The Barrytown Trilogy (67 page)

—I’ll go, said Jimmy Sr.

—Right, said Veronica. —Come into the kitchen and I’ll do your flask for you.

—Grand. Will I run up an’ put the blanket on for yeh?

—Yes. Thanks.

They sat on the couch together for a little bit longer.

* * *

He dreaded climbing into the van. The worst part though was stocking it up, having to go through Bimbo’s house, out to the back to the shed; that was fuckin’ terrible. She was always there.

—How’s Jimmy?

—Grand, Maggie. An’ yourself?

The cunt, he hated her. It was easier than hating Bimbo.

She was the one.

He paid for everything he took.

—I’m puttin’ the twenty-seven pence in, okay?

He held the money over the box.

—Wha’? said Bimbo.

—I took a Twix, said Jimmy Sr.

He showed it to Bimbo.

—There’s the money for it, okay?

He dropped it in.

—Ah, there’s no need —

—No, said Jimmy Sr. —It’s yours.

Bimbo fished the twenty-seven out and handed it back to Jimmy Sr.

—There’s no need, he said.

—No, said Jimmy Sr. —It’s yours.

And he left Bimbo standing there with his hand stretched out, and wiped the hatch counter. He heard Bimbo throwing the coins into the box.

He did the same thing with Maggie. He was going through the kitchen with a tray of cod. She was at the table cutting pastry into roundy shapes.

—There y’are, Maggie, he said, and he put the twenty-seven pence down on the table in front of her.

She looked up.

—I took a Twix, he told her, and he was out before she’d time to figure it out.

He hadn’t taken a Twix at all.

It was enjoyable enough in a sad sort of way, acting the prick.

—Will I turn on the gas?

—Wha’ d’yeh mean? said Bimbo.

—Will I turn on the gas? said Jimmy Sr.

They’d just parked outside the Hikers and climbed into the back. It was a very stupid question.

—I don’t get yeh, said Bimbo, although Jimmy Sr saw that he was starting to smell a bit of a rat.

—D’yeh want me to turn on the gas? Jimmy Sr asked him.

—Wha’ d’yeh need to ask me for? said Bimbo.

—Well, —— you’re the boss —

—I’ll turn it on meself!

He went too far sometimes, like asking Bimbo would he take the chips out of the fryer, would he put the chips into the fryer; he just fell into the habit of asking Bimbo’s permission to do everything.

—You’ll ask me can yeh wipe your arse next, said Bimbo once.

—No, I won’t, said Jimmy Sr. —Me arse is me own.

It was at that moment – the way Bimbo had said it; the pretend annoyance in his voice – that Jimmy Sr realised that Bimbo was enjoying it, being the boss; like he was giving out to a thick lad, a thick kid he liked: he wasn’t embarrassed any more.

* * *

He’d seen a photograph in the Herald of a field, like a football pitch with an embankment around it, with a sign at the side – Danger No Swimming. It wasn’t a field. It was the Vartry reservoir, dried out. And the chap from the Corporation, the spokesman – the fella that used to be a runner for Ireland but never won anything – he said that
there was a crisis because it was the mildest September on record. But Jimmy Sr was fuckin’ freezing, and so was everyone else. He complained about it, but he didn’t mind it at all. The Dollymount business was over, so he’d most of the day to himself. He took Gina for walks. They brought the dog with them. He was still trying to teach Larrygogan to fetch a ball, after three years, but Larrygogan was either too thick or too intelligent to do it. Gina fetched the ball instead and Larrygogan went with her.

He’d the best of both worlds now; his days to himself and a job to go to later. He got a good wage on Thursdays, and he’d none of the responsibilities. The hours weren’t bad, just a bit unsocial. He was a lucky fuckin’ man; he had no problem believing that. He believed it.

So he really couldn’t understand why he felt so bad, why at least a couple of times a day, especially when he was hungry or tired, he was close to crying.

* * *

He was lonely. That was it.

He was wide awake, lying on the bed, hands behind his head. He’d brought the little electric air heater up to the room with him – to read, he’d said – so he was grand and warm. It was about four o’clock, getting gloomy. He’d stretched back and opened the book but he’d drifted, awake but away from the book. The print was too small; it took too long to read a page. But he didn’t blame the book. Maybe it was too warm. He lay back, not thinking, let himself wander. He didn’t think about women, Dawn or ——. It was like his head got heavier and duller and then it burst out —

Lonely.

It was like he’d learnt something, worked it out for himself. He even smiled.

His eyes filled, the room and the things in it divided and swam, but he kept his hands behind his head. He had to blink. Then he could feel a tear climb out of his right eye and creep along the side of his nose. He lifted his head to see if it went
quicker and blinked to feed it more water, and it went off his cheek down the side onto the pillow. Now he wiped his face; it was getting too wet. He didn’t stop crying though.

He was safe enough up here.

* * *

There was a ball inside him, a ball of hard air, like a fart but too high up to get at. It nearly hurt sometimes. It made him restless, all the time. He squirmed. He sat on the jacks and nothing happened. Pressing made it worse. Hardened it more. He knew he was wasting his time but he went to the jacks anyway. And he knew there was nothing physically wrong with him, even though he could feel it. And he knew as well that he’d felt this way before; it was kind of familiar, definitely familiar. He couldn’t remember exactly – . But when he’d noticed himself feeling this way, tight and small and exhausted, he’d recognised it immediately.

* * *

He chatted away to Bimbo on the way out to Ballsbridge. Shamrock Rovers were playing in their new ground, the RDS, against St Pats. It had pissed rain the night before – the first decent rain in Dublin for weeks – and again that morning, but it was clearing up nicely for the afternoon. The game was bound to be a cracker and there’d be a huge crowd there. They got a good space to park, up on the path on the river side of the Anglesea Road, and got into the back to get everything ready.

Jimmy Sr took out the letter and left it on the shelf when Bimbo wasn’t looking. He took it back again – Bimbo still had his back turned – and opened it up a small bit so that Bimbo would be able to read the top part of the letter and see the letterhead. Then Jimmy Sr got down to work. If Bimbo picked it up or even just saw the top, grand; if he didn’t Jimmy Sr’d stick it back in his pocket and keep it for another time.

But Bimbo saw it alright.

Jimmy Sr’s face glowed, and not from the heat coming up off the fryer. He saw Bimbo twist his head a bit so he could read the letter without moving it.

He said nothing.

Jimmy Sr left the letter there. He looked at it later himself the way Bimbo had, when Bimbo was busy at the hatch – trying to add up the price of two large cod and a spice-burger, the fuckin’ eejit. He couldn’t see much of it, only the letterhead and the Dear Mr Rabbitte and half the line under that. It was enough though.

They were waiting now for when the crowd came out after the game.

—Pissed off an’ hungry, said Jimmy Sr.

—D’yeh want to go into the match? Bimbo asked Jimmy Sr.

—No; fuck tha’.

—It’ll be a cracker, I’d say.

—How will it? said Jimmy Sr. —They’re only fuckers that aren’t good enough to play in England.

—Ah now —

—You’d see better in St Annes, said Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr had the Sunday World with him and he gave half of it to Bimbo; the inside half, the kids’ and the women’s pages and the pop stuff and the scandal from Hollywood, the stuff he never bothered reading himself.

They didn’t talk.

Jimmy Sr opened his window a bit. It was only a bit after four, more than an hour before the crowd would be coming out. He sighed.

—D’yeh mind waitin’? Bimbo asked him.

—I don’t care, said Jimmy Sr. —It makes no difference to me. Just as long as I’m paid, I’ll sit here for the rest of the season. It’s your money.

—You’ll be paid, don’t worry, said Bimbo.

—I’d fuckin’ better be, said Jimmy Sr, but not too aggressively; messing.

Bimbo kind of laughed.

Then Jimmy Sr thought of something.

—Double time.

—Wha’?

—Double time for Sundays, said Jimmy Sr.

—Now, hang on here —

—Sundays an’ bank holidays. Time an’ a half for all other overtime.

Bimbo’s voice was very loud.

—Who says this is overtime? he said.

—There’s no need to shout, said Jimmy Sr. —I can hear yeh.

—How d’yeh mean Overtime?

—That’s better.

—Well?

—Well wha’?

—Abou’ this overtime.

—What abou’ it?

—Well —

Bimbo started again.

—Are yeh doin’ this out o’ spite; is that it?

—No!

—Well, it sounds like tha’ to me.

—I’m just lookin’ after me welfare, said Jimmy Sr. —That’s all I’m doin’.

—Welfare!? said Bimbo. —Yeh get paid, don’t yeh? Well paid.

—I earn it, said Jimmy Sr.

—Yeah, said Bimbo. – But why d’yeh suddenly think you’re entitled to —

—That’s it, said Jimmy Sr. —I
AM
entitled to it. I am entitled to it, he said again before Bimbo got the chance to say anything back. —I work seven days a week as it is.

—Not days —

—Nights then. That’s worse.

Jimmy Sr kept his eyes on the paper and pretended that he was still reading.

—Seven nights, he said. —How many does tha’ leave me? Eh, wait now till I think, eh —— None.

He snapped the paper and stared down at A Little Bit Of Religion.

—An’ now I’m havin’ to give up me Sunday afternoons as well, he said.

—You’ll get paid —

—You’re the boss, said Jimmy Sr. —I’ll go where I’m told but I’m not goin’ to be exploited, d’yeh hear me? I want me overtime.

—Who’s exploitin’ yeh —?

—You are. If yeh don’t pay me properly.

—I do pay yeh —

—There’s laws, yeh know. We’re not in the Dark Ages annymore. —— I should be at home with Veronica. An’ the kids.

Bimbo waited a bit.

—Is tha’ wha’ tha’ letter’s abou’? he then asked.

—Wha’ letter?

—The letter inside, on the shelf.

Jimmy Sr bent forward and felt his back pocket, looking for something.

—The letter from the Allied something —— the union, said Bimbo.

—Have you been readin’ my letters? said Jimmy Sr.

—No! I just saw it there.

The letter had been Bertie’s idea. He’d got the name and address for Jimmy Sr from Leo the barman and Jimmy Sr’d written off to them, the Irish National Union of Vintners, Grocers and Allied Trade Assistants, asking how he’d go about joining up. He’d got a letter back from them, inviting him in for a chat. He kept it in his back pocket. He wasn’t thinking of joining. He had no time for unions. He’d been in one for years and they’d never done a fuckin’ thing for him. They were useless.

—It’ll be ammo for yeh, compadre, Bertie’d said.

It was a smashing idea. They’d burst their shites laughing. And he was right, Bertie; the letter had been ammunition, like a gun nearly, in his back pocket.

—You’ve no righ’ to be readin’ my letters.

—It was just lyin’ there.

—Where?

—Inside on the shelf.

Jimmy Sr felt his back pocket again, and looked at Bimbo like he’d done something.

—Is tha’ what it’s abou’? said Bimbo.

—It’s none o’ your business what it’s abou’. It’s private.

—You don’t need to be in a union, said Bimbo.

—I’ll be the best judge o’ tha’, said Jimmy Sr; then quieter, —Readin’ my fuckin’ letters —!

—I didn’t read it.

—Why didn’t yeh tell me when yeh found it?

—I didn’t know you’d lost it.

Jimmy Sr leaned forward, to see out if there was more rain coming.

—Are yeh really joinin’ a union? said Bimbo, sounding a bit hurt and tired now.

Jimmy Sr said nothing.

—Are yeh?

Jimmy Sr sat back.

——I’m just lookin’ after meself, he said. —An’ me family.

Bimbo coughed, and when he spoke there was a shake in his voice.

—I’ll tell yeh, he said. —If you join any union there’ll be no job here for yeh.

—We’ll see abou’ tha’, said Jimmy Sr.

—I’m tellin’ yeh; that’ll be it.

—We’ll see abou’ tha’.

——If it comes to tha’ —

—We’ll see.

Bimbo got out and went for a stroll up and down the road. Jimmy Sr turned the page and stared at it.

* * *

He’d gone down to the shops himself instead of sending the twins down – they wouldn’t go for him any more, the bitches
– and got them sweets and ice-creams, even a small bar of Dairymilk for the dog. It had been great, marvellous, that night and watching the dog getting sick at the kitchen door had made it greater. Even Veronica had laughed at the poor fuckin’ eejit whining to get out and vomiting up his chocolate.

—Just as well it wasn’t a big bar you bought him, Darren said.

It had been a lovely moment. Then Gina waddled over to rescue the chocolate and she had her hand in it before Sharon got to her. Jimmy Sr wished he’d a camera. He’d get one.

They’d had a ride that night, him and Veronica; not just a ride either – they’d made love.

—You seem a lot better, Veronica said, before it.

—I am, he’d said.

—Good, she’d said.

—I feel fine now, he’d said. —I’m grand.

—Good, she’d said, and then she’d rolled in up to him.

But it hadn’t lasted. Even the next day his head was dark again; he couldn’t shake it off. When Darren came into the front room to have a look at Zig and Zag on the telly, Jimmy Sr’s jaw hurt. He’d been grinding his teeth. He snapped out of it, but it was like grabbing air before you sink back down into the water again.

He kept snapping out of it, again and again, for the next two days. He’d take deep breaths, force himself to grin, pull in his stomach, think of the ride with Veronica, think of Dawn. But once he stopped being determined he’d slump again. His neck was sore. He felt absolutely shagged. All the time. But he tried; he really did.