Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— Why?

— Just curious.

— How many is there?

— I’m not finished, said Jimmy. — Eleven so far.

— Did yeh subtract tha’ culchie cunt?

That was Martin.

— I did, yeah.

There was Darren’s pregnant Melanie, and their two, Fay and Fergal. That brought it up to fourteen. Should he include the unborn kid? Better not, he decided. Just in case.

— What’re you smilin’ at?

— Nothin’.

There were his ma and da. Sixteen. Melanie was already huge, even though she wasn’t all that pregnant — Jimmy wasn’t sure. Time had gone weird on him. It was the way she was moving, and the colour of her face. She looked colossal. And lovely.

There was his other sisters, the twins. They were identical but one of them had five kids and the other was a lesbian. How had that happened? They’d been mad about the same boybands and real boys when they were thirteen or so, the last time Jimmy had really known them. Anyway, there was Tracy’s five, Glen, Alex, Shauna, Jordy and he couldn’t remember the name of the youngest, the bullet-headed little bastard who’d charged into him earlier. Five kids, and she was only thirty-three or so. The young one, the only girl, was following Mahalia everywhere, holding onto Mahalia’s new H & M hoodie. There was Glen Sr, Tracy’s husband. He was usually out the back, smoking and avoiding everyone. He was okay, the few times Jimmy had actually spoken to him. That made twenty-two — he thought. Then there was Linda’s partner, Louise. This was her third Stephen’s Day, so she qualified.

— She’s sound enough, his da had said once, when Jimmy had asked him what he thought.

— You’ve no problem with her?

His da shrugged.

— No, he said. — I wish she was better lookin’. A bit more — yeh know. I’d love to be able to flirt with my daughter’s wife, yeh know. But she’s grand. She’s good for Linda.

— What does tha’ mean?

— I don’t know, to be honest. Your mammy said it. So that’s the line. I’ll tell yeh but. She plays a great game o’ pitch an’ putt.

— Wha’?!

— Wha’ d’yeh mean, Wha’?

— You play pitch an’ putt with a lesbian?

— I’ll play pitch an’ putt with annyone. Is there a rule tha’ says I can’t?

So Louise made it twenty-three.

The twins weren’t nearly as identical as they used to be. There was more of Tracy, but she looked happier, or at least smilier. Linda didn’t look unhappy, and maybe she’d just had less to drink than Tracy. Glen Sr must have been the designated driver, wherever he was. Out in their mini-van, waiting for it all to end.

Anyway, Louise had two kids, Max and Faith, and she’d brought them with her. They were both adults, and they lived in New York — or they used to — with their dad. This was the first time Jimmy had seen them.

Darren was beside him.

— What d’you make of Mad Max?

— He hasn’t said a word.

— Gas, isn’t it? His mother’s gay, his father’s a vegan and he thinks he’s walked into a house full of weirdos. He’s terrified.

— Your woman can’t be a vegan too, can she?

— Faith?

— Yeah.

— Doubt it.

— She’s a big girl, said Jimmy. — It’s a nice name, isn’t it? Faith.

— She’s an atheist.

— I wasn’t watchin’ them eat, were you?

— I was, yeah, said Darren.

— Did they eat the turkey an’ ham?

— Well, Beyond the Thunderdome ate nothin’.

— At all?

— At all.

— Jaysis. An’ Faith?

— She ate her own and his.

— Excellent.

It was the strange thing about being in a packed room. You could talk away and no one heard you.

— His first.

— Wha’?

— She wolfed Max’s dinner first, said Darren. — Took a breath, then went down on her own.

— Brilliant. How’s Melanie?

Darren looked at Jimmy over the top of his glasses.

— She’s fine.

— Good. She looks great.

There was a scream. The house was full of screams. No one really gave a fuck. Even the women had copped on. The kids would sort themselves out.

— How are you? Darren asked him.

— I’m grand, said Jimmy. — I got a trumpet for Christmas.

— I got a train set, said Darren. — But I don’t have cancer.

— Neither do I, said Jimmy.

Darren was looking at him over his specs again.

— Why don’t yeh get lenses, Darren?

He was a superior little cunt sometimes.

— D’you even need those fuckin’ glasses? You spend most of your time lookin’ over them.

— You don’t have cancer? said Darren.

— No, said Jimmy. — I don’t. I used to. That’s the way I’m lookin’ at it.

— When does the chemo start?

— Couple of weeks.

— What does it involve?

— Happy Christmas, Darren.

— Okay, said Darren. — Sorry.

— Grand, said Jimmy. — What d’yeh think but? Do I include Faith an’ Thunderdome in the family?

— I’m not with you.

— I’ve been countin’ everyone, said Jimmy. — Kind of a census, like. Like Bethlehem — is tha’ the place?

— No room at the inn.

— So I was just countin’. Seein’ how many are actually in the family. Martin’s out, yeah?

— Okay.

— An’ Louise is in.

— Agreed.

— But what about her kids? Are they family?

— No.

— Why not?

— Well, okay.

— You understand my predicament.

— There’s no blood connection, said Darren.

— Okay, said Jimmy. — But what if one of us was adopted? Would we be turfed out?

— No.

— So?

— Well —

One of Darren’s kids was beside Darren. Jimmy hadn’t seen him arriving.

— Howyeh, Fergie.

— Hi.

— What’s up, Fergal? said Darren.

— Can I have another Coke?

Darren looked a bit embarrassed. Jimmy loved that. And he wouldn’t be telling Darren that it was a reasonable and regular question in his house too.

— Did you ask Melanie? said Darren.

— She said No.

— And I’m saying No, said Darren. — But I won’t be going into the kitchen any time soon.

— Cool.

Fergal was gone.

— You handled tha’ well, Darren.

— Fuck off, said Darren.

— So, said Jimmy. — Seriously now. Are Faith and Max family?

— No.

— Ever?

— Not yet.

— I’m with yeh, said Jimmy. — A few more years, a few more visits.

— Yeah, said Darren. — That seems to make sense.

— That’s twenty-three so, said Jimmy. — I’m surprised. I expected more.

— Yeah, Darren agreed.

Jimmy made his mind up.

— I wonder how many kids Les has, he said.

— One, said Darren.

— D’yeh think so?

Darren looked at him over the specs — then properly.

— I know, he said.

— Maisie, said Jimmy.

— Yeah.

— Lovely name.

— Yeah.

— How did yeh know? Jimmy asked.

He didn’t know what he felt — how to feel. Robbed. Guilty. Relieved. Fuckin’ useless.

— We’ve been in touch.

— You an’ Les.

— Yeah.

— Me too, said Jimmy.

It had never occurred to him that Darren and Les would have been talking to each other, that Darren would have contacted Les, or Les would have contacted Darren. It made sense. It made sense! They were brothers, for fuck sake, closer in age than Jimmy was to Les.

— Have you seen him? Jimmy asked.

Darren didn’t answer quickly.

— No.

— Phone?

— Yeah.

— Me too, said Jimmy.

He hated hearing himself.

— Is he alright? he asked. — D’you think?

— Yeah, said Darren. — Yeah.

He wasn’t holding anything back; Jimmy didn’t think he was.