Charlie Savage

by Roddy Doyle

  Now, out of nowhere, she’s become the love of my life – my one huge regret. A month ago, I couldn’t even remember her name.

  God, I’m such an eejit.

  I even phoned Pat – the little brother – to see if he could remember the girl’s name. But he claimed he couldn’t remember any girl and he even denied we’d ever had a coal shed.

  –Jesus, Pat, where do you think we kept the coal? I said.

  –Was it not under the bed?

  –No!

  But the call left me rattled. I couldn’t remember the coal shed now, myself, even though I definitely remember finding Pat behind it, with the love of my life wrapped around him. It made me wonder if I could trust any of my memories. I could remember the look on Pat’s face when I caught him, looking over her shoulder back at me. But then, that was the look he always had – because he was always getting caught. It was why he joined the Guards, so he could do the catching instead.

  Anyway.

  –You eventually remembered her name, the Secret Woman reminds me now.

  –Yeah.

  –Eileen Pidgeon, he says.

  –Yeah.

  –And you looked her up on Facebook, he says.

  –Yeah.

  –And there she was – on Facebook, he says.

  –Yeah.

  –Charlie, he says.

  –What?

  –You’re the one that’s supposed to be telling the story, he says. –But I’m doing all the work.

  –Sorry, I say. –So, yeah. So, then I pressed the wrong yoke.

  –What do you mean?

  –I meant to have a look at her photos, I say. –Cos the photo in the top corner wasn’t a picture of her. It was a bunch of flowers.

  –What did you press? he asks.

  –Well, I was on my sweeney in the kitchen, I say. –For once. And I’m just going to have a quick gawk at her snaps when some of the grandkids charge in and I kind of panicked and pressed the ‘Add friend’ button instead.

  –Brilliant, he says. –What happened then?

  –I got a message.

  –On Facebook?

  –A few days later – yeah.

  –From Eileen?

  –Yeah, I say. –Like a voice from the dead.

  –Brilliant, he says – again.

  He’s having the time of his life, listening. And, actually, that makes me start to enjoy myself, telling him.

  –‘Is that you, Charlie Savage?’ I say.

  –Was that the whole message?

  –Every word.

  –It’s a bit – I don’t know – spooky, he says. –Isn’t it?

  –I thought so, yeah.

  –Did you answer?

  –‘Is that you, Eileen Pidgeon?’

  –I never knew you were such a flirt, Charlie, he says.

  –I couldn’t think of anything else, I say. –I wasn’t bloody flirting – I don’t think I was.

  –But you’re meeting her.

  –Yeah.

  I look at him now.

  –Will you do me a favour? I ask him.

  –What?

  –Come with me.

  –No way, he says.

  But, even as he says it, I can see him changing his mind.

  –Okay, he says.

  He grins.

  –Can’t wait.

  20

  We’re on the Dart to Greystones, me and my pal, the Secret Woman. I’m on my way to meet Eileen Pidgeon. I really don’t know why I’m doing this, and that’s the honest to God truth – I think. The Secret Woman is here to hold my hand, although he’s not actually holding my hand and has made no attempt to hold it. He’s sitting beside me with his head – his whole body – pushed forward, like a child trying to make the train go faster.

  –Why Greystones, by the way? he asks. –Does she live there?

  –No, I say.

  I look around to make sure there’s no one earwigging.

  –She lives in Navan, I tell him.

  –And you’re meeting her in Greystones? he says. – Why not go the whole hog and meet her in Mexico City or one of the Aran Islands?

  He’s much more sarcastic than he used to be, before he decided he wanted to be a woman.

  I ignore him.

  No, I don’t.

  –You’re fuckin’ hilarious, I tell him.

  He’s looking up at the map of the stations, above the window. We’re at Connolly.

  –Eighteen stops, he says. –Just seventeen more opportunities to change your mind.

  He’s not being sarcastic now.

  –And come here, he says. –I won’t think any less of you if you do.

  –Thanks, I say.

  –Although I’d be a bit disappointed, he adds.

  –Okay.

  What happens to the brain? Is there a microbe or a parasite that gets in there and eats the wiring? I’m a happily married man. I really am. Yet I’m heading towards some sort of disaster, and I’m even paying my own fare. (I’m a few years off the free travel but I didn’t want to wait.) The Dart’s only bringing me to Greystones; it’s not bringing me back forty-seven years to that moment when I caught Eileen and my little brother wearing the faces off each other – or, to the moment just before that moment.

  I don’t think I’m living in Back to the Future or – what’s the name of that one where Arnold Schwarzenegger goes back in time to change history? Well, I’m not in that one either. I’m not heading to Greystones to change the course of history. I’m only going for a coffee and a scone and a chat. With an elderly woman who was a girl the last time I gazed at her with lovestruck eyes.

  Ah, Jesus.

  The Secret Woman is looking up at the map again.

  –Ten stops, Charlie.

  –Shut up.

  –Only saying.

  Terminator – that was the name of it. And he did manage to change history, if I’m remembering it right. But I’m not Arnie and changing my socks is a big enough challenge, never mind bloody history.

  What gets into us? What’s got into me? We’re living too long. That’s my theory – today.

  –Seven stops.

  –Thanks.

  –The rain’s staying away, anyway.

  –Yep.

  –We should’ve brought the clubs.

  He’s having another dig at me. I told the wife I was heading off to play pitch and putt and I left my putter and 8-iron – Exhibits A and B, he called them – in the Secret Woman’s house, before we dashed for the Dart.

  It used to be, we’d retire, live a few years and die. The odd man and woman made it into the late seven-ties and eighties; it was like a job – the village crone or the 1916 veteran. The rest of us were dead and buried before we could start causing mischief. Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop. And it doesn’t matter how old and arthritic the hands are.

  Bloody bucket lists.

  –Four stops, Charlie.

  –Your mathematical ability never fails to astonish me.

  –Doesn’t the sea look glorious, all the same?

  –It does.

  –We should’ve brought the togs.

  –Have you bought a bikini yet?

  –Not funny.

  –Sorry – you’re right.

  –Okay, he says. –Three stops, by the way.

  I don’t want this to happen. I really do not want this to happen. I’ve been saying it in my head for weeks: I’m a happily married man, I’m a happily married man. Regret is desperate; it’s worse than cancer or haemorrhoids. Sinatra was a young man when he recorded My Way. He was only fifty-three, and I’m betting he hated the stupid song by the time he hit sixty-three.

  –Two stops, Charlie. You are entering the Last Chance Saloon.

  A thought hits me: What if the wife’s doing the same thing? Looking for old boyfriends, scouring through Facebook, imagining a time before she strayed into Jurassic Park and met me.

  Ah, Jesus.

  –We’re here, says the Secret Woman.

 
He hasn’t sounded this happy since Snow White woke up. He grabs my shoulder and helps me out of the station.

  There’s no one here, no woman waiting. I’m so relieved – so relieved and devastated.

  There’s a voice behind me.

  –Charlie?

  21

  I’m outside Greystones Dart station. I’m with my pal, the Secret Woman, but I’m there to meet Eileen Pidgeon and it looks like she hasn’t turned up. I’m relieved, to be honest – but a bit hurt too. I’ve come twenty-four stops on the Dart. I haven’t been this far south since myself and the wife went to the Algarve ten years ago. I don’t mind not meeting Eileen – I really don’t. But at the same time, I’ve been dying to see her, to see her as she is now, nearly fifty years after she dumped me for my little brother.

  We hear a voice.

  –Charlie?

  It’s a woman, behind us. She’s just spoken my name but she’s looking at the Secret Woman.

  –Charlie? she says again – she’s smiling.

  He points at me.

  –That’s him there, he says.

  –Oh, she says.

  –How’s it going, Eileen? I say.

  –Fine, she says. –Not too bad. So, is this Pat then?

  She’s still looking at the Secret Woman and she’s wondering if he’s my brother Pat.

  –No, he tells her. –I’m just a friend of Charlie’s.

  –Oh.

  –They let him out for the day, I tell her, and we all laugh – eventually.

  She’s looking well – I’ll say that. She’s looking very well. My memory hasn’t let me down; the younger version of the woman in front of me must have been well worth the misery. And her smile – Jaysis – it’s fighting the Greystones gloom and winning. I’m glad I remembered to wear my Jamie Redknapp shirt.

  –Isn’t this mad? she says.

  –It is a bit, I say. –But no harm.

  –No, she agrees.

  We walk deeper into the town – not that there’s much of it. Eileen walks beside me and the Secret Woman is kind of behind us, except where the path is wider, when he can walk on the other side of Eileen.

  She’s a widow, she tells me. She has been since she was thirty-two.

  –What happened?

  –He died, she says.

  –Oh.

  She has a son who lives in Perth. She takes out her phone to show me the grandkids. I can’t make them out without my reading glasses but I pretend they’re lovely and give the phone back to her.

  I give her my story – the wife, the kids, the grandkids. I don’t show her photos. I’m not sure why not.

  We’re passing some sort of a café – the Happy Pear, it’s called.

  –D’you fancy a coffee or a cuppa, Eileen? I ask her.

  –It’s a vegetarian place, is it? she says. –I wouldn’t trust the tea you’d get in there.

  Then she laughs, and we both laugh with her. She’s gas – she’s lovely. She’s lovely, and I just want to go home. The thirty years of widowhood, the grandkids so far away – I’m falling in love with the sadness. I feel like I’ve never really lived.

  We come to another café, so in we go. She asks for tea and myself and the Secret Woman opt for coffee and a couple of the big scones.

  Eileen nods at one of the scones.

  –Are you supposed to eat it or climb it? she asks, and that has us howling again. Don’t get jam on your shirt, don’t get jam on your shirt, I keep telling myself – and I see that the Secret Woman already has jam on his, and that makes me ludicrously happy.

  I’m telling Eileen about my SpongeBob tattoo and I can see she’s loving the story when I realise I’m going to have to get up and go to the toilet.

  It’s just as well all the great stories are about young people, with young bladders. Can you imagine what the end of Casablanca would have been like if Humphrey Bogart had been twenty years older? ‘If that plane leaves the ground and you’re not with him, you’ll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not – hang on, love, I’ll be back in a minute.’ Or if Jesus had been sixty-three not thirty-three. Instead of ‘Jesus falls the second time’, it would have been ‘Jesus has to go to the jacks the fourth time.’ Christianity would never have taken off.

  But anyway. I go to the jacks, wash the hands, check the shirt and eyebrows, make sure I shaved SpongeBob the night before, and go back out.

  And Eileen’s kissing the Secret Woman. Or, they have been kissing – I can tell. The look on their faces – the redners. They’ve been holding hands as well, across the table.

  I look straight at her.

  –Again!

  I look at the Secret Woman.

  –And you! I say. –You fuckin’ traitor! You told me you weren’t a lesbian.

  And I storm out.

  Storming out is something no man in his sixties should ever do, but I do it anyway – I even slam the door. I’m halfway back down to the station when I realise I’m happy. I’ve escaped. I’m going home.

  22

  I like my football. And I’ve noticed recently, the wife likes my football too. And, believe me, that hasn’t always been the case.

  When she found out, when we started going out – this is forty years back – that my reluctance to meet her on Saturday nights was down to the fact that I was staying in to watch Match of the Day, well, she wasn’t happy. (This was before videos, by the way.) I’d told her I had to work on Saturday nights but she copped on when I made myself available at the end of the season.

  –D’you not have to work on Saturdays?

  –No, I said. –Not any more.

  –How come?

  It’s an evil question, when you think about it. It looks harmless enough but that little question – How come? – has brought down empires. And I’ll just say this and leave it at that: I’ve never heard a man ask it.

  Anyway. The question caught me – like millions of other lads – on the hop. I couldn’t think of anything, except the honest answer – and I wasn’t going to give her that. But I could see her flicking through her mental filing cabinet, and finding the answer herself.

  –My God, she said. –Match of the bloody Day.

  I said nothing.

  –Am I right?

  –Well, yeah, I said. –But my da’s going blind, so I have to tell him what’s happening.

  I’d forgotten: she’d met my da. He’d told her she was gorgeous, so she was never going to accept that he was blind. (He wasn’t and, even if he was, there was always John Motson to tell him what was happening.)

  I remember her staring at my Man United jersey. We were going to her little brother’s confirmation, so I probably should have worn something a bit more formal.

  –Well, Charlie, she said. –Who’s it to be? Me or Lou Macari?

  I couldn’t decide if she was going to walk away or clatter me, but she was definitely going to do something. So—

  –You, I said.

  And we all lived happily ever after.

  Anyway. The best thing about having kids is that your life is over. You stop going out, you lose your friends, you forget how to sleep – and you get to stay in and watch Match of the Day. I just have to hear the music and I feel such overwhelming love for my children, the legs go from under me and I have to sit in front of the telly. John Travolta’s face at the start of Saturday Night Fever, when he’s walking down the street in his suit, with the can of paint – you can tell: he’s on his way home to watch Match of the Day.

  I’ve had Match of the Day – or MOTD, as the busy people call it these days – all to myself, for decades.

  Until recently.

  At this end of my life ‘recently’ means nine or ten years. But I can be more exact. The wife often sat beside me while Match of the Day was on but she started actually watching it thirteen years ago – in August 2004, to be exact.

  Fuckin’ Mourinho.

  –Who’s that? she asked.

  –Who?

  –The good-looking one.

&n
bsp; –What good-looking one?

  In my innocence I thought she was asking about one of the twenty–two players on the pitch. But it was José Mourinho who’d impressed her.

  And fair enough. The stats spoke for themselves. But so, she told me, did his eyes, his suit, his accent and his smile. And the technology had arrived with him; she kept telling me to pause and go back, so we could see him scowl again, or grin again, or poke some poor innocent fucker in the eye again.

  –He’s gas, she said.

  –He’s a psychopath.

  –Yeah, she agreed – and sighed.

  Mourinho left for a while but other good-looking Continental men who wore clothes that fit them arrived and took over the telly. Now, when I’m watching a match, I’m actually watching Conte or Klopp or Pep Guardiola, and the occasional footballer kicking a ball. I’m exaggerating a bit, but only a bit.

  But the thing is: she loves the football. And I never noticed.

  I only realised it a few weeks ago when I put on Burnley v. Crystal Palace and sat back to see how she’d react, because both teams are managed by pasty-faced Englishmen who get their clothes from a skip behind the local Oxfam shop. I couldn’t wait to see her face.

  –Who’s playing? she asked.

  I told her.

  –Brilliant, she said, and sat down. –This’ll be a real battle. Is Robbie Brady playing, is he?

  It’s weird – it’s worrying. As the game went on, she was wondering why Burnley didn’t play three at the back and I was wondering why Crystal Palace’s manager, Sam Allardyce, couldn’t find a shirt that fit him properly.

  23

  I dread the summer.

  I mean, I don’t mind the sun – when there is one – or the longer days. I don’t mind the holidays; I’ve no objection to being buried to my neck in sand by the grandkids, just as long as they remember to come back and dig me out before the tide comes in. And, in fairness, they do remember – more often than not.

  We’ve a mobile in Wexford, near Kilmuckridge, and the whole new potatoes and strawberries hysteria down there gets on my wick. I’m always half-terrified I’m going to run over some young one or young lad selling the things on the side of the road. And the gobshites who veer off the road at the mere sight of a punnet of strawberries or a jar of jam – don’t get me started on those clowns.