Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— It’s the way you said it, said Mahalia.

— Said what?

— I want the right to name it.

— How did I say it?

— Like it was your last wish, like, said Mahalia.

— Did I?

Aoife was looking at Mahalia.

— You’re amazing, she said.

— I’m just saying the truth, said Mahalia.

— Yes.

— Did I though? said Jimmy.

A chair scraped, not very dramatically. But Brian was standing, wet-faced, heading for the door to the hall.

— I’ll go after him, said Jimmy. — God, Jesus — I’m sorry.

— Leave him a minute, said Aoife.

— I was jokin’, said Jimmy.

— We know.

— I’m sorry.

The self-pity felt a bit like the nausea — but only a bit.

He whispered, to all of them.

— I wanted to call him Chemo.

— Cool.

— Savage.

Jimmy kept whispering.

— But I don’t suppose I can call him that now.

— No, said Aoife. — Anyway, look at him. He’s gorgeous.

The new dog — he was only a pup — was asleep, beside his basket.

— What is he? Jimmy asked.

— He’s a bit of an omelette, said Mahalia.

— Wha’?

— Cocker spaniel, like, poodle and greyhound.

— Jesus, said Jimmy. — How did the greyhound get down —?

— Don’t.

— I’ll tell yeh but, said Jimmy.

He looked across at the pup.

— It’ll be like bringin’ a wheelbarrow for a walk.

He stood up.

Don’t hitch your jeans .

— I’ll go up to Brian.

— Bring up the rest of his dinner, said Marvin.

— Don’t start. Leave Brian alone.

The radio, the Roberts — great fuckin’ invention. It was on, low. Jimmy could tell — there was something about the voice, the news being delivered.

— Hang on.

He turned it up.

— What’s happened?

— Shush — listen. Ah, no.

— What’s wrong?

— Whitney Houston’s after dyin’.

He sat beside Brian on the bottom bunk.

— Alrigh’?

Brian nodded.

— I’m sorry, said Jimmy.

He put his arm around Brian’s shoulders.

— I just —, he said. — I joke about these days. It’s my way.

— It’s funny.

— But I go too far.

Brian was crying now. Jimmy loved it and hated it. Loved it, because one of his children needed him; hated it, for the same reason — and the fear that he wouldn’t be able to help.

— Are —, Brian started. — Are—.

Jimmy let him try again.

— Are you —?

It was too much for the kid; it would take forever.

— Am I goin’ to die? said Jimmy.

Brian nodded. He was humming now. That was how his crying sounded. A steady hum, like the washing machine going through its last spin.

— No, said Jimmy. — At least —. We could both be hit by a bus the next time we go out. Even with our sat navs.

— No — no mocking.

— Sorry. You’re right. But you know what I mean. I could trip on the dog. Or — a dog could fall out of the sky and land on our heads.

A laugh got out.

— Good man, said Jimmy. — But this chemo thing. It’s short for —

— Chemotherapy.

— Exactly — great. It’s a precaution. The cancer’s gone. The operation before Christmas. You remember —

Brian nodded. His face, the left side, was up against Jimmy’s chest, and Jimmy’s shirt was soaking. It felt like wet paint was being lightly smeared across his skin.

— Well, he said. — It was a complete success. You know that.

Another paintbrush up and down his chest.

— The cancer, the tumour, like — it’s gone.

— Forever?

— That’s the plan, said Jimmy.

He was crying now too. He didn’t want to — but he did. He was still able to talk.

— The chemotherapy will kill any little cancerous cells that might be still in there. Chemo — chemicals. It’s really strong medicine.

— I read about it, said Brian.

— Did yeh?

— Yeah.

— Where?

— Downstairs.

— I mean, what did you read?

— Wikipedia, said Brian.

— And you understood it?

Brian’s hair painted a shrug onto Jimmy’s chest.

— It’s easy.

— Good man.

— But it makes you sick.

— For a while, just. Till it’s over.

— I know.

They weren’t crying now.

— I don’t like the jokes, said Smokey.

— Okay, said Jimmy. — No more jokes.

— Only sometimes.

— Thanks, said Jimmy. — How’s school?

— Okay. It’s a bit boring.

— It hasn’t changed, so.

— That’s a joke.

— No, it isn’t.

— Why are we laughing then?

— Cos it’s nice and we love each other and we like bein’ together. I’d say that covers it.

Brian nodded again.

— I like laughing, he said. — Just not jokes about you.

— I hear you, said Jimmy. — So has anyone been sayin’ things in school?

— What things?

— About chemotherapy —.

— No.

— Or cancer.

— No.

— Grand, said Jimmy. — What’ll we call the dog?

They had two tracks now, two days before Jimmy’s next session of chemo. ‘Kiss the Bride in the Bed’, and a real showstopper, ‘The House On My Back’, sung by a wild woman called Dolores McKenna.

— Can we do something with the name? he asked.

— The name? said Ocean.

— Can we call her Weepin’ Dolores or somethin’ like that?

— I guess.

— Make her more interestin’.

— Interesting?

— Yeah, said Jimmy. — It’s a bit dull — just plain Dolores. If we — wha’? — embellish the name a bit, people will hear more in the song.

Ocean didn’t get it. She even looked a bit hurt.

— But don’t get me wrong, said Jimmy. — It’s brilliant. An’ well done, by the way.

He was talking too much. He could hear himself but he couldn’t do anything about it.

— Let’s hear it again.

He watched Ocean, Norman-trained, bring the stylus to the edge of the record. He could tell she loved what she was doing. She brought the stylus down like she was being talked through it by air traffic control.

They’d keep the crackles. It was like the sound was battling its way through the eighty years since Weepin’ Dolores and the piano player had been in the studio.

It was simple, heartbreaking, the song of an emigrant who knew she’d never escape.

— THERE’S THE HEARTH STONE —

AND THE BELLOWS —

AND THERE’S MY OLD DOG — JACK —

It had none of the Paddy, none of the dishonesty at the core of every Irish song Jimmy had ever heard, except ‘Teenage Kicks’ and maybe ‘The Boys Are Back in Town’.

— OH — I’M TRAIPSIN’ THE WORLD —

WITH THE HOUSE ON MY BACK —

He lifted the stylus. It came back immediately, the delicacy and importance of the movement. He didn’t have a record player. They’d been waiting till the kids grew up.

Norman walked in.

— You’re back, Norman.

Norman looked a bit lost.

— How was that? Jimmy asked him.

I’m worse than my da. I’m my da’s fuckin’ da!

— Fine, said Norman. — Grand.

— We were talkin’ about Dolores McKenna there, said Jimmy. — D’you know annythin’ about her, Norman?

— There’s no need to keep repeating my name, said Norman. — I know who I am.

— Grand. Great.

— That’s her only record, said Norman.

He looked pleased, then anxious.

— That’s — my God, said Ocean. — Her only recording.

— No, said Norman. — Only record. It’s the only one in the world. As far as is known.

— Oh — my God.

— Jesus, Norman.

Jimmy went to lift Dolores off the turntable.