Roddy Doyle: The Guts

Mahalia was going to look after Brian and his pal, Ryan. Her first big professional job. Five euro for the hour, or however long it took.

— Will we go to my parents after? said Aoife.

— Ah Christ.

— It makes sense.

— Okay.

— We can go for a coffee on the way.

— Fuckin’ wonderful.

She smiled.

Mahalia wasn’t having it.

— Five euro for most of the day, nearly? No way, like.

— Ah look —

— I have a life, like.

— I know, said Jimmy. — Ten euro.

He watched her face. A tenner was a fortune. The excitement, the little grin — it was lovely.

— Fifteen, she said.

He’d bargained her down to twelve, and now they — himself and Aoife — were on their way to Barrytown.

He was driving.

— Can you manage? she’d asked when they were walking out to the car.

— I remember where my parents live, he’d said. — I grew up there.

— I mean, I thought you might be a bit anxious.

— I’m grand.

— And I don’t want to die on the way, she’d said.

— Fuck off now.

He drove onto the roundabout and indicated left — the turn-off for Barrytown. He decided to avoid the shopping centre. It was Saturday afternoon. Although it was never busy. It had started to look like a monument to a different era a couple of years after it had been built, when Jimmy was still a kid. When his Uncle Eddie from Australia had seen it the first time, he’d thought it was the local jail, all the barbed wire on the roof. It wouldn’t be busy now but Jimmy didn’t particularly want to see it.

— When’s best to tell the kids?

— Before The X Factor , said Aoife.

They laughed.

— Seriously but, said Jimmy.

— Tonight, said Aoife. — We can make sure they’ll all be there.

— Chinese, said Jimmy. — Special occasion. I want to tell the boys first though. Marv and Jimmy.

— Yes.

— I’m right, yeah?

— Yeah.

He drove past his old school, then left, onto the green.

— No one here.

— It’s lovely, said Aoife.

— No kids any more. All grown up and gone.

They sat outside his parents’ house, holding their door handles.

— When are you going to tell your friends? said Aoife.

He thought about this.

— I don’t have any.

— Ah, you do.

— Ah, I don’t.

— You do.

— I don’t know, he said. — I haven’t really thought about it. And that probably proves I’m right. I don’t really have any.

— You do.

— Okay.

Maybe he was imagining it. But maybe there was some sort of a scent off him; the cancer was doing it. His wife wanted to ride him. He was sure of it. It was a biological thing, his body sending out the message; he had to reproduce before he died. There was sex in the air, in the car — definitely. He’d start the car, before anyone in the house noticed. He’d drive them up to Howth summit, or down to Dollymount. It was a miserable day; there’d be no one there. They’d do it like two kids half their age. Or to a hotel, one of the ones called the Airport this or Airport that. The one beside Darndale was nearest. A room for the afternoon. And he wouldn’t remind her about his vasectomy.

— We’d better go in and tell my mother I’m dyin’, he said.

— How did she take it? Darren asked him.

— Not too bad, said Jimmy.

It was true. His mother — their mother — hadn’t torn her hair out. She’d cried. They’d all cried. He’d told her he’d be fine. The success rate — he was beginning to like the language — the success rate was encouraging. She already knew her chemo and her radiation. Her brother, Jimmy’s Uncle Paddy, had been through it and survived.

The surgery, though, was news. He realised it as he told his mother: he hadn’t told Aoife. He’d told his father but he’d forgotten Aoife. She went pale as he spoke. He thought she was going to faint. He really had forgotten. He couldn’t believe it, but it was true.

— They’ll take out 80 per cent of your fuckin’ bowels? said his da.

— Just stop it, said his mother.

— Wha’?

— The language, she said. — For once. Just stop it.

— Righ’, said his da. — Sorry.

— They said it won’t make any difference, Jimmy told them. — I’ll be able to eat everythin’ as normal.

— With what’s left.

— Yeah.

Aoife still looked wrong.

— The 20 per cent, said Jimmy’s da.

— Fair play, said Jimmy. — You were always good at the subtraction.

It wasn’t working. His laughter in the face of bad luck. There was no one smiling.

— Look, he said. — It’s not life and death. That particular part. The operation’s nearly just routine. It’s part of the journey through my treatment.

He picked one of the buns on the table, to prove he was still able to eat. It was a low point — the low point. He’d fucked up. He hadn’t told Aoife.

— I forgot, he said, to only her.

She nodded, once.

— Weird, he said.

She nodded.

— It was grand, he said now to his brother, Darren.

He was sitting on the stairs in Aoife’s parents’ house. He didn’t know where Darren was. He could hear voices in the background.

— Where are yeh?

— Liffey Valley.

— Hate tha’.

— Give me cancer any day, said Darren.

— I’m a lucky man.

It was Jimmy who’d phoned Darren. He’d forgotten to tell Aoife — he really had; he kept testing himself — and now he felt the urge to tell everyone, to get it out there as quickly as possible, so everyone who needed to know would hear about it properly.

— Yeh shoppin’?

— Kind of, said Darren.

— With Melanie.

— Yeah.

— How’s she doin’?

— Grand. Great.

— Congratulations there, by the way.

— Thanks, yeah. I was goin’ to phone you.

— I know. You’re grand. Da told me.

Darren and himself weren’t close, but that meant nothing. They were brothers. Jimmy decided: he was going to find Leslie.

— So yeah, said Darren. — Everything’s grand. She’s had to give up the kick-boxin’ and the crack cocaine. Other than that, it’s business as usual.

— Great, said Jimmy. — We should meet up for a pint.

They wouldn’t.

— Yeah, said Darren. — When?

The air was full of the unexpected. Jimmy reminded himself: he had cancer. He was telling the people who mattered and they were responding.

— Don’t know, said Jimmy.

— When suits you?

— Wednesday? said Jimmy.

— Okay, said Darren. — After work?

— No, said Jimmy. — Before.

— That’d be good, said Darren.

Jimmy didn’t actually know if Darren drank, if he was a drinker the way their father was a drinker. He doubted it. Or if he was a wine drinker, a bottle or two at home with Melanie — although she wouldn’t be drinking now. She’d be guzzling the infusions, some blend of rhubarb and nettle that guaranteed the kid would be a fuckin’ genius.

— What’s that? he said. — I lost yeh there.

— About six, said Darren. — I’ll come in straight after.

— Straight after what?

— Work.

— Oh grand, said Jimmy. — You still have a job so.

— I have, yeah, said Darren. — I’ve hidden it.

— Good man.

Darren was a lecturer, out in Maynooth.

— You? said Darren.

— I’m grand, I think, said Jimmy.

— Nostalgia’s always big in a recession.

— Fuck off, said Jimmy.

— Am I right, though?

— You might be, yeah. I’ll tell you all about it when we meet. And you can stick it in one of your fuckin’ lectures.