Roddy Doyle - The Snapper

— Yeah.

— There. D’yeh like tha’, Veronica?

— It’s alright.

She grabbed his hair.

— Where did you learn it?

— Ah, let go!

— Where!?

— In a buke! Let go o’ me!

* * *

Her face was wet. She pushed the blanket and the sheet off and the nice cool air hit her and made her feel awake, and that was what she wanted. Bits of the dream clung. She’d had a miscarriage, in an empty bath. She kept having miscarriages; like going to the toilet. And they all lived, hundreds of them, all red and raw and folded over. All crawling all over her. And she lay there and more of them climbed out of her.

It was only half-five but she got out of bed. By the time she’d got downstairs to the kitchen her head was clear and the dream wasn’t part of her any more. She just remembered it. It was stupid.

She hadn’t thought about what the baby would be like before; only if it would be a boy or a girl. God, she hoped it would be normal and healthy and then she nearly stopped breathing when she realized she’d just thought that. What if it wasn’t? Jesus. What if it was deformed, or retarded like Missis Kelly’s baby down the road; what then? And she’d been worrying that it might look like Mister Burgess!

She was kind of looking forward to being a mother but if—

The kettle was boiling.

It might be a Down’s Syndrome baby. It would never be able to do anything for itself. It wouldn’t grow properly. It would have that face, that sort of face they all had.

The baby nudged her.

She’d seen a programme about dwarfs. It said that there were ten thousand of them in Britain. The ones on the programme seemed happy enough.

She started laughing. She’d suddenly seen her mammy making a ballroom dress for a dwarf.

This was stupid. If she kept on like this something was bound to go wrong. That was what always happened.

It had gone wrong already — it was too late — if anything HAD gone wrong, if there was something wrong with it.

She spread her hands over her dressing gown.

What was in there?

The baby bounced gently off the wall of her uterus. She opened her dressing gown and put her hands back on her belly. It moved again, like a dolphin going through the water; that was the way she imagined it.

— Are yeh normal? she said.

She wished to fuck it was all over. She was sick of it, and worried sick as well.

— Soon, she said.

* * *

— Specially with a few chips, said Bertie. They howled.

— I’m fuckin’ serious, righ’, said Jimmy Sr.

He was getting furious.

— It is a fuckin’ miracle.

— Fuckin’ sure it is, Your Holiness, said Paddy.

Bimbo was wiping his eyes.

— You’re a sick bunch o’ fuckers, said Jimmy Sr.

Bertie pointed at Jimmy Sr, and sang.

— MOTHER OF CHRIST—

STAR OF THE SEA-

Jimmy Sr mashed a beer mat.

* * *

— Sharon, said Jimmy Sr.

Sharon looked up from her Bella.

Not again.

— Yeah? she said.

— D’yeh know your hormones?

— Wha’?

— Your hormones, said Jimmy Sr.

Sharon was interested.

— What abou’ them?

— Are they givin’ yeh anny trouble?

— Eh — wha’ d’yeh mean?

— Well—

He shifted his chair.

— I was just readin’ there yesterday abou’ how sometimes your hormones start actin’ up when you’re pregnant an’ tha’. An’ yis get depressed or, eh, snotty or — yeh know?

Sharon said nothing. She didn’t know she’d been asked a question.

— Don’t get me wrong now, Sharon, said Jimmy Sr. — Hormonal changes are perfectly normal. Part an’ parcel of the pregnancy, if yeh follow me. But sometimes, like, there are side effects. Snottiness or depression or actin’ a bit queer.

— I’m grand, said Sharon.

— Good, said Jimmy Sr. — Good girl. That’s good. I thought so myself. I just wanted to be on the safe side, yeh know.

— Yeah, said Sharon. — No, I’m grand. I feel fine. I’d another check-up. Me last one, I think.

— An’ no problems?

— No.

— Good. All set so.

Sharon got back to her magazine, but Jimmy Sr wasn’t finished yet.

— I was lookin’ at this other buke there an’—It was abou’ wha’ happens—

He pointed at the table, just in front of Sharon.

— inside in the woman for the nine months. The pictures. Fuckin’ hell; I don’t know how they do it. There was this one o’ the foetus, righ’. That’s the name o’—

— I know what it is, Daddy!

— Yeh do o’ course. — I’m a stupid thick sometimes.

— Ah, you’re not.

— Ah, I am. Annyway, it was only seven weeks, Sharon. Seven weeks. In colour, yeh know. It had fingers—

He showed her his fingers.

— Ah, Jaysis, everythin’. An’ the little puss on him, yeh know.

— Yeah, it’s incredible, isn’t it?

— It fuckin’ is, said Jimmy Sr. — It got me thinkin’. I know it sounds stupid but—

He was blushing. But he looked straight at her.

— Youse were all like tha’ once, said Jimmy Sr. — Yeh know. Even Jimmy. — I was as well long, long ago.

He belched.

–’Scuse me, Shar—

He belched again.

— Sharon. Tha’ fried bread’s a killer. — Wha’ I’m tryirt’ to say is — when yeh look at tha’ picture, righ’, an’ then’ the later ones, an’ then the born baby growin’ up — Well, it’s a fuckin’ miracle, isn’t it?

— I s’pose it is, said Sharon.

— It’s got to be, said Jimmy Sr. — Shhh!

Veronica came back into the kitchen. She’d been upstairs, lying down.

— There’s Veronica, said Jimmy Sr. — Yeh may as well fill the oul’ kettle while you’re on your feet.

— God almighty, said Veronica. — You’d die of the thirst before you’d get up and do it yourself.

— That’s not true, said Jimmy Sr. — I’d say I’d’ve got up after a while.

The front door was opened and slammed. Jimmy Jr came in from work.

— Hoy, said Jimmy Jr.

Jimmy Sr studied him.

— Ahoy, he said. — Shiver me timbers. It’s Jim lad, me hearties. Hoy! Is there somethin’ wrong with your mouth?

— Fuck off.

— That’s better.

— Fuck off.

— Better still. Ahoy, Veronica. There’s the kettle.

— I’ll get it, said Sharon.

— Now don’t be — Only if you’re makin’ one for yourself now. Jimmy Sr looked up at Jimmy Jr. Then he sang.

— JUST A MINUTE—

THE SIXTY SECOND QUIZ—

— Fuck off.

— That’s lovely language from a DJ.

The front room door opened and they heard the music of Victor Sylvester and his orchestra.

— Ah now, said Jimmy Sr. — There’s music. Listen to tha’, wha’.

He tapped the table.

— Oh my Jaysis, said Jimmy Jr. — This is embarrassin’.

Sharon laughed. Veronica smiled. Jimmy Sr closed his eyes and nodded his head and kept tapping the table.

Linda and Tracy had danced into the hall. Sharon and Veronica went to the door to watch them.

— They’re very good, aren’t they? said Sharon. — You can nearly hear their bones clickin’ when they turn like tha’.

Jimmy Sr was impressed.

— They’re good enough for the Billie Barry kids, he said. — Too fuckin’ good.

They heard the doorbell.

Linda came running down, into the kitchen.

— Da, Mister Cantwell wants yeh.

— Cantwell? Wha’ does he want?

He stood up.

— Don’t know, said Linda.

— It must be abou’ Darren. Where is he?

— He’s out, said Veronica.

— Oh God.

Jimmy Sr dashed out to the front door. The others stayed where they were.