The Barrytown Trilogy (21 page)

—Where did yeh meet him?

—Ah look, said Sharon. —I don’t want to talk about it annymore; righ’?

—Let’s get pissed, will we? said Jackie.

—Ah yeah, said Sharon.

—Hey! Jackie roared at the lounge boy. —Get your body over here.

They laughed.

The lounge boy was sixteen and looked younger.

—Three vodkas an’ two Cokes an’ a gin an’ tonic, said Jackie. —Got tha’?

—Yeah, said the lounge boy.

—An’ a package o’ crisps, said Yvonne.

—Ah yeah, said Sharon. —Two packs.

—Do yeh have anny nuts? Mary asked him.

—Jesus, Mary, yeh dirty bitch yeh!

They screamed.

—I didn’t mean it tha’ way, said Mary.

The very red lounge boy backed off and headed for the bar.

Yvonne shouted after him.

—Come back soon, chicken.

—Leave him alone or he’ll never come back, said Jackie.

—Who’s goin’ to sub me till Thursday? said Yvonne.

—Me, said Sharon. —I will. A tenner?

—Lovely.

—He’ll be nice when he’s older, won’t he? said Mary.

—Who? The lounge boy?

Jackie looked over at him.

—He’s a bit miserable lookin’.

—He’s a nice little arse on him all the same, said Yvonne.

—Pity there’s a dickie bow under it, said Jackie.

They stopped looking at the lounge boy.

—Annyway, Sharon, said Jackie. —What’s it like? Are yeh pukin’ up in the mornin’s?

—No, said Sharon. —Well, yeah. Only a couple o’ times. It’s not tha’ bad.

—I’d hate tha’.

—Yeah. It’s bad enough havin’ to get up without knowin’ you’re goin’ to be vomitin’ your guts up as well.

—It’s not tha’ bad, said Sharon.

—Are you goin’ to give up work? Mary asked her.

—I don’t know, said Sharon. —I haven’t thought about it really. I might.

—It’s nice for some, said Yvonne. —Havin’ a job to think abou’ givin’ it up.

—Ah, stop whingin’, said Jackie.

—I wasn’t whingin’.

—Would you really like to be doin’ wha’ Sharon does, would yeh? Stackin’ shelves an’ tha’?

—No.

—Then fuck off an’ leave her alone.

—Are you havin’ your periods or somethin’?

—Yeah, I am actually. Wha’ about it?

—You’re stainin’ the carpet.

The row was over. They nearly got sick laughing. The lounge boy was coming back.

—Here’s your bit o’ fluff, Mary, said Sharon.

—Ah stop.

—Howyeh, Gorgeous, said Jackie. —Did yeh make your holy communion yet?

The lounge boy tried to get everything off the tray all at once so he could get the fuck out of that corner.

He said nothing.

—Wha’ size do yeh take? Yvonne asked him.

The lounge boy legged it. He left too much change on the table and a puddle where he’d spilt the Coke. Mary threw a beer-mat on top of it.

—Jesus, Sharon, said Jackie. —I thought you were goin’ to have a miscarriage there you were laughin’ so much.

—I couldn’t help it. —Wha’ size d’yeh take.

They started again.

—I meant his shirt, said Yvonne.

They giggled, and wiped their eyes and noses and poured the Coke and tonic on top of the vodka and gin.

—Are yeh eatin’ annythin’ weirdy? Mary asked Sharon.

—No, said Sharon.

—Debbie ate coal, Jackie told them.

—Jesus!

—I wouldn’t eat fuckin’ coal, said Sharon.

—How d’you eat coal? Mary asked.

—I don’t know! said Jackie. —The dust, I suppose.

—My cousin, Miriam. Yeh know her, with the roundy glasses? She ate sardines an’ Mars Bars all squashed together.

—Yeuhh! Jesus!

—Jesus!

—That’s disgustin’.

—Was she pregnant? said Jackie.

—Of course she ——Fuck off, you.

They all attacked their drinks.

—He won’t come back, said Jackie. —We’ll have to go up ourselves.

—Come here, Sharon, said Yvonne. —Was it Dessie Delaney?

—No!

—I was on’y askin’.

—Well, don’t, said Sharon. —I’m not tellin’, so fuck off.

—Was it Billy Delaney then?

Sharon grinned, and they laughed.

Sharon put her bag under her arm.

—Are yeh comin’, Jackie?

—The tylet?

—Yeah.

—Okay.

Jackie got her bag from under the table. They stood up. Sharon looked down at Yvonne and Mary.

—Me uterus is pressin’ into me bladder, she told them.

—Oh Jesus!

They roared.

* * *

—Annyway, said Bimbo. —I gave him his fiver an’ I said, Now shag off an’ leave me alone.

—A fiver! said Paddy. —I know wha’ I’d’ve given the cunt.

—I owed him it but.

—So wha’? said Paddy. —Tha’ doesn’t mean he can come up to yeh outside o’ mass when you’re with your mot an’ your kids an’ ask yeh for it.

—The kids weren’t with us. Just Maggie an’ her mother.

—Jimmy!

—Wha’? said Jimmy Sr from the bar.

—Stick on another one, said Paddy. —Bertie’s here.

Bertie saluted those looking his way and then sat down at the table with Paddy and Bimbo.

—There y’are, Bertie, said Bimbo.

—Buenas noches, compadre, said Bertie.

—How’s business, Bertie? said Paddy.

—Swings an’ roundabouts, said Bertie. —Tha’ sort o’ way, yeh know.

—Tha’ seems to be the story everywhere, said Bimbo. —Doesn’t it?

—Are you goin’ to nigh’ classes or somethin’? said Paddy.

Bertie laughed.

—Ah fuck off, you now, said Bimbo. —Every time I open me mouth yeh jump down it.

—There’s plenty o’ room in there annyway, said Bertie, —wha’.

They heard Jimmy Sr.

—D’yis want ice in your pints?

He put two pints of Guinness down on the table, in front of Paddy and Bimbo. There was a little cocktail umbrella standing up in the head of Bimbo’s pint.

Jimmy Sr came back with the other two pints.

—How’s Bertie?

—Ah sure.

—It’s the same everywhere, isn’t it? said Paddy.

Bertie sniggered.

Bimbo was spinning the umbrella.

—Mary Poppins, said Jimmy Sr.

—Who? said Bimbo. —Oh yeah.

He held the umbrella up in the air and sang.

—
THE HILLS ARE A
—

Paddy squirmed, and looked around.

—
LIVE WITH THE SOUND O
’ —no, that’s wrong. That’s not Mary Poppins.

—It was very good, all the same, said Jimmy Sr.

—It fuckin’ was, alrigh’, Bertie agreed. —Yeh even looked like her there for a minute.

Bimbo stuck his front teeth out over his bottom lip, and screeched.

—
JUST A SPOONFUL OF SHUGEH
—

HELPS THE MEDICINE ——GO DOWN
—

THE MEDICINE ——GO DOW—
WOWN—

THE MEDICINE ——GO DOWN
—

—Are yeh finished? said Paddy.

—Do your Michael O’Hehir, said Jimmy Sr.

—Ah, for fuck sake, said Paddy. —Not again. All o’ them horses are fuckin’ dead.

—Weuahh!

That was Bertie.

—Jesus! ——fuck!

He gasped. His mouth was wide open. He shook his face. He was holding his pint away from his mouth like a baby trying to get away from a full spoon.

He pointed the pint at Jimmy Sr.

—Taste tha’.

—I will in me hole taste it. What’s wrong with it?

—Nothin’, said Bertie.

And he knocked back a bit less than half of it.

—Aah, he said when he came up for air. —Mucho good.

Bimbo put the umbrella into his breast pocket.

—Wha’ d’yeh want tha’ for? said Paddy.

—Jessica, said Bimbo. —She collects them. Maggie brings all hers home to her.

Paddy looked across to Jimmy Sr and Bertie for support. Jimmy Sr grinned and touched his forehead.

—Oh yeah, said Bertie.

He’d remembered something. He picked the bag he’d brought in with him off the floor and put it on his lap.

—You don’t follow Liverpool, said Paddy.

—It’s Trevor’s, said Bertie. —I had to take all his bukes an’ copies ou’ of it cos I’d nothin’ else. There was a lunch in the bottom of it an’, fuckin’ hell. Did yis ever see blue an’ green bread, did yis?

—Ah fuck off will yeh.

—The fuckin’ meat. Good Christ. It stuck its head ou’ from between the bread an’ it said, Are The Tremeloes still Number One?

He put his face to the opening and sniffed.

—Yeh can still smell it. The lazy little bastard. Annyway, Jimmy, he said. —Compadre mio. How many bambinos have yeh got that are goin’ to school.

—Eh ——three. Why?

Bertie took three Casio pocket calculators in their boxes out of the bag.

—Uno, dos, tres. There you are, my friend. For your bambinos so tha’ they’ll all do well for themselves an’ become doctors.

—Are yeh serious? said Jimmy Sr.

He picked up one of the calculators and turned it round.

—Si, said Bertie.

He explained.

—There’s a bit of a glut in the calculator market, yeh know. I took three gross o’ them from a gringo tha’ we all know an’ think he’s a fuckin’ eejit—

—An’ whose wife does bicycle impressions when he isn’t lookin’?

—That’s him, said Bertie. —I gave him fuck all for them. I was laughin’ before I’d the door shut on the cunt, yeh know. Only now I can’t get rid o’ the fuckin’ things. No one wants them. I even tried a few o’ the shops. Which was stupid. But
they were gettin’ on me wick. I can’t live with failure, yeh know. So I’m givin’ them away. Righ’, Bimbo. How many do you need?

—Five, said Bimbo.

—Five!?

—He only has four, said Jimmy Sr. —He wants one for himself.

Bimbo held up his left hand. He pointed to his little finger.

—Glenn.

He moved on to the next finger.

—Wayne.

The middle one.

—Jessica.

—Okay okay, said Bertie. —There’ll be six by the time you’ve finished.

He dealt the boxes out to Bimbo.

—Uno, dos, tres, four, five.

—Thanks very much, Bertie.

—No problem, said Bertie. —See if yeh can get them to lose them, so I can give yeh more. I still have two gross in intervention. A fuckin’ calculator mountain. ——Cal-cul-ators! We don’t need your steenking cal-cul-ators! I speet on your cal-cul-ators! ——Paddy?

—Wha’?

—How many?

—I don’t want your charity.

Bertie, Jimmy Sr and Bimbo laughed. Paddy was serious, but that made it funnier.

—None o’ those kids he has at home are his annyway, said Jimmy Sr.

The stout in Bimbo’s throat rushed back into his mouth and bashed against his teeth.

—My round, compadres, said Bertie.

He stood up.

—Three pints, isn’t that it? he said.

They looked up at him.

—Do yeh want me charity, Paddy, or will yeh stay on your own?

—Fuck off.

—Four pints, said Bertie.

Jimmy Sr and Bimbo laughed and grinned at each other. Paddy spoke.

—Fuck yis.

Bertie took two more calculators out of the bag.

—For my amigos, the barmen.

When he got back from the bar Bimbo had one of the calculators out of its wrapper.

—The round costs five pound, forty-four, he told them.

—Go ’way! said Jimmy Sr.

—That’s very fuckin’ dear all the same, isn’t it? said Bimbo.

—It was just as dear before yeh got the calculator, said Bertie.

—I know, I know tha’. It’s just when yeh see it like tha’ in black an’, eh, silvery grey it makes it look worse. ——I think annyway.

—My Jaysis, said Paddy.

He looked at Bertie.

—Fuckin’ hell, said Bimbo. —If there was six of us the round’d cost—

—Put it away, Bimbo, for fuck sake, said Jimmy Sr.

—I’ve got two kids in school, Paddy told Bertie.

—Is tha’ righ’? said Bertie.

—Yeah.

—Well, I hope they’re good at their sums, said Bertie. —Cos they’re not gettin’ anny calculators.

—Young Sharon’s after gettin’ herself up the pole, Jimmy Sr told them.

He rubbed his hands and picked up his pint.

—Is tha’
YOUR
Sharon, like? said Bimbo.

—That’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr. —Gas, isn’t it?

—One calculator for Sharon, said Bertie, and he passed one across to Jimmy Sr, and then another one. —And one for the bambino. A good start in life.

—She’s not married, said Bimbo.

—I know tha’! said Jimmy Sr.

—Is tha’ the tall girl tha’ hangs around with Georgie Burgess’s young one? Paddy asked.

—That’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr.

—Is she gettin’ married? said Bimbo.

—No, said Jimmy Sr. —Why should she? They’ve more cop-on these days. Would you get married if you were tha’ age again these days?

—I think I’m goin’ to cry, said Bertie.

—I’d say I would, yeah, said Bimbo.

—What’re yeh askin’ him for, for fuck sake? said Paddy. —He brings home little umbrellas for his kids. He goes to meetin’s. He brought his mot to the flicks last week.

—Only cos her sister’s in hospital, said Bimbo. —She usually goes with her sister, he told Jimmy Sr. —The Livin’ Daylights, we went to. The James Bond one.

—Is it anny good?

—Ah it is, yeah. It’s good alrigh’. ——There’s a lovely lookin’ bird in it. Lovely.

—Oh, I’ve seen her, said Bertie.

—Isn’t she lovely?

—Oh si. Si. A little ride.

—Ah no. She’s not. She’s the sort o’ bird, said Bimbo, —that yeh wouldn’t really want to ride. D’yeh know wha’ I mean?

—No.

Paddy shook his head and looked at Bertie, and grinned.

—Is she a cripple or somethin’?

—No! said Bimbo. —No. —She’s
TOO
nice, yeh know?

—You’d give her little umbrellas, would yeh?

—Fuck off, you, said Bimbo.

Bertie put a calculator in front of Bimbo.

—Give her tha’ the next time yeh see her.

—Who did the damage? Paddy asked Jimmy Sr.

—We don’t know, to tell yeh the truth, said Jimmy Sr. —She won’t tell us.

—Well, you’d want to fuckin’ find ou’, said Paddy.

—What’s it you who it is? said Bimbo.

—I couldn’t give a fuck who it is, said Paddy. —It’s Jimmy. I’m not goin’ to be buyin’ food for it, an’ nappies an’ little fuckin’ tracksuits. Jimmy is.