Charlie Savage

by Roddy Doyle

–I want to go viral as well, she says. –I want to do something.

  –Not a tattoo.

  –No, she says. –Not necessarily. And I don’t mean literally going viral. But something a bit mad. Old age can fuck off. Am I right?

  –Bang on.

  8

  I’m a bit worried about one of the sons. I’m not sure why. Maybe because his girlfriend is a woman he’s never actually met. She might not be a girl at all, for all I know. She might be a man – or a gang of men – hiding behind a photograph.

  Don’t get me wrong – I’m not too worried about any of my children, the daughter or any of the sons. They’re all grand. And this lad, the one with the phantom mott in the Philippines, he’s perfectly alright. He has a job and he shares a house with a bunch of lads. I was in it once and was surprised not to find Mother Teresa in there with them, because the place was an absolute kip. It made the Black Hole of Calcutta look like the Japanese Gardens. But at the same time I found it reassuring, the dirt, the bins, the cans, the techno – I think that’s the word for the shite they were listening to. And there he was, in all that normality – normality defined by a houseful of young lads. I came away happy.

  I doubt if Mother Teresa had much time for techno. Duran Duran would have been more her thing – or was that Lady Di?

  Anyway.

  I don’t understand the whole internet dating thing. When I met the wife I asked her if she wanted to dance. She said ‘I suppose so’, and we were married a year later. No need for Tinder or Elite Dating or any of the internet stuff. She got sick on my shoes that night and I think that’s why she agreed to marry me – but that’s a different story.

  Anyway, I speak to one of the other sons about it. He’s going out with a girl he met on the internet as well.

  –You actually get to meet her now and again, but, do you? I ask him.

  –Da, he says. –We’re married.

  –Was that you?

  –Yeah.

  –Grand, I say. –And everything’s good, yeah?

  –Sound, yeah, he says. –That baby on your lap there.

  –She’s yours?

  –Yeah.

  How come I can remember the name of Lady Di’s favourite band but I can’t remember which of my children is married? That’s happening a lot these days. I know that the Lone Ranger’s horse was called Silver but I don’t know what colour my car is – unless I go out and look at it – never mind the parents of the baby perched on my knee.

  She’s a dote, by the way – the new granddaughter. The house is full of grandkids today; they’re charging up and down the stairs, thumping all around the place. The dogs are refusing to come in from the garden.

  –So, I say to the son. –You met—

  –Jess.

  –You met Jess on the internet and then you arranged to meet – in the flesh, like.

  –Yeah.

  –Grand.

  –You must have looked up someone on Facebook, he says. –Some old flame.

  –No, I lie. –Never.

  –Well, if you did, he says. –People do it all the time. Meeting new people, tracking down old girlfriends. It’s the way it is, like.

  I did actually search for an old girlfriend once, on Facebook, when the wife was out at her book club. The problem was, I couldn’t remember her surname. So I typed in her first name – Eileen. There were millions of them, of course, all over the world, not just Ireland – including one who called herself Come on Eileen. I gave up on Eileen and typed in the name of a girl I’d gone with for three days when I was twelve. I could remember both of her names, which felt like a bit of a triumph. And I found her. She described herself as a recovering chocoholic and a graduate of the School of Hard Knocks; there was a picture of a cat in the top corner, instead of her face.

  –So, anyway, I say to the son in the kitchen. –Your brother’s after connecting with a girl he’s never going to meet. She’s over in the Philippines – the other side of the world. Is he hiding something? Is he gay – is that it?

  The daughter walks in just when I say that.

  –There’s nothing wrong with being gay, Dad, she says.

  –I know that, I say. –I never said there was.

  –Lots of footballers are gay.

  –Yeah, I say. –They play for West Ham.

  –You can’t say that, Dad.

  –Ah, I know, I say.

  But I don’t know.

  How do you tell a boy who you think might be gay, but mightn’t be, that you don’t mind what he is, gay, straight or whatever – that you just love him – when you can’t even say the word ‘gay’ without feeling guilty or stupid, or old, or angry – or wrong?

  The granddaughter’s fallen asleep.

  I kiss the top of her head.

  9

  –What did you do to your eyebrows? my pal, the Secret Woman, asks me.

  –Nothing, I say.

  They’re nearly back to normal, the eyebrows. But they still make me look a bit like Grace Jones after a decade-long binge.

  –A bit of fire damage, I say. –That’s all. How was the book club?

  –Well, he says. –Grand.

  The word ‘grand’ can carry many meanings – ‘great’, ‘okay’, ‘brilliant’, ‘not too bad’, ‘not that great’, ‘fairly shite’, ‘I don’t understand’, ‘we’ll see how it goes’, and sometimes, just now and again, it means ‘grand’. The Secret Woman’s ‘grand’ here means ‘grand, but’. He’s joined the book club as a first, experimental step to full-blown womanhood. But it’s clear: the poor chap is disappointed.

  –They were being a bit cagey, he says.

  –The other women?

  –Yeah, he says. –With me being there, you know.

  –And did you tell them that you identify as a woman? I ask him.

  –No, he says. –I was going to, but—.

  –What did you wear? I ask him.

  We’re in the local, same as always. It’s packed, which, in a way, is as good as empty. We can say what we like and no one will hear us.

  –Well, he says. –You know that shirt I have with the horses on it?

  –Yeah – go on.

  –I saw this picture of Princess Grace, he explains. –And she was wearing a headscarf with horses on it.

  –Did you have the shirt on your head? I ask.

  –No, he says.

  –It might have been lost on them, so, I say. –The fact that your shirt was a tribute to Princess Grace. What did yis talk about?

  –Well, he says. –That’s kind of private.

  –Oh, you’re becoming a woman, alright, I tell him. –Don’t worry. Can I ask you just one thing, but?

  –Okay, he says. –One question.

  –Did yis talk about the book?

  –No.

  –Thanks, I say. –I always wondered. The wife’s leaving her book club, by the way.

  It’s true. She announced it on our way home from the spa in Roscommon.

  –Why? I asked her.

  She loves reading; she always has a couple of books on the go.

  –Ah, she said.

  And she left it at that for a few minutes. The radio was on and I think it was Ryan Tubridy that tipped her over the edge.

  –It’s boring, she said. –It’s too bloody respectable.

  –The book club?

  –Yeah.

  –Come here, I said. –You’re always in bits the morning after your book club. It can’t be that respectable.

  –I’ll tell you what it is, she said. –I’m expected to be in a book club.

  She pointed at the car radio.

  –He expects me to be in a book club. They all expect me to be in a book club. Because I’m a middle-aged woman. Even if we never read the books.

  –Do yis not read the books?

  –Mind your own business, she said. –And anyway, I won’t have time for the book club any more.

  –How come? I asked.

  –Carmel wants me to be her roadie.
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  Carmel is the wife’s older sister. She’s in a band called the Pelvic Floors. If you want to hear punk rock played by a gang of women in their late fifties and early sixties – and I do – then I heartily recommend them.

  –That’s great, I said.

  And I think I meant it; I’m not sure.

  –And you know Penny? said the wife. –The drummer?

  –Yeah.

  –Carmel says if she dies I can take over on the drums, she says.

  –Is Penny dying?

  –Well, she smokes forty a day and she fainted in the middle of Alternative Ulster. She fell right over the drums.

  –Oh, well, I said. –Fingers crossed, so.

  We get home and I tell the daughter that her mammy’s about to become a rock chick. There must have been something in my voice, because—

  –What’s wrong with that, like? says the daughter.

  –Nothing, I say back. –Nothing at all. But she’ll be lugging amps and speakers and that.

  –Yeah, says the daughter. –So?

  –With her back?

  –With what back? says the daughter. –There’s nothing wrong with Mammy’s back.

  She’s right. It’s just an automatic thing. Nearly everyone I know who’s my age has a bad back or a bad hip, or a knee. Until they get a new hip or knee.

  Anyway.

  –You feel threatened, Dad, says the daughter.

  I’m going to deny it, but I don’t. She’s probably right – again – and I’ve always loved watching her being right, even when it means that I’ve been wrong.

  But why don’t I want the wife to be in a rock band?

  –Think about it, says the daughter. –Who would you prefer to be married to? Peig Sayers or Lady Gaga?

  –Good point, love.

  –You haven’t answered the question, like.

  –Well then, I say. –The best of both worlds. Peggy Gaga.

  10

  I’m watching the Irish version of Strictly when I remember Eileen’s surname.

  I used to go with this girl called Eileen when I was about sixteen. Actually, I was sixteen years, four months, and seven days old when she let me put my hand on some of the secrets under her jumper. Anyway, I tried to find her on Facebook – for no particular reason, really, just to see how it all worked. But I couldn’t remember what came after ‘Eileen’. I could remember the name of her dog, I could remember that she’d loved Alvin Stardust, but I couldn’t remember her bloody surname.

  So, we’re watching poor Des Cahill when the name pops into my head.

  –Pidgeon!

  –He’s not that bad, in fairness, says the wife.

  –Ah, he is, I say.

  I’m a man who shouts at the telly. Football, politics, the reality programmes – I shout at them all. And I’m training the grandkids to do the same. It’s a skill I want to pass on so that in years to come they’ll look up from their phones now and again and roar at something else.

  My three-year-old grandson, the daughter’s little lad, is already a master of the art. He shouts ‘Gobshite!’ every time he sees Enda Kenny on the News – except he can’t pronounce ‘gobshite’.

  ‘Hobs’ite!’ he squeals.

  I even brought him down to the local to show him off. And he didn’t let me down.

  ‘Hobs’ite!’

  The lads in the pub thought it was class, even the twit in the corner who supports Fine Gael. Then Trump’s head appeared on the big screen.

  ‘Uckin’ heejit!’

  The roof came off the shop.

  Anyway, me shouting ‘pigeon’ at Des Cahill didn’t particularly surprise the wife. She enjoys a good shout, herself. Although she prefers to shout at the radio – and the dogs.

  Seriously, though, I’ve no interest in tracking down Eileen Pidgeon, or whatever she’s called these days. That young one broke my heart when I found her behind the coal shed with my brother – and it wasn’t even one of my big brothers!

  Anyway.

  Now and again, an old name comes into my head – a lad I’d knocked around with, say, and if I’m near the laptop and I can be bothered, I’ll look him up on Facebook. I’ve found some of the old friends and a good few of them look even worse than I do, which is brilliant. But I’ve never got in touch with any of them, male or female. I don’t want to – or, I don’t want to enough.

  But it’s the thing these days, meeting people online. One of my sons married a girl he met on the internet. I get that – I can understand it. But it’s another of the sons that worries me. He says he’s going with a girl he’s never met. She’s a nurse in the Philippines.

  –Is she thinking of coming over? I ask him.

  –No, he says. –Don’t think so.

  There’s no regret in his voice – no impatience. She’s a lovely looking girl. A bit too lovely, even. I’m wondering if she’s even real. And I’m wondering if he’s maybe hiding himself behind her picture.

  –Is he gay? I ask the daughter.

  –Ask him yourself, like, she says. –You’re his dad.

  She’s right – it’s my job.

  So, here we are, me and the son, in the kitchen he shares with a bunch of other lads. The state of the place – I’ve just turned down a cup of tea because the mug looks like it was robbed from a grave. The kettle seems to have a head of hair.

  Anyway.

  –Yis have the place looking nice and cosy, I tell him.

  –Yeah, he says.

  It’s freezing. My hands are blue. I feel like I’m already in deep water, so I take the plunge.

  Here goes:

  –Are you gay, son?

  –No, he says.

  I’ve done my homework. I was up googling till two in the morning.

  –Are you bisexual, son? I ask him.

  –No, he says. –D’you want a biscuit?

  –Do you have any?

  –Not sure – don’t think so.

  –Are you intersexual?

  –No.

  –Pansexual?

  –No.

  –You know what it means?

  –Think so, yeah.

  –Grand, I say. –What about polysexual?

  He shakes his head.

  I’m running out of sexuals. I’ve a list in my back pocket but I don’t want to take it out, like I’m in SuperValu or something.

  –Right, son, I say. –I surrender. What are you?

  –The one you left out, he says.

  –What one’s that?

  –Heterosexual.

  –Are you?

  –Yeah.

  I’m a bit disappointed after all that. I had my words ready and all, so I say them anyway.

  –Well, whatever your orientation, son, I love you.

  I’m shaking a bit.

  He looks at me, and smiles.

  –You’re a mad fucker, Da, he says. –I love you too.

  –Thanks, son.

  11

  Years back – this would have been when the daughter had just started school. There was a Christmas show before the holidays, I managed to get a few hours off, and myself and the wife went up to the school. So we’re there, and there’s a little lad wearing a sheet at the front of the room, and he’s holding a plastic hammer and a bit of balsa wood.

  –That’ll be Joseph, I whisper to the wife. –The carpenter.

  –Thanks for that, Charlie, says the wife. –I thought he was an estate agent.

  Then the daughter walks in. She’s got a blue tea towel on her head and she’s carrying a baldy-headed doll under her arm. And she marches right over to Joseph.

  –Look, Joseph, she says. –We’re after having a baby boy.

  That was years ago – the daughter has a real little lad of her own now. But it might as well have happened earlier today because I still feel so proud when I think about it. The way she delivered that line – I believed every word.

  I could happily spend the rest of my life just thinking about the moments when my kids and grandkids hav
e made me feel proud. There was the time one of the sons scored the winner – a header, by the way – in the Under-10s summer league’s final. It was kind of accidental and his nose hasn’t been quite the same since – but it was still a cracking goal.

  There was the time the eldest granddaughter phoned Joe Duffy and told him to calm down. She was only seven and it was her granny – the wife – who put her up to it. But it was still her voice on the radio telling Joe to take a Valium.

  There was the time another of the sons brought home a dead seagull and tried to nurse it back to life. He was shoving a slice of Brennans bread into its beak when I walked into the kitchen.

  –He’s hungry, he told me.

  –He’s a bit more than hungry, son, I told him.

  I picked him up and put him on my lap, and he cried and cried and cried – and I never felt happier.

  He gulped – and looked up at me.

  –Can we give him a proper Christian burial, Da? he said.

  –I’ve a shoebox upstairs waiting for him, I told him. –Blessed by the Pope.

  I could go on, because the fact is: everything my kids and their kids have done – everything: the way they learnt to walk and to speak, the way they inhale and exhale, everything – well, nearly everything – has made me happier than I could ever have thought possible. Not just happy, or proud – I feel like an animal and I know I’d do anything to protect them. I’d bite, I’d maim and kill – I’d even miss Match of the Day for my kids and grandkids. I think of them and I know I have a heart, because I can feel it pumping, keeping me alive for them.

  Then there’s the wife.

  I’m in a pub called The Mercantile on Dame Street, and I’m watching the woman I married nearly forty years ago beating the lard out of a set of drums. She’s on the little stage with three other women and I’ve never seen – or heard – anything like it in my life.

  Let me remind you: the wife’s sister, Carmel, formed a band called the Pelvic Floors – they play punk and they’re all women who are hitting sixty – and she asked the wife to be their roadie. Anyway, the original drummer, Penny, left soon after, due to artistic differences. She wanted to come out from behind the drums and sing a few slowies –Take My Breath Away and Total Eclipse of the Heart were mentioned. Carmel kicked her out of the band and the wife got in behind the drums before poor Penny had her coat buttoned.