The Barrytown Trilogy (23 page)

—Good.

* * *

—Jesus, I wouldn’t like tha’, said Yvonne. —Some dirty oul’ bastard with a rubber glove.

—It was a woman, said Sharon.

—Yeah?

—Yeah. She was very nice. Doctor Murray. She was real young as well. It took bleedin’ ages though.

—How long abou’? Mary asked her.

—Ages. Hours. Most of it was waitin’ though. All fuckin’ mornin’, I’m not jokin’ yeh. She said it was because of the cutbacks. She kept sayin’ it. She said I should write to me TD.

—The stupid bitch, said Jackie.

They laughed.

—Ah, she was nice, said Sharon. —Come here though. I nearly died, listen. She said she wanted to know me menstrual history an’ I didn’t know what she talkin’ abou’ till she told me. I felt like a right fuckin’ eejit. I knew what it meant, like, but I was—

—Why didn’t she just say your periods? said Yvonne.

—Doctors are always like tha’, said Mary.

—Menstrual history, said Jackie. —I got a C in that in me Inter.

They roared.

* * *

—Mammy, said Linda.

Tracy stood beside her.

—What? said Veronica.

—Me an’ Tracy are doin’ ballroom dancin’.

Veronica opened her eyes and sat up on the couch and put her feet back into her slippers.

—Ballroom dancing, she said. —Is that not a bit old-fashioned for you?

—No, it’s brilliant, said Tracy.

—Yeah, said Linda.

—Where are my glasses? said Veronica.

She wanted to see the twins properly.

—There, look.

Both girls went to get Veronica’s glasses for her but Veronica got to them first. She put them on.

—How much? she said.

—Nothin’!

—There’s a competition, said Linda, ——an’ that’s ten pounds but it isn’t on for ages.

—Well, I know you want something, said Veronica. —So you might as well tell me what it is.

—We have to have dresses.

—Oh God, said Veronica.

* * *

Sharon bought some pants with elastic waists, baggy things that would get bigger as she got bigger. She wouldn’t have been caught dead in them if she hadn’t been pregnant but now, when she looked at herself in them, she thought she looked okay. She’d have looked stupid and pathetic in what she usually wore. She was happy enough with her new shape. She walked as straight as she could although now and again she just wanted to droop.

She was sweating a lot. Like a pig sometimes. She knew she would, but it was embarrassing one day when she was putting jars of chutney on a high shelf in work and she felt a chill and looked, and under her arms was wringing. She felt terrible. She didn’t know if anyone else had seen but she wanted to go around and tell everyone that she’d washed herself well that morning. As far as she knew she had a choice: she could drink a lot and sweat or she could stop and become constipated. Some choice. She kept drinking and wore a jumper in work.

She looked at her face. Was it redder or was it just the light? She thought she looked as if she’d just been running.

She met Mister Burgess once. It wasn’t a real meeting because she crossed the road to the shops when she saw him coming round the corner and she looked at the girls playing football on the Green while he went past. He just went past, and that was what she wanted.

* * *

Jimmy Sr got out of the house earlier than usual because Veronica was in her moods again. Anyway, they were all watching Miami Vice at home and he couldn’t stand it. It was like watching a clatter of Jimmy Jr’s pals running around and shooting each other.

Bimbo was with him.

—Now, Bimbo continued, —there mightn’t be annythin’ in this.

He took a mouthful from his new pint.

—That’s grand. —It’s a bit embarrassin’ really —

He waited till Jimmy Sr was looking at him.

——But I heard him talkin’ abou’ Sharon. Your Sharon, like, on Sunday. Yeh know the way they all come in after the mornin’ match.

—An’ take over the fuckin’ place; I know. Wha’ was he sayin’ abou’ Sharon? Jimmy Sr asked, although he’d already guessed the answer.

———He said she was a great little ride.

——My God ——said Jimmy Sr, softly.

His guess had been way wrong.

—What a ——I’ll crease the fucker. Would yeh say he’s upstairs?

Bimbo was shocked.

—Yeh don’t want to claim him here, he said. —You’d be barred.

He lifted his glass.

—An’ me.

Jimmy Sr was breathing deeply.

—You’re right o’ course, he said. —That’s wha’ he’d want.

He whacked his glass down on the counter. It didn’t break. He gripped the ashtray. The two barmen braced themselves for some kind of action.

He took his hand away from the ashtray.

Bimbo was appalled when he heard, then saw, that Jimmy Sr was crying.

—He’d no right to say tha’, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr.

—I know, said Bimbo.

—Just cos —

He snuffled.

In a way, Bimbo felt privileged, even though it was terrible. He knew that Jimmy Sr would never have cried in front of the other lads.

It had gone very quiet in the bar.

—Yeh wouldn’t want to be listenin’ to tha’ fella, Bimbo told Jimmy Sr. —I only told yeh cos ——I’m not sure why I told yeh.

—You were righ’, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr.

—It’s pat’etic really, said Bimbo. —A grown man sayin’ things like tha’.

—Exactly.

—Just cos she’s pregnant.

—Exactly.

—It’s stupid.

—Yeah.

—It’s not worth gettin’ worked up abou’.

—Still though, said Jimmy Sr.

They looked around. There was no one looking at them. Bimbo put his glass down.

—Sure, that’s wha’ we were put down here for. To have snappers.

—You should know, said Jimmy Sr.

—Ah here.

—Two pints, chop chop, Jimmy Sr called.

Bertie came in.

—Three pints!

—Buenas noches, lads, said Bertie.

—There y’are, Bertie, said Bimbo.

—Howyeh, Bertie, said Jimmy Sr.

—The rain she pisses down, Bertie told them.

Something was still eating Jimmy Sr.

—Why did he say it
THA
’ way? he asked Bimbo.

—Wha’? said Bertie.

—Nothin’, said Jimmy Sr.

—Okay; be like tha’.

—I will.

—Fuck you, amigo.

—Go an’ shite, amigo.

—Here’s the pints, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr looked at them.

—Get back there an’ put a proper head on them pints, he told Dave, the apprentice barman. —Jaysis.

* * *

Sharon wasn’t asleep.

—Sharon, are yeh awake?

She didn’t answer.

He didn’t know which side of the room he should have been talking into. He hadn’t been in here in eight years, the last time he’d wallpapered the room.

—Are you awake, Sharon?

—Daddy, said Sharon. —Is tha’ you?

—Yeah.

—Daddy, is tha’ you? said Linda.

—Yes, pet. Go back to sleep. I want to talk to Sharon.

—Daddy, is tha’ you? said Tracy.

—Yes, pet, said Linda. —Go back to sleep.

They laughed and giggled.

—Will yeh come down to the kitchen for a minute, Sharon? said Jimmy Sr.

He was making a sandwich for himself when Sharon got downstairs.

She was worried. She’d never been called out of bed before.

—Yeh might as well have a cup o’ tea now you’re up, said Jimmy Sr.

—Okay.

—Good girl.

Jimmy Sr sat down. Sharon went back to the sink and filled the kettle.

—Is somethin’ the matter? she asked.

—Not really, no, Sharon. ——It’s just, I heard somethin’ tonigh’. An’ I wanted to warn yeh.

Then he started eating his sandwich, a lemon curd one.

Sharon turned off the tap.

—Warn me?

She was really worried now. The kettle was heavy enough to hide the shakes. She took it over to the socket, and then went back to wash two cups.

—Well, yeah, said Jimmy Sr. —Warn.

He took a drop of lemon curd off the table with his finger, thought twice about licking it and rubbed it into his trousers.

—Yeh know your man, George Burgess?

Sharon was facing the kitchen window. She leaned over the sink and coughed. She turned on the tap.

—Are yeh alrigh’ there? said Jimmy Sr.

—Yeah. I’ll be fine.

—I thought yis only did tha’ sort o’ thing in the mornin’s.

——Sometimes in the night as well.

—Is tha’ righ’? God love yis.

Sharon felt a bit better. He was being too nice. He didn’t know anything.

—What abou’ Mister Burgess? she said.

—Ah, he was sayin’ things abou’ yeh.

—Wha’ was he sayin’ about me?

—Not to me face. He wouldn’t fuckin’ want to. It was Bimbo tha’ told me. He said ——He was sayin’ things abou’ you, bein’ pregnant.

—So wha’?

—Good girl.

—Wha’ did he say?

—Ah ——He said you were a great little ride. So Bimbo says annyway.

—Mister Reeves wouldn’t make somethin’ like that up.

—God no, not Bimbo. Never.

—An’ who’s your man Burgess callin’ little? I’m bigger than he is.

Jimmy Sr laughed, delighted.

—That’s righ’. You’re not upset or annythin’?

—No!

She filled the cups and worked at the teabags with a spoon.

—Really, bein’ called a ride is a bit of a compliment really, isn’t it?

—Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr. —I don’t know. ——Thanks.

He took his cup.

—I suppose it is.

He tried the tea.

—That’s grand, good girl. ——Still though, he’d no righ’ to be sayin’ things like tha’.

—Sure, fellas —men —are always sayin’ things like tha’ abou’ girls.

—Ah yeah, but. Not daughters though.

—Don’t be thick, Daddy. All girls are daughters.

—Well, not my fuckin’ daughter then.

—That’s hypocritical.

—I don’t give a fuck what it is, said Jimmy Sr. —He has young ones of his own. Tha’ pal o’ yours —?

—Yvonne.

—That’s righ’. ——It’s shockin’. Annyway, I’m not havin’ some fat little fucker insultin’ any of my family. Specially not you.

—You’re my knight in shinin’ armour.

—Don’t start.

He grinned. So did Sharon.

—I just thought tha’ I should tell yeh, yeh know, said Jimmy Sr.

—Thanks.

—No problem.

—I’m goin’ back up now, righ’?

—Okay. Night nigh’, Sharon.

Les got tired and cold waiting out the back for his da to go to bed so he filled his lungs and opened the back door.

—Good Jaysis! Where were you till now?

—Ou’.

Les got past Jimmy Sr, behind his chair. Standing up quickly was always a problem for Jimmy Sr.

—Get back here, you.

But Les didn’t come back. Jimmy Sr heard the boys’ bedroom door being opened and closed. He’d get him in the morning. He started looking for a few biscuits.

Larrygogan yelped in his sleep.

—Shut up, you, said Jimmy Sr.

Sharon heard the boys’ door as well. She was deciding what to do about Mister Burgess. It was simple: she’d go over to his place and tell him to stop saying things about her or she’d tell Missis Burgess, or something. She didn’t really know him but she thought that that would give him a big enough fright. Simple. Not easy though; no way. She hated the idea of having to go over and talk to him, and look at him; and him looking at her. Still though, she had to shut him up.

She’d do it tomorrow.

The stupid prick.

* * *

It was half-six and Sharon was home from work. She was standing on the Burgess’s front step. She was afraid she was making a mistake but she rang the bell again before she could change her mind.

Pat Burgess slid back the aluminium door.

—Yeah?

—Is Mister Burgess there?

—Yeah.

—Can I see him for a minute?

—He’s still havin’ his tea.

—Only for a minute, tell him.

Sharon looked in while she was waiting. It was a small hall, exactly the same as theirs. There were more pictures in this one though, and no phone. Sharon could hear children and adult voices from the kitchen. She could see the side of Missis Burgess’s back because she was sitting at the end of the table nearest the door. Then she saw Missis Burgess’s face. And then she heard her voice.

—Is it George you want, Sharon?

God! thought Sharon.

—Yes, please, Missis Burgess. Just for a minute.

She wanted to run. Jesus, she was terrified but she thought Mister Burgess probably was as well. The kitchen door closed for a second and when it opened again Mister Burgess was there. There was a napkin hanging from his trousers. He looked worried alright. And angry and afraid. And a bit lost.

Looking at him, Sharon felt better. She knew what she was going to say: he didn’t. She wasn’t disgusted looking at him now. She just couldn’t believe she’d ever let him near her.

Mister Burgess came towards her.

—Yes, Sharon? he said. To Missis Burgess.

—I want to talk to you, Sharon said quickly when he got to the door.

He wouldn’t look at her straight.

—Wha’ abou’?

—
YOU
know.

—I’ll see yeh later.

—I’ll tell Missis Burgess.

Mister Burgess looked back into the hall. A lift of his head told her to come in.

—Come into the lounge, Sharon, he shouted. —Sharon’s here abou’ Darren.

—Hiyeh, Sharon.

It was Yvonne, from somewhere in the kitchen.

—Hiyeh, Yvonne, Sharon called back.

—See yeh later.

—Yeah, okay.

She walked into the front room. Mister Burgess shut the door. He was shaking and red.

—Wha’ do yeh think you’re up to, yeh little bitch, he hissed.

—Wha’ d’yeh think
YOU’RE
up to, yeh little bastard?

He didn’t hiss now.

—Wha’?

—Wha’ were yeh sayin’ about me to your friends? said Sharon.

—I didn’t say ann’thin’ to annyone.

It was an aggressive answer but there was a tail on it.

—You said I was a ride. Didn’t yeh?

George Burgess hated that. He hated hearing women using the language he used. He just didn’t think it was right. It sounded dirty. As well as that, he knew he’d been snared. But he wasn’t dead yet.