Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— It’s separate, said Aoife.

She pointed at the case.

— See? It has its own little space.

Jimmy took the mouthpiece from the case.

— He said to be sure not to put it in too tightly, said Aoife.

— Sound advice.

He put it to his mouth.

He changed his mind. He took it away.

— Are you not going to give it a go?

— No, he said. — Not now. It’ll be terrible. Tomorrow, I’ll try it. But not now.

He looked properly at her.

— Jesus, Aoife. Thanks.

— You’re welcome.

— It’s just — amazin’.

— I know.

He pulled out the mouthpiece and put it back in its hole.

— It’s funny, he said. — I don’t even know how to hold it properly.

— You can have lessons.

— Yep.

He put the trumpet back into the case.

— He said you —

— Who?

— The man I bought the trumpet from. He said you’d be able to play a tune by next Christmas.

— Great.

He looked at her.

— Brilliant.

He closed the case and zipped it.

— You like it, so?

— It’s—, he said. — Well — it’s perfect.

— Good.

— And it looks perfect.

— It does, doesn’t it?

— Yeah.

— And sexy.

— Oh yeah.

She picked up the velour.

— So, she said. — Do you like your new cancer trousers?

— Fuck off now.

He’d whacked Ned.

That fact whacked him at his mother’s. It shook him. He couldn’t remember ever hitting anyone. Anyone else — ever. He’d always avoided fights, and no one had ever really started on him. In a pub or club, or a taxi rank — the usual places — the queue in the chipper. He’d never picked a fight that needed a boot or a fist.

But there it was.

He looked at his right hand. There were no marks or cuts, no sudden pain to match the clout of the memory.

But he’d whacked the man. Outside, after the office do. It was there in his head, something that had definitely happened.

The house was packed. It was the same every Stephen’s Day. All the kids and grandkids, the wives, husbands, and the latest life partners. It had started years ago, when Jimmy and his sister, Sharon, had first moved out. They’d eat the stuff left over from Christmas Day. Now though, there weren’t enough leftovers. It was a whole new turkey, more spuds, ham, the works and the leftovers. They ate in shifts or standing up, or on the stairs. A couple of the kids even ate on the street, holding their plates and kicking a ball.

— This is our big day now, his ma had told him.

She spoke quietly.

— How are yeh, love?

— Grand.

— No, she said. — Listen to me. I’ve been livin’ too long with your father. How are you — really?

His ma had shrunk. She was in under his chin, a hand on his chest and a hand on his back, the way he’d often held onto his own kids.

— Really, he said. — I’m grand.

— Grand, she said. — I hate that bloody word.

His da was pretending to count the grandkids.

— You’re new, he said to Brian.

— I’m not, Grandda.

— Well, yeh weren’t here last year.

— I was.

— And which one is your da?

Brian pointed.

— Him.

— Far as yeh know, said Jimmy’s da.

His ma let go of Jimmy.

— In you go. If you can find a bit of space.

His sisters and brother — No Les! — and the other adults all hugged him carefully or shook his hand, carefully, and gave him enough space to park a car. They were just being considerate but he found himself in front of the only empty chair in the house, probably in Barrytown, and surrounded by loved ones who were waiting to see if he’d manage to sit without his guts spilling onto the carpet.

He stayed standing.

Ned had been walking ahead of him. Jimmy had held back, just for a few seconds. He was getting used to the air, and waiting till he thought he’d be able to walk without strolling out onto the road. But he was fine, he was grand. He was getting the hang of simple things again, how to walk with people close to him, how to talk to more than one person at a time, how not to panic, how not to give up and just go home, how not to worry about the taste of the mulled wine that kept coming back up at him.

He was grand. He was grand.

— Alright, Jimmy?

— Grand, yeah. I’m just waitin’ on Des.

— He’s ahead of us, look.

— Oh, grand.

He could walk. He was fine.

— Sorry.

He’d bumped into someone — the twit.

— No worries.

He’d been walking. There’d been nothing to it. Easy.

There were women ahead. He’d catch up. He’d soak up their sympathy and love. The mulled wine was there again, a ball of it bursting at the top of his throat. He kept going, though. He was grand. There was Noeleen. And girlfriends and wives. He’d nearly caught up. And he saw Ned’s hand. Sliding down the back of your woman Ocean’s jacket, down towards her arse. And Jimmy grabbed Ned’s arm, kind of leaned forward — he remembered this — like he was crossing a finishing line or something. Ned turned and Jimmy thumped him — no, slapped him. That was it — he’d slapped Ned across the face. Jimmy could feel the beard on his open hand.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

— You alrigh’?

It was his da. Worried. Quiet.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — I’m grand.

His eyes were open again. He looked at his da.

— I just remembered somethin’, he said.

— Oh-oh.

They were side by side at the table.

— D’yeh know wha’? his da said now.

— Wha’?

— I see a man cringin’ like tha’. The way you were now. Yeah?

— Okay. Yeah. Go on.

— Well, I say to myself, there’s a man who’s nearly back to normal. He’s done somethin’ stupid. Am I righ’?

— Yeah.

— I knew it, said his da. — An’ between you, me an’ the fuckin’ wall —

He looked around, like he was in a shite film, checking to see if anyone was earwigging. Then he leaned in, even closer to Jimmy.

— I’m delighted, he said. — That’s all I’ll say.

— Thanks.

— Is it serious?

— No, said Jimmy. — No. Not really.

— It won’t kill yeh?

— No.

— Grand.

He’d slapped the cunt twice. At least. He remembered being pulled away, and someone getting between the two of them. It was the father in him. He’d explained it — he’d tried to, to Noeleen.

— When I saw his hand.

— Okay, listen —

— I just saw red. He’s twice — he’s fuckin’ three or four times her age.

— I know, she’d said. — And here’s what, Jimbo. It’s exactly where you wanted to put your own hand. Now, for God’s sake, listen —

He smiled at his da.

— I’ll mingle, he said.

— Good luck, said his da.

He didn’t know how many were in the house. He actually didn’t know how many there were in the family. There were his sisters, Sharon, and the twins, Linda and Tracy. There was his brother, Darren. Where’s Les! There was his gang, the kids and Aoife. There was Sharon’s young one, Gina, tall and gorgeous and twenty-one, and Sharon’s other kid, Craig. Her husband, Martin, had become her ex-husband since last Christmas, so they wouldn’t be seeing him again. Martin had seemed alright when Jimmy had met him the first few times, but he’d turned out to be a bollix. Mean with the money, and just plain mean. But Sharon had stuck with him for a while — a good while. Craig must have been fourteen now, and Martin had only left some time in the summer. Anyway, he was gone, so that was one less.

— What’re yeh doin’?

It was his da again.

— Countin’ the family, said Jimmy.