Fat Boy Swim (16 page)

Chins: Multiple.

Mouth: Fuller than Jimmy’s. Generous lips, well shaped. Smiling the non-smile of one for whom being photographed is akin to the infliction of physical torture.

Jimmy turned the photograph over:

Francis Anthony Fallon St Aidan’s Primary, Ennniscorthy June 1975

Words printed carefully in best school handwriting. Scored over the letters, in thick red crayon, a different hand had written:

FATTY

Like father, like son, thought Jimmy.

‘Hey, no more secrets, Jim,’ whispered Aunt Pol, closing Jimmy’s hand around the photograph. ‘Promise.’

Chapter
29

‘
My
kitchen!’

‘Oy! Swifty! Come and get a load of this. Kelly’s in there with all that grub.’

‘Keekaboo, fat boy!’

‘Shhh! Listen! The big tube canny hear you; he’s singin’.’

‘And dancin’!’

Jimmy’s inbuilt radar, normally twitching at the first scintilla of trouble from Victor and co., was blocked tonight. He was way too preoccupied, trying to put the final, final touches to the post-swimathon feast. Then getting himself the heck away from the Leisure Centre before any guests arrived. This was not GI Joe’s plan, of course. He was expecting Jimmy to stick around, planning that Jimmy be unveiled as chef at the end of the night. However, Jimmy, despite Aunt Pol’s new no more secrets maxim still had one he wanted to keep to himself. OK, so Busty might have spread the word about his chocolate éclairs in the staffroom, but coming out as a cook was one leap too far. Things were going well enough for now.

He
was
singing. And having a little shimmy to himself, using a coordinated heel-toe dance step to side-slide the length of his kitchen counter. Tucked under one arm like a bongo drum, he held a giant tub of fresh basil. With his free hand, he plucked at the leaves, scattering them from a height on the tomato and mozzarella salads plated before him in time to the music in his head.

Jimmy knew he’d done good. There’d be no complaints tonight. Adjusting the seasoning of the bolognese sauce bubbling on the hob, he ska-stepped across the kitchen to shave extra chocolate curls on six giant bowls of tiramisu.

GI Joe would be well chuffed with the money this feast would raise for the middle of nowhere. And he’d understand that if Jimmy wasn’t physically here, there was no chance of anyone spotting him in the kitchens and demanding a refund:
I’m not eating anything that tub of lard’s touched.
Folk were squeamish, after all. Easily put off their chuck: a caterpillar on the cress, a hair in the soup, a fat chef cooking. Even those who knew Jimmy could swim out of his box now could be squeamish.

Of course, from a selfish point of view, Jimmy himself didn’t want to be around either. He wasn’t going to let anyone’s distaste taint the memory of today. One of the best days he could remember.

Not only had he won the butterfly, but all afternoon he’d been Jim the Chef. The Maestro. In his element. Magic, it had been.

He’d given orders to GI Joe for a change instead of taking them: ‘No, not those plates. Jeezo, Coach! For soup? And surely you can carry more than that!’

He’d dispensed advice instead of receiving it from Mum and Aunt Pol: ‘Put a big bowl of Parmesan on every table. And don’t serve my bread till the last minute so it’s still warm.’

He’d even managed some staff training: ‘Ellie, if you give me your hand, I’ll show you exactly how thin to slice the mozzarella. Good. But let’s do one more together just to make sure . . .’

Nothing should be allowed to spoil an afternoon like that.

It was lucky that the skewer which Jimmy was using to test the liqueur distribution in his tiramisu was not still in his mouth when Victor shoved his face into the bottom of the nearest bowl. And held Jimmy down.

‘You greedy pig. Eating grub that’s to feed Coach’s wee blackies.’

‘Saw you dancin’, Kelly,’ snorted Dog Breath into Jimmy’s ear.

‘Just like Baloo,’ hissed Victor as Maddo’s elbow stabbed at Jimmy’s side.

They were wasting brain cells they couldn’t afford to lose on these insults. Jimmy wasn’t listening. He was too angry.
One dessert ruined
, was all he was thinking.
Thirty portions in it.
He hadn’t made any extras.

‘Just get out of my kitchen, you lot. I’ve told you to give me peace,’ Jimmy roared, rearing to his full height. He whirled round at speed to face Victor, shaking chocolate and sponge from his face and hair like a lion shedding slivers of prey from its mane. Spattered, Victor, Maddo and Dog Breath retreated one slinking step.

‘What d’you mean,
your
kitchen?’ sneered Victor.

He watched Jimmy wipe cream from his eyes, flick his fingers clean.

‘You not gonny lick yourself?’ Maddo ventured, making Dog Breath snicker.

‘Shurrit,’ snapped Victor, but he sounded uneasy. Jimmy was advancing. ‘
My
kitchen,’ he repeated, forcing Victor to scuttle backwards and off balance through the swing doors into the function room. From the far end, Jimmy spotted GI Joe, charging like a bull elephant towards the scene of the commotion. But Jimmy was going to have this situation sorted well before Coach arrived.

‘I’m the chef here tonight.’ Jimmy’s voice was as firm as his stare.

‘No way,’ said Dog Breath.

‘Liar,’ spat Maddo. He shoogled a second bowl of tiramisu at Jimmy. ‘Come on, Fatty. You were just hungry.’

Only Victor said nothing, although his eyes, travelling the length of Jimmy, then glancing behind him to the spread in the kitchen beyond, spoke volumes:
You
really
are the chef.

Chapter
30

Closing ranks

‘Best Jimmy goes home too,’ said Father Patrick, watching GI Joe clear tiramisu from the floor, and Jimmy rinse it from his face and head under the kitchen tap. ‘Let him calm down now those troublemakers are sorted.’

Father Patrick’s face wore the
what’s that doing here
? expression of someone who’s just taken a bite out of something and discovered half a dead mouse.

‘In fact, Joseph, I’d say it’s unwise for the lad to be – you know – actually
here
during the function at all.’ Father Patrick twiddled his wrists like a second-rate magician:
Ali Zoom. Begone, Fatso.

It was already too late. The function room was filling up. Jimmy would have to stay. Because of the carry-on with Victor, things were running behind.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure nobody sees me,’ murmured Jimmy. He turned his back on Father Patrick, stirred his bolognese.

‘You will not!’

Ellie’s voice rang through the kitchens. Both spec lenses opaque with steam, she looked up from the two boiling cauldrons of spaghetti she was supervising.

‘Why would you do that, Jim?’ chipped in GI Joe, a ‘Sexy Momma’ apron jazzing up his priest’s suit. ‘Tonight’s your night to get credit for the way you’ve used those talents of yours.’ He lowered the pile of plates he was carrying and set himself between Father Patrick and Jimmy, arms folded. ‘In fact,’ he added bearing down on the old priest, ‘I’ve just given our friend Swift a rollicking on that very subject. You’re so busy bullying other folks, I told him, unlike Jim Kelly, who’s worked his backside off these last few weeks –’

‘Literally,’ interrupted Ellie.

‘– that your
own
special God-given gifts are withering away. Time you took a long hard look at yourself, Victor. Maybe pinched a leaf out of Jim’s book.’

Victor’s gonna love hearing that, gulped Jimmy to himself. He watched GI Joe fully pumped up into Angry Coach mode, backing Father Patrick towards the kitchen doors. Before the old priest tumbled outside, Mum stuck her head through the hatch. ‘Barry’s seen those neds off. That Swift lad’s shouting his mouth off telling folk he caught Jimmy eating my puddings. “
My
puddings?” I told him. “My Jimmy’s puddings, you wee nyaff,” I told him. Him and his nippy-faced mother both!’

Aunt Pol’s head joined Mum’s in the serving hatch. ‘That’s them barred anyway. Time to serve up. Are you all on strike?’

Father Patrick cleared his throat, and gestured towards Jimmy. ‘I was suggesting, Maeve, it might be better if Jimmy stays – keeps out – I mean, if people
see
–’

‘See what?’ Aunt Pol was through the kitchen’s swing doors like a tornado.

But, for once, even she wasn’t fast enough at springing to Jimmy’s defence. He had a new champion.

‘Are you on about Jimmy’s size?’ Ellie, glasses off, eyes dancing more pugnaciously than a boxer’s feet in the ring, abandoned her spaghetti.

‘You like his cooking, but don’t like to look at him? No wonder he has to put up with hassle from twits like Victor if folk like you, who should know better, treat him like some kind of outcast.’

As Ellie spoke, Aunt Pol nodded agreement.

‘
Very
Christian,’ Ellie was saying, ‘keeping someone under wraps because he doesn’t look like Brad Pitt.’

Jimmy caught Mum’s wince, but she didn’t say anything.

Father Patrick, opened his mouth to object. ‘Young lady –’ he began, but Ellie cut through him.

‘I mean, you’re hardly a skinny-malink yourself, but nobody tells you to stay at home.’ Now she whirled around at GI Joe. ‘He’s bald, and she –’ Ellie waved her finger vaguely at Mum and Aunt Pol, but thinking better of it pointed diplomatically to someone beyond the hatch, ‘and that woman, she’s lame, and he’s got a hearing aid, and I’ve got funny eyes. So what?’

Ellie’s funny eyes were blazing, cheeks pulsing.

‘There’s stacks more to Jimmy than what you see. He’s fun. He knows
everything
about music. And he can sing. And he’s going to have his own restaurant one day. And he will, because he’s an amazing cook.’

‘Too right,’ Aunt Pol chipped in. She stood alongside Ellie.

‘And he’s a cracking swimmer,’ added GI Joe, finding his voice.

‘Got a lot going for him, my Jim,’ added Aunt Pol.

‘If more people bothered to look beyond what they see.’

Ellie, having said her piece, stuck her glasses back on, and drained her spaghetti.

‘We’re just trying to protect the lad,’ said Father Patrick, appealing to Mum for support.

‘Keep him to yourself, more like,’ muttered Aunt Pol. ‘In tablet and cakes.’

‘Don’t you start, Pauline,’ Father Patrick turned on Aunt Pol, ‘You’re hardly an example to the boy.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Hey, not here.’ GI Joe raised his arms like a referee. If he’d had a whistle he’d have blown it. ‘We’re lucky Jim’s still here at all. Everyone talking as if he’s invisible.’

Jimmy shrugged, awkward and exposed. It was a disappearing moment. ‘I can head,’ he said, ‘Everything’s ready anyway. Just needs served. I’ll come back and do the washing up.’

‘Think that’s best, son.’ Father Patrick, nodded approvingly, easing Jimmy towards the kitchen’s back door.

‘You’ve got to stay.’ Ellie dived for Jimmy, catching his arm.

‘Of course he has,’ said Aunt Pol. ‘We’re sick of secrets.’

‘He
is
staying,’ said Mum, ‘or we’re all leaving with him.’

‘Who’s leaving?’ bellowed Treesa from the choir, choosing that freeze-frame moment to stick her head through the hatch. ‘There’s gonny be a rammy out here if we don’t get some food. What’s keeping you?’

‘Waiting for chef’s signal,’ said Mum. Brushing Father Patrick aside with a glare, she marched Jimmy from the back door to the kitchen hatch so that Treesa could see him.

‘Your Jimmy? Chef? He’s no’? Girls, away and see this.’

Treesa beckoned the rest of the wee wifeys until the serving hatch was clogged with curious faces.

‘There’s Maeve’s big lad.’

‘Jimmy helpin’ you, Maeve?’

‘He’s not helping us. We’re helping him. He’s our chef!’ Mum shouted the wee wifeys down.

‘He’s no’.’

‘In the name of the wee man.’

‘Your Jimmy?’

‘
Our
Jimmy,’ called Aunt Pol. ‘Made everything you’ll eat tonight.’

‘And anything you think I’ve ever made,’ added Mum. She shrugged. ‘I’ve stolen his thunder long enough.’ She put her arm around Jimmy’s shoulder. Proud as punch.

There was an unprecedented moment of silent contemplation among the ladies of St Jude’s choir. They looked from Jimmy to Mum to each other and back again in disbelief.

Treesa, as usual, broke the silence.

‘Well, chef, I could eat a scabby dug,’ she said, ‘Get a jazz oan!’

Chapter
31

Jigging

‘No refunds, then, Jim?’ said GI Joe, carrying through the last empty plates for washing up.

But plenty of complaints. About the mingy helpings of Jimmy’s tiramisu.

‘They’re licking the patterns off the plates,’ said Aunt Pol.

‘Balls up,’ Jimmy said. He was washing up as Ellie dried. ‘I should have grabbed that bowl from Maddo in time.’

‘Nah, Jim,’ said GI Joe. ‘Away you go, I’ve told anyone moaning about the size of their portions. I say last time I saw folk this wound up over food, my kid’s’d missed two deliveries of grain. Get real! You’ve done a magic job here, Big Man.’ GI Joe punched Jimmy on the shoulder, drawing him to the serving hatch. ‘Got my message across, showing folk what it’s like to want and not get. Ach, and they’re a great crowd. Look at them all, giving it laldy on that dance floor.’

‘You youngsters get out here and dance!’ Mum, waltzing by in Barry Dyer’s arms, called through the hatch.

No way, thought Jimmy, even though it looked like fun and practically everyone he could see apart from Mum had two left feet.

‘We couldn’t keep up,’ said Ellie.

Besides, thought Jimmy, It’s much better in here.

All the washing up done, he’d turned out the kitchen lights so folk couldn’t see through the hatch. He and Ellie stood in the dark, sipping Cokes, heads close because of the noise beyond. Talking.

‘Just think,’ said Ellie as GI Joe was dragged off to dance by with Aunt Pol, ‘if they’d ended up together, there’d be no you.’ She nudged Jimmy playfully, her touch arrowing a shiver from his head to his feet as though he’d taken a bite out of an extra-frozen ice lolly.

‘Couldn’t see them working out,’ said Jimmy. ‘Coach is too much of an Action Man for her. He’s square bashing her round the floor. You can’t keep that up in stilettos.’