Roddy Doyle - The Snapper

— There y’are, Bertie, said Bimbo.

— Buenas noches, compadre, said Bertie.

— How’s business, Bertie? said Paddy.

— Swings an’ roundabouts, said Bertie. — Tha’ sort o’ way, yeh know.

— Tha’ seems to be the story everywhere, said Bimbo. — Doesn’t it?

— Are you goin’ to nigh’ classes or somethin’? said Paddy.

Bertie laughed.

— Ah fuck off, you now, said Bimbo. — Every time I open me mouth yeh jump down it.

— There’s plenty o’ room in there annyway, said Bertie, — wha’.

They heard Jimmy Sr.

— D’yis want ice in your pints?

He put two pints of Guinness down on the table, in front of Paddy and Bimbo. There was a little cocktail umbrella standing up in the head of Bimbo’s pint.

Jimmy Sr came back with the other two pints.

— How’s Bertie?

— Ah sure.

— It’s the same everywhere, isn’t it? said Paddy.

Bertie sniggered.

Bimbo was spinning the umbrella.

— Mary Poppins, said Jimmy Sr.

— Who? said Bimbo. — Oh yeah.

He held the umbrella up in the air and sang.

— THE HILLS ARE A-

Paddy squirmed, and looked around.

— LIVE WITH THE SOUND O’—no, that’s wrong. That’s not Mary Poppins.

— It was very good, all the same, said Jimmy Sr.

— It fuckin’ was, alrigh’, Bertie agreed. — Yeh even looked like her there for a minute.

Bimbo stuck his front teeth out over his bottom lip, and screeched.

— JUST A SPOONFUL OF SHUGEH—

HELPS THE MEDICINE — GO DOWN—

THE MEDICINE — GO DOW—

WOWN—

THE MEDICINE — GO DOWN—

— Are yeh finished? said Paddy.

— Do your Michael O’Hehir, said Jimmy Sr.

— Ah, for fuck sake, said Paddy. — Not again. All o’ them horses are fuckin’ dead.

— Weuahh!

That was Bertie.

— Jesus! — fuck!

He gasped. His mouth was wide open. He shook his face. He was holding his pint away from his mouth like a baby trying to get away from a full spoon.

He pointed the pint at Jimmy Sr.

— Taste tha’.

— I will in me hole taste it. What’s wrong with it?

— Nothin’, said Bertie.

And he knocked back a bit less than half of it.

— Aah, he said when he came up for air. — Mucho good.

Bimbo put the umbrella into his breast pocket.

— Wha’ d’yeh want tha’ for? said Paddy.

— Jessica, said Bimbo. — She collects them. Maggie brings all hers home to her.

Paddy looked across to Jimmy Sr and Bertie for support. Jimmy Sr grinned and touched his forehead.

— Oh yeah, said Bertie.

He’d remembered something. He picked the bag he’d brought in with him off the floor and put it on his lap.

— You don’t follow Liverpool, said Paddy.

— It’s Trevor’s, said Bertie. — I had to take all his bukes an’ copies ou’ of it cos I’d nothin’ else. There was a lunch in the bottom of it an’, fuckin’ hell. Did yis ever see blue an’ green bread, did yis?

— Ah fuck off, will yeh.

— The fuckin’ meat. Good Christ. It stuck its head ou’ from between the bread an’ it said, Are The Tremeloes still Number One?

He put his face to the opening and sniffed.

— Yeh can still smell it. The lazy little bastard. Annyway, Jimmy, he said. — Compadre mio. How many bambinos have yeh got that are goin’ to school.

— Eh — three. Why?

Bertie took three Casio pocket calculators in their boxes out of the bag.

— Uno, dos, tres. There you are, my friend. For your bambinos so tha’ they’ll all do well for themselves an’ become doctors.

— Are yeh serious? said Jimmy Sr.

He picked up one of the calculators and turned it round.

— Si, said Bertie.

He explained.

— There’s a bit of a glut in the calculator market, yeh know. I took three gross o’ them from a gringo tha’ we all know an’ think he’s a fuckin’ eejit—

— An’ whose wife does bicycle impressions when he isn’t lookin’?

— That’s him, said Bertie. — I gave him fuck all for them. I was laughin’ before I’d the door shut on the cunt, yeh know. Only now I can’t get rid o’ the fuckin’ things. No one wants them. I even tried a few o’ the shops. Which was stupid. But they were gettin’ on me wick. I can’t live with failure, yeh know. So I’m givin’ them away. Righ’, Bimbo. How many do you need?

— Five, said Bimbo.

— Five!?

— He only has four, said Jimmy Sr. — He wants one for himself.

Bimbo held up his left hand. He pointed to his little finger.

— Glenn.

He moved on to the next finger.

— Wayne.

The middle one.

— Jessica.

— Okay okay, said Bertie. — There’ll be six by the time you’ve finished.

He dealt the boxes out to Bimbo.

— Uno, dos, tres, four, five.

— Thanks very much, Bertie.

— No problem, said Bertie. — See if yeh can get them to lose them, so I can give yeh more. I still have two gross in intervention. A fuckin’ calculator mountain. — Cal-cul-ators! We don’t need your steenking cal-cul-ators! I speet on your cal-cul-ators! — Paddy?

— Wha’?

— How many?

— I don’t want your charity.

Bertie, Jimmy Sr and Bimbo laughed. Paddy was serious, but that made it funnier.

— None o’ those kids he has at home are his annyway, said Jimmy Sr.

The stout in Bimbo’s throat rushed back into his mouth and bashed against his teeth.

— My round, compadres, said Bertie.

He stood up.

— Three pints, isn’t that it? he said.

They looked up at him.

— Do yeh want me charity, Paddy, or will yeh stay on your own?

— Fuck off.

— Four pints, said Bertie.

Jimmy Sr and Bimbo laughed and grinned at each other. Paddy spoke.

— Fuck yis.

Bertie took two more calculators out of the bag.

— For my amigos, the barmen.

When he got back from the bar Bimbo had one of the calculators out of its wrapper.

— The round costs five pound, forty-four, he told them.

— Go ’way! said Jimmy Sr.

— That’s very fuckin’ dear all the same, isn’t it? said Bimbo.

— It was just as dear before yeh got the calculator, said Bertie.

— I know, I know tha’. It’s just when yeh see it like tha’ in black an’, eh, silvery grey it makes it look worse. — I think annyway.

— My Jaysis, said Paddy.

He looked at Bertie.

— Fuckin’ hell, said Bimbo. — If there was six of us the round’d cost—

— Put it away, Bimbo, for fuck sake, said Jimmy Sr.

— I’ve got two kids in school, Paddy told Bertie.

— Is tha’ righ’? said Bertie.

— Yeah.

— Well, I hope they’re good at their sums, said Bertie. — Cos they’re not gettin’ anny calculators.

— Young Sharon’s after gettin’ herself up the pole, Jimmy Sr told them.

He rubbed his hands and picked up his pint.

— Is tha’ YOUR Sharon, like? said Bimbo.

— That’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr. — Gas, isn’t it?

— One calculator for Sharon, said Bertie, and he passed one across to Jimmy Sr, and then another one. — And one for the bambino. A good start in life.

— She’s not married, said Bimbo.

— I know tha’! said Jimmy Sr.

— Is tha’ the tall girl tha’ hangs around with Georgie Burgess’s young one? Paddy asked.

— That’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr.

— Is she gettin’ married? said Bimbo.

— No, said Jimmy Sr. — Why should she? They’ve more cop-on these days. Would you get married if you were tha’ age again these days?

— I think I’m goin’ to cry, said Bertie.

— I’d say I would, yeah, said Bimbo.