Roddy Doyle - The Guts

Jimmy and Ocean followed his da and Norman into the house.

— Christ.

— Oh my God.

Every wall they could see was covered in shelves of records. Jimmy stopped to look, to slide a few from their perches. But something stopped him: Don’t touch till you’re let . He kept going down the hall — made narrow by shelves — to a big bright room that was, after he’d spotted a kettle and the fridge, the kitchen. He heard Ocean behind him shutting the door.

His da was looking at the ceiling.

— Spot of damp there, Norman, he shouted. — Look it.

— Where?

— There.

— That’s been there for years, said Norman. — That one up there?

— Yeah.

— It looks like Perry Como.

— Does it?

— Oh, it does.

— You’ve a fair few records here, all the same, Norman.

— Hold on a minute, said Norman. — I have to adjust me yoke here. When I move from a low ceilin’ to the high one.

— Will I say it again or wha’? said Jimmy’s da.

— Say what?

— You’ve a great collection o’ records.

— I know.

— That’s why I brought young Jimmy with me.

— I know.

— And — what’s your name again, love?

— Ocean.

— An’ Ocean, Jimmy’s da told Norman. — She’s here as well.

— I can see that.

If the room had a middle, Norman was in it. He was moving no closer to the shelves; he was telling them nothing, and showing them nothing.

— Norman, said Jimmy’s da. — The Eucharistic Congress.

— What about it?

— You heard me?

— Every word.

— Grand. Sorry if I seem—. Annyway, Jimmy’s lookin’ for music from 1932.

Norman looked at Jimmy.

— 1932?

— That’s right, said Jimmy.

— Is it in here, Norman? asked Jimmy’s da. — Or in one o’ the other rooms?

— Is what in here?

— 1932.

— Why would there be a year in my kitchen?

— Your 1932 records, said Jimmy’s da. — Are they in here?

— Hold on here, said Norman. — Do you think I catalogue the records by the year?

— Well —

— Are yeh mad? said Norman.

— I’m open to persuasion.

Norman pointed at a wall.

— So that’s supposed to be 1947, is it? Or 1583?

— I think I left somethin’ in the van, said Jimmy’s da.

He walked past Jimmy.

— I’ll be back with a spanner, he said. — We can beat the information out o’ the fucker.

He hitched up his jeans and kept going. Jimmy looked around. He did the full turn.

— This is amazin’, Norman, he said.

Norman nodded.

— I’ve never seen anythin’ like it, said Jimmy. — Have you, Ocean?

— No, said Ocean. — It’s like the Smithsonian.

— Exactly, said Jimmy.

— It’s such a thrill, said Ocean.

Norman was listening.

Jimmy met his da at the hall door.

— I had to get out before I smacked him, said his da. — I’ll go back in now an’ get him movin’.

— Stay here a bit, said Jimmy. — Ocean’s chattin’ to him. He’s givin’ her the tour. I thought I’d leave them to it.

— Usin’ her feminine charms, yeah?

— Yeah. Spot on.

— She’s wastin’ her time, said Jimmy’s da.

— Wha’?

— Norman, said Jimmy’s da. — Did yeh not notice?

— Notice wha’?

— He’s gay, for fuck sake.

— Norman?

— The Norman in there, yeah.

— He’s gay?

— Yeah.

— Since when?

— Wha’?

— Like, he’s old, said Jimmy.

— It’s not a recent thing, if that’s what yeh mean, said his da. — I don’t think it works tha’ way. Yeh don’t wake up thinkin’ you’re gay at the age of seventy-eight or nine.

— But —, said Jimmy.

— I fuckin’ hope not, an’anyway.

— But—. I mean — how long have yeh known?

— Always.

— All your life, like?

— Yeah, said Jimmy’s da. — Norman was always Norman.

— Even way back?

— All I can tell yeh is tha’ he was always Norman. In the family, like. An’ no one gave much of a shite.

— He was openly gay, like?

— Jesus, man. Go back sixty years. D’you think those words meant annythin’? 1952. Here’s Norman Rabbitte. He’s openly gay. For fuck sake.

— Okay.

— No one was openly annythin’ in 1952, Jimmy’s da told Jimmy. — But as near to fuckin’ open as he could be, Norman was open. An’ it was all grand, in the family. As far as I ever knew. But relax, don’t worry. He was probably miserable.

Jesus Christ, my da’s becoming me .

— There now, said Jimmy. — Listen.

They heard music coming from the back of the house.

— Ocean’s worked her magic.

They went after the noise, and found it.

— Jesus.

It was ceili music, but wilder and rougher than Jimmy thought was normal. And there was something else in it, something that made him want to laugh.

— Is tha’ feet?!

Norman turned to look at him. He was holding the cover of an old Parlophone 78.

— Dancing, he shouted. — They’re all dancing!

The room was full of the sound of dancing feet, dozens, maybe hundreds, of pairs of shoes landing on a wooden floor.

— What year is that from, Norman?!

— Wha’?

— Wha’ year —?

— 1932!

— Brilliant!

Jimmy could feel the feet beneath him, coming up from the floor. The dancers on the record were all long dead — they had to be — but he could feel them in the room. There were moments when they were all in the air, then — bang — down, they hit the floor together.

The nausea could fuck off, and the diarrhoea.

— What’s it called, Norman?!

—’Kiss the Bride in the Bed!’

Jimmy looked at his da, and at Ocean.

— Track One! he shouted.

— What’s this?

— That’s the second time in the last few months you’ve looked at a dog and asked, What’s this?

— It’s a dog.

— Yes, said Aoife.

— Is it ours?

— Yes.

— I don’t want a dog.

— Yes, you do.

— Okay.

Shepherd’s pie — Jimmy’s choice. He could only manage baby food and he didn’t want the kids to see that even the thought of most food made him want to be sick.

But the nausea — he hated the fuckin’ word — seemed to be gone. That feeling that made him snap his eyes and even his head — his mind — shut.

— Any gigs comin’ up, Marv?

— No.

— How come?

— Dunno.

— Grand, said Jimmy.

He could eat. He could look properly at the kids, even the ones who wouldn’t look at him. It didn’t upset him. It was temporary.

— So, he said. — The dog.

He put some mince in his mouth.

— Delicious, he said, to Aoife — to all of them.

Young Jimmy thought of something; his head was up from his plate.

— Hey, Dad, he said. — That sounded like you said the dog is delicious.

The laughter filled the place.

— All these years, said Jimmy. — And you never knew what went into shepherd’s pie.

— That’s, like, gross, said Mahalia.

She was eating beans and mashed potato.

— Anyway, said Jimmy. — We’ve a dog. That right, Smoke?

Brian nodded so much his face had problems keeping up.

— Well, said Jimmy. — I want the right to name him.

There was silence, except for the cutlery.

— What’s wrong?

— Nothing.

— Does he have a name already?

— No, said Mahalia.

— Then wha’ then? said Jimmy. — There’s somethin’ wrong. What?

— There’s nothing wrong, said Aoife.