Roddy Doyle: The Guts

He picked up his pint and knocked back about half it.

— So Bertie an’ his missis are lumped with poor Jason.

— Jesus.

— Yeah, said Jimmy’s da. — It’s rough.

They looked across at Jason.

— It’s not the fact tha’ he’s there in the house, said Jimmy’s da. — That’s not too bad. There’s only him an’ the young lad, the Facebook fella. The rest are gone, so there’s plenty o’ room. It’s not that. It’s more the fact of him. Remindin’ them. He’s a fuckin’ disaster. A fat middle-aged teenager.

— That’s harsh.

— I’m quotin’ his father. An’ I see what he means.

— Every family has its fuck-ups, said Jimmy.

— I know, said his da. — I know tha’. I’m not bein’ judgmental. Well, I am. But I know.

Leslie was the name hanging, swaying, right in front of them. They both knew it; they both saw it. Les was Jimmy’s other brother. He’d walked out of the house after a row with his mother, twenty-two years before.

— I know, said Jimmy’s da.

He sighed.

— Yeh do your best, he said. — We all do. Bertie as well. But fuck. I’m sure they love him. They probably love him. They try to. But it’s his lifestyle.

They were laughing again.

— The boom bypassed him.

— It fuckin’ did. An’ judgin’ by the head on him over there, he’s missin’ the recession as well. I’d say just sayin’ recession would take a lot out o’ poor Jason.

— What’s he on? Jimmy asked. — He’s on somethin’.

— Fuck knows, said Jimmy Sr.

He took a slug from his pint. He put the glass back on its mat.

— She goes into his room, Bertie’s mott. An’ she comes out cryin’.

— Why doesn’t she just stay out?

— That’s what I said, said Jimmy Sr. — An’ Bertie says she can’t help it. She feels guilty. She’s a woman, yeh know yourself. How’s your own woman?

— She’s grand. How’s Ma?

— Grand. Are yeh havin’ another?

— No, said Jimmy. — I’m drivin’.

— Fair enough.

— I have cancer.

— Good man.

— I’m bein’ serious, Da.

— I know.

Jimmy was shaking. He hadn’t noticed while he was working himself up to tell his father. But he knew it now. He pressed his hands down on his thighs, made his arms stiff. He wondered if his eyes were bloodshot, because they felt like they had to be.

— Jesus, son.

— Yeah.

— Wha’ kind?

— Bowel.

— Bad.

— Could be worse.

— Could it?

— So they say, said Jimmy.

— They?

— The doctors an’ tha’. The specialists. The team.

— The team?

— Yep.

— What colour are their jerseys?

Jimmy couldn’t think of an answer.

— It’s terrible, said his da.

— Yep.

— When did yeh find ou’?

— A few days ago, said Jimmy. — Monday.

— God.

Jimmy relaxed his arms. The madness was gone; they seemed to be his again. His father was fidgeting, like he’d found something sharp he’d been sitting on. Then Jimmy knew what he was doing. He was trying to get nearer to Jimmy without actually moving. Without making a show. He leaned across the table and put his hand on Jimmy’s arm. He kept it there.

— It’s not natural, he said.

— Cancer? said Jimmy. — I think it is. It’s —

— Stop bein’ so fuckin’ reasonable. It isn’t natural for a father — a parent, like — to hear tha’ kind of news from his child.

— Well, I had to tell yeh.

— Sorry, Jimmy. Sorry. I’m makin’ a mess of it.

He took his hand off Jimmy’s arm, and put it back.

— What I mean is, it should be the other way round. D’you know wha’ I mean?

— I do, yeah.

Jimmy Sr took his hand away and sat back into his chair.

— How did Aoife take it?

— Wha’?

— Aoife. How was she when yeh told her?

— I didn’t tell her, said Jimmy.

— Wha’?

— I can’t.

— You have to.

— I know.

— Fuck the drivin’. Have a pint.

— No.

Jimmy wiped his eyes, although he wasn’t crying.

— I’m afraid to eat or drink annythin’, he said. — I kind of expect it to be agony.

— Is it?

— No. Not at all.

— How did yeh find out?

— Blood, said Jimmy. — I was bleedin’.

— God —

— Nothin’ spectacular. Just, yeh know —

Jimmy watched his father wipe his eyes. He was crying.

— Sorry.

— You’re alrigh’.

— Who else have yeh told?

— No one, said Jimmy.

— I’m the first?

— I thought I’d tell you. Get it done, the first time. Then it’d be easier. I’ll be able to tell Aoife.

— I’m flattered.

— Sorry.

— You’re grand, said Jimmy Sr. — I am flattered. Weird, wha’.

— I was goin’ to tell Ma but somethin’ made me swerve towards you instead.

— It’ll kill her.

— You always say tha’.

— Fuck off.

— It’s true, yeh do. Even tha’ time when I said the Beatles weren’t as good as the Stones.

— But look it, your mother loves the Beatles.

— She couldn’t give a shite about the Beatles.

— You’re right, said Jimmy Sr. — Truth be fuckin’ told, it was the Bee Gees tha’ made your mother giddy. The early stuff, yeh know.

— Could be worse.

— It fuckin’ could. So.

Jimmy watched his father brush his thighs with his open hands.

— Wha’ now?

— Chemo, said Jimmy.

— Fuck.

— Yep.

— What is it? Exactly?

— I’m not sure yet, said Jimmy. — I started googlin’ but I stopped.

— Frightenin’, said his da.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — But borin’ as well.

— Borin’?

— Yeah.

— How is it fuckin’ borin’? Jesus, son, yeh don’t have to pretend.

— I’m not.

— Cancer’s borin’?

— No, said Jimmy. — Just readin’ about it.

He realised — he knew the feeling: he was enjoying himself. A weight — one of them, a big one — had been lifted. He definitely felt lighter.

— Even if you have it? said his da.

— Especially if you have it, said Jimmy.

Literally lighter. And light headed. He was tempted. He could leave the car in the car park, have a few pints, walk home or get a taxi and risk the smashed windscreen or wing mirror.

— So anyway, said his da. — Wha’ happened?

— Okay, said Jimmy. — I went to the specialist cunt an’ he gave me the good news. It’s early days, so they should be able to deal with it. Surgery an’ —

— Surgery?

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Did I not mention surgery?

— No, yeh didn’t.

— Well, yeah, said Jimmy. — An operation. They’re takin’ it out.

— Your bowels?

— Most of them — it. About 80 per cent.

— For fuck sake.

— But the chemo thing, said Jimmy. — He tells me I’ll be havin’ chemo. An’ other things I don’t remember. I listened. But —

— Too much to take in.

— That’s it, said Jimmy. — But anyway. He mentions chemo. An’ he shakes my hand an’ brings me to meet the team. An’ it’s all grand. They’re great — no messin’. Very reassurin’. Although that’s shite, because it hadn’t sunk in. It’s fuckin’ weird — I was kind of delighted. Grateful, like. But anyway, I’m in good hands. So.

He really was enjoying himself.

— I went back to work, he said.

— That’s a bit strange but, is it? said his da. — A bit of a fuckin’ under-reaction or somethin’.

— I don’t think so, said Jimmy. — I know what yeh mean. But no. I was numb, Da. I hadn’t a clue. So I went back. I was hungry on the way back. Starvin’.