—Hang on till I have a look at it, said Jimmy Sr.
He pointed at the bag.
—I got yeh a burger as well.
—You didn’t go into the chipper with that nose!
—No; I got them from the van.
—You can eat them yourself then. Who hit you?
Jimmy Sr had the curtain pulled back and he was trying to get a good look at himself in the kitchen window. He was leaning over the sink.
—It doesn’t look too bad. From here annyway.
—Who hit you?
Veronica was eating the chips but she wasn’t going to go near the burger.
—Ah, I’ll live, said Jimmy Sr.
—More’s the pity, said Veronica.—Who hit you? I want to thank him.
—You would too. Are yeh not eatin’ tha’ burger?
The inspection was over. There was no real damage done. He hadn’t even got any of it on his shirt or his jacket. He’d wash his nose before he went to bed. He took a good bite out of the burger in case Veronica said, Yes, she was eating it.
—I’ll tell yeh one thing though, said Jimmy Sr.—I gave back better than I got.
—Aren’t you great?
—Tha’ soccer shower, said Jimmy Sr.—Yeh know the bunch o’ wankers tha’ hang—used to hang around with Georgie Burgess. They were laughin’, yeh know. The whole gang o’ them. They’ve been at it since—yeh know. The bollixes.
—How d’you know they were laughing at you, for God’s sake?
Jimmy Sr ignored the question. Bimbo had asked it already and he hadn’t answered it then either.
—I got Larry O‘Rourke when he was up at the bar an’ I told him if, righ‘, if they were laughin’ at me I’d fuckin’ kill them. Every—
Jimmy Sr liberated the rest of the burger.
—Every—‘scuse me, Veronica—every jaysis one o’ them. He said they wouldn’t bother their bollixes —pardon, Veronica—bother laughin’ at me, an’ I said they’d better not. For their own sakes.
—You’re—
—An’—sorry—I gave him a bit of a dig—nothin’ much now—when he was tryin’ to get past me. Bimbo an’ Bertie got in between us. Just as well.
He wiped his fingers with the bag.
—I’d’ve destroyed him.
Veronica didn’t know what to say. And he was too old to be slapped.
Jimmy Sr continued.
—I’m not goin’ up there annymore. I don’t care. I only have to walk in an’ they’re—
He saw Veronica looking at him.
—I can’t enjoy me pint under those conditions.
Veronica was still looking at him.
—It’s fuckin’ desperate, so it is.
—God almighty, said Veronica.
Jimmy Sr sat down. He tried to explain again.
—If it was annyone else. I don’t care abou’ the age, annyone. But Georgie Burgess! Jesus.
—Oh, shut up. I’m sick of it. Why won’t you believe her?
—Oh, I do believe her. Only—I don’t know. I—
They heard the door. Sharon was coming in.
—Wash your nose, said Veronica.
—There’s no point.
—You want her to see it, don’t you?
—That’s offside, said Jimmy Sr.
It was true though.
He got up too late to be at the sink by the time Sharon came in.
—Hiyis.
—Look, Sharon, said Veronica.—Your father’s been defending your honour. Isn’t he great?
—What happened yeh, Daddy?
—Nothin‘, Sharon, nothin’. Don’t listen to your mother. She’s been at the sherry bottle again, ha ha.
Jimmy Sr was at the sink again. He studied the J-cloth, threw it back and rooted in his pockets for a paper hankie. He turned on the cold tap.
—Were you in a fight? Sharon asked him.
—No, no. Not really.
—He was defending your honour, I told you, said Veronica.
—Shut up, Mammy, will yeh.
—Don’t—
—Shut up!
Veronica did. Sharon looked like she was going to kill Jimmy Sr and that was alright with Veronica.
Sharon was angry. Something unfair was going on.
—Wha’ did yeh do? she asked Jimmy Sr.
—Ah—
—Yeah?
—They were sayin’ things about yeh, Sharon, said Jimmy Sr.
His nose was clean now.
—You didn’t hear them, said Veronica.
—I know wha’ I heard, said Jimmy Sr.—I’m not goin’ to stand by an’ let annyone—annyone, I don’t care who, jeer Sharon.
—You’re a fuckin’ eejit, Daddy, said Sharon.—Why couldn’t yeh just ignore them?
—I’m not like tha’, said Jimmy Sr.
He was nearly crying.
—I’m not goin’ to let them jeer yeh.
He was liking himself now.
—Why not, for fuck sake?
Veronica tut-tutted.
Jimmy Sr thumped the table.
—Because you’re my daughter an’—well, fuck it, you’re my daughter an’ as long as yeh live in this house I’m not goin’ to let bollixes like them say things about yeh.
—Maybe I should leave then.
That hit like a thump.
—Ah no, Sharon.
—Maybe I will if you’re goin’ to get into fights all the time.
—No, Sharon, Jimmy Sr assured her.—It was just the once.
Something had gone wrong.
—I’m not goin’ there again.
That wasn’t the right thing to say, he realized. He changed it.
—I’m not goin’ to listen to them annymore.—They’re only a shower o’ shites. They’re not worth it.
He felt like a right fuckin’ eejit now. He couldn’t look at Veronica.
—Well—, said Sharon.—Look; I know you mean well—
—I know tha’, Sharon.
—I can fight my own fights, on my own.
—I know tha’.
—No better girl, said Veronica.
—Anyway, said Sharon.—They’ve nothin’ to jeer me about. Now tha’ they know I’m not havin’ the baby for Mister Burgess.
—You’re right o’ course.
Sharon went to bed.
All Jimmy Sr had wanted was value for his nosebleed. But something had gone wrong. A bit of gratitude was all he’d expected. He’d felt noble there for a while before Sharon started talking about leaving, even though he’d been lying. But she’d attacked him instead.
There was more to it than that though.
—She put you back in your box, didn’t she? said Veronica.
Veronica went to bed.
Jimmy Sr stayed there, sitting in the kitchen. He was busy admitting something: he was ashamed of Sharon. That was the problem. He was sorry for her troubles; he loved her, he was positive he did, but he was ashamed of her. Burgess! Even if there WAS a Spanish sailor—Burgess!—
There was something else as well: she was making an eejit of him. She wasn’t doing it on purpose—there was no way she’d have got herself up the pole just to get at him. That wasn’t what he meant. But, fuck it, his life was being ruined because of her. It was fuckin’ terrible. He was the laughing stock of Barrytown. It wasn’t her fault—but it was her fault as well. It wasn’t his. He’d done nothing.
Jimmy Sr stood up. He was miserable. He’d admitted shocking things to himself. He’d been honest. He was ashamed of Sharon. He was a louser for feeling that way but that was the way it was. He could forgive her for giving him all this grief but it would still be there after he’d forgiven her. So what was the point?
He did forgive her anyway.
A bit of gratitude would have been nice though. Not just for himself; for Veronica as well.
Jimmy Sr went up to bed.
Sharon nearly died.
Her heart stopped for a second. It did.
She was just
getting to her gate and there was Yvonne Burgess, coming out of her house, across the road.
She must have seen her.
Sharon threw the gate out of her way and dashed up the path. She nearly went head-first through the glass in the front door. She hadn’t her key with her. Oh Jesus. She rang the bell. She couldn’t turn around. She rang the bell. She was bursting for the toilet. She rang the fuckin’ bell. And she wanted to get sick. She rang the—The door opened. She fell in.
—I nearly gave birth in the fuckin’ hall, Jackie, she said. —I’m not jokin’ yeh.
—When will they be finished, Mammy? said Tracy.
—When they’re ready, said Veronica.
—When?
—Get out.
Linda spoke.
—We have to have them—
—Get out!
Veronica felt Larrygogan at her feet. She gave him a kick and she didn’t feel a bit guilty about it after.
Jimmy Sr got moodier. He wouldn’t go out. He sat in the kitchen. He roared at the twins. He walloped Darren twice. He’d have hit Les as well but he didn’t see Les. He stayed in bed, didn’t go to work two mornings the next week. He listened to the radio and ate most of a packet of Hobnobs one of the mornings and Veronica nearly cut herself to ribbons on the crumbs when she got into bed that night. He couldn’t have been that sick, she said. It wasn’t his stomach that was sick, Jimmy Sr told her. What was it then? He didn’t answer.
But she’d guessed it and she wanted to box his ears for him.
Jimmy Sr knew he could snap out of it but he didn’t want to. He was doing it on purpose. He was protesting; that was how he described it to himself. He’d been wronged; he was suffering and he wanted them all to know this. Especially Sharon.
What he was doing was getting at Sharon. He wanted to make her feel bad, to make her realize just how much she’d hurt her father and the rest of the family.
He couldn’t tell her. That wasn’t the way to do it. She’d have to work it out herself—he didn’t know; say Sorry or something; admit—something.
He sat in the kitchen by himself. He was dying to go in and watch a bit of the American Wrestling on the Sports Channel—he loved it; it was great gas and he always ended up feeling glad that he lived in Ireland after he’d watched it —but he didn’t want them to see him enjoying himself.
He looked down at the Evening Press crossword.
8 across. Being a seaman he requires no bus.—What did that fuckin’ mean?
He looked at the pictures of the women’s faces on the Dubliner’s Diary page and decided how many of them he’d ride.—All of them.
He drew moustaches on some of them, and then glasses.
Bimbo called.
—He’s in the kitchen, said Darren.
—There y’are, said Bimbo.
—Howyeh, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr.—I’m not comin’ ou’.
—Ah, why not?
—Ah, said Jimmy Sr.—I’m not well.—I’m fed up, Bimbo. I’ve had it up to here.
—Wha’ has yeh tha’ way?
—Ah—, said Jimmy Sr.
He was saying nothing.
—I know wha’ you need, said Bimbo.—An’ so do you. A kick up the hole an’ a few nice pints.
—No way, said Jimmy Sr.
—Go on, said Bimbo.—Yeh must be constipated, yeh haven’t had a pint in ages. Bertie says your shite must be brown by now.
Jimmy Sr grinned.
—Hang on till I get me jacket.
He was only human.
Sharon noticed. It wasn’t hard. Her daddy stopped talking to her during the drives into work. He stopped saying Thanks Sharon when she handed him things at the table. He stopped asking her how she was and saying There’s Sharon when she came in from work or in the mornings. He said Howyeh to her as if it cost him money.
At first she didn’t know why. He’d been great before; bringing her out, giving her lifts, telling her not to mind what people said. He’d helped her. He’d been brilliant. But now he didn’t want anything to do with her.
It annoyed her.
She caught him looking at her belly when she turned from the cooker. She let him know he’d been snared.
—I’m gettin’ very big, amn’t I? she said.
—S’pose so, he answered.
That was all; no joking, no smile, not even a guilty look. He just stared at the cinema page of the Press. He never went to the pictures.
She knew now for definite what was eating him: she was. There he was, sitting there, pretending to read the paper. For a second she thought she was going to cry, but she didn’t. She would have a few weeks ago, but not now. She had no problem stopping herself. A few weeks ago she wouldn’t have blamed him for being like this. But—she flattened her hands on her belly—it was a bit late to be getting snotty now.
She’d have to do something.
What though? What could she do?
She didn’t know.
But she did know that she wasn’t going to put up with it. He probably didn’t believe her about the sailor. Why couldn’t he, the oul’ bastard? Everyone else did. There was nothing she could do to make him believe her—at least she didn’t think there was—but she wasn’t going to let him go on treating her like shite. The twins might start copying him; and Darren. And then she’d be having the baby in —in ten weeks—Jesus—and if it didn’t look a bit Spanish they’d all gang up on it before it was even fully out of her.
There was nothing in the book about snotty das. She was on her own.
She took all her clothes off and locked her parents’ bedroom door and looked at herself in the wardrobe mirror and the dressing table mirror. Jesus, she looked terrible. She was white in one mirror and greeny-pink in the other one. Her tits were hanging like a cow’s. They weren’t anything like that before. A fella she’d gone with—Niall, a creep —once said that she should have been in the army because her tits stood to attention. She looked like a pig. In both the mirrors.
She washed her hair but the shampoo stayed in it and it looked worse. Now she wanted to cry. She tried to think of something to set her off. She thought of everything but she couldn’t cry. A few drinks would have got her going; bawling. But she’d no money. And now the baby was throwing wobblers inside of her.
—Ah, lay off, will yeh, she said.
She sat down on her bed and slumped and stayed that way for ages.
Jimmy Sr began to time his moods. This gave him the best of both worlds. He could enjoy his depression when Sharon was around or when he thought she was around and he could enjoy his few pints with the lads as well. Sharon didn’t go up to the Hikers any more—she went to Howth or Raheny or into town—so he let her believe that he didn’t go there either. He didn’t announce it or anything. He just hinted at it. He wondered out loud where he’d go tonight or he waited till she went out before he went out. Or he stayed in. He wanted her to think she’d robbed his local off him.
Now and again guilt got to him. He felt like a bollix and he thought he should leave her alone and get back to normal. He’d have liked that. But every time he saw one of the soccer shower looking his way or when Georgie Burgess came into his head he decided to keep it up. Anyway, it was for her own good. She had to be made to realize all the trouble she’d caused, the consequences of her messing around.
One time at the dinner he came within that, an inch, of giving the twins a few quid to go and get choc-ices for everyone. It was a lovely day, a scorcher. But he’d stopped himself just in time.
Mind you, he bought one for himself later on his way up to the Hikers.
Now was as good a time as any.
—What—, Jimmy Sr started.
Bertie, Bimbo and Paddy paid attention.
—What, said Jimmy Sr,—is hard an’ hairy on the outside—
Bimbo started giggling. Hairy was a great word.
—is soft an’ wet on the inside—
They were laughing already.
—begins with a C—
—Oh Jaysis! said Bimbo.
—end with a T, an’ has a U an’ an N in it?
They sat there laughing, Jimmy Sr as well.
Paddy knew he was going to be wrong.
—A cunt, he said.
—No, said Jimmy Sr.—A coconut.
They roared.
—Hey Daddy, said Linda.—Will yeh watch us for a bit to tell us wha’ we’re doin’ wrong?
Jimmy Sr looked up at her.
—Can’t yeh see I’m readin’ me paper? he said.
Veronica was looking in the dressing table mirror, hunting an eyelash that was killing her. She was leaning over the stuff on the table so she could get right in to the mirror. She saw Jimmy Sr’s head floating behind her shoulder. She felt his hand go down between the cheeks of her bum. His finger pressed into her skirt.
—You’re still a great lookin’—
—Get away from me, you, she barked at the mirror.
She clouted his arm with the hairbrush.
—Oh Jesus! Me fuckin’—There was no need for tha’.
The face was gone from the mirror.
She’d been wanting to do something like that for days. Weeks.
Sharon asked Jackie to back her up.
—Yeah, said Jackie.—No problem.
—Is that alrigh’ then?
—Yeah. It is, said Jackie.—An‘, come here. If nothin’ happens an’ he’s still actin’ the prick, we’ll go ahead an’ do it, okay?
—Are yeh serious?
—Yeah. Why not?
They were sitting in the front room of Jackie’s house.
—I hate this fuckin’ room, said Jackie.
Sharon laughed.
—Yeh can’t open the door without trippin’ over one of her ornaments, said Jackie.
He wasn’t in the kitchen. She looked in the front room. He was in there by himself, watching MTV with the sound down. He only turned the sound up when he recognized the singers or when he liked the look of them. Veronica had been in bed since just after the tea. It had been a bad day. The twins and Darren were in bed. The twins were asleep. Darren was listening to Bon Jovi on Jimmy Jr’s walkman. Jimmy would kill him when he caught him but it was worth it: Bon Jovi were brilliant. Jimmy Jr was in Howth, trying to get into Saints. Mickah Wallace was with him so it wasn’t easy. Les was out. Larrygogan was in the coal shed.