Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— How was it? she asked.

She knew it was chemo day.

— Grand, he said.

— That all?

— Yeah, he said. — It was fine.

He kept going. Ocean was waiting in the meeting corner. She looked too young sitting there.

— Hi.

— Hi.

He sat. He stood.

— Back in a minute.

He walked to his desk. He looked at nothing on his screen. He went back. He sat.

— Listen, he said. — Before we start.

She looked even younger. Bambi’s sister.

— I owe you an apology, he said. — Sorry.

— Thank you .

— No, he said. — I’m sorry. So. Did Noeleen mention anythin’ to yeh?

— Yes, she said. — It’s so cool.

— Great. So.

He wished he had a cup or something, anything he could hide behind.

— Where do we start?

— We -ellll , she said.

She looked at the iPad on her lap.

— I, like — okay. I did some brainstorming of my own, with some of my girl friends .

She looked at him, and did the huge-eyes thing.

— I’m sorry, she said. — Was that okay?

— Yeah, yeah. Grand. No — go on.

— Soo oo . Here’s what we came up with. My girlfriends are Irish, by the way. Just in case — I’m sorry. You know, not an invading force of American postgrad chicks kind of thing.

He felt useless, superfluous. But it was great, like being shown the insides of a clock or something — how everything turned.

He leaned forward, and she showed him the list. The archives, the collections. It was brilliant. And the other stuff too, the Irish links. The friend with the uncle in the UCD Folklore Department; the dad who was going through bankruptcy proceedings with another man, who was president — or whatever — of the John McCormack Appreciation Society; the mother with the friend who played golf with the bishop.

He pointed at friend .

— Why the italics?

— They fuck.

— Oh. Grand, go on.

It was all there, on one page of an iPad. A roomful of Southside girls had given Ocean everything she needed.

He was getting an iPad. They were fuckin’ brilliant.

— This is great, he said. — Thanks very much.

— My pleasure.

— It’s so fuckin’ Irish but, isn’t it?

— How so?

— Someone knows someone.

— Yes, she said. — Very. But hey, it’s an awesome project, so I’m willing to go native.

— Grand, he said. — These will give us the expected sounds. They’ll be great but — official. Expected. You with me, Ocean?

— Yes.

He pointed at the iPad.

— Middle-class Ireland will give us the sounds of middle-class Ireland. The country they created and then fucked up. You don’t mind me sayin’ this?

— No, she said. — It’s cool.

— Grand, he said. — Good. So where’ll we find the surprises?

He met Marvin in the hall.

— How’re things?

— Grand, said Marvin. — How was the —?

— Not too bad, said Jimmy. — Nothin’ to it really.

— Cool.

Marvin was moving to the stairs.

— How’s the band?

— Grand, said Marvin.

— Great, said Jimmy. — I must hear yis some time.

— Cool.

— What’s for dinner?

— Don’t know.

He watched Marvin disappear up the stairs — his head, then his shoulders, bent a bit as if he was too big for the house. There was music on in the kitchen. Fuckin’ hell, it was Steely Dan. It must have been for him. That was lovely.

—’Home at Last’, from Aja , 1977. Where’s the dog?

— Hi, said Aoife. — She’s taken her back.

— Your sister?

— Caoimhe, yes, Jimmy. On a trial basis.

— The dog —?

— Yes, said Aoife.

She wasn’t looking at him. She was stabbing some big potatoes.

— Sorry, she said. — How was it? I mean, you said in the texts —

— No, it was grand, said Jimmy. — I’m great. But she took the dog?

— Yeah.

— On a trial basis?

— Yes.

— What does that mean?

— I’m not sure, said Aoife. — She used the term, not me. But you know Caoimhe.

— What’re we havin’, by the way?

— Chicken.

— Lovely. Go on.

— No, nothing. Just, you know the way she is. She always assumes you know what she’s talking about. Anyway, they’re back together.

— Her and the dog.

— And Tom.

Tom was the husband.

— On a trial basis as well, yeah?

— I think so, said Aoife.

Jimmy looked down at the corner.

— She took the basket as well.

— Yes.

— How’re the kids about it?

— Well, actually, said Aoife. — There now, it’s lovely.

— Lovely?

— They’re more worried about how you’d react, said Aoife. — They know you love Cindy.

— I hate Cindy.

— Yeah, yeah, we know.

— Stupid fuckin’ name.

— We know that too, said Aoife. — We all heard you calling her Imelda.

For fuck sake .

— Imelda May, he said.

— We guessed.

— That’s ‘Josie’ now, by the way. Steely Dan.

— I know, said Aoife. — We can get another one.

— A dog?

— Yes.

— No way, said Jimmy.

His phone hopped and rescued him. When had he called the dog Imelda? Why had he called the fuckin’ dog Imelda? It must have been just after he’d got back from the hospital, when he was still a bit out of his tree. That made some kind of sense. Nothing else did.

— Des?

— Jimmy, hi.

— How’s it goin’?

— Not too bad. How are you?

— Grand, grand.

— Did you start the chemo today, or when —?

— Today.

— Jesus. I can phone back —

— No, it’s grand. So far, anyway.

The line went bad; Des’s voice slid away.

— I didn’t catch that, Des, sorry. I lost yeh there.

— The trumpet, said Des.

— Yeah, I got one.

The day was beginning to catch up with him. He could feel it in his eyes — behind his eyes.

— I know, said Des. — You told me.

— Grand.

— D’you have a teacher yet?

— Not yet, no, said Jimmy. — I need one.

— Yeah, you asked me if I knew anyone. And I said No.

— Gotcha, said Jimmy. — I remember now.

He didn’t.

— But there is someone, said Des.

— Great, said Jimmy. — Who?

— Me.

— D’you play the trumpet, Des?

— No, said Des. — No, I’m joking. I do.

— Great —

— I did it when I was a kid, said Des. — But I stopped then, for years. But then when you asked me if I knew anyone —. I thought about it later and I dug it out. It was in my mother’s attic. And, well. I love it — it all came back.

— Great.

— So, said Des. — If you’re still interested –

— No, yeah. Brilliant.

— I’m not qualified or anything.

— Who gives a shite?

— It wasn’t too bad so?

— No, said Jimmy. — No.

— Great.

— Not so far anyway.

— Fingers crossed so.

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — Yeah. When were yeh born?

— Jesus, said his da. — 1941. I think. Yeah, 1941. Why?

— Was there much talk about the Eucharistic Congress when you were a kid?

— God, yeah — Jesus. Big time.

— Wha’ was it?

— Big mass, all sorts of processions.

— No pope.

— No, said Jimmy Sr. — No. A raft o’ fuckin’ cardinals. My parents talked about it all the time. I think it was kind o’ like 1990, for their generation.

— Wha’ d’yeh mean?

— Well, 1990 was unbelievable — remember?

— I do, yeah.

— It was just the football to start with. But then, when it took off. The penalty shoot-out an’ tha’. The country was never the same again. It was the beginnin’ of the boom.