by Roddy Doyle
—He’s righ‘, said Paddy.—I had to buy my one a Crunchie before she’d let me ou’ tonigh’.
Bertie addressed Bimbo.
—Don’t misunderstand me, compadre, he said.—Not just women. All men are brassers as well.
—I’m no brasser, chum, said Jimmy Sr.
—Fuck up a minute, said Bertie.—Wha’ I’m sayin’ is, is tha’ everyone has his price.
—Ah, is that all? said Bimbo.
—If you think—, said Jimmy Sr.
He was talking to Bertie.
—If you think tha’ you can just walk into the shop an’ put the money on the counter there an’ Mandy will drop her—
—Watch it, Jimmy, here’s Darren.
—Here’s the cavalry, lads, said Bertie.
—Make room there, will yis, said Darren.
—Certainly, certainly.
They got all the dead glasses and put them on the table behind them, so Darren could put the tray on their table.
—D’yeh know Mandy from the Gem, Darren? said Bertie.
Jimmy Sr tried to kick him but he got Bimbo instead, but not hard.
—Yeh, said Darren.—Mandy Lawless.
—Nice, isn’t she?
—She’s alrigh’, yeah.
—Keep the change, Darren, said Jimmy Sr.—Good man. Darren took the money and counted it.
—You’re a pound short, he told Jimmy Sr.
—Is tha’ right’? said Jimmy Sr.
He’d never get rid of him before Bertie opened his mouth again. He gave Darren a fiver.
—Yeh can pay me back later, he told him.
—No, said Darren.—I have it here.
Ah sufferin’ Jesus!
But Bertie said nothing, and Paddy didn’t either. He was looking around him, looking for something to moan about.
—There y’are, said Darren.
Jimmy Sr took the notes and left the silver and copper in Darren’s hand.
—Good man.
—Thanks very much, Da.
—No problem.
—I’ll tell yis though, said Jimmy Sr when Darren was gone.—Yis should see his mot. Darren’s mot.
—Is she nice? said Bimbo.
—Lovely, said Jimmy Sr.—Fuckin’ lovely.
—Go ’way. That’s great.
—Miranda, her name is.
—Oh I like tha’, said Bertie.—Mirr-andaah. Si; very nice. Is she a big girl, Jimmy?
—She’s a daisy, said Jimmy Sr.
—An’ you’re a tulip, said Paddy.
—Fuck off, you, said Jimmy Sr.
—Lads, lads, now, said Bertie, and he leaned forward to get between Jimmy Sr and Paddy as if to break up a fight, even though there wasn’t one.—Birds in their little nest, said Bertie.
—Wha’ abou’ them? said Paddy.
—They agree, said Bertie.—Righ’?
Paddy didn’t argue with him.
—Now, said Bertie.—If yeh had, say, a thousand quid, righ’—
They sat up. They loved these ones.
—An‘, Bertie continued,—yeh knew for a fact tha’ the most gorgeousest woman - now, the best fuckin’ thing yeh’d ever seen in your life, righ’. An’ yeh knew for a fact—
Bimbo started laughing.
—Shut up, you.—Yeh knew for a fact tha’ she’d let yeh get up on her if yeh gave her it, the money. Would yis give her it?
—All of it? said Jimmy Sr.
—Si, said Bertie.
He looked around at them. They were thinking about it, even Bimbo.
—Wha’ would she give me for half of it? Paddy asked him.
They roared.
—Where is it? said Jimmy Sr.
They were outside in the carpark, watching poor Bimbo getting sick. He was finished now, for the time being anyway. But he still looked very pale around the gills.
They’d been the last to leave; out of their trees, especially poor Bimbo. He could hardly talk. Darren had been giving the air a few squirts of Pledge, to let the manager think he’d done the cleaning.
—Tan ver muh, Darr-n, Bimbo’d said, and that was as much as he could manage.
They were outside now.
—Oh God, said Bimbo again, for about the thousandth time.
—You’re alrigh’, said Bertie.
—Terrible waste o’ fuckin’ money tha’, said Paddy.
He was looking down at what had come out of poor Bimbo.
Jimmy Sr had to agree with Paddy.
—Still though, he said.—He got the good ou’ of it.
—True, said Paddy.
Jimmy Sr didn’t feel too bad at all, considering he was out of practice. He was swimming a bit. He’d had to hold on to the wall there when he thought he was going to fall. He was pleased with himself though.
Bimbo straightened up.
—Are yeh alrigh’ now, son? Bertie asked him.
—He is, o’ course, said Jimmy Sr.—Aren’t yeh?
Bimbo didn’t say anything for a bit. Then he spoke.
—Yeah.—Yeah—
—Are we goin’ or wha’? said Paddy.
The plan was, they were all going down to the seafront with a couple of sixpacks. They’d decided this after Paddy had been complaining about all the kids that were down there every night.
—All ages, he’d told them.—Polluted out of their heads.
—That’s shockin’, Bimbo’d said.
And then Bertie’d said that they should go down there themselves after they were flung out of the boozer, and that was where they were going now. So—
—Are we goinV or are we? said Paddy.
—Lead the way, compadre, said Bertie.
—Ah, I don’t—, said Bimbo.—I don’t know if—
—Come on for fuck sake, said Jimmy Sr.—The fresh air will fix yeh.
—There—, said Bimbo.—There’s nothin’ wrong with me.
—Come on then, said Jimmy Sr.
—Are - Hey, lads, said Bimbo.—Are - are we goin’ on a boat?
—Will yeh listen to him, said Paddy.
Bimbo started singing.
—Ah shite! said Paddy.
—WE COME ON THE SLOOP JOHN B—
—Ah si, said Bertie.
He liked this one, so he joined in with Bimbo.
—ME GRAN‘FATHER AN’ ME—
—Where’s it gone? Jimmy Sr asked Paddy.
—Wha’?
—The chipper van, said Jimmy Sr.
—Wha’ about it?
—Where is it?
—I don’t know!
—LET ME GO HOME—
LEHHHHH’ ME GO HOME—
—I want some fuckin’ grub, said Jimmy Sr.—Shut up, will yis.
And then he joined in.
—I FEEL SO BROKE UP—
I WANNA GO HOME—
They were finished. Bimbo looked much better. He started again.
—BA BA BAH—
—Hang on a minute, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr.
—BA BARBER ANN—
—Shut up!
Jimmy Sr nearly fell over, the shout had taken so much out of him.
—We’ve no fuckin’ chipper, he told them.
—That’s righ‘, said Bertie.—I thought there was somethin’ missin’ alrigh’.
There was always a van outside the Hikers, not just at the weekends either; always.
It wasn’t there tonight though. Bimbo looked up and down the road for it, and behind him.
—He must be sick, said Bimbo.
—He must’ve eaten one of his own burgers, said Bertie.
—What’ll we do? said Jimmy Sr.
—No problem, amigo. We’ll go to the chipper.
He meant the real chipper, the one not on wheels; the one over the Green between the Gem and the place where the Bank of Ireland used to be.
—No, way, said Jimmy Sr.
He shook his head and nearly went on his ear again.
—What’s wrong with yeh? said Bertie.
—WEEHHL—
THE WEST COAST FARMERS’ DAUGHTERS—
—Shut up, Bimbo.
—The chipper’s down there, said Jimmy Sr.—Righ’?
—Eh—si.
—An’ the fuckin’ seafront’s up there, said Jimmy Sr.
—Si.
—So there’s no way I’m goin’ all the way down there, then all the way back up here again.
—Paddy’ll go for us an’ we’ll wait for him.
—I will in me brown, said Paddy.
They sat on the carpark wall.
—May as well liberate these an’ annyway, said Bertie,—wha’.
He got his sixpack out of its paper bag.
—While we’re makin’ up our minds. Alrigh’, Bimbo?
—Yes, thank you.
—Annyone got an opener?
—I fuckin’ told yeh we should’ve got cans, said Paddy. —I told yeh.
—Fuck off.
—The cans don’t taste as nice, said Jimmy Sr.
—Si, said Bertie.—Correct.
He stood up and put the neck of the bottle to the edge of the wall.
—Let’s see now, he said.
He tried to knock the cap off the bottle.
—You’re goin’ to break it, said Paddy.
—Am I? said Bertie.
He lifted the bottle and held it out so the froth ran over his hand but not onto his clothes.
—Well done, Bertie, said Jimmy Sr.
—There y’are, Bimbo, said Bertie, handing him the opened bottle.
—My turn next, said Jimmy Sr.
—Do your own, said Bertie.
He put the top of the bottle to the edge of the wall, then pulled it down but he missed the wall and scraped his knuckles and dropped the bottle.
—Shite!
—Watch it.
A Garda car was crossing the road towards them.
The guards didn’t get out but the passenger opened his window.
—What’s goin’ on here?
Bertie took his knuckles out of his mouth.
—We’re waitin’ on your wife, he said.
Paddy started whistling the Laurel and Hardy music. Jimmy Sr nudged him but Paddy didn’t stop.
—None of your lip, said the garda to Bertie.
Jimmy Sr didn’t like this sort of thing.
Bertie went closer to the car and leaned down. He held his top lip.
—This one? he said.
Then his bottom lip.
—Or this one.
Paddy stood up now as well.
Bimbo whispered to Jimmy Sr.
—Do we know—know his wife?
Jimmy Sr didn’t know what he’d do if the cops got out of the car. He’d never been in trouble with the guards, even when he was a kid; only through Leslie.
The driver spoke.
—Mister Gillespie.
Bertie bent down further and looked past the passenger.
—Buenas noches, Sergeant Connolly, he said.
Bimbo got down off the wall and started picking up the broken glass.
—You’re looking grand and flushed, said Sergeant Connolly.
—That’s cos we’ve been ridin’ policemen’s daughters all nigh’, Sergeant, said Bertie.
Jimmy Sr wanted to get down and run.
Paddy leaned down beside Bertie to see the faces on the gardai. He hacked, like he was getting ready to spit, but the passenger didn’t budge. He wouldn’t even look at him.
Sergeant Connolly spoke.
—You wouldn’t know anything at all about a small bit of robbery of Supervalu in Baldoyle this afternoon, Mister Gillespie? he asked Bertie.—Would you, at all?
—Yeah, said Bertie.—I would.
—What?
—They got away, said Bertie.
The sergeant laughed. Jimmy Sr didn’t like it.
—You can come over to me house now an’ search it if yeh like, Bertie told the sergeant.
—We already did that, said the sergeant.
The passenger grinned.
—Wha’ are you fuckin’ grinnin’ at? said Paddy.
Bertie moved forward a bit and crowded Paddy out of the way.
—Did yeh find annythin’? he asked Sergeant Connolly.
—Not really, said the sergeant.—But tell your lovely wife Thank you, will you, like a good man.—I forgot to thank her myself. Good night now. Safe home.
The car moved away from the kerb and back across the road, and around onto Chestnut Avenue.
—The cunts, said Paddy.
—Where’s there a bin? said Bimbo.
—Over here, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr.—Look it.
He took Bimbo’s arm and made him come with him. He wanted to get home - and get Bimbo home - before the cops came back.
—See yis, he told Bertie and Paddy.
—Where’re you goin’? said Paddy.
—Home, said Jimmy Sr.—I’m knackered.
—Good nigh‘, compadre, said Bertie.—Here; bring one o’ the sixpacks here, look it.
—No, said Jimmy Sr.—No, thanks, you’re alrigh’. See yis.
He wanted to get the fuck home. He couldn’t handle that sort of thing at all. He didn’t want the guards thinking anything about him. And Bimbo; the two of them not working and that. Your man, Connolly, would start thinking that they were working for Bertie. And they’d raid the fuckin’ house or something. Veronica—
—Are we goin’ home, Jimmy? said Bimbo.
—Yeah.
—Good.
The next couple of weeks were great. He had to admit that. If he’d been looking for someone to be made redundant it would have been Bimbo. That didn’t mean that he’d wanted Bimbo to get the sack; not at all. What he meant was this: he couldn’t think of better company than Bimbo, and now that Bimbo wasn’t working he could hang around with Bimbo all day. It was fuckin’ marvellous.
He didn’t think he was being selfish. At first - during the first week or so - he’d felt a bit guilty, a bit of a bollix, because Bimbo was so miserable and he was the opposite. He couldn’t wait to get up and out in the mornings, like a fuckin’ kid on his summer holliers. But he didn’t think that way any more. Because he was helping Bimbo really. He wasn’t denying that he was delighted that Bimbo wasn’t working—not that he’d told anyone—but he didn’t have to feel bad about it because, after all, he hadn’t given poor Bimbo the sack and he’d never even wished it. And if Bimbo ever got his job back or got a new one he’d be the first one to slap him on the back and say Sound man. And he’d mean it as well.
But Bimbo was sacked; it was a fact. He was hanging around doing nothing. And Jimmy Sr was hanging around doing nothing, so the two of them might as well hang around and do fuckin’ nothing together. Only, with the two of them, they could do plenty of things. Playing pitch and putt by yourself on a cold March morning could be very depressing but with someone else to go around with you it could be a great bit of gas. And it was the same with just walking along the seafront; and anything really.
Jimmy Sr hadn’t felt bad, really bad, in a while; not since before Christmas. He hadn’t felt good either, mind you; just - settled. Now though, he felt good; he felt happy. Bimbo was helping him and he was helping Bimbo. The day after the night they’d got locked—the day after Bimbo’d been sent home—Jimmy Sr called for him and took him out for a walk. Maggie patted Jimmy Sr’s arm when he was going out the front door. It was a Saturday, a day when Bimbo would have been at home anyway, but he could tell that Bimbo didn’t think it was an ordinary Saturday. He had a terrible hangover as well. But the walk had cheered him up and Jimmy Sr took him into Raheny library and got him to fill in a card and he showed him what books were where.
On Monday, the first real day, Jimmy Sr called for Bimbo at nine o’clock and made him come out for a game of pitch and putt. He had to threaten to hit him over the head with his putter if he didn’t get up off his hole but he got him out eventually. He even zipped up his anorak for him. And
/> Maggie filled a flask for them, which went down very well cos it was fuckin’ freezing. They gave up after six holes; they couldn’t hold the clubs properly any more because they’d no gloves, but they enjoyed themselves. And Jimmy Sr showed Bimbo what was wrong with his swing. He was lifting his head too early. They watched a bit of snooker in the afternoon, and played Scrabble with Sharon until Gina upended the board, the bitch, when they were looking at something in the snooker.
On Wednesday - it was pissing all day Tuesday—Jimmy Sr brought Bimbo into town. Bimbo had only been on the DART a couple of times before, so he enjoyed that. And some little cunt flung a stone at their carriage when they were going past the hospital in Edenmore, and that gave them something to talk about the rest of the way; that and the big new houses off the Howth Road in Clontarf that were so close to the tracks the train nearly went through them.
—Imagine payin’ a fortune to live tha’ close to the tracks, said Jimmy Sr.
—Thick, said Bimbo.
Jimmy Sr pointed out the houses he’d plastered.
He brought Bimbo up to the ILAC Centre and he got a young one behind the counter to put a programme about volcanoes on the telly and they watched a bit of that. They went for a cup of coffee, after Jimmy Sr had taken out a couple of books and he’d explained to Bimbo about the computer strip yokes inside the books and on Jimmy Sr’s card and how the young lad at the check-out only had to rub a plastic stick across them to put the names of the books beside Jimmy Sr’s name inside in the computer. They still stamped the date you had to bring them back by the old way.
They went for a coffee downstairs. The coffee was lovely there but Bimbo had insisted on having tea. He could be a cranky enough little fucker at times. Jimmy Sr was going to make him have coffee - because it WAS lovely - but then he didn’t. They looked out at what was going on on Moore Street. They enjoyed that, watching the oul’ ones selling their fruit and veg and the young ones going by. They saw a kid—a horrible-looking young lad—getting a purse out of a woman’s bag. He’d done it before they knew what they were seeing, so there was nothing they could do. The woman didn’t know yet either. She just walked on along, down to Parnell Square, the poor woman. The kid had probably done it to get drugs or something. They didn’t say anything to each other about it. It made Jimmy Sr think of Leslie.
—Taste tha’ now, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr.
He held his mug out for Bimbo to take. Bimbo took it, and sipped.
—There. Isn’t it lovely?
—Oh, it is, said Bimbo.—It is, alrigh’.