The Gamal (15 page)
That means my balls are cold in Irish. Halfway across the river James was up to his chest in water but then he started rising up out of it again over to the other side. He waded up towards the boat. Next thing Dinky was nearly halfway across when he froze. James looked back at him.
—You all right? James asked him.
Dinky didn’t answer.
—What’s wrong with you? Racey called to Dinky.
Still no answer.
—I think he’s in shock, James said. Just stay there Denis, I’ll come and get ya.
When James got on the boat he was looking around.
—There’s no bloody oars, he said.
He jumped out on to the bank at the other side and looked around. He grabbed two big long heavy sticks, broke the twigs off them and threw them in the boat. He bent down and pulled up something from under the seats of the boat. He raised two orange life jackets and grinned across at us. He released the boat. It was about two hundred yards down river by the time he got to the other side of the river in the boat. He used one of the long branches to push the boat from the river bed as it was taken downstream. Sinéad had his clothes. Dinky was still frozen shitless in the middle of the river.
—I can’t, Dinky said.
James threw me the rope and I pulled the boat up on the river bank. He handed the girls the two life jackets. I had to clean them with my jumper cos the girls wouldn’t put them on at first cos they were too dirty. There was a third life jacket too but none of us wore it.
Then James walked up the bank to where Dinky had gone in from.
—I’m coming, he said.
Dinky was still saying,
—I can’t.
The girls just watched on and James waded back in and got Dinky by the arm and coaxed him back the way he went in. Dinky was white as a ghost. Led by the arm same as an old woman getting help across the road. The lads got dressed then. The girls weren’t laughing, just looking at each other and shrugging. I walked up to the lads.
—Dunno what happened there James, Dinky was saying. I just . . . fucking lost it. Got it into my head there was a hole in front of me and I was gonna die.
James laughed. Then Dinky laughed a little bit too.
—You saved my life man, Dinky said. We should be blood brothers.
When James was getting dressed Dinky got a small key ring pinknife off his jeans and stabbed the tip of his finger with the knife and drew blood. Then he stood in front of James, handing him the knife and showing him his bloody finger.
—What the fuck? said James.
—Blood brothers, Dinky said. I have to save you some time too. That’s the rule.
—Go ’way to fuck boy. What are we nine? said James, and turned and walked back to the girls, pulling his jumper over his head.
—What are ye doing? Racey called.
—Nothing, James said. We’re coming now.
James walked on and I followed him. Dinky caught up then and we jumped on the boat and we were on our way. Dinky and James steered us with the two sticks. I tried to row a bit with my hands. But there was no need so I stopped. We took turns then with the sticks. One of us took a break every now and again. Racey asked Dinky what happened to him and Dinky goes,
—I just wanted to stop for a little bit and enjoy the moment,
and they all laughed.
The sailing together gave the five of us a nice feeling. Down river. Green and shadows. And dark brown earth. The underside of fields. It all moved past you slow and content. Lying back. Sun. The sound of water. When the stick plunged in you heard the deep fat roundy gulp and then the high-pitched splash at the top. The flighty playful drops up top. Away from the business end of things. The working water. Floating is definitely very different to walking. Can make you giddy. Especially when it’s supposed to be walking you are isn’t it? Drifting away together. The river was our accomplice.
We got out before the bridge across the river before it opened up and went out to sea. We tied the boat to a tree and ran across a field that brought us out on to the road. Easiest nine miles we ever walked. We walked across the bridge that would bring us into Newport from the south side. The walkers would be coming in from the north side because that was shorter. When we reached the waterfront we could see there was lots of them already there. All over the place, eating ice creams that were given out for free. We went around a block and joined them from the town side. First the two girls. Then us three lads. About an hour later the roll was taken in the bus back to the school.
I dunno if you wish you were there with us but if you don’t it’s because I made a balls of describing it. I had it in my mind that this was going to be a great part of the story, but it wasn’t was it? Nicest day of my life maybe. Dunno why it doesn’t seem so great now. Probably cos it’s only words on a page. Not the real thing isn’t it? Isn’t it not? Like a film that’s supposed to be great and turns out to be shit. I think I made a balls of describing it. I have to admit that to myself and to you. I made a balls of it. Made the best most exciting day of my life sound cat to the world. But that’s the best I can do. I’m not a writer am I? I’m an onion picker and a gardener and a petrol filler and a car washer and a stairs sander and a wallpaper scraper and a floor mopper but I’m not a writer. I’m very disappointed with how the boat trip turned out. Very disappointed. They’re worth better than that, James and Sinéad are. And that day was worth better. Like as if there was a shit eulogy at the funeral of JFK or Princess Diana. Didn’t do them justice isn’t it? What good am I? What’s the use of me? If I can’t manage to tell this story right I’m only a waste of blah.
Similes
All good writers use similes to describe stuff. That’s what Dr Quinn says to me too today. He showed me some in a book. I think they’re thick. Waste of time.
Listen to this.
It was a glorious, oh, truly glorious spring sunrise, all Egyptian creams and golds under a Renoir sky of silver blue, the beach sun-dappled and still, seeming not so much itself as its own image in a faded photograph from some years ago.
The streams on the distant hills were like cracks and crevices in the earth’s surface, revealing a moving mercury sea underneath.
The redbrick façade, although tumbledown, is really rather attractive when looked at with a forgiving eye, the surface of each brick worn, their edges rounded, some protruding oddly, the years of rain coalescing the rusty browns and maroons, comforting somehow, like the appearance of a favourite old cardigan say, or a winter’s fire.
The lad who wrote that stuff won some big book prize. Must be good so. I just don’t get it unfortunately. As far as I’m concerned the lad who wrote that has a way too much time on his hands to be coming up with shit like that. Anyhow I’m gonna get all my similes out of the way in one go. Get them over and done with to fuck. Cos I hate them.
The book was like a page followed by about three hundred other pages and they were all stuck together along the side.
The car was like a jeep but in the form of a car.
Snoozie was like a piece of a jigsaw. And a piece hiding in the middle where he wouldn’t ever be noticed. A piece as far away from the edge as he could be. Could never live on the edge. If he had wings, he’d walk.
Being in primary school was like being a daddy-long-legs that someone pulled the legs off.
In secondary school you realised that all the other daddy-long-legs had their legs cut off too but now the legs were starting to grow back again and it felt good and the assholes that cut them off were starting to get a bit worried and were trying to placate you and lick your arse and entice you with stuff and the promise of more stuff to make it all OK again so that you might come round in the end to join them pulling the legs off the younger ones.
That last simile was like a baby’s first steps that he couldn’t bring to a reasonable stop before crashing.
Or a drunk’s speed-wobble that he couldn’t bring to stop before stumbling into people and making an eejit of himself. Embarrassing.
Dinky was like a tree in the shade of others. He grew all wonky and weird and out of shape in order to get a bit of the sunshine. Surviving fucked him up. Like the rest of us. But he did survive. Like the rest of us.
Death did them part. Like a divorce. Only final.
Watches are like a slap in the face telling you to do what you’re told the whole time. That’s why I never wore one. I still pretend not to be able to tell the time from the face of a clock.
Fire is like all we have isn’t it? Like life. My favourite word. Fire.
Music is like the only bit of quiet I used to get. Shut out all the voices I’ve heard through my life. Don’t need music any more for that.
I wrote another shit simile there like I give a fuck.
I write similes like a fella that can’t write good similes.
Jealousy sat on James’ shoulders like mighty new big lumps of cancer.
Jealousy was new to him like the new way a man looks at life after he’s been told he has fuck all time left.
Jealous like a fella on his deathbed.
He hadn’t a clue, like he spoke a language all along that had no word for jealousy.
There’s things you can’t be saying too. Like saying a fella’s family were relieved he killed himself cos he was such a troublesome sort of a prick. That he didn’t really fit in anyhow and life would be a lot better without him. Or someone saying Jesus Christ that’s a ferociously ugly child you have. Or saying the reason she doesn’t leave him really is cos she’s addicted to his violence. Same as a gambler.
Had to ditch some similes – kill them off like the farmer drowned the kittens with no home.
Similes are like empty retches between vomits.
He was mean like a baby. Babies don’t give two shits about all this sharing is caring business.
James’ father looked out the window of the castle like an alien. It was like this fella was on the wrong planet or something. First time I ever seen him look stupid. Like the monkey in space.
The body was lying there wasted like Pompeii. Seen Pompeii on the telly one time and I very small long ago and never forgot. Seen the shape of them.
Waste is a sad word like innocence but it isn’t sad in the same way.
The body was cold and stiff like a Christmas turkey in the butcher’s isn’t it? The mouth was open in a gamallish kind of way. Anything could crawl into it overnight. One eye was fully open. The other one closest the ground was a small bit less than half open. Lying on the left side, half naked. Couldn’t have looked more different. A body is no comparison to the person anyhow isn’t it? Especially what I seen. In the dreams. No comparison. Should have evaporated or something. Or been turned into a diamond statue standing all graceful or something. And there should have been music maybe. But what I seen and the mouth open. No. No. In my dream. Nothing. Worst dream ever isn’t it?
Where the body was was nice like a postcard. The look of the body wasn’t like a postcard.
The tears in his eyes made it hard to read the words he was typing. Was like looking through an empty bottle.
Sad like looking into someone’s eyes knowing that they’re trying to figure out if you’re lying to them or telling them the truth and it means so much to them but they’ve no way of knowing and they can only hope hope hope.
A miracle like Sinéad channelling Kurt Cobain and she singing ‘Pennyroyal Tea’. She didn’t bring him back. But she brought back how he felt isn’t it? How he felt was alive now in someone else. I was there. I seen it happen. Heard it.
There’s a million different ways from A to B but most people only know a few. Knowing all these ways is like being a human that can fly. Or like being the invisible man.
Sometimes I black out. Like when you’re reading something and you realise you were thinking of something else all the time and have to go back and read a whole page again. Except with me the page is gone and you’ve nothing to go back to. I never really get caught out though cos no one ever expects me to know anything anyhow.
Nothing is like no music. Same as death. And who cares?
Regret is like more than enough punishment for the mistake.
His love for her was like medicine or bandages or a cure for her.
I’m like the laptop with a broken screen that everyone thinks is useless but the computer’s working fine.
That’s the end of the similes. Over and done with. I asked Dr Quinn was there any chance they could perforate the pages with the similes so you could tear them out and wipe your ass with them. He said ’twould be very expensive. Maybe you could use a scissors or something.
My nose is running like nobody’s business.
He burst into the room like nobody’s business.
The car was green like nobody’s business.
I never got it. Nobody’s business? What’s that about? I think in Ireland we say nobody’s business when we don’t know what something is like. Anyhow that’s the last three similes for you. I couldn’t think of any more. Just like that. Nobody’s business.
Next thing then was we all went to Irish college. Sinéad studied Irish like mad so she’d get a scholarship and she did. She was mad to get away from home for a few weeks cos things weren’t so good at home. The gardaí had been to the house over her mother and father fighting and her mother had gone to stay somewhere else a few nights leaving her on her own with her father. She used to hang around with me and James in the evening until she knew her father was gone out to the pub. Then we’d walk her home and maybe have a cup of tea with her in her house and they’d work on some lyrics or a song or just listen to some tunes before going home. They worked on ‘Evening Shadows’ around that time.
