The Van

Jimmy Rabbitte Sr had the kitchen to himself. He felt a draught and looked up and Darren, one of his sons, was at the door, looking for somewhere to do his homework.

— Oh—, said Darren, and he turned to go back into the hall.

— D’yeh need the table, Darren? said Jimmy Sr.

— Eh—

— No, come on. Fire away.

Jimmy Sr stood up. His arse had gone numb on him.

— Jesus—!

He straightened up and grinned at Darren.

— I’ll go somewhere else, he said.

— Thanks, said Darren.

— Not at all, said Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr left Darren in the kitchen and went out to the front step and sat on it. Christ, the step was cold; he’d end up with piles or the flu or something. But there was nowhere else to go until after the dinner. All the rooms in the house were occupied. He rubbed his hands; it wasn’t too bad. He tried to finish the article in the Press he’d been reading, about how people suffered after they got out of jail, with photographs of the Guildford Four.

A car went by. Jimmy Sr didn’t know the driver. The sun was down the road now, going behind the school gym. He put the paper down beside him on the step and then he put his hands in under the sleeves of his jumper.

He was tempted to have a bash at the garden but the grass was nearly all gone, he’d been cutting it so often. He’d have looked like a right gobshite bringing the lawn-mower for a walk around a baldy garden, in the middle of November. There were weeds in under the hedge, but they could stay there. Anyway, he liked them; they made the garden look more natural. He’d painted the gate and the railings a few months back; red, and a bit of white, the Liverpool colours, but Darren didn’t seem to care about that sort of thing any more.

— Look, Darren. Your colours.

— Oh yeah.

Jimmy Sr’d noticed small patches where some dust and bits of stuff had got stuck to the wet paint. He’d go over it again, but not today. It was a bit late.

The car went by again, the other way this time. He got a better look at the driver but he still didn’t know him. He looked as if he was searching for a house he didn’t know. He was only looking at the even numbers across the way. He might have been the police. That would’ve been good, watching the guards going in and arresting Frano Traynor again. It had been great gas the last time they’d done it, especially when Chrissie, Frano’s mot, started flinging toys down at them from the bedroom window and she hit Frano with Barbie’s Ferrari.

— Jesus; sorry, love!

— You’re alrigh’, said Frano back, searching his hair for blood.

That would have killed the time till the dinner.

But the car was gone.

There was nothing else happening, no kids on the street even. He could hear some though, around the corner, and a Mr Whippy van, but it sounded a good bit away, maybe not even in Barrytown. He took his change out of his pocket and counted it: a pound and sevenpence. He looked at his watch; the dinner’d be ready soon.

Darren read the question he’d just written at the top of his page.

— Complexity of thought and novelty in the use of language sometimes create an apparent obscurity in the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins. Discuss this view, supporting the points you make by quotations from or references to the poems by Hopkins on your course.

Then he tore out the page and wrote the question out again, in red. He read it again.

Starting was the hard bit. He brought the poetry book in closer to him. He wrote Complexity, Language and Obscurity in the margin.

He could never start questions, even in tests; he’d sit there till the teacher said Ten minutes left and then he’d fly. And he always did alright. It was still a bit of a fuckin’ drag though, starting.

He read the question again.

His ma would come in to make the dinner in a minute and then he’d have to find somewhere else.

He read one of the poems, That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire.

Darren didn’t know when Tippex had been invented but Gerrah Manley Hopkins had definitely been sniffing something. He couldn’t write that in his answer though.

Down to business.

— Right, he whispered. — Come on. Complexity.

He started.

— In my opinion the work of the poet and priest—

He crossed out And Priest.

— Gerard Manley Hopkins is—

Then he stopped.

— Fuck it.

He’d just remembered; he shouldn’t have written In My Opinion. It was banned. Crosbie, their English teacher, wouldn’t let them use it.

He tore out the page.

Upstairs in her bedroom Veronica, Darren’s mother, was doing her homework as well.

The door was locked.

— You’re not even inhalin’ properly, said Linda.

— I am so, Linda; fuck off.

Tracy took another drag, held the smoke in her mouth for a bit, then blew it out, in behind the couch. She couldn’t blow it out the window cos her daddy was out there sitting on the step. Linda grabbed the Major from her and took a drag, a real one, and held it much longer than Tracy had — and got rid of it when they heard the stairs creaking. She threw the fag into her Zubes tin and shut it and nearly took the skin off her fingers. They beat the air with their copy books.

They waited. They looked at the door.

But it didn’t open.

— Get it before it goes ou’, Tracy whispered.

Linda giggled, and so did Tracy. They shushed each other. Linda opened the tin.

— Jesus, she said. — I’ve crushed it.

— Let’s see.

It was their last one.

— Ah Jesus, said Linda. — I’m gaspin’!

— So am I, said Tracy.

— Yeh can’t be. You don’t even inhale.

— I do, Linda.

— Yeh don’t. Your smoke comes ou’ too puffy.

— That’s just the way I do it. It is, Linda. — God, I’m gaspin’.

— Yeah, said Linda. — Does tha’ look like Mammy’s writin’?

Tracy looked at the writing on the inside cover of one of Linda’s copies.

— Yeah, she said. — Sort of—

— Look it, said Linda.

She took the copy from Tracy and showed her the other inside cover.

— That’s wha’ it was like when I started, she told Tracy. She turned back to the first cover.

— This’s much better, isn’t it?

— Yeah, said Tracy, and she meant it.

She read it; Please Excuse, about ten times down the page, getting smaller and closer near the bottom, not like her mammy’s yet but not like Linda’s usual writing either, much smaller, hardly any holes in the letters.

— She’ll kill yeh, Tracy told Linda.

— Why will she? said Linda. — I haven’t done annythin’. I’m only experimentin’.

She wrote Please.

— Is tha’ like it?

— Yeah, said Tracy.

They’d forgotten that they were gasping. Tracy crossed out History in her homework journal. She’d just finished it, five questions about the pyramids.

— Jesus, she said, reading what was next on the list. — Wha’ Irish story are yeh doin’, Linda?

— I’m not doin’ anny, said Linda.

She showed Tracy another Please and a new Excuse.

— Is tha’ like it?

— No.

— Ah but, Mammy—

— No, I said.

— Daddy—?

— Yeh heard your mammy, said Jimmy Sr.

— But—

— No buts.

The twins, Linda doing all of the talking, had just asked if they could get a new video for Christmas. They’d had none in the house since Jimmy Jr, the eldest, had taken his with him when he’d moved out a few months ago.

— No buts, said Jimmy Sr. — We can’t afford it, an’ that’s that. And, we’ve no place to put it—

— With the telly—

— Don’t interrupt me, righ’!

He was really angry, before he knew it; nearly out of his seat. It was happening a lot these days. He’d have to be careful. He stopped pointing at Linda.

— We’re not gettin’ one; end o’ story. Now I want to enjoy me dinner. For a change.

Linda raised her eyes to heaven and shifted a bit in her chair, and thought about walking out of the kitchen in protest, but she stayed. She was hungry.

So was Gina, Sharon’s little young one.

— Shut up, Sharon told her. — Wait.

She put the chips in front of Gina, then lifted them away.

— Now, if yeh throw them around, Sharon warned her, — I’ll take them back off yeh, d’yeh hear me?

Gina screamed.

— An’ Grandad’ll eat them on yeh. Isn’t tha’ righ’, Grandad?

— Wha’? said Jimmy Sr. — Chips, is it? Come here, I’ll eat them now.

He leaned over to Gina’s chair.

— Give us them here. Lovely.

Gina screamed, and grabbed the plate. Sharon managed to keep the chips on the plate but got ketchup on her hand.

— Ah, bloody—

— Buddy! said Gina.

Sharon wiped her hand on Gina’s bib.

The Rabbittes got dug into their dinners.

— Lovely, said Jimmy Sr.

Tracy had an announcement.

— There’s a piece o’ paper hangin’ up in the toilet an’ yis are all to put a tick on it every time yis flush the toilet.

— Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.

Darren came in.

— Good man, Darren, said Jimmy Sr. — Were yeh watchin’ abou’ the Berlin Wall there?

— Yeah, said Darren as he sat down.

— Terrific, isn’t it? said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeah, said Darren.

Jimmy Sr wondered, again, why Darren wouldn’t talk to him properly any more.

— Darren, said Tracy. — Every time yeh flush the toilet you’re to put a tick on the paper hangin’ up on the wall.

— What’s this abou’? Jimmy Sr still wanted to know.

— There’s a biro for yeh to do it in the glass with the toothbrushes, Tracy told them.

— Okay, said Darren.

— Hang on, said Jimmy Sr. — What are we to do? Exactly. Tracy raised her eyes.

— Jesus, she said to Linda.

— Don’t Jesus me, you, said Jimmy Sr. — An’ anyway, that’s a curse. Swearbox.

— It’s not a curse, said Tracy. — It’s a name.

— Not the way you said it, said Jimmy Sr.

He picked up the marmalade jar with the slit in its lid and rattled it in front of her. The swearbox had been his idea, to force him to clean up his act in front of the baby.

— Come on, he said.

— I haven’t anny money, said Tracy.

— Yeh have so, said Linda.

— Fuck—

— Ah ah! said Jimmy Sr. — Double.

Veronica took over.

— That’s the last time you’ll use language like that in this house, she told Tracy. — D’you hear me? And you as well, she told Linda.

— I didn’t say ann‘thin’! said Linda.

— You know what I mean, said Veronica. — It’s disgraceful; I’m not having it. In front of Gina.

Gina was busy with her chips.

— That’s righ‘, said Jimmy Sr. — Yis know how quickly she’s pickin’ up things.

— I on’y said Jesus, said Tracy very quietly, standing up for her rights.

— I didn’t say ann‘thin’, said Linda.

— You’re becoming a right pair of—

Veronica didn’t finish. She stared at them, then looked away.

— Bitches, said Sharon. — If Gina starts usin’ dirty language I’ll kill yis.

— I didn’t say ann‘thin’, Linda told her plate.

Jimmy Sr studied the piece of burger on his fork.

— Eh, he said. — Should it be this colour?

— Yes! said Veronica.

— Fair enough, said Jimmy Sr. — Just askin’.

He chewed and swallowed.

— Second time we’ve had these yokes this week, he said, sort of to himself.

Veronica let her knife and fork rattle off her plate. Jimmy Sr didn’t look at her.

— Anyway, he asked Tracy, — why am I to put a tick on this piece o’ paper when I go to the jacks?

— It’s for school, said Tracy, as if he was some sort of a thick. — Geog’aphy.

— Wha‘ has goin’ to the jacks got to do with geography?

— I don’t know, said Tracy. — Somethin’ to do with water. Miss Eliot says we’re to do it.

— Why does Miss Eliot want to know how often I have a—

— Swearbox! said Linda.

— Starebock! said Gina.

— I didn’t say it, said Jimmy Sr.

He turned back to Tracy.

— Why does she want to know how often I use the toilet facilities?

— Not just you, said Tracy. — All of us have to.

— Why?

— Geog’aphy.

— It’s to see how much water all the class uses, Linda told him.

— Why? Darren asked.

— I don’t know! said Linda. — It’s thick. She’s useless. Tracy’s to do the toilet an’ I’m to do the sink an’ the washin’ machine but I’m not goin’ to. It’s thick.

— Is that your homework? said Veronica.

— Yeah, said Linda.

— Then you’re to do it.

Linda said nothing.

— I’d still like to know wha’ Miss Eliot wants with all this information, said Jimmy Sr. — She might blackmail us; wha’, Darren?

— Yeah. — Yeah.

— The Rabbittes go to the jacks twice as much as everyone else, wha’. She’ll want to know how often we change our underwear next; wait an’ see.

— Stop that, said Veronica. — It’s their homework.

Darren was beginning to grin, so Jimmy Sr continued.

— Anv after tha’ we’ll find bits ov paper stuck up beside the beds, wha’.

— Stop!

Darren laughed. And so did Jimmy Sr. He spoke to Gina.

— We’d run ou’ of paper if we had to tick off every time you go to the jacks, wouldn’t we, Honey?

Gina threw a chip at him, and hit. He pretended he was dying. Sharon picked up the chip before the dog, Larrygogan, got to it and she made Gina eat it.

— There, she said.

But Gina didn’t mind.

— Do you not do maps and stuff like that? Veronica asked Linda and Tracy.

— No, said Linda. — Sometimes only.

— Nearly never, said Tracy.

Veronica shrugged.

Jimmy Sr belched.

— Lovely dinner, Veronica, he said.

— You liked those yokes, did you? said Veronica.

— They were grand, said Jimmy Sr. — Much nicer than the ones yeh get in the chipper or the shops.

— Yeah, well, said Veronica. — When I start getting some proper money again you won’t see them so often.

— No no, said Jimmy Sr. — They’re grand.

They looked at each other.

Then Gina dropped her plate on Larrygogan.

— Ah Jesus, said Sharon.

— Starebock! said Gina.

Jimmy Sr stood on some chips when he was trying to wipe the ketchup off Larrygogan.

— Ah Jaysis—

— Starebock!

And Sharon slapped her.

— Ah leave her, leave her, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s only chips.

— She does it on purpose.

Gina started some serious screaming. Sharon wanted to kill her, but only for a second. She lifted her out of her chair and rocked her. But Gina wasn’t impressed.

— Jive Bunny, Gina, said Jimmy Sr. — Look it.

— OH—

He started twisting.

— Look at Grandad, Gina, said Sharon.

— LET’S TWIST AGAIN—

LIKE WE DID LAST Jaysis!

He slid on a chip and nearly went on his arse, saved by the table. Gina stopped screaming, to watch. Jimmy Sr, steadying himself and taking off his shoe, looked at Gina and sniffed victory. But Gina was getting ready to start again; he could tell by the way her cheeks were twitching.

— Righv, he said to the rest. — Hawaii 5–0.

He made a trumpet out of his fists and started.

— DEH DEH DEH DEH—

DEHHH DEH—

Linda, Tracy, Darren, even Veronica made trumpets and joined in. Gina danced in Sharon’s arms and forgot about screaming. Larrygogan cleaned the chips off the floor and he cleaned the plate as well.

Jimmy Sr sat watching the television. There was no sound on. The three other lads watching it all had earphones but Jimmy Sr couldn’t see another pair anywhere. He could’ve asked the young one behind the desk over there what he’d to do to get a pair of earphones for himself but he didn’t want to. She looked busy. Anyway, they mightn’t have been free. And anyway as well, what was on didn’t look that good; just fellas in togas talking; a play or something.

Jimmy Sr was in the ILAC library, in town.

It was terrific here, very nice.

He’d never been in here before. It was great. There was a lot more to it than just the books. You could get tapes or records out or even those compact discs, or just listen to them in here. He’d go over there, to the music part, after this. There was a language resource centre, a room where you could learn more than sixty languages in one of those booth things. Or you could use the computer — he looked at the brochure again — to enhance your computer literacy skills. There was even a reading machine for if you had sight problems. Having one of them beside the bed would have been very handy for when you came home scuttered at night.

He didn’t drink much any more; just the few pints twice a week.

He’d go over and have a look at the machine in a minute.

He was definitely joining. He had his application cards here. It was lovely here. You could stay here for ages and never get bored. You could even borrow pictures and bring them home.

That was a bit fuckinv stupid when you thought about it; sticking a picture up on your wall for a fortnight and then having to bring it back again; on a bus or on the DART, sitting there like a gobshite with a big picture on your lap, of a woman in her nip or something.

Still though.

It was gas watching your men here watching the telly, and not being able to hear. One of them had laughed a minute ago, like he was trying not to, but the chaps on the telly had looked deadly serious. She’d asked him — your woman at the desk — if he was a householder when he’d asked her how you joined.

He didn’t know.

He told her it wasn’t for himself he was asking, and she gave him the cards and told him that he’d have to get a householder to sign the back of them.

He sort of knew. But the problem was, he didn’t know— not exactly — if you actually had to own your house or if renting was enough. And he rented his, so if he’d said Yeah, I am a householder and he’d found out that he wasn’t one when he was filling in the card at the desk he‘d’ve felt like a right fuckin’ eejit. In front of the young one there. She looked younger than Sharon.

Bimbo, one of his mates, owned his house. Jimmy Sr’d get him to sign it, to be on the safe side.

There was a thing he’d seen downstairs in the shopping part of the ILAC on his way up here; a studio, a small one you went into and sang a song — for six quid. The twins would’ve loved that.

Maybe they wouldn’t have, but; not any more. They’d have been too embarrassed. There was a list of the songs you could sing along to. New York New York was one of them. That was his song; he always sang it at weddings and on bank holiday Mondays in the Hikers.

Six quid. Veronica would fuck him from a height if he came home with a tape of himself singing and she found out how much it’d cost.

He got up. He was going to have a look at the books. When he joined up he could take out three at a time and keep them for three weeks, but he’d only take out one or maybe two. He wasn’t that quick of a reader. And anyway, he’d want to come here more than just once every three weeks so if he took out one book at a time he could come back more often than that.

There was a sign — a handmade one — on the desk that said that you could get an Action Pack for the Unemployed but there weren’t any on the desk. You had to ask for one.

He wondered what was in them. Action Pack. Probably just leaflets.

And a compass and a fuckin’ hand grenade and one of them cyanide tablets for if you were caught behind enemy lines.

He’d ask for one the next time. The young one was dealing with some people at the desk and one of them looked like he was going to start getting snotty with her.

She was a nice-looking young one, lovely; not what you’d have expected. With a few buttons open at the front, fair play to her.

He went over to the books. He wanted to find the Sports shelf. He was thinking of getting a couple of greyhounds.

Veronica and Jimmy Sr were alone, sitting on their bed. Jimmy Sr watched Veronica putting on socks and then her boots.

— We could always get a few bob from a lender, I suppose, said Jimmy Sr.

— No, said Veronica.

— A few bob only—

— No, said Veronica.

— You’re righ’; you’re right, o’ course, Veronica, said Jimmy Sr. — We’d only be gettin’ ourselves into—

— I’d die before I’d go looking for help from one of those crooks, said Veronica.

— You’re dead right, yeah. I just thought — Will Leslie come home, d’yeh think?

Veronica didn’t want to answer this. But she did.

— I doubt it, she said.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

Les was in England, somewhere. They thought.

— What abou’ Jimmy? said Jimmy Sr.

— Ah yeah, said Veronica.

She studied the soles of the boots.

— Where else would he go? said Veronica. — If I pushed a bit harder my fingers would come through, look it.

Well, don’t push then, Jimmy Sr nearly said, but he stopped himself.

— Would he not go to — em — Aoife’s parents’ place? he said.

Aoife and Jimmy Jr were living in a bedsit in Clontarf.

— He’d better not, said Veronica. — If he does he needn’t come home for his Sunday dinner again.

She stood up.

— With his washing.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — At least we won’t have to buy anythin’ for him.

— Something small, said Veronica.

— Very small, said Jimmy Sr. — So that’s the twins an’ Gina is all we have to get presents for really. An’ Darren. An’ somethin’ small for Sharon as well. That’s not too bad.

Veronica wasn’t convinced.

— Well—, she said.

She was at the dressing-table mirror now.

— What about all the food and the drink? There’s a lot more than just the presents. And there’s other presents as well, you know. Gerry’s kids and—

— I’ll tell Gerry and Thelma and Pat they’re not to send ours any presents an’ we won’t send theirs any.

— God, said Veronica. — I never—

— Sure, they can’t afford it either, said Jimmy Sr.

He didn’t want Veronica to finish. There was no point. He’d heard it before. It only made him angry now and he’d end up shouting. It wasn’t fair.

— No one can, said Jimmy Sr.

Veronica said nothing.

— We were always broke at Christmas.

— After it though, said Veronica.

— Ah—! said Jimmy Sr.

It wasn’t fuckin’ fair.

— Ah sorry, said Veronica.

She turned to look at him properly.

— I didn’t mean anything.

— Ah, I know. — I don’t blame yeh. It’s just—

He looked at her looking at him.

— We’ll manage, he said.

— Yes, said Veronica.

— I’ll win the turkey in the pitch ‘n’ putt annyway, he said.

— You always do, said Veronica.

— An’ maybe a hamper as well, wha’.

— That’d be great.

Neither of them wanted to talk any more about Christmas. It was still months away anyway; weeks. And Veronica had to go. She checked her folder.

— Eh — how’re the oulv classes goin’, Veronica? said Jimmy Sr.

— Grand, said Veronica.

Veronica was doing night classes, two Leaving Cert subjects.

— Are yeh the oldest? said Jimmy Sr.

— No!

— I’d say the maths is hard, is it?

— It’s not too bad, said Veronica.

That was a lie, only a small one though because it was getting easier. She was getting used to it, being in the classroom and having the teacher, a young lad Jimmy Jr’s age, looking over her shoulder all the time. And Darren was going to give her a hand.

— I was thinkin’ I might do a few classes meself, Jimmy Sr told her.

— You’re too late, Veronica told him. — You’ll have to wait till next year.

She wasn’t sure if that was true — she thought it was: really — but she wanted to do it on her own, even going up to the school on her own and walking home; everything.

She had to go.

— Bye bye so, she said. — Are yeh stayin’ up here?

— I am, yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — I’m goin’ to read one o’ me bukes.

The twins were in the front room — he could hear them — and Darren would be in the kitchen but he didn’t mind staying up here. He’d lie back — it wasn’t that cold; just nice — and read.

— I got three bukes ou’, he told Veronica. — Look it. But she was gone.

— See you later, she said from the hall.

— Okay, love, said Jimmy Sr. — Good luck. D’yeh have all your eccer done now?

But she didn’t answer. She was gone. He heard the door.

Fair play to her.

He picked up one of his books. The Man in the Iron Mask. By Alexandre Dumas. Lousy cover. He could have drawn better himself.

He remembered something. He got his thumb-nail and dragged it across the plastic covering. It worked, left a line of little grooves across the plastic. He did it again. The sound was the same as well, as when he was a kid.

That was gas—

He got up.

He’d make himself a cup of tea — it was just a bit chilly up here — and then he’d get going. Fifty pages before Veronica got home.

— Mind your house!

That wanker over there had been roaring that since the start of the match. He probably didn’t even know what it meant, the stupid oul’ bollix. The ball was down at the Barrytown goal, about the first time it had gone in that direction in the second half.

It was Saturday afternoon. Jimmy Sr was in St Anne’s Park, watching the Barrytown Utd Under 18s; watching Darren.

Five-nil for Barrytown was the score. The opposition were useless. Jimmy Sr couldn’t even remember what they were called. Darren didn’t bother dashing back to help defend, and he was dead right. The last time this shower had seen the net shake was when their keeper farted.

The ball was coming back up. Darren went to meet it. No one came with him.

— Good man, Darren! Away yeh go!

Darren stopped the ball. Normally he’d have had two or three men up his arse by now or, with the ground this soggy, someone sliding towards his ankle. Now though, two of their defence ran around him on their way back as if they didn’t want to get in his way because it was rude, so Darren held onto the ball for a while, turned and crossed where the centre line should have been.

— Give us a display of your silky skills, Darren!

That was the Barrytown keeper, Nappies Harrison.

The sweeper was waiting for Darren. That was what he’d called himself; the sweeper. — We’re playin’ three central defenders, he’d told Darren in the first half. — Like Arsenal. He was waiting for Darren on the other side of a puddle, hunched as if he was going to dive into it. Kenny Smith was to Darren’s left, shouting for the ball. Darren lobbed the ball over the sweeper, ran around him (—Yeow, Darren!) and dug the ball out of the muck with his toe and sent it over to Kenny, hard so it wouldn’t get stuck again.

— Good play, said their sweeper; Jimmy Sr heard him.

Darren knew he’d be praised after the match for his unselfish play (—That’s the Liverpool way, lads) but he’d given the ball to Kenny because he couldn’t be bothered bringing it any further himself. He heard the ironic cheer. They’d scored again; an Anto Brennan diving header that he hadn’t really needed to dive for.

Darren strolled back across the line. He hated these sort of games, when they won without sweating. They’d be beaten next week; it always happened.

— Come on now, lads, the oul’ guy at the side shouted. — Make the score respectable, come on.

— Will yeh listen to him, said Kenny.

— Yeah, said Darren. — Fuckin’ pitiful.

Most of them wouldn’t turn up for training on Tuesday night because of this win; their emphatic victory.

The ball was in the centre circle. The ref picked it up and blew his whistle; game over, ten minutes early.

— Thank fuck, said Pat Conlon. — It’s fuckin’ freezin’.

— I was goin’ for me hat-trick, Kenny complained.

— Ah, fuck off complainin’, said Pat. — Anyway, yeh’d never have got another two.

— No problem to me against these cunts.

The sweeper was waiting for Darren at the sideline, with his hand out.

— Good game, he said.

— Yeah, said Darren. — Thanks.

— Best team won.

— The pitch wasn’t fit for playin’ on, said Darren.

His da was waiting for him as well.

— Well done, Darren.

— Thanks, Da.

He ran along the edge of the gravel path to the gates of the park.

— Bring your ma with yis the next time, he heard Kenny telling the sweeper, and he heard his da laughing.

Darren got into the back of one of the three Barrytown cars.

— Push over, there, he said.

— Ahh! Hang on; me leg!

— Good man, Darren, said Mr Reeves, his da’s friend; Bimbo. — Is that everyone now?

— No; Kenny.

— Kenny! Darren roared. — Come on.

— They were useless, weren’t they? said Mr Reeves.

— Pitiful, said Darren.

Hurry up, he wanted to say. Hurry up!

Kenny climbed in the back on top of the three lads already in there. There were two more in the front, and Bimbo.

Darren got the door shut.

— Jaysis, said Bimbo. — We’re nearly scrapin’ the ground. Did yis have your dinners at half-time or somethin’?

They laughed. The car moved. They cheered.

But Bimbo braked.

Darren’s da was at the front passenger window.

— Will youse go with Billy, lads? he asked Muggah McCarthy and Pat Conlon.

— Okay, said Muggah, and Darren’s da got in when the two of them got out.

— Off yeh go, he said to Bimbo.

Kenny leaned over (—Ah, Kenny! Watch it!) and rolled down Darren’s window. He roared at the other team as they climbed into their mini-bus.

— Yis dozy cunts, yis!

— Here; none o’ tha’! said Bimbo.

He braked again.

— Yeh can get ou’ here if you’re goin’ to start tha’.

— Disgraceful behaviour, said Darren’s da, and he winked back at them.

— Sorry, said Kenny.

They nudged each other. Bimbo got the car going again.

— Did yeh get this yoke off the Vincent de Paul, Mr Reeves? said Nappies.

They laughed.

— Yeah, said Kenny. — It’s pitiful, isn’t it, Darrah?

— Fuck off, said Darren.

His da laughed.

— Gettin’ locked tonigh’, men? said Anto.

— Fuckin’ sure, said Kenny.

He started singing.

— HERE WE GO

HERE WE—

— Shut up in the back, said Bimbo.

The windows were steaming up. Darren rubbed his and watched the people walking along the sea front, looking out for young ones.

— D’yeh see her? said Kenny. — Jaysis.

He turned to look out the back window and kicked Anto in the mouth.

— You’re dead, said Anto.

He checked for blood. There wasn’t any.

— That’s pitiful behaviour, said Nappies. — Isn’t it, Darren?

Darren gave Nappies the finger.

— Swivet, he said.

Nappies was sitting on Anto’s lap. His right ear was nearly pressed to the roof.

— Hurry up, Mr Reeves, will yeh. Me neck’s nearly broke.

— Wet! men, said Anto. — Where’re we goin’ tonigh’?

— The Nep, said Nappies.

— No way. Yeh fuckin’ hippy.

— There’s nothin’ wrong with the Nep, said Anto. — It’s better than the field youse drink in.

— Yeah, man.

— Right on, Anto.

— Will yeh be wearin’ your flares, Nappies?

— He’s pitiful.

— Yis haven’t a clue, Nappies told them.

— Where’s the Nep? said Bimbo.

— Town, said Nappies.

— My God, said Bimbo. — Would yis go tha’ far for a drink?

— Fuckin’ eejits, said Jimmy Sr.

— It’s cos the^y’re afraid their oul’ ones’ll catch them if they drink in the Hikers, Anto told Bimbo and Jimmy Sr.

— Don’t start, you, said Nappies. — My ma knows I drink.

— Yeah; milk.

— Fuck off.

— Does she know yeh smoke hash as well, Nappies? Kenny got a couple of digs from Darren, to shut him up.

— Where do the rest of yis go? Bimbo asked them.

He wasn’t being nosy.

— The Beachcomber, said Anto.

— Yeh do not, said Nappies. — Don’t start. They wouldn’t let yeh in.

— Would they not now? said Anto. — D’yis hear him?

— What’s it like inside then? said Nappies, — if yeh’ve been in there. Tell us; go on.

— Better than the fuckin’ Nep anyway.

— You were never in there; I knew it.

— Fuck off, you.

— Fuck off, yourself. The state o’ yeh. You’d get drunk on a barman’s fart.

— Fuck off.

— Language, lads. — Do none of yis go up to the Hikers at all?

— I do, said Kenny.

— Yeh do in your brown, said Anto. — He asked yeh do yeh drink in the Hikers, not do yeh sit on the wall outside.

— Don’t start, said Kenny. — I do drink there.

— When?

— Yeah; go on.

— With me da.

— Yeah; the day yeh made your Confirmation.

— Fuck off.

— Yeah, Kenny; your oul’ lad drank your money on yeh. Darren enjoyed this, even with his da there; the lads slagging each other. He rubbed the window. He couldn’t open it because Kenny’s feet were in the way. They were turning off the sea front. It was a bit fuckin’ childish though; not the slagging, the subject matter. The theme.

— Anyway, said Kenny, — knacker drinkin’s better than drinkin’ in a pub. Specially if you’ve a free house.

— That’s not knacker drinkin’! said Anto.

They didn’t even shave, most of them in the car. Darren did, and he was younger than some of them. And he’d been in the Beachcomber. And the Hikers. It was no big deal. He was working tonight in the Hikers — but he’d drunk in there as well when he wasn’t working — and then he was going on to the Grove. The Grove was a dump. It usen’t to be that bad but there were just kids there now and the music was pitiful; it used to be great. But he was meeting Miranda there after work, so it was okay.

— Hey, Darren. Where’re you goin’ tonigh’?

— Workin’, said Darren.

She was fifteen but she looked much older; she wasn’t skinny at all. She’d done her Inter; six honours; two less than Darren. She’d great hair, black that went up and out and down, and huge eyes and no spots, not in the light in the Grove anyway. He’d only seen her in the Grove so far. He wasn’t really going with her.

— Here we are, lads.

They were outside the community centre.

— Thanks, Mr Reeves. You’re a poxy driver.

Darren opened the door and Kenny fell out onto the road, on purpose; he always did it. Darren climbed out.

— Jesus; me legs.

— Yeah. We should have a bus.

— Will you get us one for Christmas? said Bimbo.

— Here, Mr Reeves, said Pat. — We’ll rob the 17A for yeh.

The two other carloads had arrived. Their manager, Billy O’Leary, got out of his car.

— Righ‘, he said. — Yis listenin’?

He zipped up his bomber jacket and rubbed his hands. Bimbo and Jimmy Sr went over and stood beside him.

— Yis listenin’?—Righ’; good win there but, let’s face it, lads. They were spas.

He let them laugh, then frowned.

— Next week’ll be a different kettle o’ fish. Cromcastle are always a useful side so we can’t afford to be complacent.

— Wha’? said Kenny.

— We’re not to act the prick, Muggah told him. Miranda was a bit of a Curehead—

— Darren, said Billy. — Terrific game, son.

— I thought he was pitiful, Pat whispered.

They sniggered.

— Fuck off, you, said Darren.

— Listen now, lads, said Bimbo.

— Terrific, said Billy. — One-touch stuff, he told the team. — Get the ball and give it to someone who can do more with it.

— That’s the Liverpool way, Muggah whispered.

— I heard tha‘, said Billy. — And you’re righ’; it is.

— Wha’ abou’ me, Billy? said Nappies. — Didn’t I have a terrific game as well.

— Yeah, said Kenny. — Pullin’ your wire.

— Yis listenin‘!? said Billy. — Now listen, I want yis all at trainin’ on Tuesday, righ’. No excuses. Annyone not goin’ to be there?

No one’s hand went up.

— Good, said Billy. — On time as well, righ’. I want to work on some set pieces for Saturday.

— Yeow, Billy!

— Fuck up a minute. Even if it’s rainin’ there’s still trainin’, righ’.

— Fair enough.

— Okay.

— Okay, boss.

— Righ’; off yis go home, an’ fair play; yis were very good there today. I was proud o’ yis.

— We’re proud o’ you as well, Billy, said Pat.

— Come here you, Bollockchops, said Billy.

They roared.

— What’s happened your long throw, pal? Billy wanted to know. — My mother’s cat could throw the fuckin’ ball further than you did today.

They roared.

— Too much wankin’; son, said Billy. — That’s your problem.

He ran at Pat.

— Show us your palms there. Come on; hands ou’.

Darren watched Pat jumping over the low wall into the shopping centre carpark. Billy couldn’t follow him over.

— See yis, said Darren, quietly.

He headed for home, still wearing his boots and gear. He hoped there’d be hot water. There often wasn’t these days.

She was a bit of a Curehead but not that bad: she had a mind of her own. It was just the look, the image she followed, the hair and the Docs. She was into the Cure as well but not only the Cure.

He was walking on the Green, to keep his boots off the concrete.

She was into—

— There’s Darren Rabbitte an’ his legs.

It was Anita Healy from Darren’s class, and her friend, Mandy Lawless.

— Howyis, said Darren.

He grinned and pretended to pull his jersey down over his legs.

— They’re nicer than yours, Mandy, said Anita.

— That’s true, said Darren. — Yours are hairier though, Mandy.

Anita screamed.

— Fuck off, you, Rabbitte, said Mandy.

She pretended to kick him and Darren grabbed her. She screamed Let go as if she didn’t really mean it, and he did. They stood there for a bit.

He saw his da coming.

— Seeyis, he said.

— See yeh, Darren.

Anita shouted after him.

— Mandy said you’re a ride, Darren!

— I did not, Anita. Fuck off.

Darren kept going.

Jesus. Mandy wasn’t a bad-looking bird — woman. She was a bit Kylie-esque but she’d great legs, real woman’s legs. And tits too. She often took her jumper off in school and wrapped it round her waist, even when it wasn’t all that hot. Darren liked that, and it annoyed him as well sometimes.

He started to run.

It was Monday. Jimmy Sr was reading to Gina. He had her for the afternoon because Sharon had wanted to go into town. He had been going to play a round of pitch ‘n’ putt.

— Can yeh not bring her around with yeh in the buggy? Sharon had said. — From hole to hole.

— Are yeh jokin’ me, Sharon? he’d said. — They wouldn’t let me in. Ah, she’d be too much of a distraction. She’d be hit by a ball. Some o’ the wankers tha’ go down there are cross-eyed.

— Can yeh not play tomorrow instead? she’d said.

— I am playin’ tomorrow, Sharon, he’d told her. — I have to. I’ll have to win a turkey between now an’ Christmas an’ there’s not tha’ many weekends left when yeh add them up. I need all the practice I can get. Okay, okay. Give her to me here.

Veronica wouldn’t take her. She had to read six chapters of Lord of the Flies and summarise them; that was her excuse.

— She won’t stop yeh from readin’, Veronica, for Jaysis sake.

— Take her with you or stay at home, she’d said. — I’ve other things to do.

So he was stuck with Gina. He didn’t mind, not too much. The afternoon off would be good for Sharon. She wasn’t looking the best these days, kind of pale and hassled looking. Give her a few hours in the shops and she’d be grand.

Gina was on his lap, trying to grab the book.

— The king is a beau, my good friend, he read. — An’ so are you, too, wha’ever — Ah ah; just listen — wha‘ever you may say abou’ it. Porthos smiled triumphantly. Let’s go to the king’s tailor, he said — I’ll smack yeh if yeh do that again, Gina.

— Smack!

— Yeah. — Now. — An’ since he measures the king, I think, by my faith! I may allow him to measure me.

He closed the book.

— I think, by my faith, it’s a load o’ bollix. — Here.

He put Gina down and got up — Jaysis! — and picked her up.

— Up we get. You’re a righ’ little buster, aren’t yeh?

— G’anda.

— That’s me. We’ll go for a walk, will we? an’ find someone to annoy.

He picked up the book. Only thirty-nine pages gone and over four hundred to go still and it was shite. He was sure it was good, brilliant — a classic — but he fuckin’ hated it. It wasn’t hard; that wasn’t it. It was just shite; boring, he supposed, but Shite was definitely the word he was looking for. And he’d have to finish it because he’d told Veronica he was reading it, told her all about it, shown it to her; the fuckin’ eejit.

— Better get your anorak, he told Gina.

She pushed his chest and he put her down. She ran to the door — they were in the front room — reached up and got the door open.

Jimmy Sr noticed her pile of video tapes on the shelf; Postman Pat, The Magic Roundabout — that was a great one — five of them, presents from people. And no video to play them in. God love her.

He walloped his leg with the book.

— The Man in the Iron fuckin’ Mask.

Maybe he’d tell Veronica he’d finished it (—He escaped, Veronica) and start one of the other ones he’d got out of the library. He was useless; couldn’t even read a book properly.

He went down to the kitchen, and the bell rang.

— Wha’ now?

He went back up the hall. Veronica had no problem reading and finishing her books. He made out Jimmy Jr’s shape through the glass.

— What’s he doin’ here?

He only came on Sundays, since he’d left and shacked up with that Aoife young one; a good-looking young one: too good for that waster.

He opened the front door.

— Howyeh, said Jimmy Jr.

He got past Jimmy Sr.

— Forgot me washin’ yesterday, he said. — No kaks or nothin’.

Jimmy Sr followed him down the hall into the kitchen. It was empty; Veronica was swotting up in Sharon’s room and the rest were still at school. Jimmy Jr held up the bag with his washing in it. It had Ibiza printed on the side of it, and a little map.

— Here, he said.

— Would Aoife not do your washin’ for yeh? said Jimmy Sr.

— No way, said Jimmy Jr.

— Yis divide the work between yis?

— No, said Jimmy Jr. — She told me to fuck off an’ do me own washin’.

They laughed a bit.

— She’s dead righ’, said Jimmy Sr.

— When was the last time you washed annythin’? Jimmy Jr asked him.

— Don’t start. I do me fair share.

— Yeah, yeah, yeah. Course yeh do. — I’d better go. I’ve to make the fuckin’ dinner.

— My Jaysis, tha’ young one has you by the bollix alrigh’, said Jimmy Sr.

He followed Jimmy Jr to the door.

— Come here, said Jimmy Jr. — Could yeh use tha’?

It was a fiver.

— Eh—

— Go on, said Jimmy Jr.

He put it into his da’s cardigan pocket.

— A few pints, he said.

— Thanks.

— No problem. See yeh.

— Thanks.

— Shut up, will yeh. See yeh.

— Okay. — Good luck, son.

Sharon found him.

— Did yeh not hear me? she said.

Jimmy Sr was standing facing the door when she walked into the bedroom. He’d been in there since Jimmy Jr’d left.

— Wha’? said Jimmy Sr. — Were yeh lookin’ for me, love?

— I was screamin’ up at yeh nearly, Sharon told him. — From downstairs. Did yeh not hear me? she asked him again.

— I must have fallen asleep. Dozed off. I was just—

— Are yeh alrigh’?

He looked miserable, and small and kind of beaten looking.

— I’m grand, he said.

He looked around him, as if for a reason for being there.

— The tea’s ready, Sharon told him.

— Oh, lovely.

— What’s wrong?

— Nothin‘, Sharon. Nothin’.—Nothin’.

He smiled, but Sharon kept gawking at him.

— There is somethin’, isn’t there? she said.

— Ah, look—

— I can tell from your—

— Get off me fuckin’ back, will yeh!

— Sorry I spoke.

She grabbed the door on her way out.

— I’ll be down in a minute.

— Please yourself, she said, and she slammed the door.

She heard wood splitting in the middle of the slam but she didn’t stop. She went back downstairs.

In the bedroom Jimmy Sr opened his mouth as wide as he could and massaged his jaws. He was alright now. He’d thought his teeth were going to crack and break; he couldn’t get his mouth to open, as if it had been locked and getting tighter. And he’d had to snap his eyes shut, waiting for the crunch and the pain. But then it had stopped, and he’d started breathing again. He felt weak now, a bit weak. He was alright though. He’d be grand in a minute.

He closed his mouth. It was grand now. He’d say sorry to Sharon for shouting at her. He stood up straight. He’d go down now. He took the fiver off the bed and put it in his pocket.

He had young Jimmy’s fiver and two more quid Veronica’d given him so he could buy a round. If only Bimbo and Bertie were there the fiver would be enough and he’d be able to give Veronica her money back but if Paddy was there he’d need it. It was a quarter past ten, early enough to get three or four pints inside him and late enough to make sure that his turn to put his hand in his pocket didn’t come round again before closing time.

He came off the Green, crossed the road. The street light here was broken again. The glass was on the path. It was always this one they smashed, only this one.

It was funny; he’d been really grateful when young Jimmy had given him the fiver, delighted, and at the same time, or just after, he’d wanted to go after him and thump the living shite out of him and throw the poxy fiver back in his face, the nerve of him; who did he think he was, dishing out fivers like Bob fuckin’ Geldof.

He was grand now though. He had the fiver and he was out on a Monday night.

— There’s Jimmy, said Malcolm, one of the Hikers’ bouncers.

— Howyeh, Malcolm, said Jimmy Sr.

— Chilly enough.

— Who’re yeh tellin’.

He pushed the bar door, and was in.

— The man himself, said Bimbo.

He was pleased to see him; Jimmy Sr could tell. He had a grin on him that you could hang your washing on. There was just himself and Bertie up at the bar, new pints in front of them. Bertie turned and saw Jimmy Sr.

— Ah, he said. — Buenas noches, Jimmy.

— Howyis, said Jimmy Sr.

There was nothing like it, the few scoops with your mates.

— A pint there, Leo, Bimbo shouted down the bar, — like a good man.

Leo already had the glass under the tap. Jimmy Sr rubbed his hands. He wanted to whoop, but he put his hands in his pockets and looked around.

He nodded to a corner.

— Who’re they? he said.

— Don’t know, compadre, said Bertie. — Gringos.

They were looking over at three couples, all young and satisfied looking.

— They look like a righ’ shower o’ cunts, said Jimmy Sr.

— You don’t even know them, sure, said Bimbo.

Bimbo fell for it every time.

— I wouldn’t want to fuckin’ know them, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo. — Look at them. They should be upstairs.

The Lounge was upstairs.

— 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 blankets.

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.

— Come ou’ till I dry yeh.

Larrygogan put his chin on the floor and barked at Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr always thought that that bark, the real cheeky one, sounded like Get fucked. And the way his ears jumped up when he said it — not said it, not really; just barked — but he looked like he was saying it, giving cheek to Jimmy Sr, his master. It was gas.

— Come on ou’ here, yeh renegade, yeh.

The dog barked again.

— Here, Darren; go round there an’ shove him ou’ to me. Jimmy Sr stared at Larrygogan.

— You’re fucked now, he said.

— Stop that, said Veronica.

— Sorry, Veronica, he said.

He loved this.

Darren was at the other side of the table. He got down on his knees and stretched in under the table and pushed Larrygogan — Larrygogan was chin down, arse up — but Larrygogan pushed back against Darren’s open hands. The dog’s paws slid a bit but he stayed put, and Darren had to climb in under the table. He was bursting his shite laughing now, and so was Jimmy Sr.

— Mind he doesn’t fart on yeh, he told Darren.

— Oh Jaysis, said Darren, and he couldn’t push properly any more because he was laughing so much.

Larrygogan was winning.

— Ah, leave him, said Jimmy Sr.

He stood up.

— Let him catch his death. He deserves to die, the fuckin’ eejit of a dog.

Darren got out and up from under the table. They grinned at each other but then Darren sat down and started reading his book. Jimmy Sr shut the door. Larrygogan charged out to the hall.

He still had a good breakfast these days, the fry and loads of toast and a bowl of Cornflakes as well sometimes if he still felt a bit empty. They used to have Sugar Puffs and the rest of them; every time there was a new ad on the telly the twins had to have a box of the new things. But they only had the Cornflakes now. They were the best. Tea as well, loads of it. He only had coffee later on in the day, and sometimes he didn’t bother. He didn’t need it. Tea though, he loved his cup of tea; twenty bleedin’ cups.

He had a mug for work that he’d had for years; he still had it. It was a big plain white one, no cracks, no stupid slogans. He put two teabags into it; used to. My God, he’d never forget the taste of the first cup of tea in the morning, usually in a bare room in a new house with muck and dirt everywhere, freezing; fuck me, it was great; it scalded him on the way down; he could feel it all the way. And the taste it left; brilliant; brilliant. He always used two bags, squeezed the bejesus out of them. The mug was so big it warmed more than just his hands. It was like sitting in front of a fire. After a few gulps he’d sip at it and turn around and look at his work. He always got a few walls done before he stopped for the tea. Even if the other lads were stopping he kept going, till he felt he needed it; deserved it. He’d look around him at the plastering. It was perfect; not a bump or a sag, so smooth you’d never know where he’d started. Then he’d gulp down the rest of the tea and get back to it. The mug was outside in the shed, in a bag with his other work stuff. He’d wrapped toilet paper around it.

— You’ll get drenched goin’ to school, Darren, he said.

— Yeah, said Darren.

— Still, said Jimmy Sr. — It’ll save yeh the bother o’ washin’ yourself, wha’.

— Yeah, said Darren.

Darren looked at the rain hitting the window.

— Jesus, he said.

— Stop that, said Veronica.

— That’s the real wet stuff alrigh’, Jimmy Sr told Darren.

— I’ve P.E. today, Darren told him.

— Is tha’ righ’? said Jimmy Sr. — Ah, they’ll never send yeh ou’ in tha’; they couldn’t.

— They did the last time.

— Did they, the cunts?

Veronica put his plate in front of him and then walloped him across the head.

— Sorry, he said.

He took out tenpence and dropped it in the swearbox.

— D’yeh want a note for the teacher? he asked Darren.

— He does not, said Veronica.

— No, said Darren. — I don’t mind. It might stop.

— That’s very true.

Darren got back to his book and his breakfast. Jimmy Sr picked up his knife and fork.

— Wha’ have we here? he said.

Darren kept reading. Veronica was busy. So he just chopped a bit of sausage off, put it on a piece of toast, closed the toast over on it and bit into it. The marge was lovely and warm.

The twins came in.

— You’re to sign this, Linda told Jimmy Sr.

— Get back upstairs and get that stuff off, said Veronica.

— Ah, Mammy—

— Go on! — You too, she told Tracy.

Tracy followed Linda out into the hall.

— It’s not fair! they heard Linda.

— Wha’ was tha’ abou’? Jimmy Sr wanted to know.

— They were wearing eye-shadow, said Veronica.

— Oh.

— They were sent home last week for having it on, said Veronica.

— It’s crazy, said Darren. — It’s pitiful.

Jimmy Sr wasn’t sure.

— They’re a bit young, he said.

— Sixth years aren’t allowed to have it on either, Darren told Jimmy Sr.

— Ah then, said Jimmy Sr. — Then you’re righ’, Darren. That’s just stupid.

— It’s a school rule, said Veronica.

— That’s right as well, o’ course, said Jimmy Sr.

Darren was standing up, putting his book marker carefully into place so it wouldn’t fall out.

— If everybody had that attitude, he said, — nothing would ever change.

Jimmy Sr didn’t know what to do. He liked hearing Darren talk like that, but he was being cheeky as well; to his mother. There was something about the way Darren spoke since his voice broke that left Jimmy Sr confused. He admired him, more and more; he was a great young fella; he was really proud of him, but he thought he felt a bit jealous of him as well sometimes; he didn’t know. Anyway, he wasn’t going to be let talk like that to his mother. That was out.

But the twins were back.

— You’re to sign this.

Linda had spoken to him.

— Wha’?

— Here.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — Why but?

He took Linda’s homework journal from her.

— Don’t know, said Linda. — You’re to just sign it.

Jimmy Sr looked at the cover; Big Fun, Wet Wet Wet, Brother Beyond, Tracy loves Keith. He looked at the back; Linda loves Keith.

— Lucky Keith, he said. — Where am I to sign?

Linda took the journal and found the right page.

— Here, she said.

There was a page for each week, divided into sections for subject, homework and teachers’ comments.

— You don’t have to read them, said Linda.

— Homework not done, Jimmy Sr read. — Persisted in talking. — Homework not done. Cheeky. Stabbed student with compass. — Homework should be done at home.

He looked up.

— Fuckin’ hell, he said. — An’ that’s only Monday.

— Let me see, said Veronica. — My God.

Linda pointed at one of the comments.

— I wasn’t cheeky. She just said I was but I wasn’t. An’ he — tha’ one there — he hit me with his ruler so I had to get him back but she didn’t see him hittin’ me, she on’y seen—

— Saw, said Veronica.

— She only saw me gettin’ him with the compass. An’ I did not stab him. I on’y—

— Shut up! said Jimmy Sr.

He looked at Veronica.

— Give us a pen, he said to Linda. — Where’s your journal till I see it, he said to Tracy.

— It’s in school, said Tracy.

— Why’s tha’?

— A teacher kept it.

— Why?

— He just did.

Jimmy Sr looked at Veronica again.

— You’re grounded, he told the twins. — The two o’ yis. He saw Parent’s Signature, and signed the dotted line.

— Till when? said Tracy.

— Till I say so, said Jimmy Sr. — Who told yeh to get me to sign this?

— Miss McCluskey.

— Elephant Woman, said Darren, on his way out.

— Don’t start now, said Jimmy Sr.

He stared the twins out of it.

— I’m warnin’ yis, he said. — If one o’ yis laughs I’ll tan your arses for yis.

Tracy started; she couldn’t keep it in. And that got Linda going.

— Here, said Jimmy Sr.

He walloped her with the journal, but not too hard.

— I’m checkin’ your homework every nigh’, d‘yeh hear me. An’—

He shouted after them.

— if I see anny more bad comments I’ll—

The front door slammed.

— crucify yis! — The pair o’ them’ll be pushin’ buggies before they’re fifteen.

— Oh God, said Veronica. — Don’t.

He looked at Veronica, carefully.

— I’ll check their eccers every nigh‘, don’t worry. An’ we won’t let them out at all after their tea, an’ that’ll sort them ou’, wait an’ see, Veronica. Fair enough?

— Okay.

— I’ll do everythin’. I’ll even sleep in the same bed as them.

— Jesus, said Veronica. — We’ve enough trouble in the house without that as well.

Jimmy Sr laughed.

— Good girl, he said. — An’ you can sleep with Darren. How’s tha’?

He loved the breakfasts. Pity they went so quick.

He got up.

Where was Gina?

— No rest for the wicked, he said.

— They’re not real computers annyway, sure they’re not.

— Not at all, said Veronica. — They’re only toys.

Jimmy Sr and Veronica were doing a bit of Christmas shopping. It was Thursday morning and more than three weeks to go, so Donaghmede Shopping Centre — where they were — wasn’t too bad, not too crowded. They hadn’t really said it, but they were looking for things that looked good and cost nothing. It reminded Jimmy Sr of when he was a kid and he used to walk along with his head down and pray, really pray, that he’d find money on the path, and he’d close his eyes turning a corner and then open them and there’d be nothing on the ground in front of him.

— And they’re very bad for your eyes, said Veronica.

— Is tha’ righ’? said Jimmy Sr. — Oh yeah; I read somethin’ abou’ tha’ somewhere, I think. — Ah well, then. We’d be mad to get one for them.

They’d just been looking at the computers in a window. They were for nothing, dirt cheap; great value they looked. You linked them into the telly and then you could play all kinds of games on them. Jimmy Sr had played Space Invaders once, years ago; only the once, so he hadn’t really got the hang of it, but he’d enjoyed himself. These things looked better; more colours and varieties. It would have been good to have one at home, a bit of gas. And, as well as that, it was a computer, after all; there were probably other things you could do with them, not just play games. Only they couldn’t afford one of the fuckin’ things. Last year now, last year they’d have bought—

— Sure, who’d we give it to? said Veronica.

— The twins. I suppose.

— They wouldn’t be interested, said Veronica. — They’d hate you if you gave them one of them.

She laughed.

— I’d love to see the look on their faces if they thought they were getting a computer game for Christmas.

Jimmy Sr laughed as well now.

— Yeah, he said. — I just thought they looked the business, yeh know. Darren?

— He’d be insulted.

She was right.

— You’d be the only one who’d use it, said Veronica.

He made himself smile.

— True, he said.

— We’ll get you an Airfix instead, said Veronica.

It was crying alright; she was crying.

Jimmy Sr was outside Sharon’s room. He’d come up for his book.

Sharon snuffled.

Jimmy Sr held the door handle. He was going to go in.

But he couldn’t.

He wanted to, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t have known what to do any more.

He went back down to the kitchen very carefully, and stepped down over the stair with the creak in it.

Veronica had been in already to have a look at her. It was his turn now. One, two—

He grabbed the handle and went straight into the front room.

— 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’!! 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.

— He did this to his brother last night, she said. — The exact same thing.

Bimbo came back. They got in together, to consult.

— I can’t smell annythin’, said Bimbo.

— Can yeh not? said Bertie.

— D‘yeh have a cold? Jimmy Sr asked Bimbo. — It’s gettin’ worse.

— It’s not, is it? said Bimbo. — God, this is desperate.

Maggie and Veronica arrived, and most of Bimbo’s kids.

— What’s up? said Maggie. — Ah howyeh, Vera.

— Howyeh, Maggie. Happy Christmas. Happy Christmas, Veronica.

— And yourself, Vera; happy Christmas.

— Never mind Christmas, said Bimbo.

He nodded his head back; he didn’t want to look. He whispered.

— We’ve an emergency on our hands.

— How come? said Maggie.

Jimmy Sr was having real problems keeping his face straight. So was Vera. Bertie though, he looked like a doctor telling you that you had cancer.

— Your mother—, said Bimbo.

— She has a name, you know, said Maggie.

— That’s not all she has, signora, said Bertie.

That was it; Guinness, snot, probably some of his breakfast burst up into Jimmy Sr’s mouth and nose; it didn’t get past his teeth — he was lucky there — but something landed on his shirt; he didn’t care, not yet; his eyes watered—

— Fuck; sorry.

And he laughed.

Veronica had her handkerchief out and was trying to get the snot off his shirt.

He laughed like he was dying of it; it was hurting him but it was fuckin’ great. Veronica was tickling him as well and that made it worse.

Veronica started laughing at him laughing.

They were all laughing now, even Bimbo. He knew he’d been had but he didn’t mind; he never did; only sometimes.

Jimmy Sr felt a fart coming on, and he didn’t trust himself with it; he couldn’t, not the way he was, helpless from the laughing and sweating and that; he’d have ended up being the one who’d ruined Bimbo’s Christmas — by shiteing all over his new carpet.

— Eh, the jacks, he said.

— Off yeh go, said Bertie.

It took him ages to get up the stairs; he had to haul himself up them.

He had a piss while he was up there, and gave his hands a wash; he always did when he was in someone’s house.

He was some tulip, Bertie; he was fuckin’ gas.

Jesus, the water was scalding.

He dried his hands, and looked at his watch: half-twelve. That was good; they’d stay another hour and a half or so. The crack would be good.

Vera; she was a fine-looking bird. She looked after herself — whatever that meant. She looked healthy, that was it. She looked healthier than Veronica. She was a good bit younger than Veronica, maybe ten years. But she looked like she’d been a young one not so long ago and poor Veronica looked like she’d never been a young one. It wasn’t just age though.

Bimbo had an electric razor.

He had two of them, two razors, the jammy bastard; an ordinary-looking one and a thin yellow one that didn’t look like it could’ve been much good. Jimmy Sr picked up the yellow one: Girl Care. What the fuck—

She was a bit of a brasser, Vera, but Jimmy Sr liked that. It was Maggie’s, that was it; for her legs or — only her legs probably. He pressed a small rubber button, and it came on but there was hardly any noise out of it. He put his foot up on the bath and lifted his trouser leg and pulled down his sock a bit; new socks, from the twins.

— One from each o’ yis, wha’, he’d said when he’d unwrapped them, earlier at home.

He looked at the door; it was alright, it was locked.

He slowly put the Girl yoke down on top of a couple of long hairs, there on his shin: nothing. He massaged another bit of his leg with it, and then felt it. It was smooth alright but — it was smooth there anyway. There was a clump of about ten hairs growing out of a sort of a mole yoke he’d had since he was a kid.

They were real wiry, these hairs, and blacker than the other ones. He wouldn’t put the head of the razor straight down on top of them; he’d just run the thing over the mole quickly and see what it did.

He looked at the door again. Vera probably used one of these, when she was shaving her legs—

— Ah fuck this!

He threw the Girl Care back onto the shelf over the sink.

God, he was a right fuckin’ eejit. Shaving his legs; for fuck sake!

He was sweating.

He’d better get back down to the others.

Shaving his fuckin’ legs.

He felt weak, hopeless, like he’d been caught. Was something happening him?

He turned on the cold tap.

No, fuck it; he’d only been curious, that was all; he’d only wanted to see if the fuckin’ thing worked, that was all.

The cold water was lovely on his face. Nice towel as well; lovely and soft. Maggie had probably put it into the bathroom just before they’d arrived, just for them. It wasn’t damp and smelly, the way it would’ve been if the whole family had been through it that morning.

Fair play to Bimbo; and Maggie. They had the house lovely.

He felt better now. That hot wetness was gone. He was grand now.

He unlocked the door and went downstairs.

It was nice. The window was open and it wasn’t cold at all. There was no one out on the road; no voices or cars. No one would’ve been out on Christmas Day night; there was nowhere to go, unless they’d been out visiting the mother or something and they were on their way home.

Veronica was asleep.

That was the first time they’d done the business in a good while; two months nearly. Made love. He’d never called it that; it sounded thick. Riding your wife was more than just riding, especially when yis hadn’t done it in months, but — he could never have said Let’s make love to Veronica; she’d have burst out laughing at him.

He wasn’t tired. He hadn’t drunk much. There hadn’t been that much to drink, but that didn’t matter; he wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. Anyway as well, he’d had a snooze after they got back from Bimbo’s while Veronica and Sharon were getting the dinner ready.

Veronica had caught him feeling her legs to see if they were smooth, to see if she shaved them.

— What’re you doing?

— Nothin’.

She hadn’t really caught him; he’d have been doing it anyway. But he’d had to keep feeling them up and down from her knees up to her gee after she’d said that, so she wouldn’t think he’d stopped just cos she’d said it.

They were smooth, except on her shins. They were a bit prickly there.

Young Jimmy’d come for the dinner. In a taxi, no less. Fair play to him. And five cigars for Jimmy Sr from Aoife, his mot. That was very nice of her; he’d only met her the once. She was a nice young one, too nice for that—

That wasn’t fair. He was alright, young Jimmy. He was staying the night, downstairs with Darren. And Darren was well set up as well, with a lovely-looking young one.

Aoife and Miranda.

Two lovely names. There was something about them; just thinking of the names, not even the girls themselves, got him going. They were models’ names.

Veronica wasn’t what you’d have called a sexy name. Or Vera.

Vera wasn’t too bad though. There was no saint called Vera as far as he knew.

Veronica shifted and moved in closer to him. That was nice. He felt guilty now; not really though. He put his hand on her back.

That fucker Leslie hadn’t got in touch; not even a card. Even just to tell them where he was; and that he was alive.

He’d been caught robbing a Lifeboat collection box out in Howth. He hadn’t even been caught, just seen by an off-duty cop who knew him. And that was why he’d left, for robbing a couple of quids’ worth of fivepences and two-pences. Last August that was. He’d spent two nights in Veronica’s sister’s in Wolverhampton, and that was it; they hadn’t heard from him since. On the run. He was only nineteen. He’d have gone eventually anyway; he was always in trouble and never at home, and you couldn’t be held responsible for a nineteen-year-old. They were better off without him. Jimmy Sr had taken the day off work to go with Leslie to court the first time, about five years ago now, for trespassing on the tracks.

Poor Veronica had bought a present for him, just in case; a jumper. But she hadn’t put it under the tree. It was up in the wardrobe over there, all wrapped up. She hadn’t said anything when he didn’t turn up yesterday or even today. She’d been in good form all day. You never knew with Veronica.

Jimmy Sr would throw the little shitehawk out on his ear if he turned up now. No, though; he wouldn’t.

Trespassing on the tracks. Then he’d gone on to the big time, robbing fuckin’ poor boxes. He was probably sleeping in a cardboard box—

It hadn’t been a bad day; not too bad at all. Fair enough, probably nobody got the present they’d really wanted — the faces on the poor twins when they’d seen their presents, clothes. They used to get new clothes anyway, their Christmas clothes; their presents had always been separate. Still, they were happy enough with the clothes. They’d been changing in and out of them all day. They were getting very big, real young ones. Gina was the only real child left in the house.

Jimmy Sr had got David Copperfield for Darren, and he’d liked it; you could tell. To Darren From His Father; that was what he’d written inside it. He saw Darren reading it after the tea.

They’d had their turkey as well, same as always; a grand big fucker. They’d be eating turkey sandwiches for weeks. He’d won it with two Saturdays to spare, and a bottle of Jameson. His game had definitely improved since he’d gone on the labour.

He got a tea-towel for Veronica, with Italia 90 on it. She liked it as well. She showed it to Sharon and the two of them laughed. He gave out to her later when he caught her using it to dry the dishes and she’d laughed again, and then he had as well. That was what it was for, he supposed. But she could have kept it for — he didn’t know — a special occasion or something.

— Jimmy, love, she’d said. — Christmas is a special occasion.

Then she’d shown him how to use it; for a laugh. It had been a good oul’ day.

You got used to it. In fact, it wasn’t too bad. You just had to fill your day, and that wasn’t all that hard really. And now that the days were getting a bit longer — it was January — the good weather would be starting soon and he’d be able to do things to the garden. He had plans.

The worst part was the money, not having any of it; having to be mean. For instance, Darren had gone to Scotland with the school when he was in second year, but the twins wouldn’t be going anywhere. They’d come home soon and ask and he’d have to say No, or Veronica would; she was better at it.

Unless, of course, he got work between now and then.

Only, it was easier to cope if you didn’t think things like that, getting work. You just continued on, like this was normal; you filled your day. The good thing about winter was that the day was actually short. It was only in the daylight that you felt bad, restless, sometimes even guilty. Mind you, the time went slower, probably because of the cold.

It hadn’t been cold at all yet this winter, not the cold that made your nose numb. Inside in the house during the day, when they didn’t have a fire going — when the kids were at school — and they didn’t have any heaters on, except in Sharon’s room for Gina, it was never really cold, just sort of cool, damp without being damp. It wasn’t bad once you were dressed properly.

He’d had to take his jacket off a good few times when he was out walking with Gina it was so warm. He did that a lot, went out with Gina. He even took her to the pitch ‘n’ putt once, and some fuckin’ clown had sent a ball bouncing off the bar of her buggy when Jimmy Sr was teeing up at the seventh, the tricky seventh. God, if he’d hit her he’d have killed her, and he’d only said Sorry and then asked Jimmy Sr did he see where his fuckin’ ball had gone. Jimmy Sr told him where the fuckin’ ball would go if he ever did it again. But it had scared him.

Mind you, at least he’d had something to tell Veronica when he got home, something genuine. Sometimes he made up things to tell her, little adventures; some oul’ one dropping her shopping or some kid nearly getting run over. He felt like a right prick when he was telling her but he kind of had to, he didn’t know why; to let her know that he was getting on fine.

He went into town and wandered around. He hadn’t done that in years. It had changed a lot; pubs he’d known and even streets were gone. It looked good though, he thought. He could tell you one thing: there was money in this town.

— Si.

Bertie agreed with him, and so did Bimbo.

Young ones must have been earning real money these days as well; you could tell by the way they dressed. He’d sat on that stone bench with the two bronze oul’ ones chin-wagging on it, beside the Halfpenny Bridge; he’d sat on the side of that one day and he’d counted fifty-four great-looking young ones going by in only a quarter of an hour; brilliant-looking women now, and all of them dressed beautifully, the height of style; they must have paid fortunes for the stuff they had on them; you could tell.

He’d read three of your man, Charles Dickens’ books now; they were brilliant; just brilliant. He was going to do some Leaving Cert subjects next year, next September; at night, like Veronica. He read the papers from cover to cover these days. He read them in Raheny Library, or Donaghmede if he felt like a change. He preferred Raheny. And he watched Sky News in the day. He couldn’t keep up with what was happening these days, especially in the Warsaw Pact places. They were talking about it one day, him and Darren and Sharon and Veronica, and even the twins, at their dinner; they were talking about it and he’d noticed one thing: the twins called Thatcher Thatcher and Bush Bush but they called Gorbachev Mr Gorbachev: that said something. Because they could be cheeky little bitches when they wanted to be.

Sky News was good, better than their other poxy channel, Sky One. But he wouldn’t pay for it when they had to start paying for it later in the year sometime. It wasn’t worth it, although he didn’t know how much they were going to charge. And that reminded him: there’d been a bill from Cablelink stuck up on the fridge door for weeks now. It could stay there for another few; fuck it.

He’d made a list of things to do in the house and he was doing one a week. He’d fixed the jacks yesterday, for example; tightened the handle. It was working grand again now. That sort of thing. But nothing mad. He wasn’t going to become one of those do-it-yourself gobshites, fixing things that didn’t need fixing, and then invading the neighbours and fixing their stuff as well, and probably making a bollix of it. Once the weather got better and the days got a bit longer, he’d be out there in the garden, ah yes; he wouldn’t notice the days flying past him then. He had plans.

He had loads of things to keep him going. The money was the only thing. He’d be going past a pub in town and he’d have the gum for a pint — he always did when he heard the voices and the telly on — just one pint, but he couldn’t go in; he couldn’t afford it. Or he couldn’t buy an ice-cream for Gina when they were out, not that he’d let her have an ice-cream in this weather, but that kind of thing; it was irritating. It was humiliating.

Still though, money wasn’t everything. He was happy enough.

Bimbo was crying.

Jaysis.

Bimbo; of all—

— What’s up? said Jimmy Sr.

But that sounded bad, like nothing big was happening. The man was crying, for fuck sake.

— What’s wrong with yeh?

That was worse.

— Are yeh alrigh’?

Better.

He sat down, in front of Bimbo, at the other side of the table. He blocked Bimbo from the rest of the bar so no one could see him, unless they were looking.

— Ah, I’m—

Bimbo tried to smile. He wiped his cheeks with the outside of his hand.

— I’m grand.

It was like Bimbo remembered where he was. He sat up and lifted up his pint. Jimmy tasted his; it was fine, the first in five days.

— I got a bit o’ bad news earlier, said Bimbo. — It knocked me a bit.

He shrugged.

Bimbo’s parents were already dead. Jimmy Sr knew that because he remembered that they’d died very close to each other, a couple of weeks between them only. Maybe Maggie’s mother had snuffed it but — Bimbo was a bit of a softy but he wouldn’t break out crying in his local for Maggie’s mother; she’d been as good as dead for fuckin’ years. One of the kids—

Oh fuck. He wished Bertie was here.

Bimbo spoke.

— I was let go this mornin’.

— Wha’?

— Let go. — I’m like you now, Jimmy, wha’. A man o’ leisure.

— You were—?

— Yeah; gas, isn’t it?

He could see Bimbo’s eyes getting watery again. Poor Bimbo.

— How come? said Jimmy Sr, hoping that it might get Bimbo talking instead of crying.

— Oh. Ten of us got letters. The oldest, yeh know. In the canteen, on our way ou’.

Bimbo was a baker.

— The chap from the office said tha’ they had to compete with the big boys. That’s wha’ he called them, the big boys. — The fuckin’ eejit.

Bimbo hardly ever said Fuck.

— They need our wages to compete with the big boys — wha’.

— That’s shockin’, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo was twirling the stout in his glass; he didn’t know what he was doing.

— Any chance they’ll take yeh back when they’ve — yeh know?

— He said Yeah, the young fella from Personnel tha’ gave us the letters. I didn’t believe him though. I wouldn’t believe him if he — Tha’ sort o’ fella, yeh know.

Bimbo sat up straight again.

— Ah sure—

He grinned.

— We’ll keep each other company anyway, wha’.

— Ah yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — Fuckin’ sure.

There was that about it. He stopped himself from thinking that this was good news, but he nearly couldn’t help it.

It was shocking though. Bimbo was younger than him and he was being fucked out on his ear because he was too old.

— My father, God rest him, got me in there, said Bimbo.

— That’s righ’.

— His brother, me Uncle Paddy, he worked there.

— Yeah.

— I’ll never forget comin’ home the first week with me first wage packet. I ran all the way, nonstop all the way with me hand in me pocket to stop me money from fallin’ ou’. An’ a bag o’cakes tha’ had been sent back. Fruit slices. Fly cemeteries. I was more excited abou’ the cakes than I was abou’ the money, that’s how young I was. I knew I’d be king o’ the castle when me sisters saw the fruit slices. Marie’s little one has epilepsy, did I tell yeh?

Marie was one of Bimbo’s sisters, the one Jimmy Sr liked.

— No; is tha’ righ’?

— Yeah; Catherine. She’s only six. Sad, isn’t it?

— Jesus, yeah. — Six?

Bimbo started crying again. His face collapsed. He rubbed his nose. He searched for a hankie he didn’t have. He gulped. He smiled through it.

— What am I goin’ to do, Jimmy?

They got locked, of course. Bertie was great when he arrived.

— That’s great news, compadre, he told Bimbo. — You were always a poxy baker anyway, wha’.

And Bimbo burst his shite laughing; he was delighted. And Bimbo’s laugh; when Bimbo laughed everyone laughed. Veronica always said that Bimbo’s laugh lassoed you.

— Three nice pints, por favor, Bertie roared across to Leo, the barman. — An’ John Wayners, lads?

— Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr.

He hadn’t much money on him. Still though—

— Fair enough, he said.

— Okay, said Bimbo. — Me too.

— Good man, said Bertie. — An’ Leo? he roared. — Three Jamesons as well.

And then Paddy turned up.

— How much of a lump sum will yeh be gettin’? Paddy asked Bimbo when he came in.

— Jesus Christ, said Jimmy Sr. — He isn’t even sittin’ down yet an’ he wants to know how much money you’re gettin’.

Bimbo laughed.

— I couldn’t give a shite how much he’s gettin’, said Paddy.

— Then wha’ did yeh ask him for then?

— I only asked him, said Paddy. — Fuck off.

— A couple o’ thousand, said Bimbo.

— Don’t tell him, said Jimmy Sr.

— Around three, said Bimbo. — I don’t know. They’re tellin’ us on Monday.

— We’ll meet up here at teatime on Monday so, said Bertie.

— Ah yeah, Bimbo assured them. — We’ll have to have a few pints out of it alrigh’.

— You’ll go to pieces without somethin’ to do, Paddy told Bimbo.

— Shut up the fuck! said Jimmy Sr.

He gave Bimbo a quick look, but Bimbo didn’t mind.

— You’d make a great doctor, Bertie told Paddy, — d‘yeh know tha’. I can just see yeh. You have cancer, missis, your tit’ll have to come off.

— Oh Jesus, said Bimbo.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr, when he’d stopped laughing. — Will he be alrigh’, Doctor? No, missis, he’s fucked.

They laughed again.

— Wha’ will yeh do but? Paddy asked Bimbo.

— There’s loads o’ things he can do, said Jimmy Sr.

— Like?

— Doin’ up his house, eh—

— His house is already done up, said Bertie. — It’s already like Elvis’s gaff; what’s it — Graceland.

Bimbo laughed at that, but he was pleased.

— His garden, said Jimmy Sr.

— His garden’s like—

— It’s not like a human garden at all, said Bertie.

— There’s loads o’ things he can do, Jimmy Sr insisted.

— Yeah, said Paddy. — I’m sure there is. Wha’ though?

— He can clean the church on Monday mornin’s, said Bertie.

They roared.

— Some oul’ one tried to get Vera to start doin’ tha‘, said Bertie. — Help cleanin’ the fuckin’ church on Monday mornin’s.

— I wouldn’t say that’d be Vera’s scene exactly, said Jimmy Sr.

— Not at all, said Bertie. — She doesn’t even help to dirty the fuckin’ place on Sunday mornin’s.

Bertie knocked back half of his pint.

— Ahh, he said.

— My turn, said Bimbo.

— The first of many, said Bertie.

— Leo, Bimbo shouted. — When you’re ready. Three—

— Four, said Paddy.

— Four pints an’ four small ones like a good man, please! They said nothing for a bit.

— Ah yes, said Bertie.

He was getting them ready.

— I know wha’ I’d do if I got a lumpo sum like Bimbo’s gettin’, he said.

One of them had to say it. So—

— Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.

— I’d bring it into the Gem, righ’.

— Eh—, righ’.

— An’ I’d wave it under Mandy’s nose an’ let her sniff it a bit.

Jimmy and Paddy started laughing.

— Then I’d bring her round the back, behind the fridge, righ’.

— Oh God.

Bimbo started laughing now.

— An’ I’d — die happy.

They laughed on top of what they were laughing already; Bertie sounded so sincere.

— My Jaysis, compadres, said Bertie when he’d recovered a bit, — I’m not jokin’ yis.

Paddy nodded. He liked Mandy from the Gem as well.

They all liked Mandy.

— You’re a dirty fucker, Jimmy Sr told Bertie.

— I said nothin’ tha’ yis don’t all think when yis go into tha’ shop. Tha’ signorita. My fuckin’ Jaysis.

— She’s only sixteen, abou’, said Bimbo.

— So?

Bimbo shrugged. It didn’t matter; they were only messing.

— I was in there this mornin‘, said Bertie. — She is unfuckinbelievable; isn’t she? I was gettin’ me Sun. She’s as good lookin’ as anny of them Page Three brassers.

— She’s better lookin’, said Jimmy Sr.

— Si, said Bertie, — She fuckin’ is. I said it as well; I told her.

— Yeh didn’t, said Paddy.

Bertie stared Paddy out of it for a second. Then he got back to Mandy.

— I opened it up at page three, righ‘, an’ I showed it to her. Tha’ should be you, I told her.

— Did she say ann‘thin’ back to yeh?

— Si. She told me to fuck off. But she was delighted, yeh could see.

— She’s a lovely-lookin’ girl alrigh’, said Bimbo.

— I made her get a packet o’ crisps for me as well, said Bertie. — I hate the fuckin’ things.

They laughed. They knew what was coming next.

— Just to get her to bend over, yeh know. Caramba, lads, I nearly broke the counter with the bugle I had on me. When she gave them to me I said Salt an’ vinegar so she had to do it again.

— She’ll be fat by the time she’s eighteen, said Paddy.

— No, said Jimmy Sr. — No, she won’t.

— Why not?

— She’s not like tha‘, said Jimmy Sr. — She’s not like those young ones tha’ look like women when they’re fourteen an’ then they’re like their mothers before they’re twenty. She’s not like tha’.

He wondered if he should have been talking like this, if he was maybe giving something away. But Bertie agreed with him.

— Si, he said.

— My twist, said Jimmy Sr.

He wanted to get up. Halfway through talking there he’d felt dirty; kind of. And then stupid. Talking about young ones like that, very young ones. But when Bertie joined in it was safe. Darren was doing lounge boy tonight though. If he heard—

He stood up.

— Same again over here, Darren, please!

— Wha’?

— Leo knows. Just tell him the same again.

It was getting crowded. Leo was skidding up and down behind the bar.

— So annyway, Bimbo, said Bertie when Jimmy Sr was sitting back down. — Compadre mio, that’s wha’ I’d do if I was you.

— How though? said Paddy.

— Wha’?

— How would yeh do it?

— The same way I’ve always done it.

— No, I don’t mean the ridin‘, Paddy explained. — I mean gettin’ her to do it. How would yeh manage tha’?

— No great problem there, compadre, said Bertie. — I’d show her the money an’ tell her I’ll give her some of it if she’ll say hello to the baldy fella; there’d be nothin’ to it.

— Ah fuck off, said Jimmy Sr.

— Wha’? said Bertie.

— Yeh can’t just do tha’.

— Why not?

— Cos the girl’s not a fuckin’ prostitute, that’s why not.

— No, Bimbo agreed.

— Listen, compadre, said Bertie. — All women are prostitutes.

— Ah now—, said Bimbo.

— Will yeh listen to him, said Jimmy Sr.

— 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’.

— Bet yeh regret you didn’t get a mug of it for yourself now, wha’, said Jimmy Sr.

They went home after that.

They did something every day nearly. The weather was weird. It was lovely one minute; they’d have to take their jackets off, and even their jumpers. And then it would start snowing — it would! — or hailstoning.

— Snow in April, said Bimbo, looking up at it.

He liked it, only he was cold. They were in under the shelter at the pond in St Anne’s Park. Bimbo didn’t want to lean against the wall because he could smell the piss; it was terrible. They had Gina with them, in her buggy.

— It’s mad alrigh’, said Jimmy Sr.

— It was lovely earlier, said Bimbo.

— That’s righ‘, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s the fuckin’ ozone layer; that’s wha’ I think’s doin’ it.

— Is April not always a bit like this? said Bimbo.

— Not this bad, said Jimmy Sr. — No.

He made sure that Gina’s head was well inside her hood.

— The greenhouse effect, he said.

— I thought tha’ was supposed to make the world get warmer, said Bimbo.

— It does that alrigh’, Jimmy Sr agreed with him. — Yeah; but it makes it go colder as well. It makes the weather go all over the shop.

— Yeh wouldn’t know wha’ to wear, said Bimbo. — Sure yeh wouldn’t.

He put his hands up into his sleeves.

— Yeh’d be better off goin’ around in your nip, said Jimmy Sr.

They laughed at that.

— At least yeh’d know where yeh stood then, wha’, said Jimmy Sr.

— I’d need shoes though, said Bimbo.

— An’ somewhere to put your cigarettes, wha’.

They laughed again.

— I’m never happy unless I have me shoes on me, said Bimbo. — Even on a beach.

— Is tha’ righ’?

— Or slippers.

Then it stopped. And the sun came out nearly immediately and it was like it had never been snowing, except for the snow on the ground. But that was disappearing quick; they could see it melting and evaporating.

— I love lookin’ at tha’ sort o’ thing, said Bimbo.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

He checked on Gina. She was still asleep.

— Just as well, wha’, he said. — She makes enough noise, doesn’t she, Bimbo?

— Ah sure, said Bimbo. — That’s wha’ they’re supposed to do at her age. She’s lovely.

— Isn’t she but, said Jimmy Sr. — If the rest of her is as good as her lungs she’ll be a fine thing when she grows up.

They got going. They had a read of the newspapers in the library, to get in out of the cold, on their way home. But they had to leave because Gina started acting up.

They didn’t meet much at night; once or twice a week only.

— Look, said Bimbo one morning.

He took something out of a brown envelope with a window in it.

Jimmy went over and turned so he could see it. Bimbo didn’t really hold it up to him; he just held it.

It was his redundancy cheque.

— Very nice, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo put it back in the envelope and went into the kitchen and gave it to Maggie. Then they went out.

Bimbo put a lot of the lump sum into the house. He got aluminium windows for the back; they already had them in the front. And he put his name down for the gas conversion, the Fifty-Fifty Cash Back. Jimmy Sr helped Bimbo put new paper up in his kitchen and Veronica went through him for a short cut when she saw the paste in his hair and he told her how it had got there. He had to promise to do their own kitchen before she’d get off his back, but they didn’t have the money to buy any paper or anything so it had been an easy enough promise to make.

They went out to Howth as well sometimes, and had a walk down the pier and along the front. They were going to get fishing rods.

Then a great thing happened. Bimbo helped out a bit with Barrytown United. He just went to the Under 13 matches cos Wayne, one of his young lads, was playing for them now; he was usually the sub, and Bimbo minded their gear and their money for them. And he sometimes drove some of the Under 18s to their matches, and home again. Anyway, he got a chance of two tickets to one of the World Cup warm-up matches, against Wales, in Lansdowne.

— Not two tickets exactly, he explained to Jimmy Sr.

— Wha’ does tha’ fuckin’ mean? said Paddy.

— Was I talkin’ to you? said Bimbo. — We get into the game for nothin’, he told Jimmy Sr, — but we have to do a bit o’ stewardin’. Nothin’ much though.

— Wha’?

— I don’t know, said Bimbo. — Exactly. Are yeh on?

— Okay, said Jimmy Sr.

— Ah good, said Bimbo.

— They’ll fuckin’ lose, Paddy told them. — Wait an’ see.

— Fuck off you, said Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr loved soccer but he hadn’t been to a game in years, and now he could go to an international for nothing.

— The tickets are like gold dust, he told Veronica.

They got the DART straight across to Lansdowne. Jimmy Sr had Darren’s Ireland scarf on him. Darren still went to all the matches but he didn’t bother with the scarf any more. So Jimmy Sr had it.

— How many stops after Amiens Street is Lansdowne? Jimmy Sr asked Bimbo.

Bimbo looked up at the yoke with the stations on it over the window.

— Eh — three—, said Bimbo. — Yeah; three.

— Good, said Jimmy Sr. — I could do with a slash.

They’d had a pint in the Hikers; just the two.

— We’ll have one when we get there, said Bimbo.

— Grand, said Jimmy Sr. — No hurry.

— There’s a big jacks under the stand.

— Grand, said Jimmy Sr.

When they got to Lansdowne they had to put on these white jackets with Opel on them and they followed this fat fella, and he brought them up into the East Stand and what they had to do was show people where their seats were. It was easy. You’d want to have been a fuckin’ eejit not to have been able to find your own seat. He slagged Bimbo; said he’d buy him a torch and a skirt so he could get him a job in a cinema. — Can I help you, sir, he’d heard him saying to one fuckin’ eejit who couldn’t find his seat.

Then they went down to the side of the pitch just after the game started, inside the barriers — it was great — and they watched the game. It was a shite match, woeful; but he enjoyed it and the weather stayed good. He took off his Opel jacket and the fat fella told him to put it back on, but he said it nicely, so Jimmy Sr did put it back on. Coming up to full time the fat fella told them to turn around and face the crowd and stop any young fellas from climbing over the barriers when the whistle went. Then Ireland got a penno, and they had to watch that; and that gobshite, Sheedy, missed it — Southall saved it — and he turned back, and the crowd went fuckin’ mad, and he turned back around and the new fella, Bernie Slaven, had scored a goal and Jimmy Sr’d fuckin’ missed it. He had to watch it on the telly later on that night. He didn’t know why he’d faced the crowd anyway; there was no way he was going to try and stop anyone from climbing over the barriers. They could chew their way through the barriers for all Jimmy Sr cared; it was none of his business. He enjoyed the whole day though. Mick McCarthy came over near to where himself and Bimbo were just before the end to take one of his famous long throws and Jimmy Sr nodded at him and said Howyeh, Mick, and McCarthy winked at him. He was a good player, McCarthy, a hard man.

They were going to get into the Russia game as well for nothing at the end of the month. That was definitely something to look forward to; it would be a much better match.

— Definitely, said Bimbo.

They were on the DART home.

— I don’t know, said Jimmy Sr. — I’d say tha’ glasnost shite has made them soft, d’yeh know tha’. They don’t have to worry abou’ bein’ sent to the salt mines if they lose any more.

— We’ll see, said Bimbo.

So they filled their time no problem. Sometimes that was all they did; fill it — they just fucked around doing nothing till they could go home for their dinner or their tea. That wasn’t so good. And sometimes Jimmy Sr could tell that Bimbo had the blues. And sometimes as well he had the blues himself. But they were good for each other, him and Bimbo.

And now — today — all Bimbo’s practice had paid off; he’d won the pitch and putt. And instead of winning a poxy voucher for the butchers or something he’d won a trophy, a huge one with a golfer on top of it; not cheap looking either, like a lot of them were. No, it was very nice, and Bimbo was fuckin’ delighted; he was fuckin’ glowing.

They’d had a few pints to celebrate and now they were going out to the van to get a few chips and a bit of cod, because they were too late for their tea and too hungry to wait for Maggie and Veronica to rustle up something for them.

— Are yeh righ’? said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo was collecting his clubs and his trophy, trying to work out the handiest way to carry them all.

— Here, said Jimmy Sr. — Give us them.

He took the clubs from Bimbo. He was fuckin’ starving.

— Seeyis now, said Bimbo.

He was saying goodbye to everyone.

— Will yeh come on! said Jimmy Sr. — For Jaysis sake.

They went out into the carpark. It was still bright; it was only eight o’clock. The sky was red over where the sun was.

— Isn’t tha’ lovely? said Bimbo.

— I’m havin’ a burger as well, Jimmy Sr told him.

But the van wasn’t there.

— Ah fuck it!

And then they remembered that the van hadn’t been there in a long time; months in fact. They only missed it now when they wanted it.

They headed over the Green to the real chipper.

— Prob‘ly just as well really, said Bimbo. — You never know wha’ you were gettin‘, out o’ tha’ van. — It’s funny though—

He was having problems keeping up with Jimmy Sr.

— Tha’ van was a little gold mine, he said.

Jimmy Sr agreed with him.

— Yeah, he said.

— Maybe he’s sick, said Bimbo.

He nearly went through a puddle.

— Or maybe he’s dead.

— Good, said Jimmy Sr.

— A little gold mine that place was, Bimbo said again.

— It can’t have been tha’ much of a gold mine if it’s not there annymore, said Jimmy Sr.

— Maybe, yeah, said Bimbo. — I’d say he’s just sick or dead.

— I’ll be dead in a minute meself if I don’t get a bit o’ grub into me, said Jimmy Sr. — Come here, Bimbo, he said. — You’ll have to be careful yeh don’t get complacent just cos you’ve won once. I’m not bein’ snotty now—

— I know tha’.

— It happens a lot o’ fellas. They stop workin’ at their game, just cos they’ve won one poxy trophy; no offence.

— Don’t worry, Bimbo assured him. — It’s not goin’ to happen to me.

— Good man. — We wouldn’t want a job now, wha’. We’re too busy.

Bimbo smiled back at him.

There were bad times as well, of course. Of course there were. Poor oul’ Bimbo got the blues a bit, the way he used to himself before he got the hang of it, being a man of leisure. He — Bimbo — got the Independent every morning. It was supposed to be the best paper for jobs, and he went straight to the back pages. He hadn’t a hope in shite of getting a job out of it, he knew it himself; they knew nobody who’d ever got a job out of a paper. But he still got it and went down the columns with his finger and got ink on it and then on his face, and then got depressed when there was nothing for him. God love him, Jimmy Sr had to stop him from writing away for a job in McDonalds; there was a huge ad for them in Saturday’s paper.

Jimmy Sr called for him. They were playing against each other in this week’s pitch and putt. And he was at the kitchen table starting to write the letter.

Jimmy Sr read the ad.

— You’re not serious, he said when he was finished. Bimbo finished writing his address.

— You’re not fuckin’ serious, said Jimmy Sr.

— I knew yeh’d say tha’, said Bimbo.

He kept his eyes on the paper but he wasn’t writing anything. His address was the only thing on the paper so far.

— Wha’ d’yeh think you’re at? Jimmy Sr asked him. — Well?

He took care to make sure that what he said sounded just right, not too hard and not too sarcastic.

— I’m just writin‘, said Bimbo. — To see wha’ they say, like.

— They won’t want you, said Jimmy Sr. — They’re lookin’ for young ones an’ young fellas tha’ they can treat like shite an’ exploit. Not grown up men like you, like us.

— I know, said Bimbo. — I know tha’—

— They wouldn’t have a uniform to fit yeh.

Bimbo had something he wanted to finish saying.

— I want to see wha’ they say, yeh know. Wha’ they write back.

— They won’t bother writin’ back, said Jimmy Sr.

— They might, said Bimbo.

— Jaysis, Bimbo; for fuck sake. You’re a fuckin’ baker.

— There now, said Bimbo.

He pointed his biro at the paper.

— If I put tha’ in the letter, that I’m a baker, they might be impressed — I don’t know — not impressed; they might just think that I’ve experience an’—you’d never know.

— Ah Bimbo.

— I’m only writin’ to them.

He stood up.

— I’m only writin’ to them. — I’ll do it later.

Bimbo won; he won the pitch and putt.

— Yeh cunt yeh, said Jimmy Sr.

They didn’t have a pint after; it was a bit early. They just went home.

Jimmy Sr knew Bimbo; if he was offered one of those jobs he’d take it. — It’s a start, he’d say; and he wouldn’t give a shite who saw him in his polyester uniform. He’d even wear the fuckin’ thing to work and home, not a bother on him. And Veronica would ask him why he couldn’t get a job like Bimbo — but that wasn’t the reason he wanted Bimbo to cop on to himself. Veronica knew that if Jimmy Sr ever got offered proper work he’d jump at it, even if it was less than the dole. He couldn’t let a friend of his-his best friend-allow himself to sink that low. A man like Bimbo would never recover from having to stand at a counter, wearing a uniform that didn’t fit him and serving drunk cunts and snot-nosed kids burgers and chips. They weren’t even proper chips.

They were at Bimbo’s gate.

— You’re not goin’ to write tha’ letter to McDonalds, said Jimmy Sr. — Are yeh?

— Ah—

— You’d just be wastin’ the fuckin’ stamp, for fuck sake.

— No, said Bimbo. — I don’t think I’ll bother.

— Good man, said Jimmy Sr. — See yeh later.

— See yeh, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr went on, to his own house. He wondered would the front room be free this afternoon. Darren was doing a lot of studying for the Leaving, and Jimmy Sr wasn’t going to get in his way. Liverpool were playing Chelsea on RTE. Maybe Darren would be going out, meeting his mot.

He’d forgotten his key. He knocked on the glass. Bimbo probably would write off to McDonalds even though he’d said he wouldn’t. He knocked again. He wouldn’t rest until he got himself one of those fuckin’ uniforms. He hid his eyes from the sun with his hand and looked in the window of the front room. There was no one in there. He knocked again. He should have got a knocker, one of those brass ones on the door. Bertie had one on his, and one of those spy-hole things. There was no one in.

— Fuck it annyway.

He’d go down to Bimbo’s for a bit, and watch the — Hang on though, no; there was someone coming down the stairs. He could hear it, and now he could make out the shape. It was Veronica. She must have been asleep, or studying. She was doing the Leaving as well in a couple of weeks, God love her. Fair play to her though. He was going to do the same himself next year.

Veronica opened the door.

— Wha’ kept yeh? said Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Jr came around with four cans of Carlsberg, still lovely and cold from the off-licence fridge. Jimmy Sr put his nose to the hole in his can.

— I always think it smells like piss when yeh open it first, he said. — Not bad piss now, he explained.

— Yeah, Jimmy Jr agreed.

He got his jacket from behind the couch and took out two packets of Planter’s Nuts and threw one of them to Jimmy Sr.

— Open them an’ smell them, he said.

Jimmy Sr did.

— Well? said Jimmy Jr.

— They smell like shite, said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Jr. — Fuckin’ gas, isn’t it? An’ they still taste lovely.

Jimmy Sr took a swig and trapped the beer in his mouth and only let it down slowly. That way he didn’t belch. The remote control needed a battery so Jimmy Sr couldn’t turn up the sound without getting up, and he couldn’t be bothered. He’d turned it down when young Jimmy had come, to ask how he was and that, and how Aoife was. There’d been one more goal since then; Ian Rush had scored it. He didn’t need George Hamilton or Johnny Giles to tell him who’d scored it cos he’d seen it himself. He was sick of those two. Giles was always fuckin’ whinging.

— They’re a machine, said Jimmy Sr. — Aren’t they?

— What’s that’?

— Liverpool, said Jimmy Sr. — They’re like a machine. Brilliant.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Jr.

He didn’t follow football much.

— A well-oiled machine, said Jimmy Sr. — There’s nothin’ like them.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Jr. — I’m gettin’ married.

— They always do the simple thing, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s obvious but no one else fuckin’ does it.

— I’m gettin’ married, said Jimmy Jr.

— I heard yeh, said Jimmy Sr.

— And?

— And is she pregnant?

— No, she fuckin’ isn’t!

— That’s grand so, said Jimmy Sr.

He held out his hand to Jimmy Jr.

— Put it there.

He’d have killed him if he’d put her up the pole; she was too nice a young one to have that sort of thing happen to her, far too nice.

They shook hands.

— Did you tell your mother yet?

— No. No, I wanted to tell you first. There’s another goal, look it.

— Barnes, said Jimmy Sr. — Brilliant. Pity he hasn’t an Irish granny. — Why?

— Why, wha’?

— Don’t start, said Jimmy Sr. — Why did yeh want to tell me first?

Jimmy Jr was concentrating on the telly.

— I just did, he said. — Eh, I’ll go in an’ tell Ma.

— Shell be delighted.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Jr.

He got up and went out.

Liverpool had scored again but Jimmy Sr only noticed it when the replay came on and even then he didn’t really pay attention to it. He didn’t know who’d scored it.

— What’re her parents like? Sharon asked Jimmy Jr.

— Good question, said Jimmy Sr. — Look carefully at her mother cos that’s wha’ she’ll end up lookin’ like.

— Will you listen to him, said Veronica.

They were all having the dinner, Darren and the twins as well. It was very nice. Not the food — it was nice as well, mind you; lovely — the atmosphere.

Young Jimmy had brought a bottle of wine. He poured a glass for the twins as well, just a small one, and Veronica didn’t kick up at all. Jimmy Sr looked at her. She couldn’t keep her eyes off young Jimmy.

— They’re alrigh’, said Jimmy Jr.

He put down his knife and fork, making noise on purpose.

— No, they’re not, now that I think of it, he said.

They cheered.

— He’s a bollix—, said Jimmy Jr.

— Stop that, said Veronica.

— Sorry, ma, said Jimmy Jr. — He is though.

They laughed, Veronica as well.

— An’ she’s—, said Jimmy Jr. — I think she’s ou’ of her tree half the time.

— Go ‘way, said Jimmy Sr. — Is tha’ righ’? Drink?

— No, said Jimmy Jr. — I don’t think so.

— Tippex, said Darren.

— Stop that, said Veronica.

— She looks doped, said Jimmy Jr. — When yeh go into the house she smiles at you abou’ ten seconds after she’s been lookin’ at you, yeh know. It’d freak you ou’.

— Maybe she’s just thick, said Jimmy Sr.

— You’ll be meetin’ her soon annyway, said Jimmy Jr, — so you’ll be able to judge for yourself.

— That’s righ‘, said Jimmy Sr. — Is she good lookin’?

— Who? Her ma?

— O’ course! said Jimmy Sr. — Who d’yeh think I meant? Her da?

They laughed.

— I couldn’t give a shite wha’ her da looks like, said Jimmy Sr.

— Excuse me, said Veronica. — You’d better not give a shite what her ma looks like either.

— Yeow, Ma!

They roared. Veronica was pleased.

Jimmy Sr really did want to know what Aoife’s ma looked like. He didn’t know why; he just did — badly.

— Well? he said.

He put some more salt on his spuds. They were good spuds, balls of flour.

— Is she?

— Yeah, said Jimmy Jr. — I s’pose she — No, not really

— Ah Jaysis—

— It’s hard to say. She an oul’ one. She was probably nice lookin’ once alrigh’. Years ago but.

— Can she not be good looking if she isn’t young? Veronica asked Jimmy Jr.

— Eh—

—’Course she can, said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeah, Jimmy Jr agreed. — But she—

— Be careful wha’ yeh say, son, Jimmy Sr warned him.

— Some old women are lovely lookin’, said Sharon.

— That’s true, said Jimmy Sr. — A few o’ them.

He glanced over at Veronica.

— What abou’ you? said Darren to his da. — Look at the state o’ you.

Jimmy Sr looked at Darren. Darren was looking back at him, waiting for a reaction. Jimmy Sr wasn’t going to take that from him, not for another couple of years.

He pointed his fork at Darren.

— Don’t you forget who paid for tha’ dinner in front of you, son, righ’.

— I know who paid for it, said Darren. — The state.

Jimmy Sr looked like he’d been told that someone had died.

— Yeh prick, Jimmy Jr said to Darren.

But no one said anything else. Linda and Tracy didn’t look at each other.

Jimmy Sr took a sip from his wine.

— Very nice, he said.

Then he got up.

— Em — the jacks, he said.

He had to sit down again and shift his chair back to get up properly.

— Back in a minute, he said.

— Yeh fuckin’ big-headed little prick, yeh, Jimmy Jr called Darren when they heard Jimmy Sr on the stairs, going up.

— Stop that! said Veronica.

— Wha’ did yeh go an’ say tha’ for? Sharon asked Darren, and wanting to slap the face off him.

— Stop, said Veronica.

— I was only jokin’, said Darren.

It was true; mostly.

Jimmy Jr grabbed Darren’s sleeve.

— Stop!!

Veronica looked around at them all.

— Stop that, she said. — Now, eat your dinners.

They did. Sharon kicked Darren under the table but didn’t really get him.

Then Linda spoke.

— Are they rich, Jimmy?

— Who?

— Her ma an’ da, said Linda.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Jr. — They are, kind of. — Yeah. — I suppose they are.

They were all listening for noise from upstairs.

— What did you do in school yesterday? Veronica asked Tracy.

Tracy was stunned.

— Eh—

— Nothin’, said Linda.

— The usual.

— Tell us about it, said Veronica.

— Ah, get lost—

— Go on.

— Yeah, said Sharon. — Tell us.

— Well—, said Linda.

She knew what was going on, sort of. They weren’t to be waiting for her daddy to come down.

— Well, she said. — We had Mr Enright first class.

— Lipstick Enright, said Darren.

— Shut up, you, said Jimmy Jr.

— Linda fancies him, Tracy told them.

— I do not you, righ’!

Veronica started laughing.

— I used to—, said Linda. — I’m goin’ to kill you, Tracy, righ’.

Jimmy Sr was coming down; they heard the stairs.

— Why did yeh stop? Sharon asked Linda. — Fancyin’ him.

Linda teased them.

— I just did, she said.

— She—, Tracy started.

— Shut up, Tracy, said Linda, — righ’. I’m tellin’ it.

— Tellin’ wha’? said Jimmy Sr.

He’d combed his hair.

— Why she doesn’t fancy Mr Enright annymore, Sharon told him.

— Oh good Jaysis, he said.

They all laughed, hard.

He washed his face, put his hands under the cold tap and rubbed water all over his face and put them under again and held them over his eyes. God, he felt much better now. He was looking forward to going home. He had to wipe his face in his jumper because there was no towel. It was like when you ate ice-cream too fast and you had a terrible fuckin’ headache, a real splitter, and it got worse and worse and you had to close your eyes to beat it — and then it was gone and you were grand, not a bother on you. For a while after the dinner, he’d had to really stretch his face to stop himself from crying. And that passed and he’d thought he was going to faint — not faint exactly — He kept having to lift himself up, and sit up straight and open his eyes full; he couldn’t help it. He didn’t blame Darren; it was a phase young fellas went through, hating their fathers. He wouldn’t have minded smacking him across the head though.

He was grand now, wide awake. The pint had helped, nice and cold, and the taste had given him something to think about. He was grand.

— Come here, you, he said to Bimbo when he got back from the jacks. — The only reason you beat me today was because I let yeh take your first shot again at the seventh.

— Oh, said Bertie. — The tricky seventh; si.

— I beat yeh by two shots, said Bimbo.

— So?

— So I’d still’ve beaten yeh.

— Not at all, said Jimmy Sr. — Yeh went one up at the seventh. D‘yeh admit tha’?

— Say nothin’, compadre, said Bertie.

— Yeah, Bimbo said to Jimmy Sr.

He was dying to know what Jimmy Sr was going to say next.

— Yeh went up after I let yeh take your shot again. Yeah?

— Yeah.

— Well, that had a bad psychological effect on me. I shouldn‘t’ve let yeh. I’d’ve hockied yeh if I’d won tha’ hole like I should’ve. — Like I really did when yeh think about it.

— Nick fuckin’ Faldo, said Paddy.

— That’s not fair now, said Bimbo.

He sat up straight.

— That’s not fair, Jim, he said. — I beat yeh fair an’ square.

— No, Bimbo, sorry; not really.

Bimbo was annoyed.

— Righ‘, he said. — Fair enough. — I wasn’t goin’ to mention it but—

— Wha’?

Jimmy Sr was worried now, but he didn’t show it.

— Wha’? he said again. — Go on.

— I seen yeh kickin’ the ball ou’ o’ the long grass on the ninth.

— Yeh cunt!

— I seen yeh, Bimbo insisted.

— Yeh poxbottle fuck yeh; yeh did not!

— I did, said Bimbo.

— Serious allegations, said Bertie after he’d stopped laughing.

— He’s makin’ it up, said Jimmy Sr. — Don’t listen to him.

Bimbo tapped his face with a finger, just under his left eye.

— He’s makin’ it up, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s pat’etic really. He’s just a bad loser.

— I won, sure! said Bimbo.

— Not really, yeh didn’t, said Jimmy Sr.

— You’re the loser, excuse me, said Bimbo. — And a cheater.

— Yeh’d want to be careful abou’ wha’ you’re sayin’, Jimmy Sr told him.

He knew well they all believed Bimbo; he didn’t give a fuck. He was enjoying himself.

— I’m only sayin’ what I saw, said Bimbo. — Yeh looked around yeh an’ yeh gave the ball a kick, then yeh shouted Found it! And then yeh said, I was lucky, it’s landed nicely for me.

Bertie and Paddy were roaring.

— Fuck yeh, said Jimmy Sr. — Wha’ were yeh lookin’ at me for annyway?

— You’ll have to buy a round because o’ tha’, compadre, Bertie said to Jimmy Sr.

— Fair enough, said Jimmy Sr.

He had a tenner that Jimmy Jr’d given him.

— Four pints over here, he roared at the young fella who was going past them with a trayload of empty glasses. — I’d still have beaten yeh, he told Bimbo.

— But I won, said Bimbo.

— It’s tha’ baldy bollix, Gorbachev’s fault. The grass should’ve been cut there; he’s useless. There’s always dog-shite in the bunkers as well.

— Annyone want a kettle jug? said Bertie.

— Free?

— No, said Bertie. — No, I’m afraid not. I can give it to yeh at a keen price though.

— How much? said Paddy.

— Fifteen quid, said Bertie. — Thirty-five in the shops. — Two for twenty-five.

— How many have yeh? Jimmy Sr asked him.

— Ask no questions, compadre, said Bertie. — Not tha’ many. A small herd. Well?

— No, said Jimmy Sr.

He looked around to see if there was anyone listening or watching.

— No, Paddy said. — We don’t need one.

— No, Bimbo agreed.

— Fair enough, said Bertie. — No problem.

— Yeh wouldn’t have a chipper van to sell, I suppose, said Bimbo, — would yeh, Bertie?

— No, said Bertie, like Bimbo’d just asked him if he’d any bananas.

Jimmy Sr and Paddy stared at Bimbo.

— Just a thought, said Bimbo.

And he left it at that.

Bertie loved a challenge.

— Wha’ abou’ a Mister Whippy one? Bertie asked Bimbo. — I think I could get me hands on one o’ them.

— No, said Bimbo.

— You’ve your heart set on a chipper one?

— Yeah. — Not really; just if yeh see one.

— Si, said Bertie. — I’ll see what I can do.

Jimmy Sr looked at Bimbo. But Bimbo was just looking the way he always did, friendly and stupid looking, no glint in his eye or nothing.

— Bimbo’s talkin’ abou’ gettin’ himself a chipper van, he told Veronica.

— I knew he liked his food, said Veronica. — But I didn’t know he was that bad.

Jimmy Sr didn’t get it at first.

— Ah yeah; very good.

Jimmy Sr had no luck trying to get anything out of Bimbo.

— It was just an idea, that’s all.

That was about as much as he’d tell him.

They were in Jimmy Sr’s front room watching Blockbusters.

— If Bertie finds one will yeh buy it? Jimmy Sr asked him.

— B M—, said Bimbo.

The girls’ team on the telly got to the answer before Bimbo.

— Are yeh listenin’ to me? said Jimmy Sr.

— M T, said Bimbo.

— Mother Teresa, said Jimmy Sr.

— Let’s see;—you’re righ’.

—‘Course I’m righ’.

— They’ve won, look it. You‘d’ve won if you’d o’ been on it, Jimmy.

— What’s the prize?

— A trip to somewhere.

— Would yeh take the van if Bertie found one for yeh? Jimmy Sr asked him again.

— Edinburgh; that’s where it’s to. That’s not all tha’ good, is it?

— Better than nowhere, said Jimmy Sr, defending the prize he could’ve won.

— That’s right, o’ course. They look happy enough with it annyway, don’t they?

Jimmy Sr looked at the two girls on the telly.

— Wouldn’t mind goin’ with them, he said.

The weather was glorious. All week the sun had been blazing away, none of the chill that you often got when it was sunny in May.

They were sitting on Jimmy Sr’s front step, Jimmy Sr and Bimbo, lapping up the sun. Bimbo had his eyes closed and his face shoved up to catch the sun, daring it to burn him.

— Lovely, he said.

— Fuckin’ sure, said Jimmy Sr. — You can really feel it, can’t yeh?

— God, yeah.

— Great drinkin’ weather, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo didn’t answer. He agreed with Jimmy Sr but he’d been talking with Maggie about them dipping into his redundancy money; they’d both been doing it, for clothes — Wayne had made his Confirmation two weeks ago — and Easter eggs and things that they’d always had. They’d taken all the kids to the pictures on Wayne’s Confirmation day and that had set them back nearly forty quid after popcorn and ice-creams, forty quid that they didn’t have, so it had come out of the lump sum. Maggie’d take a tenner out so they could have nice steak on a Sunday. And Bimbo’d been helping himself to the odd tenner so he could go up to the Hikers now and again. And the aluminium windows and the other bits and pieces. But it was stopping. This morning they’d had a meeting and they’d agreed that it had to stop or there’d be nothing left for when they really needed it. So the last treat they were giving themselves was three tickets for Cats, for himself and Maggie and her mother; they had them bought since last week, before the decision, so they were going to go ahead and go.

— Oh, here we go, said Jimmy Sr. — Look it.

Bimbo opened his eyes and looked at the ground till he got used to the light.

— Ah yes, said Jimmy Sr, nearly whispering.

There were three girls passing; girls about sixteen or seventeen. You could tell that they knew that Jimmy Sr and Bimbo were there. One of them looked in at them and away quickly. Bimbo felt sweaty suddenly and that annoyed him because it was Jimmy Sr that was really looking at them, not him.

— They’re only young ones, he said.

— There’s no harm, said Jimmy Sr.

He felt like a bollix now; he’d have to control himself — especially when the Child of fuckin’ Prague was sitting beside him.

— They’re goin’ home for their tea, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr saw him shiver when he said it.

— An’ to do their homework, said Bimbo.

— Those young ones aren’t in school annymore. They left—

— I know, said Bimbo. — Those particular girls aren’t goin’ to school annymore but—

— They work in tha’ sewin’ factory in Baldoyle, said Jimmy Sr.

— They’re still only young girls, said Bimbo. — Kids.

— Ah, rev up, said Jimmy Sr.

The sewing factory girls got a half day on Fridays. The first time Jimmy Sr’d looked at them on a Friday, from his bedroom window, he’d felt the blood rushing through his head, walloping off the sides, like he was watching a blue video and he was afraid that Veronica would come in and catch him. There was a gang of them — all of them seemed to be in denim mini-skirts — outside Sullivans. Derek and Ann Sullivan’s daughter, Zena, worked in the sewing factory. There was about six of them laughing and hugging themselves to keep out the cold; it was months ago and young ones like that never dressed properly for the weather. All of them had haircuts like your woman, Kylie Minogue. Jimmy Sr liked that. He thought curly hair was much better than straight. He’d looked at them for ages. He even dived back onto the bed when one of them was looking his way. He’d been afraid to go back and look out the window. But he did, and then they went, their heels making a great sound; he’d always loved that sound — he always woke up when he heard it. He’d felt like a right cunt then, gawking out the window; like a fuckin’ pervert.

But he was only looking, day dreaming maybe. There was no harm in it, none at all. He wasn’t going to start chasing after them or following them or — he just liked looking at them, that was all.

They were coming back up the road. He could hear them, their heels. Bimbo’d been wrong; they weren’t going home to their mammies for their tea. He’d tell him that when they went by, the fuckin’ little altar boy.

They were two gates away now. He’d see them in a minute. He’d look the other way so Bimbo wouldn’t think anything. Not that he cared what Bimbo thought.

He’d see them now if he looked.

He’d say something to Bimbo, just to be talking to him when they went by.

— Will Palace beat United tomorrow, d’yeh—

— Compadres!

It was Bertie. He stayed at the gates and looked at the young ones’ arses when they’d gone by, not a bother on him; he didn’t give a shite who saw him.

— How’s Bertie? said Bimbo.

He wouldn’t give out to Bertie for looking at the young ones, of course; no way.

Bertie stayed at the gate. He was wearing an Italia 90 T-SHIRT. He held the collar and shook it to put some air between him and the cloth.

— Are yis busy, compadres?

— What’s it look like? said Jimmy Sr.

Bertie opened the gate and nodded at them to get up.

— Come on till I show yis somethin’.

It was filthy. He’d never seen anything like it. They walked around it. It was horrible to think that people had once eaten chips and stuff out of this thing; it was a fuckin’ scandal. There was no way he was going to look inside it.

He looked at Bimbo but he couldn’t see his face. Bimbo was looking under the van now. For what, Jimmy Sr didn’t know; acting the expert. The last place Jimmy Sr would have wanted to stick his face was under that fuckin’ van; it would probably shite on top of you. It was like something out of a zoo gone stiff, the same colour and all.

It didn’t even have wheels. It was up on bricks.

Bimbo stood up straight.

Bertie came out from behind the van, rolling a wheel in front of him.

— The wheels are new, compadres, he told them. — There’s three more behind there, he said. — In perfect nick.

He let the tyre fall over onto the grass.

— Wha’ d’yeh think? he asked Bimbo.

— Which end does it shite out of? said Jimmy Sr.

Bertie got in between Bimbo and Jimmy Sr. Bimbo was still looking at the van, moving a bit to the left and to the right like he was studying a painting or something. Jimmy Sr went over so he could get a good look at Bimbo.

Bimbo looked excited and disappointed, like a light going on and off. Jimmy Sr looked at the van again.

Ah Jesus, the thing was in fuckin’ tatters. The man was fuckin’ mad to be even looking at it. He couldn’t let him do this.

— Maggie’ll have to see it, Bimbo said to Bertie.

Thank God for that, thought Jimmy Sr. It saved him the hassle of trying to stop Bimbo from making a fuckin’ eejit out of himself. Maggie’d box his ears for him when she saw what he was dragging her away from her work to see.

Bimbo’s face was still skipping up and down.

— I’ll get her, he said. — Hang on.

Jimmy Sr and Bertie waited in the garden while Bimbo went and got Maggie. The garden was in rag order, as bad as the van. You could never really tell what state a house was in from the front. Jimmy Sr had walked past this house dozens of times — it was only a couple of corners away from his own — and he’d never noticed anything about it. He’d never noticed it at all really; it was just a house at the end of a terrace. It was only when you came round the back that you realised that there was a gang of savages living a couple of hundred yards away from you. It wasn’t just poverty.

— I don’t know how annyone can live like this, he said.

Bertie looked around.

— It’s not tha’ bad, he said. — A bit wild maybe.

— Wild! said Jimmy Sr.

He pointed at a used nappy on the path near the back door.

— Is tha’ wild, is it? That’s just fuckin’ disgustin’.

He looked around nearer to him — he was sitting on one of the wheels — as if he was searching for more nappies.

— They should be ashamed of themselves, he said.

— It’s not They, compadre, Bertie corrected him.

— Wha’ d’yeh mean?

— It used to be They but now it’s just He. — She fucked off an’ left him. An’ the kids.

— Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr. — That’s rough. Why?

— Why wha’?

— Why’d she leave him?

— I don’t know, compadre, said Bertie after a bit. — He’s an ugly cunt but.

— Did you ever see her? Jimmy Sr asked him.

— No, said Bertie. — But the kids are all ugly as well.

— Ah well then, said Jimmy Sr.

He had his back to the van, on purpose, kind of a protest. He looked over his shoulder at it.

— You’ve some fuckin’ neck though, he told Bertie.

— Wha’? said Bertie.

— Tryin’ to get poor Bimbo to throw his money away on tha’ yoke, Jimmy Sr explained.

— I’m not trying to get Bimbo to throw his money away on annythin‘, said Bertie. — He asked me to look ou’ for a van for him an’ that’s what I did.

Jimmy Sr took his time answering Bertie. He had to be careful.

— How did yeh find it? he asked Bertie.

— I followed me nose, said Bertie.

They laughed.

Jimmy Sr knew now that Bertie wouldn’t push Bimbo into buying it. Anyway, Maggie would never let Bimbo buy it.

— It hasn’t been used in years, he said.

— No, Bertie corrected him. — No, it’s not tha’ long off the road. A year about only.

He looked at the van from end to end.

— She’s a good little buy, he said. — Solid, yeh know. Tha’ dirt’ll wash off no problem.

Jimmy Sr changed his mind; the cunt was going to make Bimbo buy it.

— There’s more than dirt wrong with tha’ fuckin’ thing, he told Bertie.

— Not at all, compadre, said Bertie, — I assure you.

— Assure me bollix, said Jimmy Sr.

— Hey! said Bertie.

He was pointing at Jimmy Sr. Jimmy Sr’d been afraid that this was going to happen. But sometimes you had to stand up and be counted.

— Hey, said Bertie again, not as loud now that he had Jimmy Sr looking at him. — Listen you, righ’. You ask annybody — annybody — that’s ever dealt with me if they’ve anny complaints to make abou’ their purchases an’ what’ll they tell yeh?

Jimmy Sr didn’t know if he was supposed to answer.

— No signor, they’ll say, said Bertie. — Quality, they’ll say, is Bertie Gillespie’s middle name. My friend Bimbo, he asks me to find him a chipper van an’ I find him a fuckin’ chipper van. It needs a wash an’ its armpits shaved, but so wha’? Don’t we all?

Jimmy Sr shrugged.

— I was only givin’ me opinion, he said.

— Jimmy, said Bertie. — You’ve bought things from me, righ’? Many products.

— That’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr.

— Did annythin’ I ever gave yeh stop workin’ on yeh?

— Never, Bertie, Jimmy Sr assured him. — Linda’s Walk-man broke on her but tha’ was her own fault. She got into the bath with it.

— Well then, said Bertie. — If I say it’s a good van then it’s a good fuckin’ van. It’s the Rolls-Royce o’ fuckin’ chipper vans; si?

— Okay, said Jimmy Sr. — Sorry.

— No problem, said Bertie. — What’s keepin’ Bimbo annyway?

He stood up and hitched his trousers back up over his arse. Jimmy Sr stood up and did the same thing with his trousers, although he didn’t need to; he just did it — cos Bertie’d done it. He put his hands in his pockets and shoved the trousers back down a bit.

They looked at the van.

— Where’s the window? said Jimmy Sr.

— You’re beginnin’ to annoy me, said Bertie, — d’yeh know tha’?

— No, I didn’t mean it like—

— Who wants the van annyway? You or Bimbo? It’s nothin’ got to do with you, chum.

— I only fuckin’ asked! said Jimmy Sr. — For fuck sake.

— Maybe, said Bertie.

— I only asked, said Jimmy Sr. — I did. I was only fuckin’ curious. Where’s the fuckin’ window, that’s all. It has to have one.

Bertie thought about this.

He went over to the van. He tapped it, at about chin level.

— No, he said.

He moved down a bit and tapped again.

— No, he said again.

He moved further down.

— It must be here somewhere, he said.

He tapped again.

— No.

He looked at his knuckles.

— Jesus, it’s fuckin’ dirty alrigh’, he said.

He stepped back and looked carefully at the side of the van from left to right.

— It must be round the other side, he told Jimmy Sr. — Does it have to have a window?

—’Course it does, said Jimmy Sr.

This was great; no fuckin’ window.

— Why? said Bertie.

— How else can yeh serve the fuckin’ customers? said Jimmy Sr. — Get up on the fuckin’ roof?

— Oh, said Bertie. — You mean the hatch, compadre. It’s round the back. A fine big hatch. Yeh could serve a small elephant through it.

— Ventilation, said Jimmy Sr.

— Que?

— Yeh’d want a window for ventilation, said Jimmy Sr.

— Me bollix yeh would, said Bertie. — Why would yeh? You’ve the hatch, for fuck sake. It’s as big as a garage door.

— Doesn’t matter a shite wha’ size it is if there isn’t a through draught.

— There’s the door for gettin’ in an’ ou’ as well, said Bertie. — That’ll give yeh your through draught.

Jimmy Sr studied the van.

— I don’t know, he said.

— Look it, said Bertie. — Let me at this point remind you of one small thing; uno small thing, righ’. It’s a van for selling chips out of, not a caravan for goin’ on your holidays in; comprende? It doesn’t matter a wank if there’s a window or not. Unless you’re plannin’ on—

— Oh God.

It was Maggie.

— Ah, said Bertie. — There yis are. Use your imagination, signora, he told Maggie as he stepped aside to let her have a good look at the van.

Maggie stayed where she was, as if she was afraid to go closer to it. She brought her cardigan in closer around her shoulders. Bimbo was beside her, looking at her carefully, hoping, hoping.

Like a kid, the fuckin’ eejit; buy me tha’, Mammy, he’d say in a minute, the fuckin’ head on him. If she did let him buy it Jimmy Sr’d — he didn’t know what he’d do. Fuck them, it was their money.

Bertie’s outstretched hand showed Maggie the van from top to bottom and back up again.

— A few minutes with a hose an’ maybe, just maybe, a few hours with a paint scraper an’ it’ll be perfect. The Rolls-Royce o’ chipper vans.

Jimmy Sr didn’t know why he didn’t want Bimbo to buy it. It just sort of messed things up, that was it. It was a shocking waste of money as well though.

— Have yeh looked inside it? Maggie asked Bimbo.

— Oh I have, yeah, said Bimbo. — No, it’s grand. It’s all there, all the equipment. It’s a bit, eh—

— What abou’ the engine? said Maggie.

Bertie got there before Bimbo.

— Wha’ engine would tha’ be, signora?

There was a window. They found it when they got it back to Bimbo’s. Two days after he bought it.

It was like a procession, pushing and dragging the van through Barrytown, Bimbo and Jimmy Sr and some of their kids although the twins were no help at all, just worried about getting their clothes dirty. Mind you, you didn’t even have to touch the van to get dirty from it, you only had to stand near it. It took them ages to get the wheels on it and then getting it around to the front without knocking a lump off the house took ages as well and it was nearly dark by the time they were on the road to Bimbo’s. The weather was great, of course, and everyone on the left side of the street was out on their front steps getting the last of the sun and by the time they’d got to the corner of Barrytown Road there was a huge fuckin’ crowd out watching them. Jimmy Sr kept his head down all the way, except when they were going down the hill just at the turn into Chestnut Avenue and he had to run up to the front to help Bimbo stop the van from taking off on its own, past the corner. They’d had to dig their heels in or else it would’ve gone over Bimbo and his young one, Jessica. He should have let it; that would have taught Bimbo a lesson about how to spend his money. Anyway, they got the useless piece of rusty shite to stop just after the corner and there was a really huge crowd by now and they cheered when they missed the corner, the cunts. They backed it back and Wayne, one of Bimbo’s young fellas, got the steering wheel around; the sweat was running off the poor little fucker, and they got it onto Chestnut Avenue and the cunts at the corner cheered again. No fear of the lazy shites giving them a hand, of course.