin’ cold, said Jimmy Sr.
—Si, said Bertie.—Poor Malcolm.
—He’s gettin’ well paid for it, Bimbo told Bertie.
Then he got back to Jimmy Sr.
—That’s different, he said.—He’s only there to stop messers from comin’ in. He’s not goin’ to stop them just cos he doesn’t like them.
—Me bollix, said Jimmy Sr.—How does he tell tha’ they’re messers?
He had him again.
—He can tell.
—How?
—Si.
—Ah look it, lads, said Bimbo.—Anyone - not messers now, or drug pushers or annyone like tha’ - annyone tha’ behaves themselves an’ likes their pint should be allowed in.
They could tell by the way he spoke and looked at them that he wanted them to agree with him; he was nearly begging them.
—No way, said Jimmy Sr.—No fuckin’ way.
Bertie agreed.
—Si, he said.
—Ah; why not?
—Look it, Jimmy Sr started, although he hadn’t a breeze what he was going to say.
—Compadre, Bertie took over.
He sat up straight.
—Say we go into town, righ’; we go into town an’ we try an’ get into one o’ those disco bars, righ’?
—Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.
—Would we be let in, would yeh say? Bertie asked Bimbo.
—I wouldn’t want to go into one o’ them, said Bimbo.
—Answer me question, said Bertie.
Bimbo thought about it.
It wasn’t the pints Jimmy Sr loved; that wasn’t it. He liked his pint - he fuckin’ loved his pint - but that wasn’t why he was here. He could do without it. He was doing without it. He only came up about two times a week these days, since he’d been laid off, and he never missed the drink, not really. Every night at about nine o’clock - when he heard the News music - he started getting itchy and he had to concentrate on staying sitting there and watching the News and being interested in it, but it wasn’t the gargle he was dying for: it was this (he sat back and smiled at Bimbo); the lads here, the crack, the laughing. This was what he loved.
—Well? Bertie said to Bimbo.
Being on the labour wouldn’t have been that bad if you could’ve come up here every night, or even every second night, and have got your batteries charged. But there you were; he’d a family to feed and that. He was only here now because one of his young fellas had given him a fiver.
—I wouldn’t say we’d get in, said Bimbo.
—I agree with yeh, said Bertie.—The hombres at the door would tell us to vamoose an’ fuck off. And—
He picked up his new pint.
—they’d be right.
He disappeared behind his pint. Jimmy Sr and Bimbo waited for him.
—Now, said Bertie, and he was looking at Bimbo, —why would they be righ’?
Jimmy Sr loved this.
Bimbo took up his pint, and put it down on the mat again.
—I give up, he said.—I don’t know.
—Yeh do know, said Bertie.—It’s because we’ve no righ’ to be there. Amn’t I righ’?
—Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.
—Disco bars aren’t there for the likes of us, Bertie told Bimbo.—They’re for young fellas an’ signoritas. To go for a drink an’ a dance an’ wha’ever happens after, if yeh get me drift.
They laughed.
—It’s not our scene, said Bertie.
He swept his open hand up and across from left to right, and showed them the room.
—This is our scene, compadre, he said.
—Fuckin’ sure, said Jimmy Sr.
Bertie was really enjoying himself. He pointed the things out to them.
—Our pints. Our table here with the beermat under it stoppin’ it from wobblin’. Our dart board an’ our hoops, over there, look it.
He stamped his foot.
—Our floor with no carpet on it. Our chairs here with the springs all stickin’ up into our holes. We fit here, Bimbo, said Bertie.—An’ those fuckers over there should go upstairs to the Lounge where they fuckin’ belong.
—Ah well, said Bimbo after he’d stopped laughing.—I suppose you’re righ’.
—Oh, I am, said Bertie.—I am.
—Yeh are, o’ course, said Jimmy Sr.—Come here but, Bertie. You were in one o’ them before, weren’t yeh? In a disco bar.
—I was indeed, compadre, said Bertie.
—Were yeh? said Bimbo.—Wha’ were yeh doin’ in one them places?
—Watchin’ the greyhound racin’, said Jimmy Sr.
—Yeh know wha’ I mean, said Bimbo.—Don’t start now.
—Wha’ d’yeh think he was doin’ there, for fuck sake? Bimbo ignored him.
—Excuse me, Bertie, he said.—Why were yeh in the disco bar?
—There was nowhere else, Bertie told him.
He waited.
—Wha’ d’yeh mean?
—There was nowhere else to go cos all the other canteenas were shut; comprende?
—No. Not really.
—I got into Limerick after—
—Limerick!?
—Si.
—Wha’ were yeh doin’ there?
—Ah now, said Bertie.—It’s a long story, an’ it doesn’t matter cos it’s got nothin’ to do with the disco bar.
—Yeah, but why were yeh in Limerick? Jimmy Sr asked him.
—You’re beginnin’ to annoy me, compadre, said Bertie.
—I was only askin’, said Jimmy Sr.—My round, lads.
—No, hang on, Jim, said Bimbo.—I’ll get this one.
—It’s my round but.
—You’re alrigh‘, said Bimbo.—Don’t worry ’bout it. Bimbo stood up so that Leo could see him.
—No, hang on, said Jimmy Sr.—Sit down.
—Not at all, said Bimbo.—You’re alrigh’.
—Sit down!
Bimbo didn’t know what to do.
—I’ll buy me own round, said Jimmy Sr.—Righ’?
People were looking over at them, and wanting something to happen. Leo was at the end of the bar, ready to jump in and save the glass.
Bimbo sat down.
—O’ course, Jim, he said.—No problem. I just —Sorry.
—You’re alrigh’, said Jimmy Sr.
He patted Bimbo’s leg.
—Sorry for shoutin’ at yeh, he said.—But I’ll pay me own way, alrigh�
��.
—Yeh’d better, said Bertie.
Jimmy Sr smiled.
—Sorry, Jimmy, said Bimbo.—I didn’t mean—
—No, Jimmy Sr stopped him.
He stood up.
—Three nice pints here, Leo!
He had a look at his watch on his way back down: he was safe; there wouldn’t be time for another full round.
—Wha’ were yeh doin’ in a shaggin’ disco bar? Bimbo asked Bertie.—Of all places.
—He told yeh, said Jimmy Sr.
—No, said Bimbo.—He didn’t; not really. He only said he was in Limerick.
—Correction, said Bertie.—I told yeh, there was nowhere else to go to.
—Why was tha’?
—Jesus, he’s thick, Jimmy Sr told Bertie.
—Everywhere else was shut, Bertie told Bimbo.—By the time I got my burro corralled an’ I’d thrown a bit of water on me face an’ dusted me poncho it was past closin’ time; comprende?
-Yeah, said Bimbo.
—So, said Bertie.—There was this disco bar in the hotel—
—Did yeh stay in a hotel? Jimmy Sr asked him.
—Si.
—Jaysis, wha’.
—Nothin’ but the best, said Bertie.
—Was it dear?
—Twenty-six quid.
—Are yeh serious? said Bimbo.—For the one night only?
—Oh, si.
—My God, said Bimbo.—Breakfast?
—Ah, yeah, said Bertie.—’Course.
—Was it one o’ them continental ones, Bertie? Jimmy Sr asked him.
—Fuck, no, said Bertie.—I speet on your continental breakfast. A fry.
—Lovely, said Bimbo.—Was it nice?
—Atrigh’, said Bertie.
—That’s gas, said Bimbo.—Isn’t it?
—Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.
—Bertie bein’ in a hotel.
—I still want to know wha’ he was doin’ in fuckin’ Limerick, said Jimmy Sr.
—Now, Leo shouted from the bar.
—That’s me, said Jimmy Sr.
He was up and over to the bar in a second.
—Wha’ was it like, an’annyway? Bimbo asked Bertie.
—What’s tha’?
—The disco bar.
—Oh, tha’. Grand. It wasn’t too bad at all.
Jimmy Sr was back.
—Get rid o’ some o’ them glasses there, Bimbo, will yeh. Good man.
He lowered the pints onto the table.
—Look at them now, wha’.
—Tha’ man’s a genius, said Bimbo.
—Si, said Bertie.
—How come they let yeh in? Bimbo asked Bertie.
—What’s this? said Jimmy Sr.
—The disco bar.
—Oh, yeah.
—I was a guest, compadre, Bertie told Bimbo.—I was entitled to get in.
—Is tha’ righ’?
—Si. I made a bit of an effort.
He held the collar of his shirt for a second.
—Know wha’ I mean?
—Yeh brasser, yeh, said Jimmy Sr.
—Fuck off, you, said Bertie.—I’ll tell yeh one thing. It works.
—Wha’?
—Makin’ the effort. Dressin’ up.
Jimmy Sr made his face go sceptical.
—I’d say it does alrigh’, he said.
—I’m tellin’ yeh, said Bertie.
—Maybe, said Jimmy Sr.
Bimbo was a bit lost.
—He’s tryin’ to tell us he got off with somethin’, Jimmy Sr told him.
—Ah no, said Bimbo.—You’re jokin’.
—He is, o’ course, said Jimmy Sr.
—I’m sayin’ nothin’, said Bertie.
Bimbo was looking carefully at Bertie, making sure that he was only messing. Bimbo didn’t like that sort of thing; Bertie was married. But he thought he was having them on; he could tell from Bertie’s face, looking around him like he’d said nothing. He was definitely codding them.
Bertie caught Bimbo looking at him.
—A big girl, she was, he told him.
—Ah, get ou’ of it, said Bimbo.
Jimmy Sr was looking at Bertie as well. He was the same age as Bertie, a few years older only. Bertie hadn’t got off with any young one in Limerick; he could tell. But he kept looking.
Jimmy Sr was having problems with one of his laces. The knot was tiny and his fingernails weren’t long enough to get at it properly. He’d have to turn the light on; he could hardly feel the knot now it was so small. He’d no nails left either, all bitten to fuck.
—Christ!
He didn’t roar it or anything, but it exploded out. And he threw his head up because his neck felt like it was going to burst. He was sitting on the bed, bent over.
His nails usen’t to be like this.
He tried to pull the fuckin’ shoe off. His neck was getting sorer. He shut his eyes.
—Is that you?
Now he’d woken Veronica.
—Can’t get me fuckin’ poxy shoe off.
But it was good that she’d woken up. He slumped, then stretched and rubbed his neck.
—Sorry, he said.
—How was it?
—Grand.
—How are all the lads?
She always said Lads like they were kids, like he went out to play with them.
—Grand, he said.—Bimbo was askin’ for yeh.
—And what did you tell him?
—Eh—
That was a hard one.
—I said yeh were fine, said Jimmy Sr.
—Did you cross your fingers when you said it?
—Ah, Veronica.
—Ah, Jimmy.
It was alright; she wasn’t getting at him.
—I’ll have to get into bed with the fuckin’ shoe on; look.
Veronica sat up and turned on the lamp beside her.
—What’s wrong? she said.
—Me shoe; look it.
She looked.
—Can you not tie your laces properly yet?
And she put his foot in her lap and got going on the knot. He nearly fell off the bed turning for her.
—You’re useless, she said.—You really are.
For a split second he was going to straighten his leg quick and put his foot in her stomach, the way she spoke to him like that; for a split second only. Not really.
—There.
She had it done already.
It was nice as well sometimes, being mothered by Veronica.
—Thanks very much, he said.
He got up with the rest of them in the mornings, even though he didn’t have to; got dressed and all. Only Darren and the twins had to get out of the house early these days, and not that early because the school was only up the road, but it was still mad in the kitchen. He liked it though. He knew chaps that wouldn’t bother their arses getting up, and wives as well who stayed in bed and let their kids get themselves off to school. He wasn’t like that.
First thing, after he had a piss, he sneaked into Sharon’s room and took Gina out of her cot. She’d be waiting for him. It was thick, but he held his breath when he was opening the door until he saw that she was still alive. Every morning; he couldn’t help it. She grabbed his neck and the two of them sneaked back out of the room because they knew that they weren’t to wake Sharon.
Then they’d hit the twins’ room. Veronica stuck her head in and roared at them on her way down to the kitchen and his and Gina’s job was to follow Veronica and make sure that they were getting up.
—Yis up, girls?
It was a stupid question because they never were. He’d put Gina down on the bed and she jumped on them and that made them stop pretending that they were still asleep. It was like having a bag of spuds hopping on you. Once, Gina’s nappy had burst, and that had got them up quick. When he heard Linda or Tracy telling Gina to stop he got out of the room because they didn’t like him to be there when they got out from under the blanke
ts.
He went downstairs by himself. He looked into the front room to see that Darren was up. He didn’t look in really; he just knocked. Darren had been sleeping in the front room since they’d decided that Sharon needed a room of her own, for Gina. It was terrible; there were two less in the house - Jimmy Jr and Leslie - and still poor Darren had to sleep on the couch. They’d been going to build an extension in the back; he kept meaning to find out if the Corporation would do it.
This morning Darren was coming out when Jimmy Sr got to the door.
—Howyeh, Darren.
—Howyeh.
—Y‘alrigh’?
—Yeah.
—Good. Did yeh tidy up the blankets an’ stuff yet?
—Yeah.
—Good man.
He got out of Darren’s way and let him go into the kitchen first. Next he unlocked the back door and let Larrygogan in. The fuckin’ hound had a hole bored through the door nearly, from scraping at it every morning to get in, and whining. But Veronica never let him in; she didn’t seem to hear him. Jimmy Sr had watched her sometimes when the dog was crying and whining outside—it was fuckin’ terrible, like a baby being tortured or something—but Veronica didn’t notice it; he’d watched her.
When he opened the door the dog was all over him, hopping around him; thanking him, Jimmy Sr sometimes thought. The dog was no thick. He could nearly talk, the noises he made sometimes when he wanted a biscuit or a chip. He didn’t just growl; he had different growls that he used, depending on how badly he wanted something, and whimpers and other stuff as well. And sometimes he just looked at you—just looked - and you couldn’t help thinking of one of those starving kids in Africa. He was a great oul’ dog, Larrygogan was.
—Ah Christ!
His fuckin’ paws were wet, and dirty. He jumped at Jimmy Sr again. Jimmy Sr grabbed the dog’s legs just before they landed on his trousers.
—Get his towel, Darren, will yeh.
—Okay, said Darren.
Jimmy Sr looked out the open door while Darren was getting him the dog’s towel from under the sink. It was pissing out there, and cold. Not real wintery cold, but the stuff that got inside you and made every room in the house seem miserable, except the kitchen when it was full. The poor dog was wringing, like a drowned rat; half his normal size because his hair was all stuck to him. He barked. Then he shook himself. His back paws started slipping on the lino, so Jimmy Sr let go of his legs.
—Here.
Darren threw the towel to Jimmy Sr.
—Good man, said Jimmy Sr.
He opened the towel - it was manky but dry - and got ready to dry the dog’s back, and this was the bit the dog loved. Jimmy Sr dropped the towel and missed Larrygogan by a mile because Larry was in under the kitchen table, sliding and barking.