Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— But all we’ll get is people lookin’ for stew and Aran jumpers.

— Not if we — or they — put another word beside it, Aoife told him. — Celtic draws the business to us. And some other word —

— Punk, said Jimmy.

— Celtic punk, said Aoife. — That might be perfect.

— Celtic for the numbers, said Jimmy. — And punk for the attitude.

— www.celticpunk.com.

They’d grinned, they’d laughed. They’d leaned into each other and kissed.

But someone had got there before them. There was already a celticpunk.com.

— Fuck it.

— Ah well.

It looked like a fan site for people with tattoos who liked their diddley-eye music a bit mad.

— It’s not even punk, said Jimmy.

He pointed at the photo on the homepage.

— That’s a fuckin’ banjo.

— Look, said Aoife.

She changed the c to k and that did the trick.

— What about gettin’ rid of the k in punk.

— What d’you mean?

He typed it out. Kelticpunc.com.

— Too clever, said Aoife.

— Clever?

— Okay, said Aoife. — Stupid.

They were kelticpunk.com. The joy of it. The freedom. Tracking down old bands. Looking after them. And Jimmy had looked after them well. They’d seen a bit of life, the ones he’d found and adopted. They knew what a bit of extra cash meant, and what gratitude was. Some of them were still bastards, unchanged by the years, just wrecked. But even they were good crack. Jimmy and Aoife reared their kids and managed dead bands across the kitchen table and once every month or so they left the kids with the newest babysitter and went to one of their own reunion gigs, in Whelan’s or somewhere else that made sense to people their age. And there was always something — good or bad, but always good — to bring home later.

— I said brown bread! Fuck!

They watched Barry Brown fling the tray across the dressing room. The room was about as wide as the tray, so the clatter arrived while he was still swinging his arm and the tray came back off the wall and hit the side of his head.

Barry was lead singer with the Halfbreds. His drummer, a fifty-year-old girl called Connie Cunte, looked at the mess on the wall.

— It is brown bread, she said.

She was married to Barry.

— Stop being so fucking vain, Barry, she said. — Put your glasses on, dude.

They had two boys in Gonzaga and a girl in Alex, they’d told Jimmy and Aoife. The fees were killing them.

— What the fuck is Alex? Jimmy whispered to Aoife.

— A school.

— I thought they were after sendin’ their young one off to Egypt or somethin’.

— It’s Alexandra College.

— Mad pair o’ cunts.

They’d been mad back then, before kids and fees — before Aoife — famous for it and not a lot else. And somehow they’d brought their madness with them into their current lives. Insanity cuddled up to respectability, in their clothes and on their faces, in everything about them.

— Mad as shite, said Aoife.

Jimmy loved the way she said that.

They watched Connie Cunte eat a brown bread sandwich straight off the wall, no hands. She was licking the paint.

— It’s not the right brown bread, said her loving husband, Barry.

— Barry, said Jimmy. — Fuck off.

— Hey!

Barry pointed at Jimmy.

— Who’s going out there tonight?

He pointed at the wrong door.

— I don’t know, said Jimmy.

He felt Aoife’s hand on his knee.

— I fucking am! Barry yelled.

They heard Connie swallow and laugh.

— So, Barry yelled, and took a breath. — No sandwiches, no show! Read the fucking rider!

Barry worked in the Department of Finance. He often had the Minister’s ear.

— Will you go out there and tell the fucking crowd? he yelled.

— I will, yeah, said Jimmy. — No problem. There’s only about ten out there anyway. So I’ll tell each of them individually. In fact —

He waited till Connie had turned from the wall and was listening properly.

— You not showin’ up, said Jimmy, — is probably a much better night out than you actually goin’ onstage.

— Fuck off!

— No problem, said Jimmy.

Barry and Connie huddled again. It was what they did. They huddled, then roared at each other.

— No!

— Go on!

— No! Okay, okay — fuck!

Aoife squeezed Jimmy’s knee as Barry turned to them.

— I misunderstood, he said.

— I know, said Jimmy. — It’s not a problem.

Jimmy put his hand out, and Barry took it.

— Is the Heineken okay? Jimmy asked him. — The cans are the right shape, are they?

— Fuck off.

— Grand.

Jimmy hadn’t been accurate when he’d told Barry that there were only ten in the audience. There were twelve. But that figure grew to thirteen when the drummer left the band halfway through their crowd pleaser, ‘Your Happiness Makes Me Puke,’ but hung around for the rest of the gig so she could drive Barry home.

— I’m the designated driver, you stupid cunt!

It was a great night.

One of many.

Aoife did the sums — the accounts — one night. (Jimmy ran away from money and adding. Aoife did all that.) She looked across at Jimmy. This wasn’t too long ago, although it felt like decades.

— D’you know what? she’d said.

— What?

— It’s paying the mortgage.

— What is?

— shiterock.

— Go ’way.

— It is.

— That’s brilliant, isn’t it?

— It’s fantastic.

They’d laughed; it just burst out.

It got better. It became their business, his job.

His company.

Their company.

He’d jacked in his old job. He’d hated it, especially after he’d decided to leave; the last few weeks had been hell. But if he hadn’t resigned back then, he’d more than likely — almost definitely — have been out of a job eighteen months later when people stopped buying cars.

kelticpunk was suddenly their living. It was great, but frightening. There were great months and slow months, but the mortgage was always the same, hanging there, always more than they could afford. And the kids still ate the same amount. Actually, more. The first September had nearly creased them, with new school books and uniforms and black shoes, and the extra money for this and that. Football gear, a camogie stick, a deposit for a trip to Wales.

— Who in the name of Jesus’d want to go to Wales?

— Everyone else is going, said young Jimmy.

— Okay, okay.

And two ukuleles.

— Two?

— They’re cheap, said Mahalia.

— Two but? said Jimmy. — And don’t raise your eyes to the ceilin’, May. Please.

— One for school, said Mahalia.

— For school?

— Yeah, said Mahalia. — Music.

— Thanks for the clarification.

He’d gone too far; he could see that on her face.

— Sorry. Go on.

— And the other one for home, she’d said.

— What? said Jimmy. — Do they make yeh leave the one for school in school?

— No, she’d said. — But music — double class, like — is the same day as camogie and I can’t carry it all, like, the camogie gear and the ukulele and the ukulele would probably break, like, or get stolen.

So two ukuleles. Forty-four quid instead of twenty-two. It wasn’t much but it was real. And it was coming up to Christmas. Jimmy was getting Marvin a guitar and amp; he’d been in town with Marvin, and Marvin had stopped at the window of Music Maker, just down from the International, and stared at the electric guitars.

— Why not just get him an acoustic one? said Aoife.

— Cos he’ll turn into a singer-songwriter, said Jimmy. — No fuckin’ way.

Sales had gone up the year before, in October, November and December. But they’d sold nothing — almost literally — in the first two months of the new year. And this was before the recession, the crunch, the collapse — whatever the fuck they were calling it.