The Barrytown Trilogy (22 page)

—I am in me hole, said Jimmy Sr. —Hang on though. Maybe I will be.

He thought about it.

—So wha’ though. I don’t care.

—Good man, said Bimbo.

—An’ she’ll have her allowance, said Bertie.

—Will she? said Jimmy Sr. —I don’t know. I s’pose she will. I don’t care.

—Of course yeh don’t, said Bimbo. —Such a thing to be worryin’ abou’! Who’s goin’ to pay for it!

—Will yeh listen to him, said Paddy. —The singin’ fuckin’ nun.

—Fuck off.

—I believe Gerry Foster’s young fella’s after puttin’ some young one from Coolock up the stick, Bertie told them.

—Wha’? said Jimmy Sr. —Jimmy’s pal? What’s this they call him? Outspan.

—Yeah. Him.

Jimmy Sr laughed.

—I’d say tha’ made his hair go curly.

—Is he marryin’ her? Bimbo asked.

—Yes indeed, said Bertie. —A posse came down from Coolock. Mucho tough hombres. They hijacked the 17A. Take us to Barrytown, signor.

They laughed.

—I believe the poor fucker’s walkin’ around with half an 8 iron stuck up his arse.

—Where’s he goin’ to be livin’?

They knew the answer they wanted to hear.

—Coolock, said Bertie.

—There’s no need for all tha’ fuss, said Jimmy Sr, when they’d stopped laughing. —Sure there’s not?

—Not at all, said Bimbo. —It’s stupid.

Bertie agreed.

—Thick, he said.

—It’s only a baby, said Bimbo. —A snapper.

—Doctor Kildare, Bertie said to Paddy.

—That’s it, said Paddy.

—Fuck off, youse, said Bimbo.

—I wouldn’t want Sharon gettin’ married tha’ young, said Jimmy Sr.

—She’s her whole life ahead of her, said Bimbo.

—Unless she drinks an iffy pint, said Bertie.

—Annyway, said Jimmy Sr.

He lifted his glass.

—To Sharon, wha’.

—Oh yeah. Def’ny. Sharon.

Bertie picked up his pint.

—To the Signorita Rabbeete that is havin’ the bambino out of wedlock, fair play to her.

He gave Jimmy Sr another calculator.

—In case it’s twins.

—Stop, for fuck sake.

Bimbo filled his mouth, swallowed, filled it again, swallowed and put his glass back on its mat.

—Havin’ a baby’s the most natural thing in the world, he said.

Jimmy Sr loved Bimbo.

—D’you know wha’ Sharon is, Jimmy? said Bimbo.

——Wha’?

—She’s a modern girl.

—Oh good fuck, said Paddy.

* * *

Sharon was lying in bed.

Well, they knew now. They’d been great. It’d been great.

She was a bit pissed. But not too bad. She shut her eyes, and the bed stayed where it was.

She’d never laughed as much in her life. And when Yvonne
had pinched the lounge boy’s bum, the look on his face. And Jackie’s joke about the girl in the wheelchair at the disco. It’d been brilliant.

Then, near closing time, they’d all started crying. And that had been even better. She didn’t know how it had started. Outside, they’d hugged one another and said all sorts of stupid, corny things but it had been great. Mary said that the baby would have four mothers. If she’d said it any other time Sharon would have told her to cop on to herself but outside in the car-park it had sounded lovely.

Then they’d gone for chips. And Jackie asked the poor oul’ one that put the stuff in the bags how she kept her skin so smooth.

Sharon laughed —

Soon everyone would know. Good. She could nearly hear them.

—Sharon Rabbitte’s pregnant, did yeh hear?

—Your one, Sharon Rabbitte’s up the pole.

—Sharon Rabbitte’s havin’ a baby.

—I don’t believe yeh!

—Jaysis.

—Jesus! Are yeh serious?

—Who’s she havin’ it for?

—I don’t know.

—She won’t say.

—She doesn’t know.

—She can’t remember.

—Oh God, poor Sharon.

—That’s shockin’.

—Mm.

—Dirty bitch.

—Poor Sharon.

—The slut.

—I don’t believe her.

—The stupid bitch.

—She had tha’ comin’.

—Serves her righ’.

—Poor Sharon.

—Let’s see her gettin’ into those jeans now.

Sharon giggled.

Fuck them. Fuck all of them. She didn’t care. The girls had been great.

Mister Burgess would know by tomorrow as well. He probably knew now. He might have been up when Yvonne got home. ——Fuck him too. She wasn’t going to start worrying about that creep.

She couldn’t help it though.

* * *

—There’s Stephen Roche, said Darren.

—Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.

He looked over his Press.

—Oh yeah.

The Galtee cheese ad was on the telly.

—That’s a brilliant bike, Da, look.

—No, said Jimmy Sr, back behind the paper.

—Ah, Da!

—No.

Jimmy Sr put the paper down.

—I’ll tell yeh what I will do though, he told Darren. —I’ll buy yeh a box o’ cheese. How’s tha’?

Darren wouldn’t laugh.

—What’s on now? said Jimmy Sr.

He was sitting between Veronica and Sharon on the couch. He nudged Veronica.

—Leave me alone, you.

Jimmy Jr stuck his head into the room.

—Are yeh finished with the paper?

—No, said Jimmy Sr. —What’s on, Sharon?

—Top o’ the Pops, said Sharon.

—Oh good shite! said Jimmy Sr. —Where’s the remote?

Sharon was getting up.

—Where’re yeh off to now? he asked her nicely.

—The toilet.

—Again!? Yeh must be in a bad way, wha’.

Sharon sat down again. She whispered to Jimmy Sr.

—Me uterus is beginnin’ to press into me bladder. It’s gettin’ bigger.

Jimmy Sr turned to her.

—I don’t want to hear those sort o’ things, Sharon, he said. —It’s not righ’.

He was blushing.

—Sorry, said Sharon.

—That’s okay. Who’s tha’ fuckin’ eejit, Darren?

—Can you not just say Eejit? said Veronica.

—That’s wha’ I did say! said Jimmy Sr.

Darren laughed.

Veronica gave up.

—Da, said Darren.

—No, yeh can’t have a bike.

Darren got up and left the room in protest. That left Jimmy Sr and Veronica by themselves.

—There’s Cliff Richard, said Jimmy Sr.

Veronica looked up.

—Yes.

—I’d never wear leather trousers, said Jimmy Sr.

Veronica laughed.

Jimmy Sr found the remote control. He’d been sitting on it.

—He’s a Moonie or somethin’, isn’t he? he said as he stuck on the Sports Channel. —And an arse bandit.

—He’s a Christian, said Veronica.

—We’re all tha’, Veronica, said Jimmy Sr. —Baseball! It’s worse than fuckin’ cricket.

He looked at it.

—They’re dressed up like tha’ an’ chewin’ gum an’ paint on their faces, so you’re expectin’ somethin’ excitin’, an’ wha’ do yeh get? Fuckin’ cricket with American accents.

Jimmy Jr stuck his head round the door.

—Finished with the paper yet?

—No.

—You’re not even lookin’ at it.

—It’s my paper. I own it. Fuck off.

Jimmy Sr switched again; an ad for a gut-buster on Sky.

—Jesus!

—You’ve got the foulest mouth of anyone I ever knew, Veronica told him. —Ever.

—Ah lay off, Veronica.

The front door slammed and Darren walked past the window.

—It’s not his birthd’y for months yet, said Jimmy Sr. —Sure it’s not?

—A bike’s much too dear for a birthday, said Veronica.

—God, yeah. He has his glue ——What’s tha’ ANCO thing Leslie’s signed up for, again?

—He’s only applied, said Veronica. —He doesn’t know if he’ll get it. ——Motorbike maintenance.

—Wha’ good’s tha’ to him? He doesn’t have a motorbike.

—I don’t know, said Veronica. —It lasts six months, so there must be something in it.

—But he doesn’t have a motorbike. An’ he’s not gettin’ one either. No way.

—You don’t have to have a car to be a mechanic, said Veronica.

—That’s true o’ course, said Jimmy Sr. —Still, it doesn’t sound like much though.

—It’s better than what you got him.

—That’s not fair, Veronica.

—He says he’ll be able to fix lawn-mowers as well.

—We’ll have to buy one an’ break it so.

—Ha ha.

—He might be able to do somethin’ with tha’ alrigh’, said Jimmy Sr. —Go from door to door an’ tha’.

—Yes, said Veronica.

—Get little cards done, said Jimmy Sr. —With his name on them.

—Yes, said Veronica. —That sort of thing:

—Leslie Rabbitte, lawn-mower doctor.

—Ha ha.

—He won’t get much business round here. Everyone gets a lend o’ Bimbo’s.

—He can go further.

—That’s true. ——It’ll get him up with the rest of us annyway. An’ a few bob. ANCO pays them.

—Yes.

—The EEC, Jimmy Sr explained. —They give the money to ANCO.

—An’ who gives the money to the EEC? Veronica asked.

—Em, said Jimmy Sr. —I’ve a feelin’ we do.

—There now, said Veronica.

Jimmy Sr stayed quiet for a while. He switched back to the baseball.

—Look at tha’ now, he said. —Your man there swingin’ the bat. You’d swear somethin’ great was goin’ to happen, but look it.

He switched through all nine channels, back to the baseball.

—There. He hasn’t budged. It’s fuckin’ useless. What’s tha’ you’re knittin’?

—A jumper.

—I don’t like purple.

—It’s not purple and you won’t be wearing it.

—Who will?

—Me.

—Good. ’Bout time yeh made somethin’ for yourself. You have us spoilt.

—And then you never wear them.

—I do so. What’s this I have on?

—That’s a Dunnes one.

—It is in its hole.

—Can I buy the paper then?

It was Jimmy Jr.

—No!

Veronica picked the paper off the floor.

—Here.

Jimmy Jr grabbed it.

—Thanks, Ma.

And he was gone.

Veronica turned to Jimmy Sr.

—Do you think I stitch St Bernard tags and washing instructions on the jumpers when I’ve finished knitting them?

—No, Veronica. I don’t think that at —

Veronica grabbed the tag that was sticking up at the back of Jimmy Sr’s jumper.

—What’s that? she said.

—Take it easy! said Jimmy Sr. —You’re fuckin’ stranglin’ me.

Linda and Tracy ran in.

—Get tha’ dog out o’ here, Jimmy Sr roared.

—Ah!—

—Get him ou’!

He pressed the orange button and the telly popped off.

—Yeh can always tell when it’s comin’ up to the summer, he said. —There’s nothin’ on the telly.

—There’s never anything.

—That’s true o’ course. But in the summer there’s absolutely nothin’.

He was restless now and it wasn’t even half-seven yet. He said it before he knew he was going to.

—I suppose a ride’s ou’ of the question.

—Hang on till I get this line done, said Veronica.

—Are yeh serious?

—I suppose so.

—Fuckin’ great, said Jimmy Sr. —It’s not even dark yet. You’re not messin’ now?

—No. Just let me finish this.

Jimmy Sr stood up.

—I’ll brush me teeth, he said.

—That’ll be nice, said Veronica.

* * *

—It doesn’t really show yet, said Jackie.

—It does! said Sharon. —Look.

Sharon showed Jackie her side.

Jackie was sitting on Linda and Tracy’s bed while Sharon got out of her work clothes.

—Oh yeah, said Jackie. —You’d want to be lookin’ though.

—Everyone’s lookin’, Jackie.

They laughed.

Sharon went over to Jackie.

—Put your hand on it.

Jackie did, very carefully.

—Press.

—Fuck off, Sharon, will yeh.

—Go on.

Jackie pressed gently.

—God, it’s harder than I thought, she said. —Oh Jesus, somethin’s movin’!

She took her hand away. Sharon giggled. Jackie put her hand back.

—It’s funny, she said.

Then she took her hand down.

—Thanks, Sharon, she said.

Sharon laughed.

—I won’t show yeh the state of me nipples, she said.

—Aah Jesus, Sharon!

—Ah, they’re not tha’ bad, said Sharon. —They’re just a funny colour, kind of. I can’t wear these jeans annymore, look.

—Why not? ——Oh yeah. Yeh fat bitch yeh.

—These are grand though. Where’ll we go?

—Howth?

—Yeah. Get pissed, wha’.

—Yeah.

* * *

—Jaysis, Sharon, said Jimmy Sr as he moved over on the couch to make room for her. —You’ll soon be the same shape as me, wha’.

* * *

—Sharon, let’s touch the baby.

—No!

—Aah!

—Alrigh’. Quick but. Daddy’s waitin’ on me.

* * *

—There’s an awful smell o’ feet in here, said Jimmy Sr. —It’s fuckin’ terrible.

—It’s the dog, said Jimmy Jr.

—He’s wearin’ shoes an’ socks now, is he? said Jimmy Sr. —Where is he?

—Ou’ the back, said Darren.

Jimmy Sr, Jimmy Jr and Darren were in the front room, watching the tennis.

—It can’t be him so, said Jimmy Sr. —An’ it’s not me.

—Don’t look at me, said Jimmy Jr.

They both looked at Darren. He was stretched out on the floor. Jimmy Sr tapped one of his ankles.

—Get up there an’ change your socks an’ wash your feet as well. Yeh smelly bastard yeh.

—Ah Da, the cyclin’s on in a minute.

—I amn’t askin’ yeh to amputate your feet, said Jimmy Sr. —I only want yeh to change your fuckin’ socks.

—But the—

—Get ou’!

—Come here, said Jimmy Jr as Darren was leaving the room. —Don’t go near my socks, righ’.

—I wouldn’t touch your poxy socks.

—Yeh’d better not.

—It’s those fuckin’ runners he wears, said Jimmy Sr.

—Yeah, said Jimmy Jr.

—His feet can’t breathe in them.

—Yeah.

—Who’s your one?

—Gabriella Sabatini.

—Jaysis, wha’.

—She’s only seventeen.

—Fuck off. ——Are yeh serious?

—Yeah.

—Is she winnin’, is she?

—Yeah.