Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— Alright?

— Yeah, said Des. — Sorry again —

— You’re grand, said Jimmy.

What would he say? He hardly knew the man.

— I need to get some cash for one of the kids anyway, he said. — A school trip or somethin’.

Rub it in, yeh stupid cunt . He could throw money at his kids without knowing what it was for, and probably more than he’d be throwing at Des. But that was ridiculous. He wasn’t sure how, but it was just sentimental.

They walked beside each other.

— Winter’s over I’d say.

— Yeah.

— Thank Christ.

— Yeah.

— Easier goin’ on the bike.

— Yeah, yeah. Much easier.

— Did you sell the car, Des?

— Yeah, said Des. — I couldn’t — I had to.

— That’s bad, said Jimmy.

— No, it’s actually grand.

— No, it’s not grand.

He wished Aoife could have heard him say that. He’d tell her later.

— I meant, said Des. — I don’t really miss it.

— I don’t use mine much, said Jimmy.

That wasn’t true. It used to be truer, but not since the surgery and the chemo.

— But yeah, said Des. — It was hard having to decide to get rid of it.

— Did you get a decent price for it?

— No.

They walked past three gates before they spoke again.

— The bike, said Jimmy.

— It’s my daughter’s, said Des. — When she’s over.

— Christ.

— She’s tall, at least.

— What happened?

— No work.

Jimmy didn’t know what Des did — had done — for a living.

— Just disappeared, said Des.

He rang the bell on the handlebar.

— That was an accident, he said.

— What do yeh do? Jimmy asked him.

— Landscaping, said Des. — Gardens mostly.

— Southside?

— No, said Des. — Fuck off.

He smiled.

The Spar was right in front of them. They stopped walking.

— Everywhere, said Des. — You’d be surprised.

— I probably wouldn’t.

— I put fountains and ponds into council-house gardens, said Des.

— I bet.

— Anyway, said Des. — Small jobs were the first to go.

He shrugged.

— No real problem, he said. — I’d four or five lads working for me. Lithuanians. Great heads. But that became two or three. Then the big jobs became smaller. But they’ve stopped too. All these people have suddenly learnt how to cut the grass. That’s not fair. But —

He rang the bell again, on purpose this time.

— It’s rough, said Jimmy.

They just stood beside each other for a bit.

— I’d never have guessed tha’ that was what yeh did, said Jimmy. — Landscapin’.

— Why not?

— Well, you’re always dressed — dressed to kill, my ma would say. And your hands —

— I wash myself, said Des.

— Sorry.

— You’ve got some stupid notions, Jimmy.

— I didn’t mean anythin’.

He looked at Des.

— Sorry, he said. — I’m a twat.

— The real killer, said Des, — was two big jobs I never got paid for.

— Fuck. Really?

— And I know — I know for a fact that at least one of them is well able to pay. Just won’t.

— The cunt.

— You said it.

Jimmy nodded at the shop.

— You comin’ in?

— No, said Des. — I’ll only be tempted to spend money I don’t have.

— Grand. Won’t be a minute.

Jimmy knew: Des really couldn’t spend money he didn’t have. It was that basic. He didn’t have a working bank card, let alone an overdraft or a friendly manager. Jimmy’s eldest two had their own bank cards; their pocket money went straight to their accounts. They withdrew fivers, and they couldn’t actually spend money that wasn’t there. But they were in better shape than Des. He was back where he’d started, somewhere in the late ’70s. But, of course, he wasn’t. That was just sentimentality too.

The sentimentality — it was fuckin’ everywhere.

He took out a hundred and headed for the door, then changed his mind. He didn’t want to hand Des a fifty, didn’t want to tell Des it was fine, it could cover the next lesson as well. He didn’t want to hear himself say, You’re grand.

He went to the counter, picked up a packet of Doublemint, handed it with a fifty to the young one behind the counter. He took the change from her.

— Thanks.

He put twenty-five into a pocket and went back out to Des.

— There yeh go.

— Thanks.

It was fuckin’, fuckin’ dreadful. But he liked Des and it felt good to be with him now. Neither of them wanted to go. He knew Des would say no to a pint. Anyway, he didn’t want one himself. But he did something a bit clever. He anticipated the chat later that night with Aoife; what she’d ask, how she’d look at him.

— Is your apartment okay, Des? he asked. — Safe?

Jimmy knew that much; Des had an apartment. Somewhere off the Stillorgan Road. Jimmy had envied him — just a quick stab. The familyless life. The step back into happiness. Jesus.

— Yeah, said Des. — Yeah.

— D’you own it? Sorry if I’m —

— No, said Des. — No. My aunt owns it. I’ve been renting.

He shrugged.

— I’m her godson.

— Nice.

— Awful.

— Yeah.

— But yeah. I’m lucky.

— If you say so, said Jimmy. — But look it. Any time. You know.

— Thanks, said Des.

— I’m not just sayin’ that, said Jimmy.

— I know.

— If I can help —. Sorry. I mean it.

— I know.

— It’s a ceili band playin’ ‘Black an’ Tan Fantasy’, said Jimmy.

— My God, said Aoife. — In 1932?

— Yep, said Jimmy. — It’s a Duke Ellington song. But they didn’t call it that. These guys here.

— What did they call it?

— Liscannor Bay Fantasy.

— Brilliant.

They listened to an accordion doing what should have been done by a trumpet.

— Did you recognise it?

— Nope, said Jimmy. — I fuckin’ hate jazz.

— I forgot, said Aoife. — Sorry for asking.

— You’re grand, said Jimmy. — No, it was the young one.

— Ocean?

— Yeah. She spotted it immediately. Turns out she knows her onions. Whatever that means.

They said nothing for a bit while they both enjoyed the madness of it.

— How are you feeling? she asked him.

— Grand, he said. — Really. Grand.

— It mightn’t happen this time.

— It will, said Jimmy. — But it’s okay. I’ll survive.

He paused the song.

— And you know what’s good?

— What?

— This, he said. — The searchin’. The Eucharistic Congress is in June an’ we’ve still only got about half an album’s worth o’ songs. But she’s brilliant. Ocean.

— And she’s the girl you thought was being seduced by her father.

— Same one, he said. — Seems like ages ago. Fuckin’ hell.

They laughed.

— Anyway, said Jimmy, — we need about five more songs and we might be able to get away with four.

He held up the laptop, just before he put it on the floor beside the bed.

— It’s good though, isn’t it? The latest one.

— Yes, she said. — It is.

— I love that, he said. — Ceili lads listenin’ to nigger jazz, down a boreen somewhere.

— With the sound down low.

— Very low. Huddled around the gramophone, like. And hidin’ the record. Passin’ it around. In a different cover. It might even’ve been illegal. Banned.

— Different times.

— The good ol’ days, he said. — They must’ve been lookin’ for new music.

— And they found it.

— Yeah, but they had to disguise it.

He slid down under the duvet.

— I want to find somethin’ that wasn’t disguised.