Roddy Doyle - The Guts

It was a tracksuit.

A fuckin’ tracksuit. It was purple, and some sort of velvet — the word popped up: velour.

— Do you like it?

— Eh —

— I thought you’d like another one. So you can wash the other one now and again.

She was slagging him, the bitch, and telling him to start dressing like an adult again.

— It’s lovely, he said.

— You can wear it out now.

It was dark outside — safe.

— Great idea, he said. — I’ll break it in. Actually, I might wear it to mass.

Jesus, it was cold but. He walked down the road with Brian and got excited with him when they came to the first corner, and there it was, on the sat nav.

— Brilliant.

They took the left and watched themselves taking it.

— Coolio.

— Here, Smoke, tell it where we’re goin’ and it’ll tell us where to go.

Brian impressed Jimmy, the way all his kids did, with his ability to negotiate the buttons, the confidence, the effortless speed. No grunting from this boy.

— Where’re we goin’? he asked.

— The Spar, said Smokey.

— It’s only over there.

— Drive forward, said the sat nav.

The voice was posh and reassuring, like an Aer Lingus pilot’s.

— Can you choose the voice? Jimmy asked.

— Yeah, said Brian. — Think so.

— Bob Dylan did it, I think.

— Who?

— Oh God. D’yeh have to pay for a different voice?

— Don’t know.

— I’ll pay for Dylan if you want.

They’d found the Spar and were going on to Brian’s school. Jimmy looked at his velour legs. He was going to tell her the truth: they were comfortable.

Brian turned right.

— The wrong way, Smoke.

— I know.

— Turn left, said the voice.

Brian kept going.

— Turn left , said the voice.

Brian looked down at the sat nav.

— Fuck off, he said, and laughed.

He looked at Jimmy. And Jimmy laughed too.

— It’s brilliant, Dad, said Brian.

Six in the morning, out with his youngest, disobeying a brand new sat nav. And none of it had been his idea. He breathed deep; he hauled the tears back in. This was his Christmas present.

— Turn left .

— Will it break if you keep pissin’ it off?

— Don’t be stupid, Dad.

— About turn and proceed.

— That’s more like it, said Brian. — It’s really cool.

They turned back and proceeded.

The phone gave him a jolt. He’d been falling asleep.

He found the zip — another zip; for fuck sake — and got the phone out.

— Hello?

— Jimmy?

— Yeah. Is that Les?

— Yes.

— Great. How are yeh, Les?

— Fine. I’m good. You?

— Good, yeah. Grand. Happy Christmas.

— You too, yeah. Merry Christmas. To you and your family.

— And yours, said Jimmy. — How’s your day goin’?

— Good, yeah, said Les. — Fine.

— How’s the family?

The line wasn’t great. There was a bit of a buzz. Les wasn’t answering.

— Was Santy good to yeh, Les?

— I did alright, said Les.

Jimmy thought he heard him laugh, but he wasn’t certain. The line was shite.

— How’s Maisie?

— She’s fine, said Les. — Look, I’ve to go.

— Okay, said Jimmy. — Great to hear your voice, Les. Happy Christmas. Tell your —

— Bye.

He was gone. The prick.

No.

It was brilliant. It was. Distressing and brilliant.

He was the dad, not the cancer patient. He couldn’t be the first to go up to bed. But then Brian fell asleep during Downton Abbey . What a load of shite that was; he didn’t blame Brian for passing out. He was doing the same, except the dog kept at him, wanting Jimmy to pick up its present, a pig with a squeak, so it could bark and demand it back, the fuckin’ eejit. Then young Jimmy surrendered and went upstairs, and Jimmy decided it was okay for him to stand up —

The dog landed on its back.

— Jimmy!

— Wha’?

— The dog — for God’s sake!

— Is it not supposed to land on its feet?

— That’s, like, cats, said Mahalia. — Hello.

— He’s grand, look.

— She.

— Wha’ev-errr, said Jimmy.

That got a laugh, so he didn’t feel too much of a cripple as he kissed the women goodnight and put his hand on Marvin’s head as he passed him. But he felt like one by the time he got up the stairs. Not in the legs. They were grand. It was the breath, the lungs — he supposed. He was puffing.

He’d been warned about it — by one of the Celtic Rock wankers, Ned O’Hanlon. He’d told Jimmy. He’d held onto Jimmy’s elbow all the time he’d spoken to him, his face bang up against Jimmy’s. He’d told Jimmy that he’d been through it himself. This was at the office do; Jimmy remembered this bit.

— I thought it had gone to the lungs, Ned had told him.

— Yeah.

— But it was the anxiety — the breathlessness. Because, let’s face it, you’re fighting for your life. Aren’t you?

— Yeah.

— It has to come out somewhere.

— Yeah.

— Don’t worry about it.

— No.

Jimmy’s eyes were swimming a bit; your man’s face was right up against his.

— You’ll be fine, said Ned. — You have the spirit.

He let go of Jimmy’s elbow and put his hand, palm open, on Jimmy’s chest, where his heart was — Jimmy wasn’t sure. It was terrible. It was fuckin’ excruciating.

Ned was looking at something over Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy looked. It was the intern, and she’d rescued him.

— Her name’s Ocean, he told Ned.

— Yes, said Ned.

— Some arse on her, wha’.

— Steady on, Jimmy.

Anyway, that was the breathlessness sorted. And he needed exercise. The specialist — Jimmy couldn’t remember his name — the doctor who was a mister, had told him. He had to stay fit, or get fit for the first time since he’d given up the football thirty years ago. Mister Dunwoody.

The cunt.

He slid out of the velour and climbed into the bed. He lay back. But something stopped him. Something hard hit against his feet. He tried pushing it off the bed but it wouldn’t budge. It was tucked in, tangled in the duvet.

— Fuck it.

He leaned across, turned the light on. He sat up and pulled off the duvet.

It was a suitcase. That was what it looked like, black and rectangular. But it was too narrow, like a suitcase had been sawed down the middle. He pulled it towards him. It wasn’t heavy but it didn’t feel empty. It was quite thick, deep — like a suitcase again. He opened it, pulled the zip across the front.

— Fuckin’ hell.

It was a trumpet. A fuckin’ trumpet. It was a beautiful thing, shining brass, in its red plush coffin. He picked it up. It felt heavier than the case had. It was cold too. He put his cheek against the horn — he caught himself doing it. It was amazing, though, the most beautiful thing he’d ever held. It was definitely a woman.

— Do you like it?

It was Aoife. He hadn’t heard her.

— Is it mine?

He knew he sounded stupid, but it was hard to think that he could actually own one of these.

— Yes, she said. — It’s yours. Keepies.

— It’s gorgeous.

— Yes, she said.

He’d seen a trumpet before, of course. An oul’ lad in his first band — Joey the Lips Fagan — had been a trumpet player, and there’d been a trumpet in two of his later bands. But he’d never held one. He brought it up to his mouth.

— Where’s the yoke? The mouthpiece.

It wasn’t there. The trumpet looked unfinished, a bit useless, without it.