Roddy Doyle: The Guts

I’ll miss this .

He hadn’t felt it coming and he got rid of it quickly.

Sentimental shite.

Now he lay on the bed with Aoife. She was crying onto his chest.

And he liked it.

— I bet Supertramp have a song about cancer, he said.

— Fuck off you.

— I never liked them.

She lifted her head.

— You did.

— Okay.

She put her head back down.

— You’re such a baby.

— It’s why you love me.

He heard her gulping back her tears, trying to stop.

— Sorry, he said.

She said nothing.

— I had to tell you.

— I knew, she said.

— Knew?

— Yes.

She patted his stomach.

— How? said Jimmy. — Did someone phone you? They’d no right —

— No.

They spoke softly. The bedroom door was open, a bit. In case Brian woke.

— I just knew, said Aoife. — You weren’t yourself.

— So I had cancer?

— Something was wrong. It was in your face.

— I should’ve told you.

— Yes.

— I was goin’ to.

— Why didn’t you?

— I was goin’ to tell you that I was goin’ for the test, said Jimmy. — Then I decided — I suppose — to wait till after. If it was clean —

She hit him. He hadn’t — he could never have expected this. It was like she’d driven her fist right through him.

— Jeee-zuss!

He got his hand to her shoulder and shoved her away, almost over the side of the bed.

— Shit —

He reached out to grab her. But she wasn’t falling. They were both breathless and scared. Her hair was shorter these days but it was still hanging over her eyes.

The silence was loud and colossal.

A mobile phone buzzed.

— Fuck —!

They’d both jumped — the shock.

— Yours, said Aoife.

She exhaled, and breath lifted her fringe.

— It doesn’t matter, said Jimmy.

— Go on, she said.

— It doesn’t matter, I said. It’s only a fuckin’ text.

— It’s your dad, she said. — He’s the only one who texts you this late.

There was no hostility in what she said.

He found the phone and she was right. It was from his da. Wayne fuckin Rooney!!

— Is anything wrong? Aoife asked.

— No, said Jimmy. — Not really. It’s grand. I’m sorry.

— Me too.

She was on her knees, on the side of the bed. Jimmy leaned across and she let him hug her. Her face was wet. He kissed it. He didn’t cry, and that seemed good.

— I’d better answer him, he said.

He knew she was looking at him, looking for difference or slowness — or bloodstains. He picked up the phone. He wrote, or whatever it was called — texted. Complete cunt . He sent it back to his da. He put the phone on the floor, and lay back.

— I know I should have told you, he said.

— It’s okay.

— I thought it would go away. Fuckin’ stupid. Once I did the right thing an’ made the appointment.

— I understand.

— It was stupid.

— So are lots of things.

— I suppose. Anyway. I didn’t want to worry you. That’s the truth. Then I found out.

He stopped for a while. He was grand.

— And I was stunned, he said. — Fuckin’—. When I went back to work after. And I eventually had to talk — this fuckin’ twit wonderin’ where an order was supposed to go. When I opened my mouth there was no jaw. I couldn’t feel it. Like I’d been at the fuckin’ dentist. As if goin’ to the — here we go — oncologist. Impressed?

— Good lad.

— As if goin’ to the fuckin’ oncologist hadn’t been enough, I had to drop in on the dentist on the way back. But your man didn’t notice.

— Is he really a twit?

— No. No, he’s grand. He’s young.

— Oh, that.

— Yeah. So anyway. I came home. And I was goin’ to tell you. That was the plan. I even stopped off at SuperValu an’ bought a bottle of wine. Remember?

— Yes.

— I had it all mapped out. The two of us in the kitchen. Some fuckin’ hope.

— Brian had a match.

— That’s right.

— I drank the wine while you were gone.

— That’s right.

— Well, I opened it.

— You drank it.

— Okay. Not all of it.

— Grand.

— Anyway. I wasn’t pissed.

— You were all over me, said Jimmy. — Later, like.

He looked at her.

— You rode a man with cancer.

— Jesus.

— And I couldn’t tell you after that.

— I wouldn’t have believed you.

— That’s music to my fuckin’ ears.

Now he cried. He couldn’t help it. Actually, he wanted to. He felt no better and he felt no worse but it seemed natural, something she’d have wanted to see. Reassurance. And then he couldn’t stop for a while.

— Can I not just text everyone?

— No, said Aoife. — It wouldn’t be right.

— But last night you said —

She’d said this after she’d made him come in about three seconds.

— You said I was to think about nice things, said Jimmy.

It was Saturday morning. The kids — he hadn’t told them yet; Jesus — were either out or still in bed. Brian was on a sleepover and the mother of his pal, Ryan, was bringing them both to the football. The father was in England, working. Jimmy would go and watch the second half and bring them back here. But now Jimmy and Aoife were alone.

— I said that? said Aoife.

— Look on the bright side, you said. That kind o’ shite. And now I’ve to —

He picked up the sheet of paper, the list.

— I’ve to go from door to door. From Barrytown —

He was going there today, later, to tell his mother. He looked at some of the names.

— to Castlepollard.

His sister, Linda, lived there. It was in Meath or Westmeath, miles away.

— I’ve to tell —

He looked at the list again. He pretended to count.

— fifteen or sixteen people that I have cancer. And I’ve to do it in a rush so no one feels upset because I told him or her before I told him or fuckin’ her.

She was smiling and he loved it.

— I’ve to travel the length and breadth of fuckin’ Ireland and tell them all. And this is goin’ to cheer me up?

— I’ll come with you, she said.

— No.

— I want to.

— No, he said. — I’m not doin’ it. It’s mad.

— How then?

— Don’t know, he said.

She took the list.

— I’ll phone Sharon and Linda and Tracy, she said.

They were Jimmy’s sisters.

— It makes sense, he said. — Is it okay?

— Yeah, she said. — No, you’re right. But you didn’t put my side on the list.

— I wasn’t finished, he lied.

— We’ll have to go to my parents’.

— Okay.

— I’ll phone the others.

She added names to the list, the brother Jimmy thought was a wanker, the sister who was mad and getting madder.

— Sound, he said. — I’ll phone — let’s see. Darren. She’s pregnant, by the way.

— I know.

— Who told you?

— She did.

— Melanie?

— Yeah. I met her.

— I thought you didn’t like her.

— What’s that got to do with anything? Jesus, Jimmy, grow up.

— I hope to, he said.

— Haha. Anyway, I do like her. She just annoys me.

— Grand.

— Sometimes.

— Okay.

It wasn’t too bad. If he’d been asked what it was like, that was what he’d have said. He had his mother coming up, and the kids. Telling them was going to be dreadful. And his boss — he’d have to tell her. Although she wasn’t really his boss. But anyway, other than that, it really wasn’t too bad. He had no dates yet; he wasn’t counting down the days. He was in limbo for a while, and it was okay.