Roddy Doyle - The Guts

— Let me know if he ever says nothin’ about a drink.

She smiled. He watched it change her face.

— I’ll drive you there if you like, she said.

— No, he said.

— Sure?

— Yeah. Thanks.

He was at the fridge, looking in. Like one of the boys.

— Hungry?

— No, he said. — Not really.

He wanted to sit on the floor. He didn’t know why. It was nearer than any of the chairs. The dog was at his feet, trying to trip him. The dog — he’d forgotten the dog. He’d forgotten all about the dog.

— Messi. Good man.

Now he could get down on the floor. He had his excuse. He pressed the side of his face against the dog. He felt the tail walloping his arm.

— He’s grown, he said.

That sounded odd, like he’d been away somewhere.

Aoife was still smiling. But there was a bit of that thing, the desperation he’d seen when Outspan had been in the house.

But it was true; the dog was bigger. Still a pup, though.

— How’re things? he asked the dog.

— Anything you’d like?

For a second — was that the dog? But it was Aoife talking to him. Of course it fuckin’ was.

— Not really, thanks.

— Scrambled egg?

— Oh yeah.

She laughed. It was easy.

— And you’re sure about meeting your dad?

— Yeah, he said. — No. In a few days maybe.

He wasn’t sure about that.

— Kids in school?

— It’s July.

— Yeah.

He was glad he was on the floor.

— I could text him, he said.

— What?

She was bullying the eggs, chasing the yolks around the mixing bowl.

— I could text my da, he said. — Arrange somethin’.

He wanted his phone but he didn’t want to ask for it.

— After I’ve done this, she said. — I’ll get it for you. I think I know where I left it.

She was playing with him.

The dog was lying on his back, in Jimmy’s lap. Jimmy had to remind himself: you rub the stomach. He watched Aoife pour milk into the bowl. She put the bowl down and took his phone out of the cutlery drawer.

She bent down and left it on the dog’s stomach.

— There.

— Thanks.

It slid off, onto the floor.

He could smell the eggs now, becoming food. He texted his da. Alright? He knew Aoife was watching him. He didn’t look at the texts in the Inbox, or Sent. He put the phone beside him on the floor.

She’d known his code. But she’d always known it. He’d been using the same one for years, from phone to phone, way back to the first one. The same digits as his first bank card.

The phone buzzed and Messi was up off Jimmy’s lap and barking at it.

— Shut up, yeh fuckin’ eejit.

— Poor Messi.

It was his da.

Grande. Yrself?

Jimmy sent his answer.

Not 2 bad .

— Your dad? said Aoife.

— Yeah.

— Oh, she said. — I forgot.

— What?

— Toast?

— Brilliant, yeah. Lovely.

His da was back.

Grate .

He’d started spelling the words wrong when he texted.

— I’m enterin’ into the spirit of the thing, he’d said a good while back. — LOL.

Another one followed.

Pynte?

Jimmy didn’t answer. He would, but he didn’t know when he’d be ready to have a pint, or to leave the house on his own. The trip out to the wheelie — he knew he could get there but he wasn’t as confident about making his way back.

He heard the toast hop in the toaster. He stood up. His eyes danced, swam a bit. Low blood pressure — he thought he remembered being told he had it. He went to collect the plate from her.

— Brilliant, he said. — Perfect.

There were two plates, two mounds of scrambled egg on toast.

— Are you eatin’ as well? he asked her.

— Is that okay?

It wasn’t a real question; she was slagging him. But it took him a while.

—’Course.

He took both plates from her.

— Yeh deserve it.

— Fuck off, Jimmy.

He liked the sound of that. He put the plates down on the table, no bother, and sat.

— Knives and forks, he said.

— I’m ahead of you, said Aoife.

She sat beside him, not at the other side of the table. Strange, he thought. She slid the cutlery at him.

— There you go, she said.

She was sounding a bit like his da.

— What’s funny?

— Nothin’, he said. — I just — I don’t know. I’m happy.

It was true. But the phone. The phone. He got a mouthful of the egg into his mouth.

— Lovely.

He cut some of the toast, brought it up to his mouth.

— Really lovely, he said.

— It’s not bad, is it?

— Fuckin’ lovely.

— Pepper?

— No.

— What’s the magic word?

— Thanks.

She nudged him. Some egg fell back onto his plate.

— Sorry.

— No problem, he said. — Did you phone Imelda?

He’d never felt more alive — low blood pressure me hole .

— Yes, she said.

— Yeh did?

— Yes, she said. — I phoned everyone.

— Okay.

He got egg to his mouth.

— I was worried, Jimmy, said Aoife. — Jimmy.

— Wha’?

— I was really worried.

— Okay.

— I still am.

— Okay.

He decided to speak before he took another mouthful.

— So am I, he said.

— Okay.

He ate. So did she.

— I think I’m better.

— You’re fine. Oh —

— Wha’?

— I have something for you.

She stood up and went to the fridge. She stretched and took down a bag from the top of it — an Eason’s bag. She handed it to him.

— There.

— What is it?

— It’s in an Eason’s bag, Jimmy. Chances are it’s a book.

She is my fuckin’ da .

He took the book from the bag. Adventures of a Waterboy , Mike Scott’s autobiography. He hated the Waterboys, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. Anyway, it probably wasn’t true. He was quite fond of the Waterboys.

— Thanks, he said. — Brilliant.

— I bought it a while ago, she said. — I read a review. But I thought I’d hold onto it till —

— I know. Thanks.

— You like them, don’t you?

— God, yeah.

— Who is Imelda?

— Old friend, he said. — Lovely cover.

— How old?

— Same age as meself. Remember the Commitments?

— I didn’t know you then —

— But you remember me talkin’ about them?

— God, I do.

— Fuck off, Aoife. She was one.

— One what?

— One of the band, he said. — Singer. Like Outspan — Liam. He was in the Commitments as well.

— She sounded nice.

— She is, he said. — She’s sound. She lives near my folks.

— She sends her regards.

— I’ll phone her. You’d like her.

He patted the new book.

— I have This Is the Sea on vinyl.

He didn’t.

— Up in the attic.

He polished the plate. There was no evidence that there’d ever been food on it.

— Any news? he asked.

— Well, we won’t be going to Syria this year for the holidays, she said.

She is so my fuckin’ da!

— Where are we goin’? he asked.

She looked at him.

— You tell me.

It was July. Was it late July?

— Where’re the kids?

The house was empty, except for them and the dog.

— May stayed in Lauren’s house last night, said Aoife.

— Cocktails at sundown.

— Stop, she said. — Jesus. Lauren’s parents are good. They’re terrifying. I think they’re Christians or something. So I think she’ll still be teetotal when she gets home.

— Grand. Brian?

— Football camp.