by Roddy Doyle
—He’s a nice man. He’d be number one on my list of the nice dads who’ve been in this house.
—Did your mother –?
—She did.
—I didn’t know Cathy was from around here.
—You never met my mother, she said. —You wouldn’t have just crossed the street to have a look at her. You’d have driven the length of the county and further. Can you think of one spectacular thing in Ireland? Name it – quick, quick.
—The Cliffs of Moher.
—My mammy was the Cliffs of Moher. I’m not like her.
—You’re the Giant’s Causeway, are you?
It was like she hadn’t heard me. Nothing crossed her face.
—I will never be like her, she said.
—Okay.
—Listen, she said. —Listen to this. Listen.
—I am.
—I will only ever know the one man, she said. —Do you read your bible, do you?
—Not really, I said.
I was trying to understand what she’d just said.
—That’s the know I mean, anyway, she said. —The biblical know.
We’d made love the night before. We’d made love half an hour before.
The eyes – they had me pinned. They were waiting for me to say something.
—Okay.
—She cried when they were late, she said. —And she cried when they left. She gave them the bum’s rush if they were on time, she laughed at them if they wanted to stay. She threw all the little statues at them. Look at the mantelpiece, sure – there’s nothing left on it.
—Were you here?
—I was only ten when Daddy died.
—Okay. Who managed the shop?
—She did.
—Did she?
—She reinvented the place. One of the shepherd’s pie ladies told me. She said it was the best thing that ever happened the town. You could go shopping without having to go up to Dublin. She converted a big shop into a fuckin’ department store.
—Well worth her husband’s infidelity.
—Whose husband?
—The shepherd’s pie lady.
—Well, God, she said. —Yeah, well worth it. All the major brands for the loan of the husband’s mickey? Well worth it, boy. Cathy’s mother tried to persuade the brother to start courting me.
—The brother that got married?
—That’s him.
—You’re messing.
—I don’t think I am.
—When he was already engaged to your woman that he married?
—This was business, she said. —To be fair to her. I own a fuckin’ department store and the fiancée’s only an oul’ nurse. His wife she is now, God fuckin’ love her.
I waited a second.
—Did he call you? I asked.
—No, he did not.
—Then how do you know his mother was going to loose him on you, so?
I didn’t know where the language – loose him on you, so – had come from.
—I turned on a lamp, she said. —When she was here, like. His mammy – in here. It was getting dark. But it didn’t turn on. But she said, ‘Cathal will fix that for you.’
—It was probably the bulb.
—I knew that. It was only the fuckin’ bulb. And that’s what I told her – it’s only the bulb.
—And was it?
—No, she said. —It was banjaxed.
I looked around, at the three or four lights in the room.
—Where is it?
—You won’t be fixing it either.
—I know.
—I flung it out the scullery door, she said. —That’s where all the broken shite is going from now on – from here on fuckin’ in.
It was quiet now. There was something about the air; I thought she was going to cry – was already crying. But she wasn’t, she didn’t. The dogs had gone off, wandering. I thought I heard them on the stairs. It was dark now, and cold.
—Are you an only child? I asked her.
—D’you think I’m a fuckin’ child?
—No.
—I did the Leaving last year, she said. —I was a schoolgirl less than a year ago. Does that make you feel guilty?
—Not in the least.
—Or the opposite, she said. —Does it give you a horn?
—No.
—Grand, she said.
She sang a song I didn’t recognise.
—I ain’t got no sister, I ain’t got a brother, I ain’t got a father, not even a mother.
—How did you do in the Leaving?
—I’m a lonely girl, I ain’t got a home. All honours. The genuine articles.
—College?
—Fuck it, she said. —I’m grand. I’m up past my fuckin’ gills in expertise. Did you ever hear a stupider word than ‘sibling’?
—No – I don’t think so.
—Have you any of the sib-illings, yourself, David?
—No.
—Interesting, she said.
—Why is it?
—We’re both only children – only children. With dead mammies.
—Why is that interesting, though?
—It just is, she said. —Things happen for a reason. Says I.
She looked straight at me.
—You’ll do me, she said.
She wasn’t smiling.
—Thanks, I said.
I was. Smiling.
* * *
—
We watched as she pushed her way to the front of the pub, to her friends.
—Did yeh get a good look at her arse?
—Perfect.
—Yeah.
—Fuckin’ perfect.
—What’ll we do?
We did nothing. We stayed where we were. We kept an eye out, in case the wall of shoulders and heads opened. We glimpsed her, we nudged each other.
—Did yeh see the way she leaned out there, to get her pint?
—The tit – the shape of it under her jumper.
—Ah, man.
—A hand on tha’ thing.
—Ah, man.
—The weight of it – can you imagine?
—Ah, fuckin’ man.
—Look, said Joe. —Your man up there is goin’. Will we grab his stool?
We’d get in there, closer to her. We’d start chatting to the lads on the edge of her crowd. We’d find something in common – there’d have to be something. Joe would get us started. Someone would shift, leave, go for his coat, and she’d be in front of us. Me. I’d talk – I’d think of something, something would happen.
—Is he goin’ or wha’? He’s sittin’ down again, the cunt.
—Fuckin’ arsehole – make your fuckin’ mind up, for fuck sake.
—What’ll we do?
Joe stood up. He picked up his pint and he grabbed his jacket.
—Come on, he said.
I watched him as he politely battled his way up the room. He smiled at the people he was pushing. I couldn’t see his face but that was what he was doing. I knew Joe. I knew what was in him, and I knew I held him back.
I stood up and grabbed my own pint and jacket, and I went after him. He’d found room for his pint on the counter. He’d thrown his jacket onto a pile near the door. He was listening to two men and a woman. He was getting ready to speak when I got there.
That might be what happened, or something like it. I can see it happening; I’ve no problem describing it. Joe made the move, and I’d have followed him. I wouldn’t have waited.
—The Ramones, he said later that night. —They never let yeh down, sure they don’t?
We were walking home along the North Strand, towards Fairview. We had to walk that far every weekend b
efore a taxi, going back into town, would stop for us.
The Ramones were what the two lads and the girl had been talking about when Joe had arrived and parked his pint. The two lads were thinking about going to see Rock ’n’ Roll High School, later, after closing time.
—The best music film ever, said Joe.
They said nothing back. They didn’t know him; they’d never seen him. They didn’t turn away but they didn’t really look at him.
—Better than The Last Waltz, even, said Joe.
It was the girl who spoke. —Really?
—I think so, said Joe.
I knew this: he hadn’t seen Rock ’n’ Roll High School.
—How did yeh know? I asked him on the way home.
—Know wha’?
—Tha’ she liked The Last Waltz.
—I guessed, he said. —She’d hair like Emmylou Harris.
—No, she didn’t.
—She used to, he said.
—How d’you know tha’?
—I just do.
—Fuck off, Joe, I said. —What’re you on abou’?
—I could tell, he said. —She’d got her hair cut recently – a whole change o’ style. She kept puttin’ her hand up to it. Pattin’ where it ended. An’ it was black, like Emmylou Harris’s.
—You’re a spoofer, I told him.
—You really should’ve had a few sisters, Davy, he said. —The things you’d’ve learnt, I’m not jokin’ yeh.
—Like?
—Like – tonigh’. One o’ me sisters got her hair done a while back an’ she cried for fuckin’ days after it. She wouldn’t come ou’ o’ their bedroom. An’ when she did – when she started actually fuckin’ starvin’ – she kept touchin’ her hair. Where her hair used to be. Like your woman tonigh’. I could tell. She was anxious about it. More, she was grievin’ for it. Kind of. Even though she likes the new look. She’s missin’ the hair. Like me sister did. Panickin’. It must be a huge decision for a bird with long hair. When her hair is the most spectacular thing abou’ her. I’d say, anyway. The fairy tales are full o’ women’s hair.
—Which sister?
—Paula. I think. I can’t remember. But I’d say Paula.
I wondered then, as I’d wondered before, why he hadn’t had more success with women. He knew all about them, it seemed to me. How they worked, what they thought. What was important, what made them laugh. I remember once, when we were still in school, he’d stopped the life in the classroom with just two words.
—Girls wank.
No one doubted him. No one said ‘No way’ or ‘Fuck off, Joe.’ But what did they wank with? It was a question no one was going to ask. What did they pull or stroke? The teacher – I can’t remember who it was; I can’t remember the names of most of our teachers – he couldn’t believe the silence, couldn’t quite accept it, when he walked into the room and shut the door.
—What’s going on? Out with it.
He opened the door again, in case he had to escape; that was what it was like. Hostile, anxious. A lad at the back, behind us, whispered.
—He’s right.
The mothers liked Joe. The sisters liked Joe. The women and girls in the shops liked Joe. Or, they didn’t dislike him. They were civil, sometimes even patient. They didn’t see him as the enemy. And there’d been regular messages from other girls. Mary wants to go with you. Tell your friend Joe that Jackie Salmon says he’s a ride. I do not, you – fuck off. I wondered why he hadn’t gone from girl to girl to woman, why he hadn’t lived a different life. Maybe he had – he was claiming children now that I’d known nothing about, he’d known nothing about.
—You’re still a spoofer, I said that night, on the North Strand. —Emmylou Harris, me hole.
—Well, you fuckin’ explain it then, he said. —G’wan ahead. Give us the benefit of your hard-earned fuckin’ expertise.
—She liked us, I said.
—Us?
—Me.
—Fuckin’ you?
—Both of us, I said. —Doesn’t matter.
—Hang on, he said. —This is Emmylou the skinhead we’re still talkin’ about, yeah?
—She wasn’t a skinhead.
—Grand, he said. —But she fancied us, you’re sayin’. Us.
—Yeah, I said. —Me, anyway.
—She fuckin’ hid it well, he said.
He was never going to let her fancy me. He wasn’t going to let me think it.
We’d gone to Rock ’n’ Roll High School. We’d tagged along, not exactly welcome, but not unwelcome either. We’d stood outside George’s while they – we didn’t know who they were – convened, decided, left, stayed. Our girl was there, moving among them. There were ten or eleven going on to the film. We were in there with them, and we got going; we set off. We moved down South William Street, on the path, off the path, onto the street, past the Hideout, past Grogan’s.
She wasn’t there. She’d gone; she’d left – she was going somewhere else, with someone else.
—She’s not with them.
—Doesn’t matter, said Joe. —This is a long-term investment.
—What d’you mean?
—We’re in the gang, he said.
It’s how I remember it. This is what we said and did.
We lost them somewhere before College Green but caught up with them on O’Connell Bridge. I don’t remember any names. I’m not sure I ever knew any. But I must have known some – there were parties later, conversations, sex. I can see faces. I can see a woman’s hip, a smile, eyes. I can almost feel skin, and breath. I remember the Emmylou Harris girl. I think her name was Alice. But that was later; I learnt it later, another time. I didn’t know Jessica’s. I’m sure of that. But her name is there now, in the story. I remember things, events, and now she’s become a woman I knew much better than I know I actually did.
O’Connell Street was wild. There was a fight at the rank outside the Gresham. There was blood on the ground, and a tooth. There was a screaming girlfriend and another girl who was trying to get at her hair. She was being held off by more girls and a man who was threatening to hit her.
We made it to Findlater Place, and into The Regent. The Emmylou girl was sitting in front of us. She turned and smiled, at Joe – then me.
—This better be good, she said.
—Wait an’ see, said Joe. —It’s great.
That seemed to be it: Joe had organised this adventure, even though she’d been looking at me as she spoke.
—It’s brilliant, I said.
She smiled, and turned back to face the screen.
We were out of the seats the minute we heard ‘Sheena Is a Punk Rocker’. We got into the narrow lane between the wall and the seats. We were still at it, pogoing and bashing into one another, long after Joey Ramone had stopped singing. Joe had his hand on Emmylou’s back; they were gasping together, laughing. I’d be going home alone, I thought. The routes out of town at two in the morning – Summerhill, Seán McDermott Street, the North Strand – they terrified me.
But here we were an hour later, walking home, the two of us.
We’d convened again outside the cinema. They gathered, and moved. Emmylou was there, near Joe, then not. She moved – he didn’t.
He was with me.
I was happy.
—Great fuckin’ film, I said.
—A load o’ shite, said Joe.
—You said it was the best music film ever.
—Tha’ was before I saw it.
—It wasn’t tha’ bad.
—It served its purpose, he said.
* * *
—
We were in the gang – we hoped we were. Like Joe had said, as he’d predicted. But we’d have to wait and see. We never spoke about why we were doing this. Was it to know the girl, to sleep with he
r, to fall in love with her? Both of us – or Joe? I remember thinking – or, feeling: it was about acceptance. I remember wanting something more.
We were coming up to Newcomen Bridge and the blocks of flats. There was a gang of lads on the other side of the street. Seven or eight of them – they seemed too chaotic to be interested in us. Still, passing them, waiting for the footsteps, the shouts – I knew it would happen, I felt it, expected, almost wanted it. The need to stay quiet, the urge to speak. To run, and draw attention to ourselves. I’m almost sixty now, but I can still feel the pain in my chest – the exhilaration – when I ran as if my life depended on it. Because it did.
We were over the canal bridge when we heard the voice behind us.
—Here, lads, d’yis have a light?
It was too early to run.
Joe looked over his shoulder.
—No.
—Come here – what’s your fuckin’ hurry?
Now it was time to run.
—Fuckin’ queers!
I thought we’d be okay. If they’d been waiting for us, they’d have been ready for the ambush, dispersed across the street. We ran under the railway bridge. We were close to the widest section of the street, and the fire station. (I don’t remember if the station was there, if it had been built when we ran past where I know it is now.) We’d been drinking all night but we were fast and they weren’t that fussed about catching us – that was the hope. There was Fairview Park now, to the right. A gay lad had been battered, murdered in there, for £4 and a watch. A few months before – for being gay. It might have been these guys – they might have done the kicking. I couldn’t hear their steps now – I wasn’t sure. I didn’t look back and I wasn’t going to. They’d kicked the poor guy to death – they’d been waiting for him. I could hear Joe beside me; his breath was mine. My legs were hurting, my chest was torn. I could hear them behind us, still there, still chasing. A taxi – a fuckin’ taxi! Crawling back into town. On the opposite side of the road. Joe saw it too. We got out onto the road and dashed across to the park side. We stopped running – the taxi was coming up to us. If the driver saw us running he’d keep going. I tried not to bend over, to get my breath, to vomit. I didn’t look behind me. Joe lifted his arm, his hand. The taxi approached – we were fucked if he didn’t stop. They’d push us over the railings, drag us into the park. Kick us to death. The papers would suggest that we were gay. Last chance, the last second, the taxi halted just behind us. Back door open – Joe got it open. We were in. Safe, saved. Joe told the driver where we were going. He did a U-turn – the street was empty. The park was dark. We saw shapes back at the fire station. The lads, the queer-bashers. They’d given up before we’d stopped the taxi. It didn’t matter.
