The Barrytown Trilogy (42 page)

—Sorry, Darren; for bargin’ in on yeh ——Oh, hello.

—Hi.

She smiled. God, she was lovely.

He held his hand out to her.

—Darren’s da, he said. —Howyeh.

She blushed a bit; lovely.

—This is Miranda, Darren told Jimmy Sr.

—Sorry, said Jimmy Sr. —I didn’t catch —

—Miranda, said Darren.

—Miranda, said Jimmy Sr. —Howyeh, Miranda.

—Fine, thank you, said Miranda.

—’Course yeh are, said Jimmy Sr.

—Were yeh lookin’ for somethin’ in particular? Darren asked him.

He had one of his smirks on him, one of his they-treat-me-like-a-kid ones. But he was chuffed as well, you could tell.

Jimmy Sr patted him on the head.

—I am indeed, Darren, son, he said. —I’m lookin’ for Gina.

—She’s not here.

—No, that’s true, Jimmy Sr agreed. —But Miranda is, wha’. Bye bye, Miranda.

He shut the door after him. She was a cracker alright. Veronica’d said she was lovely but women always said that other women were lovely and they weren’t; they hadn’t a clue. Miranda though, she was a —

A ride; she was. It was weird thinking it; his son was going out with a ride; but it was true. He could’ve given himself a bugle now, out here in the hall, just remembering what she was like and her smile; no problem.

He’d never gone out with a young one like that.

He went back into the kitchen to tell Veronica he liked her.

* * *

There were days when there was this feeling in his guts all the time, like a fart building up only it wasn’t that at all. It was as if his trousers were too tight for him, but he’d check and they weren’t, they were grand; but there was a little ball of hard air inside in him, getting bigger. It was bad, a bad sort of excitement, and he couldn’t get rid of it. It was like when he was a kid and he’d done something bad and he was waiting for his da to come home from work to kill him. He used to use his belt, the bollix. He didn’t wear a belt; he only kept it for strapping Jimmy Sr and his brothers; under the sink he kept it, a big leather thing; he’d take ages bending over, looking for it and then testing it on the side of the sink and saying Ah yes as if he was pleased with it; and he’d stare at Jimmy Sr and make him stare back and then Jimmy Sr’d feel the pain on the side of his leg and again and again and it was fuckin’ terrible and it was worse if he took his eyes off his da’s eyes, the fuckin’ sadistic cunt, so he had to keep staring back at him; it was agony, but not as bad as the waiting. Waiting for it was the worst part. If he did something early in the day and his mother said she was going to tell his da, that was it; she never changed her mind. He’d go through the whole day scared shitless, waiting for his da to come home, praying that he’d go for a pint first or get knocked down by a car or fall into a machine at work or get a heart attack, any fuckin’ thing.

And that was how he sometimes – often – felt now, scared shitless. And he didn’t know why.

* * *

—Did yeh ever read David Copperfield, Veronica? said Jimmy Sr.

—No, said Veronica.

She was reading Lord of the Flies at the kitchen table.

—Did yeh not? said Jimmy Sr. —Ah, it’s very good.

The best thing he’d ever done was give up on that Man in the Iron Mask fuckology.

—Look at the size of it but, he said. —Eight hundred pages. More. Still though, it’s the business. There’s this cunt in it called Mr Micawber an’, I’m not jokin’ yeh – D’yeh want to read it after me, Veronica?

Veronica finished the note she was taking, about Piggy getting his head smashed. She knew what he wanted her to say.

—Okay, she said.

—Do yeh? said Jimmy Sr. —Fair enough. I’d better finish it quick so. I’ve to bring it back to the library on the twenty-first of December.

He checked the date.

—Yeah, he said.

—We’ve loads of time, said Veronica.

—’Course we have, said Jimmy Sr.

He was delighted. He didn’t know why, exactly.

—Do you want this one when I’m finished with it? Veronica asked him.

—Okay, said Jimmy Sr. —That’s a good idea. A swap, wha’.

—Yes, said Veronica.

He looked at her reading and stopping and taking her notes. He wondered if maybe he should take notes as well. He sometimes forgot what —

No; that would just have been thick; stupid.

—I’ll go up an’ get a few more chapters read before the tea, he told Veronica.

—Grand, said Veronica.

* * *

—They’re stupid fuckin’ things annyway, said Jimmy Sr.

—Ah – I know, but —

Veronica wasn’t convinced.

Jimmy Sr picked up one of the cards.

—For instance, he said, —look at this one, look it. Dessie an’ Frieda; they only live around the fuckin’ corner, we see them every fuckin’ day!

Veronica’s face was the same.

—Annyway, said Jimmy Sr. —It’s you says tha’ we can’t send any, not me.

Veronica’s face hardened. Jimmy Sr got in before she could.

—You said we can’t afford them, he said. —I don’t mind.

—We can’t afford them, said Veronica.

—There, said Jimmy Sr. —Yeh said it again. We can’t afford them. So we won’t send any. ——So wha’ are yeh whingin’ abou’? It’s your idea.

Veronica sighed. She just looked sad again.

—That’s not fair, she said.

—How is it not fair? Jimmy Sr wanted to know. —How is it not fair!?

Veronica sighed again.

—How!?

—You’re blaming me, said Veronica.

—Yeah, said Jimmy Sr. —An’ you’re blamin’ me.

—What d’you mean? said Veronica.

—Yeh are, said Jimmy Sr. —You’ve decided tha’ we haven’t the money to buy Christmas cards an’ you’re probably righ’. But then you put this puss on yeh ——It’s not my fault we’ve no fuckin’ money for your fuckin’ Christmas cards!

—I never said it was.

—No, but yeh looked it; I have eyes, yeh know.

He stood up.

—Ah, Jimmy —

—Ah, nothin’; I’m sick of it; just ——fuck off!

* * *

Jimmy Sr was holding a bottle of Guinness. He had a can of Tennents in his other hand and an empty glass between his knees, so he was having problems. That was the worst thing about not being at home; just that; you weren’t at home, so you couldn’t do what you wanted. You had to watch yourself.

He was in Bimbo’s house.

If he’d been in his own gaff he wouldn’t have been sitting like this, like a gobshite, too far back in the armchair – he couldn’t get out of the fuckin’ thing because his hands were full. He didn’t want to put the can or the bottle on one of the arms of the chair because the wood was at an angle like a ski jump and very shiny; he could smell the polish. And Bimbo’s kids were flying around the place, in and out, like fuckin’ – kids. And this fuckin’ tie he had on him, it was killing him; it was sawing the fuckin’ neck off him. It was the shirt, a new one Veronica’d given him; she said he’d put on weight. It wasn’t fuckin’ fair: he was drinking far less but he was getting fuckin’ fatter. She said he was anyway. She’d probably said it because it was either that or admit that she’d bought him the wrong size of a shirt. Anyway, he was fuckin’ choking and he couldn’t loosen the poxy tie because his fuckin’ hands were full —

Jesus tonight!

It was Christmas morning. They did this every Christmas, went to one of their houses and had a few scoops before the dinner. It was good; usually. He wasn’t sure, but he had a good idea that it was really his and Veronica’s turn to have the rest of them in their house; he wasn’t sure. Bimbo had just said, Will yis all be comin’ to our place for your Christmas drinks? a few days ago and Jimmy Sr hadn’t bothered saying anything because there was no point; they hadn’t the money to buy the drink for them all.

They’d only a few cans for themselves at home, and Jimmy Jr was bringing some more. He was supposed to be anyway.

He leaned forward as far as he could go and put the Tennents on the floor; he could just reach it. That was better. Now he could organise himself a bit better. He rescued the glass from between his knees and held it for the Guinness.

Bimbo’s mother-in-law was still looking over at him.

Let her, the bitch.

He wished Bertie would hurry up. He was good with oul’ ones like that. He told them they were looking great and he wished he was a few years older and that kind of shite. Jimmy Sr was no good at that sort of thing, not this morning anyway.

She was still looking at him.

He smiled over at her.

—Cheers, he said.

She just looked at him.

Jesus, he didn’t know how Bimbo could stick it. Where the fuck was Bimbo anyway? He was by himself in here, except for Freddy Kruger’s fuckin’ granny over there. He said he’d be back in a minute. And that was hours ago. He was playing with one of the kids’ computers, that was what the cunt was doing; leaving Jimmy Sr here stranded.

Veronica was inside in the kitchen with Maggie, Bimbo’s one.

—That’s a great smell comin’ from the kitchen, wha’, said Jimmy Sr.

Her mouth moved.

—What’s tha’? he said, and he leaned out.

Maybe she hadn’t said anything. Maybe she couldn’t help it; she couldn’t control her muscles, the ones that held her mouth up. Ah Jaysis, this was fuckin’ terrible; fuck Bimbo anyway.

He heard feet on the path.

—Thank fuck.

It was out before he knew it. And she nodded; she did; she’d heard him; oh Christ!

She couldn’t have; no. No, she’d just nodded at the same
time, that was all. Because, probably, her neck wasn’t the best any more, that was all. He hoped.

The bell rang; the first bit of Strangers in the Night.

She definitely hadn’t heard him.

Stupid fuckin’ thing for a bell to do, play a song. Anyway, they didn’t even need a bell. This house was the exact same as Jimmy Sr’s; you could hear a knock on the door anywhere in the house.

Bertie came in.

—Compadre!

Jimmy Sr got up out of the chair.

—Happy Christmas, Bertie.

They shook hands. Bertie’s hand was huge, and dry.

Vera, the wife, was with him; a fine thing, Jimmy Sr’d always thought; still in great nick.

—Howyeh, Jimmy love, she said, and she stuck her cheek out, sort of, for him to kiss.

He kissed it. It wasn’t caked in that powdery stuff that a lot of women wore when they were out. Mind you, Veronica didn’t wear that stuff either.

The room was fuller now; Jimmy Sr, Vera, Bertie, Bimbo and two of his kids, and the mother-in-law over there in her corner. Jimmy Sr felt happier now.

—What’ll yeh have, Vera? said Bimbo.

—D’yeh want a Tennents? Jimmy Sr asked Bertie.

—Oh si, said Bertie.

—Bimbo gave me one, Jimmy Sr explained, —an’ then he asked me if I’d prefer a bottle o’ stout an’ I said Fair enough, so —

He picked the can up off the floor.

—I didn’t open it or annythin’.

—Good man, said Bertie. —Gracias.

—Will yis have a small one with them? Bimbo asked Jimmy Sr and Bertie.

Jimmy Sr looked at Bertie and Bertie shrugged.

—Fair enough, yeah, said Jimmy Sr. —Good man.

This was the business now alright. He grinned at Vera, and lifted his glass.

—Cheers, wha’.

—What did Santy bring yeh, Jimmy? Vera asked him.

—This, said Jimmy Sr.

He showed her his new shirt.

—Very nice.

—It’s a bit small.

—Ah no; it’s nice.

Bertie had found Maggie’s mother.

—Isn’t she lookin’ even better than last year? he said to them.

—Def’ny, said Jimmy Sr, but he couldn’t look at her.

—They’re in the kitchen, Jimmy Sr told Vera.

—Good for them, said Vera.

Bimbo came back with the small ones and Vera’s drink, a gin or a vodka.

—The cavalry, said Bertie. —Muchos gracias, my friend.

—The girls are in the kitchen, Bimbo told Vera.

—Good, said Vera.

Jimmy Sr reckoned she’d had a few already. Maybe not though: she wasn’t really like the other women, always making fuckin’ sandwiches and tea and talking about the Royal Family and Coronation Street and that kind of shite. She kept their house grand though; any time Jimmy Sr had been in it anyway.

Bertie leaned in nearer to Bimbo.

—There’s a funny whiff off your mammy-in-law, he told him.

Bimbo looked shocked.

—She might be dead, said Bertie.

Jimmy Sr burst his shite laughing. Poor Bimbo’s face made it worse. Vera laughed as well. She just laughed straight out; she didn’t cluck cluck like a lot of women would’ve, like Veronica would’ve.

—Go over, Bertie told Bimbo. —I’m tellin’ yeh, compadre, the hum is fuckin’ atrocious.

—My God, said Bimbo, dead quiet. —Is she after doin’ somethin’ to herself?

—Go over an’ check, said Bertie. —It might have been just a fart, but —

Bimbo looked around, to make sure that none of the kids was around to witness this.

—Hang on, said Jimmy Sr. —I can smell somethin’ meself now alrigh’.

—Isn’t it fuckin’ woeful? said Bertie.

—Oh God, said Bimbo.

—This could ruin your Christmas dinner, compadre, Bertie told Bimbo.

Bottled Guinness got up into Jimmy Sr’s nose.

He went out into the hall to sort himself out and to laugh properly. This was great; this was the kind of thing you remembered for the rest of your life.

—You’ll never get it out o’ the upholstery, said Bertie.

Jimmy Sr wanted to go out into the garden and roar, really fuckin’ howl.

One of Bimbo’s kids – Wayne he thought it was – ran into the room to tell his da something —

—Get ou’! said Bimbo.

And then.

—Sorry, son; go in an’ tell your mammy I need her.

—Tell her to bring a few J-cloths, said Bertie.

—No! don’t, Wayne, said Bimbo. —Off yeh go.

Wayne came out, looking like he’d just changed his mind about crying, and galloped down to the kitchen walloping the side of his arse like he was on a horse.

When Jimmy Sr went back into the room Bimbo was over at his mother-in-law, pretending he was looking for something on the shelf behind her. Vera pointed at Bertie and whispered to Jimmy Sr.