Roddy Doyle - The Snapper

— I wouldn’t touch your poxy socks.

— Yeh’d better not.

— It’s those fuckin’ runners he wears, said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Jr.

— His feet can’t breathe in them.

— Yeah.

— Who’s your one?

— Gabriella Sabatini.

— Jaysis, wha’.

— She’s only seventeen.

— Fuck off. — Are yeh serious?

— Yeah.

— Is she winnin’, is she?

— Yeah.

— Good.

* * *

— Jesus, I wouldn’t like tha’, said Yvonne. — Some dirty oul’ bastard with a rubber glove.

— It was a woman, said Sharon.

— Yeah?

— Yeah. She was very nice. Doctor Murray. She was real young as well. It took bleedin’ ages though.

— How long abou’? Mary asked her.

— Ages. Hours. Most of it was waitin’ though. All fuckin’ mornin’, I’m not jokin’ yeh. She said it was because of the cut-backs. She kept sayin’ it. She said I should write to me TD.

— The stupid bitch, said Jackie.

They laughed.

— Ah, she was nice, said Sharon. — Come here though. I nearly died, listen. She said she wanted to know me menstrual history an’ I didn’t know what she talkin’ abou’ till she told me. I felt like a right fuckin’ eejit. I knew what it meant, like, but I was—

— Why didn’t she just say your periods? said Yvonne.

— Doctors are always like tha’, said Mary.

— Menstrual history, said Jackie. — I got a C in that in me Inter.

They roared.

* * *

— Mammy, said Linda.

Tracy stood beside her.

— What? said Veronica.

— Me an’ Tracy are doin’ ballroom dancin’.

Veronica opened her eyes and sat up on the couch and put her feet back into her slippers.

— Ballroom dancing, she said. — Is that not a bit old-fashioned for you?

— No, it’s brilliant, said Tracy.

— Yeah, said Linda.

— Where are my glasses? said Veronica.

She wanted to see the twins properly.

— There, look.

Both girls went to get Veronica’s glasses for her but Veronica got to them first. She put them on.

— How much? she said.

— Nothin’!

— There’s a competition, said Linda, — an’ that’s ten pounds but it isn’t on for ages.

— Well, I know you want something, said Veronica. — So you might as well tell me what it is.

— We have to have dresses.

— Oh God, said Veronica.

* * *

Sharon bought some pants with elastic waists, baggy things that would get bigger as she got bigger. She wouldn’t have been caught dead in them if she hadn’t been pregnant but now, when she looked at herself in them, she thought she looked okay. She’d have looked stupid and pathetic in what she usually wore. She was happy enough with her new shape. She walked as straight as she could although now and again she just wanted to droop. She was sweating a lot. Like a pig sometimes. She knew she would, but it was embarrassing one day when she was putting jars of chutney on a high shelf in work and she felt a chill and looked, and under her arms was wringing. She felt terrible. She didn’t know if anyone else had seen but she wanted to go around and tell everyone that she’d washed herself well that morning. As far as she knew she had a choice: she could drink a lot and sweat or she could stop and become constipated. Some choice. She kept drinking and wore a jumper in work.

She looked at her face. Was it redder or was it just the light? She thought she looked as if she’d just been running.

She met Mister Burgess, once. It wasn’t a real meeting because she crossed the road to the shops when she saw him coming round the corner and she looked at the girls playing football on the Green while he went past. He just went past, and that was what she wanted.

* * *

Jimmy Sr got out of the house earlier than usual because Veronica was in her moods again. Anyway, they were all watching Miami Vice at home and he couldn’t stand it. It was like watching a clatter of Jimmy Jr’s pals running around and shooting each other.

Bimbo was with him.

— Now, Bimbo continued, — there mightn’t be annythin’ in this.

He took a mouthful from his new pint.

— That’s grand. — It’s a bit embarrassin’ really—

He waited till Jimmy Sr was looking at him.

— But I heard him talkin’ abou’ Sharon. Your Sharon, like, on Sunday. Yeh know the way they all come in after the mornin’ match.

— An’ take over the fuckin’ place; I know. Wha’ was he sayin’ abou’ Sharon? Jimmy Sr asked, although he’d already guessed the answer.

— He said she was a great little ride.

— My God — said Jimmy Sr, softly.

His guess had been way wrong.

— What a — I’ll crease the fucker. Would yeh say he’s upstairs?

Bimbo was shocked.

— Yeh don’t want to claim him here, he said. — You’d be barred.

He lifted his glass.

— An’ me.

Jimmy Sr was breathing deeply.

— You’re right o’ course, he said. — That’s wha’ he’d want.

He whacked his glass down on the counter. It didn’t break. He gripped the ashtray. The two barmen braced themselves for some kind of action.

He took his hand away from the ashtray.

Bimbo was appalled when he heard, then saw, that Jimmy Sr was crying.

— He’d no right to say tha’, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr.

— I know, said Bimbo.

— Just cos—

He snuffled.

In a way, Bimbo felt privileged, even though it was terrible. He knew that Jimmy Sr would never have cried in front of the other lads.

It had gone very quiet in the bar.

— Yeh wouldn’t want to be listenin’ to tha’ fella, Bimbo told Jimmy Sr. — I only told yeh cos — I’m not sure why I told yeh.

— You were righ’, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr.

— It’s pat’etic really, said Bimbo. — A grown man sayin’ things like tha’.

— Exactly.

— Just cos she’s pregnant.

— Exactly.

— It’s stupid.

— Yeah.

— It’s not worth gettin’ worked up abou’.

— Still though, said Jimmy Sr.

They looked around. There was no one looking at them.

Bimbo put his glass down.

— Sure, that’s wha’ we were put down here for. To have snappers.

— You should know, said Jimmy Sr.

— Ah here.

— Two pints, chop chop, Jimmy Sr called.

Bertie came in.

— Three pints!

— Buenas noches, lads, said Bertie.

— There y’are, Bertie, said Bimbo.

— Howyeh, Bertie, said Jimmy Sr.

— The rain she pisses down, Bertie told them.

Something was still eating Jimmy Sr.

— Why did he say it THA’ way? he asked Bimbo.

— Wha’? said Bertie.

— Nothin’, said Jimmy Sr.

— Okay; be like tha’.

— I will.

— Fuck you, amigo.

— Go an’ shite, amigo.

— Here’s the pints, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr looked at them.

— Get back there an’ put a proper head on them pints, he told Dave, the apprentice barman. — Jaysis.

* * *

Sharon wasn’t asleep.

— Sharon, are yeh awake?

She didn’t answer.

He didn’t know which side of the room he should have been talking into. He hadn’t been in here in eight years, the last time he’d wallpapered the room.

— Are you awake, Sharon?

— Daddy, said Sharon. — Is tha’ you?

— Yeah.

— Daddy, is tha’ you? said Linda.

— Yes, pet. Go back to sleep. I want to talk to Sharon.

— Daddy, is tha’ you? said Tracy.

— Yes, pet, said Linda. — Go back to sleep.

They laughed and giggled.