‘Try this. Try that,’ she’d say.
Beatles at the foundation, naturally. Then Motown, soul, and glam, and blues, and ska, and punk, even country. A bit of everything, in fact. Not forgetting her Friday favourite: Abba.
How could Jimmy possibly dwell on the football fiasco or zero friend count when ‘Dancing Queen’ filled the flat? Aunt Pol’s tune. He could see her already, catching the song’s first jangling arpeggio from the bottom of the close, and dancing her way up three flights of stairs, arms waving above her head, lyrics tumbling from her big red mouth.
Just the thought of her, way over the top, grabbing Jimmy’s hands and birling him into the middle of the hall, was enough to delete all the misery of the afternoon. Aunt Pol always made Jimmy feel good. For a while at least.
* * *
Everything was under control in the kitchen. Jimmy had crushed garlic, zested a lime, added some of his basil-infused olive oil and roasted the past-it peppers lying in the fridge.
He was just rolling out the pasta for his home-made feta ravioli, singing, in a painful falsetto, a descant to the descending chorus of ‘The Winner Takes it All’ (his favourite Abba track, although he kept quiet about that), when he heard Aunt Pol’s familiar cry:
‘What is that smell?’
The ritual never changed. Jimmy knew, without turning to look, that Aunt Pol was in the flat. A flurry of her scent flowered the kitchen before she reached it herself. Joy. Mum treated her to a new spray every Christmas. Jimmy loved it. Loved it so much that he’d slip out into the hall while Aunt Pol was busy poking and tasting the contents of every pot and pan on the cooker to fill his lungs from her sweet slipstream. He’d take his time, moving Aunt Pol’s high heels from the front door where she always kicked them off, picking up her bag from where she always dropped it in her haste to see him. Then he’d serve up dinner. Aunt Pol’s reaction was part of the ritual, too.
‘This food is just . . . I mean it’s so . . .’
There was no need for Aunt Pol to struggle for an adjective to describe Jimmy’s efforts.
Divine would do.
He knew, as sure as he was a plab on the pitch and a joke in the gym, that he was a star in the firmament of the kitchen. Jimmy just knew. Always had. How to cook. Brilliantly. When to go easy on the butter. When to add an extra egg white. When to stop stirring a sauce. How long to beat a batter.
Tablet – which Jimmy made every Friday night – was his pièce de résistance, but everything he made tasted like ambrosia. Not Ambrosia Creamed Rice, but ambrosia: food of the gods.
Aunt Pol mopped her plate with a slice of Jimmy’s fennel bread. ‘Betcha,’ she said, ‘folk are sitting in poncy restaurants right now paying through the nose for grub that doesn’t come near what you make, Jim.’
She was the only person who ever called him that. Never Jimmy.
‘I’m not too full. I’m not bloated. Flavours were magic and here, you just chucked this together from stuff lying around.’
Aunt Pol always analysed Jimmy’s cooking. Only time she grew serious. Unless Jimmy was getting grief somewhere. Then she grew seriously serious.
When she discussed cooking with Jimmy, she did so with a mixture of admiration and incomprehension. Sometimes, Jimmy even thought she looked upset. As if she had something difficult to say, but choked her words back down.
‘Can’t believe you’ve been born with this talent,’ she’d say. ‘Certainly don’t get it from me.’
‘I’m good, amn’t I?’ Jimmy would reply, knowing that nothing gave him more pleasure than the sight of someone reduced to an inarticulate sigh because of his genius. Filled him better than any meal.
Made him feel right.
Made him feel happy.
Pity Jimmy’s gift had to be kept top secret by Mum and Aunt Pol. Well. He could understand, especially now he was older, why it was best that his genius remained undiscovered. What would folks say, after all, if they discovered that:
Big blob Kelly
Had one special talent.
And it involved food?
God’s sick joke that, sighed Jimmy, not for the first time.
Later, in the kitchen, pouring sugar into a pot to melt, Jimmy accepted it was probably best that people didn’t know what he could do with food. He’d hate anything to put him off the skill he loved.
Not that he was a flipping martyr either. He was sick of the tablet fiends crowding him at every school fundraiser, never thinking for a minute that he was responsible for the biggest money-spinner on the cake and candy stall.
The urge to blurt out his secret could be overwhelming, especially when he had to watch the very people who accused him of being a lardy guzzler, scoffing several bars of his tablet at once. Ripping off the cling-film with greedy hands. Drooling their compliments: ‘This stuff’s the work of a genius.’
But Jimmy had to bite his tongue and watch the faces of all those who loved to make his life a misery twinkle with delight as he
p – e – e – l – e – d
back – he always did it
r – e – a – l – l – y
slowly for maximum effect – the lid of each plastic tablet-crammed tub.
No wonder he was tempted, when mouths usually twisted into sour jeers were drooling in anticipation for one draught of the sugary buttery magic that he had concocted and cut into neat, more-ish squares, to shout:
‘Oi! I made all this. I’m not totally useless, am I ?’
‘Not totally useless,’ Jimmy rasped aloud, the bitterness in his voice taking him by surprise. He shook his head clear of dark thoughts. Friday night, remember. He’d Aunt Pol to himself, Bowie on the CD, while his huge pot of tablet bubbled on the hob. He’d even sorted the soggy textbooks, having the brainwave of laying them out on the cooker using the dying heat from the oven and the low warmth radiating from the ring where his sugar was melting to dry them out. They’d be fine.
His blazer was another matter, decidedly drookit as it swung above him on the pulley like a giant shapeless bird.
But – ach – he’d the rest of the weekend to worry about it, Jimmy decided, adding condensed milk to his melted sugar and beating the mixture. His tablet would be just the way Father Patrick, the only other person in the world who knew Jimmy’s secret, liked it. Still warm, with a soft bite. The old priest’s pay-off for walking Mum home from bingo every Friday.
‘Cooee!’
Mum was back early, which was strange in itself. Normally she never returned from bingo until Aunt Pol – who thought the sound, let alone the sight of Father Patrick gorging himself on the scrapings of Jimmy’s tablet pot, revolting – had woken herself up during the credits of Stars and their Scars, and gone home.
Not tonight.
Stranger, thought Jimmy from the kitchen, was the phoney Are you decent? We’ve got a visitor chime in Mum’s voice. There was none of that kidmaleery with Father Patrick.
So Jimmy was caught way off-guard when he wandered into the hall, drying his hands on his t-shirt as if everything was normal.
‘Heya, Mamma. You’va gotta to trya mya feta ravioli! Ita wasa magnifico . . .’
Jimmy’s booming Italian greeting dwindled to a squeak. Father Patrick hadn’t walked Mum home from the bingo tonight.
‘’Lo there,’ said GI Joe. His voice sounding cracked and hoarse. As though he’d been yelling recently. Jimmy winced at the memory of the afternoon.
‘Why would I want to see you?’
To torture me, thought Jimmy, his heart beating unhealthily fast at the mere sight of GI Joe.
He shrugged. Voice glum.
‘Dunno . . .’
Extra training, he was thinking. Coach is gonna give me extra training.
‘Well, I’ve been hearing all about you.’ GI Joe jabbed at Jimmy with a squat index finger.
Hamblin, thought Jimmy. He’s figured out some keep-fit punishment for me.
Behind GI Joe, Jimmy noticed Mum’s eyes widen to a glare, her mouth ruching i
nto a tight purse of disapproval. She was trying to tell him something.
He had answered, hadn’t he?
‘So what have I been hearing about you?’
‘Dunno,’ Jimmy repeated even more glumly. Looking at Mum’s deepening frown he added:
‘Sir?’
Chapter 4
Space invasion
How the heck was Jimmy supposed to know GI Joe was a priest?
Divine telepathy?
He’d appeared from nowhere in the PE department one day after Easter. Call me Coach, he’d said. Added: ‘I’m gonna kick ass.’ Hardly an ecclesiastical starter for ten.
‘Been watching you jokers.’ He’d paced the gym like a hungry rotweiller, eyeballing the team one by one. When he came to Maddo McCormack, he lingered. Stared him out until Maddo – Maddo! – looked down. No one did that. Especially not a member of staff.
And here was a priest . . .
I mean, thought Jimmy. He’s a right hard man.
That’s what all the lads said, licking their wounds after GI’s first coaching session.
‘You’re the most diabolical shower I’ve ever seen,’ he’d growled as they scuttled off the pitch with their collective tail between their legs.
No one had escaped punishment that day. Even the guys who played their socks off. Even Victor, the Ronaldo of St Jude’s who, since Coach’s arrival, was having private after-school training because several premier league teams were angling to give him trials. Ronaldo or not, you got fifty squat jumps for swearing, a hundred press-ups for dirty play, high knee running on the spot for dawdling, two hundred star jumps for standing still . . .
Jimmy, whose gameplan had been to retire early with a quick flash of his inhaler (usually all he had to do was start taking it out of his pocket and Hamblin bawled him to the benches glad to see the back of him), needed three days off attached to his nebuliser after the first training session.
None of them would ever have guessed GI Joe was a priest. Jimmy didn’t believe it himself, yet there he was – ‘Father Joseph!’ as Mum snapped – holding out his hand for Jimmy to shake. Even dressed as a priest. Jimmy had been in too much shock at the sight of the crewcut at first to notice the dusty black suit you only ever see priests wearing. GI’s neck bulged from the stranglehold of a dog-collar.
At least in his holy gear, Coach seemed smaller, less menacingly musclebound. When Jimmy shook GI’s hand, he was surprised: the grip, though firm, wasn’t the bonecrushing testicle-shrinker that he would have expected.
‘Call me Joe.’ Coach pumped Jimmy’s arm. ‘And I know you’re Jimmy – or maybe you prefer Jim.’
It didn’t matter, Jimmy mumbled, keen to free his hand. He’d a vision of GI Joe flipping him to the ground and standing on his shins until he did fifty sit-ups.
What was GI Joe doing here anyway? Grinning at him like they were suddenly chinas. What was he after?
Before he was any the wiser, Aunt Pol staggered between them mumbling something about the time. Jimmy had forgotten all about her in the shock of finding the coach from hell in his hall.
He knew by the way she was keeping her head down, bashing past Jimmy as if she was scoring a try, that she was keen to escape.
‘Careful, there,’ said GI Joe, steadying Aunt Pol’s elbow as she bent to pull her sling-back over her heel.
At the sound of GI Joe’s voice, Aunt Pol jerked up as if she’d touched an electric fence. Jimmy thought he heard her squeal although it could well have been his own falsetto. Her stiletto had stabbed the fleshiest part of his big toe.
She didn’t hang around to apologise, either. Off she shot, tripping downstairs faster than it was safe in peerie heels.
‘That’s the Pauline you were talking about, Maeve?’ GI Joe asked Mum, although he wasn’t looking at her, Jimmy noticed. His head was cocked towards the open front door, listening to the tap of fading footsteps.
‘That’s Pauline,’ Mum sang, casting her eyes heavenwards. A gesture, thought Jimmy, loaded with what: disapproval? Exasperation?
‘Aunt Pol.’ Jimmy frowned slightly at Mum. She could be funny about her sister sometimes. Jealous, maybe? Who knows.
‘She one of the good guys, Jim?’ asked GI Joe. He was studying Jimmy’s face as he spoke. Curiously. As if he was seeing him for the first time. Jimmy blushed.
‘She’s brilliant.’
His reply was fierce; a reflex.
‘You take after her, then.’
If Jimmy’s ears could have blinked in disbelief they would have done.
Him? Brilliant?
A compliment from the same man who this very day was on his knees, beating the pitch with his fists, screaming: ‘Jesus Christ Almighty! An amoeba’s got more ball sense, Kelly!’ Now the same man was saying, ‘Father Patrick said I should talk to you about helping me out with some baking and cooking. Told me to try your tablet.’
Unbelievable, thought Jimmy, staring, gape-mouthed at Mum, who if he wasn’t mistaken, was hiding behind GI Joe’s broad shoulders. No wonder. She’d betrayed him. To Coach of all people! Didn’t she realise what he could do with the knowledge that Fat Boy Kelly baked and cooked? This was serving him up a gourmet feast of ammunition to detonate next time Jimmy waddled out the changing room in his PE kit:
Move it, Kelly. You’re not icing fairy cakes.
Moments ticked away. Jimmy’s mind too distracted by the prospective torments Mum’s disloyalty could wreak on his life, to answer GI Joe.
‘Of course Jimmy won’t mind helping you, Father,’ Mum’s voice chimed, small behind the bulk of GI’s back. Sacrificing Jimmy now as well as betraying him. Judas!
‘Let Father try your tablet.’
‘Who’s the dark horse, then Jim?’ said GI Joe, clamping his hand to Jimmy’s shoulder. Out of Mum’s earshot, in the tiny kitchen, Jimmy thought he sounded fierce. Jimmy balked. Hated anyone so near him, touching him. He wished GI Joe had stayed in the hall with Mum. He was a space invader in the one place where Jimmy felt happy and safe.
Bitterly, Jimmy cut a sweet square from his newly set batch of tablet and held it out to GI Joe on a knife.
With little interest, GI Joe gulped the offering down in a mouthful.
Wouldn’t even have tasted it, thought Jimmy. If Father Patrick had seen him gobble like that he’d have accused GI Joe of sacrilege. You nibbled and sooked each square to make it last.
‘I don’t have a sweet tooth, Jim, to be honest. But I’m sure this is good stuff,’ said GI Joe. Grim, he flicked tablet crumbs into the sink. Father Patrick would have licked every fingertip clean, but Coach seemed more interested in Jimmy’s textbooks drying on the cooker. ‘You’ll be wondering why I’m here,’ he said, closing the kitchen door.
His fist lay on the pile of books, clenching and unclenching. ‘Gave you a wee fright, eh?’
GI Joe was trying to make Jimmy look at him, crooking his knees slightly to get a better view of Jimmy’s downturned face.
No chance. Jimmy buried his jaw against his chins. Say your piece and go. Scrub the palsy-walsy routine.
‘I was telling Father Patrick about how the match went today. How there was this big lad in the team. How everyone, including myself, gave him dog’s abuse. How he struggled out the changing rooms after everyone had gone home, all his gear soaking. Couldn’t get him out of my head, I told Patrick. Great big guy, too, I said. Red hair. You couldn’t miss him. Over six feet. Shoulders on him like a swimmer under all that bulk he was carrying. Not to mention, I says, the burden of bullying I saw him take from the team captain downwards. Sight of him shocked me.
‘“Och,” says Patrick, “That’ll be Jimmy. Maeve Kelly’s lad. Takes a mighty ribbing, right enough, poor soul. And you can see why, God help him. But here, I’ll tell you a wee secret about him: he’s worth knowing –” Next thing, Patrick’s telling me you’ve raised a small fortune for St Jude’s over the years. Anonymously. That you’re a phenomenal cook. And if I’m wanting to run a fundraiser, you’re the man.’
Jimmy sank his belly into the kitchen worktop in relief. He almost looked up at GI Joe and smiled. Coach wasn’t here to bawl him out or make him do star jumps. He wanted macaroons and meringues. No burpees. No problem. Everything was fine. His secret was safe. All Jimmy had to do was get Mum to make GI Joe promise to keep shtoom.
Jimmy shrugged. ‘Write me a list of what you want. How much you need. I’ll bake no bother . . .’
THUMP!
SPLOOSH.
GI Joe’s fist crashed down on the pile of dried-out textbooks at the same moment a great splat of water landed in Jimmy’s hair. And another:
SPLOOSH!
As GI Joe and Jimmy tipped their heads upwards two pendant tears trickled from Jimmy’s blazer sleeves on to their faces.
‘Get that down from there,’ growled GI Joe, snapping his fingers at the pulley. ‘You should have reported this, Jim. I’m not just here about your bloody baking.’
GI Joe’s voice had risen to its angry football pitch pitch. Instinctively Jimmy glanced towards the kitchen door. Was Mum listening?
‘If you’re gonna help me, then I’m gonna help you, Jim, else there’s no deal,’ he said, several decibels more quietly. ‘Give us a plastic bag for starters and I’ll sort this.’
GI Joe dropped his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. Paw-like, his grip tightening on the flesh until Jimmy was forced to look. He met Coach’s gaze.
‘Gotta sort yourself, big man. Bloke with swimmer’s shoulders like yours.’
GI Joe shook the plastic bag, straining with the wet weight of the blazer, in Jimmy’s face.
Jimmy winced at the gesture. How much had GI Joe seen earlier?
‘Awright?’
GI dunted Jimmy in the stomach.
‘Yes, Father,’ said Jimmy feebly.
‘Coach,’ GI corrected him. ‘Two o’clock tomorrow. St Jude’s.’
Chapter 5
The Shadow Shape and the dream
4 a.m.
Light outside.
Jimmy had been awake for hours, watching dawn break through his open window.
Fat Boy Swim Page 2
