The Deportees

by Roddy Doyle

  —King Robert.

  Jimmy did well; he didn't laugh or even smile.

  —Will you have a pint, Your Majesty?

  No smile from your man.

  —Yes.

  —Guinness?

  —Exactly.

  Jimmy ordered the pint from the Latvian-looking barman who'd joined the Portuguese-looking one. The place was getting busy, beginning to nicely hop. Jimmy turned back to King Robert.

  —Your English is very good, by the way.

  —As is yours, Mister Rabbitte. You speak it like a native.

  And now Jimmy stared at him.

  —I will now sing, said King Robert.

  And it happened. After the births of his kids and maybe, just maybe, the third time he'd ever had sex, this was the best, the most fantastic fuckin' moment in Jimmy's life. A black man standing six inches from him opened his mouth and sang 'Many Rivers to Cross'. Jimmy died and went straight up to heaven.

  And when he came down back to Dublin three days later he had the rough makings of a band. He had King Robert on vocals. The man was probably mad, but he'd bought his round and he'd sung 'Many Rivers to Cross' so well and convincingly that, for three great minutes, Jimmy had forgotten that the nearest river to them was actually the Liffey.

  He had a drummer from Moscow; Jimmy had his name written down somewhere – a student in Trinity. He'd played for Jimmy over the phone. An hour later, he had a girl from New York who'd said she could play the bass, preferred guitar, sounded gorgeous over the phone, and promised him that she wasn't white.

  —D'yeh like The Corrs? he asked her.

  —No, I do not.

  —You're in, said Jimmy.

  —That it?

  —Yeah, said Jimmy. —As long as you're on the level about not being white.

  —I have got to say, she said. —This is not a conversation I have had before.

  —Welcome to Ireland, love, said Jimmy.

  So, three down, eleven or twelve to go. Jimmy was beginning to see and hear the band. And the phone kept hopping.

  —Droms.

  —Sorry, pal, you're too late. We already have a Russian drummer.

  By the end of the fourth day, post-King Robert, he'd added a djembe drummer from Nigeria, and another singer, a young one from Spain.

  —What was her voice like? said Aoife.

  —Don't know, bitch. But her name is Rosalita.

  —So what?

  —Springsteen wrote a song about her.

  —Did she tell you that?

  —No, said Jimmy. —I told her.

  Aoife's laugh had little sharp corners on it.

  —I'm only messing, said Jimmy. —Her name's Agnes.

  And Aoife went to sleep.

  The latest addition, half an hour ago, while he was lying here on the bed, was a guitarist from Roscommon.

  —D'yeh like The Corrs?

  —Fuckin' hate them, boy.

  —D'you like black music?

  —Fuckin' love it, boy. Not the rappin' though; fuck that.

  Jimmy lay beside Aoife. He was buzzing, way too excited. He wouldn't sleep.

  But he was well gone, fast asleep, when the phone rang, the mobile on his chest, where he'd parked it after he'd recruited your man from Roscommon.

  Aoife was digging him with her elbow.

  —Jimmy!

  —Wha'?

  The phone, he heard it.

  —Jesus; sorry.

  It must have been two or three in the morning.

  —Hello? said Jimmy.

  Nothing.

  —Hello?

  —Nigger lover.

  —Who is it? said Aoife.

  Nothing else. No more words. Just the horrible space at the other end of the line, and someone waiting there.

  Jimmy turned it off.

  —Who was it?

  —Just a playback message; sorry.

  —For God's sake.

  —Sorry.

  Aoife was asleep again.

  But Jimmy wasn't.

  6 Finger-Food

  Jimmy did nothing about the phone call. Yeah, he was furious and a bit scared, but he didn't know what to do about it and he didn't want it interfering with him. He hoped, half decided that it wouldn't happen again. It was just some creep out there, killing the night. But he made sure that the kids never had the phone, to be on the safe side.

  —My phone! said Mahalia.

  —Mine, love, said Jimmy. —Daddy needs it for his work.

  —Want it!

  The doorbell went, thank Christ, and he escaped.

  The phone was still hopping, three weeks after he'd put up the posters. The Hot Press ad was out there catching fish as well. And the local word was out: Jimmy Rabbitte was forming a group. They were coming to the door.

  This time it was a kid, a young fella of about fifteen.

  —Yeah? said Jimmy.

  —Can I be in your band?

  —What's your name?

  —Pedro.

  —No, it isn't, said Jimmy. —It's Wayne. I went to school with your da.

  —Can I be in it, annyway?

  —Sorry, said Jimmy. —Tell your da I was askin' for him.

  He shut the door.

  The bell again.

  Pedro again.

  —D'yeh want to buy a wheelie-bin?

  —No, thanks, Wayne.

  A nice kid.

  —D'yeh want to help with the equipment? said Jimmy.

  —Serious? said Wayne.

  —Yeah.

  —Ah, thanks, m'n.

  —No problem, said Jimmy.

  He liked to see enterprise in the young; it was a great little country. And he was having a ball.

  There'd been no more midnight phone calls.

  He was driving Marvin to a match in Malahide when he saw the Romanian. More importantly, he saw the accordion on the Romanian's back. A guy about his own age, selling the Big Issue's Irish edition at the traffic lights in Coolock, strolling down the line of cars when the lights were red. Jimmy rolled down the window.

  —Want to join a band? he said.

  —Want to buy a magazine? said the man.

  —If I buy one, will you join the band?

  —For sure. My son, too.

  He pointed at a kid walking another line of traffic.

  —Plays trumpet. Very good.

  —Fair enough, said Jimmy. —Hang on till I park the car.

  —What about the match? said Marvin.

  He was changing into his gear in the back of the car.

  —We've loads of time, said Jimmy.

  And he was right. He signed up the two Dans, father and son, and Marvin won two-nil; he didn't score but he passed the ball to the fella who passed it to the fella who scored the second one.

  It was weird, thought Jimmy that night. He was lying in bed; the phone was off. If it had been an Irishman with an accordion, he'd have run him over. Up to the moment he saw it on Dan's back, he'd hated accordions, everyone and everything to do with accordions. But Dan had played his, a Romanian jig or something, on the side of the road, just down from the Tayto factory, and Jimmy had loved it. He'd left the Dans with his number, their number in his pocket, and the promise that he'd contact them in the next couple of days.

  —I'm thinking of getting all the band together, said Jimmy, now.

  —Fine, said Aoife; she was drifting off to sleep.

  —Here, said Jimmy.

  —Fine.

  —I thought, maybe, we'd have some finger-food, said Jimmy.

  —Fine.

  —So, said Jimmy. —Will you handle that department, or—

  She screamed.

  —Or I can go to Marks and Spencer's, said Jimmy. —No bother.

  —Jimmy!

  —Yes, bitch?

  —The baby!

  —What baby?

  —The bay-beee!

  —Oh Jesus! The baby. Is it comin', is it?

  —Yes!

  —It's a bit early.


  —Jimmy!!

  —Right, love; I'm in control.

  And he was. Head clear of the band, accordions, tours of the world and the midlands. He phoned his parents, checked on Aoife. She was staying in the bed, less jumpy now that they were getting ready to go to the hospital. He put on the kettle, packed her bag, flew around the bedroom and bathroom as she told him what she did and didn't need. What did she want with a hair-dryer, for fuck sake? But he packed it, said nothing.

  His parents arrived.

  —Did you get your remote control fixed? said his da.

  —Shut up, you, said his ma.

  They watched at the door as Jimmy helped Aoife into the car.

  —Don't worry about anything here, said his ma.

  Aoife smiled out at them, and they were on the road to the Rotunda.

  —How're yeh doin'? said Jimmy.

  —Okay, said Aoife.

  —It's alright, said Jimmy. —I can cancel the band meeting.

  He was grinning when she looked at him.

  —Aretha if it's a girl, he said.

  —No way, said Aoife. —Andrea. FORGIVEN, NOT — Oh, Christ; Jimmy! Stop the car!

  Here?

  Fairview.

  —Stop!

  —It's only up the road!

  —Stop!!

  7 The Tracks of My Tears

  Smokey was born right under the pedestrian bridge in Fairview. And thank Christ for mobile phones. The head was well on its way – TAKE A GOOD LOOK AT MY FACE – when Jimmy heard the ambulance and suddenly he felt confident enough to deliver the baby himself. The shakes were gone; he was in control, all set to catch the head.

  —Jimmy!

  —Right here, love.

  —Jimmy!

  —Looks like a boy from here, love.

  But the lads in the ambulance hopped out and took over and, with her arse hanging over the bus lane, Aoife gave the one last shove and Jimmy was spot on: it was a boy. A beautiful, red, cranky boy, already giving out shite about the state of the public health service. There wasn't room for Jimmy to get in at Aoife, to hug and adore her, but he laughed and whooped and hopped over the park railings. He waved at the kids up on the pedestrian bridge.

  —What is it? yelled one of them.

  —Boy!

  —Ah, nice one. Well done, Mister.

  —No problem, said Jimmy.

  And he meant it. He was a da again, a father, and it was just fuckin' wonderful, what he'd always wanted, what he was on earth for. Marvin, Jimmy Two, Mahalia and now this one, delivered by Jimmy himself, more or less, another boy, another star – Smokey.

  —Brian.

  —Wha'? said Jimmy.

  —Brian, said Aoife ...

  They were in the back of the ambulance, on their way to the Rotunda.

  Fair enough, Brian was her father's name, and he was sound. But, Brian? As the ambulance took a sharpish right onto the North Circular and sent Jimmy flying and the baby squalling, he ran through his Stax, Chess, Hi and Atlantic albums, mentally flicking through all of them, but, for the life of him, he couldn't find a Brian, not a drummer or a sound engineer, not even a fuckin' sleeve designer.

  But he said nothing.

  They made it to the Rotunda. Smokey was checked and weighed. Seven pounds, no ounces.

  —A fine boy, said the Filipino midwife.

  —Can you sing? said Jimmy.

  —Jimmy, said Aoife.

  But she was smiling at him as she fell asleep.

  It was four in the morning. AND ONCE MORE THE DAWNING JUST WOKE UP THE WANTIN' IN ME-EE, Jimmy sang it to himself as he walked out onto Parnell Square. A great song that. The first country song he'd ever liked. By Faron Young. Faron Young. Not Brian Young.

  But it was all great. The seagulls were up, and no one else. He had the world to himself. He'd left the car in Fairview; he'd walk.

  His phone rang in his pocket. That would be his da. He flipped it open.

  —A boy, he said.

  He recognised the absence of voice, remembered it too late.

  —Nigger lover.

  And Jimmy dropped, he actually fell to the path, and cried. He couldn't stop. He was exhausted, angry, hopeless. He cried. He couldn't explain it, not really. Just some sick bollix, getting his life from his late-night calls, a sad bastard with nothing and no one else, but Jimmy couldn't help it, he couldn't stop. That evil out there, on a night like this. He looked at the windows across the street. He searched.

  The phone rang again. It was his own number this time.

  —Well?

  His da.

  —Boy, seven pounds, said Jimmy.

  —Grand, said his da.

  —I'm on my way home, said Jimmy.

  —No hurry, said his da.

  Jimmy felt better. He walked to O'Connell Street.

  The phone again. His da again. Jimmy knew the routine.

  —What I really meant to ask was, will you get us a bottle of milk on your way back?

  —No problem, said Jimmy. —Seeyeh.

  It used to irritate him, the absolute certainty that his father would come back with the last say, sometimes funny, often not, but always certain. It used to really get on Jimmy's wick but he'd copped on a few years back, when his own kids started arriving: it was love.