by Roddy Doyle
—A D.J. A disc jockey.
—Wha’; like Larry Gogan?
-Yeah. Sort of.
—Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr.
He’d had enough.
He’d spotted a gang of Sharon’s friends over past Jimmy Jr and his pals.
—There’s those friends o’ yours, Sharon, he said.
Sharon knew what he was at.
—Oh yeah, she said.
—D’yeh want to go over to them?
—I don’t mind.
—They’d be better company than your oul’ fella annyway, wha’.
—Ah no.
—Go on. Yeh may as well go over. I don’t mind.
—I can’t leave you on your own.
—Ah sure, said Jimmy Sr.—I can go down an’ see if there’s annyone downstairs.
Sharon grinned. So did Jimmy Sr. He still felt guilty though, so he got a fiver out and handed it to Sharon.
—Ah, there’s no need, Daddy.
—There is o’ course, said Jimmy Sr.
He moved in closer to her.
—It’s not every day yeh find ou’ you’re goin’ to be a granda.
He’d just thought of that now and he had to stop himself from letting his eyes water. He often did things like that, gave away pounds and fivers or said nice things; little things that made him like himself.
He patted Sharon’s shoulder. He was standing up, but he stopped.
—Hang on a sec, he said.—I’ll wait till your man passes. Sharon looked.
—Who?
—Burgess there, the bollix. Excuse me, Sharon. I can’t stand him.
—I’ve seen yeh talkin’ to him loads o’ times.
—He traps me. An’ Darren’s his goalie this year. He’d drop him if I got snotty with him.
—Oh. Yeah.
—It’s alrigh’ now, said Jimmy Sr, and he stood up again. —The coast’s clear. See yeh later.
Jimmy Sr trotted out, and down to the lads in the bar. Sharon took her vodka and her jacket and her bag and went across to Jackie O’Keefe, Mary Curran and Yvonne Burgess, her friends; the gang.
—Hiyis, she said when she got there.
—Oh, howyeh, Sharon.
—Hiyeh, Sharon.
—Howyeh, Sharon.
—Hiyis, said Sharon.
—Put your bag over here, Sharon, look, said Yvonne.
—Thanks, said Sharon.—Hiyeh, Jackie. Haven’t seen yeh in ages.
—She’s been busy, said Mary.
Yvonne sniggered.
—How’s Greg? Sharon asked Jackie.
Yvonne sniggered again.
—Fuck off, you, said Jackie.—He’s grand, Sharon.
—They’re goin’ on their holliers together, Mary told Sharon.
—Dirty bitch, said Yvonne.
They laughed.
—Fuck off, will yeh, said Jackie.—We’re not goin’ for definite.
She explained.
—He mightn’t be able to take the time off.
—Yeh see, Sharon, said Yvonne.—You’ve got to understand, Greg’s a very important person.
—Fuck off, Burgess, said Jackie, but she was grinning.
—Where’re yeh goin’? Sharon asked Jackie.
—Rimini. In Italy.
-Lovely.
—Yeah.
—Yeh can go for a swim with the Pope, said Yvonne.
They laughed.
—Cos there’ll be fuck all else to do there, Yvonne finished.
—She’s just jealous, said Mary.
—Of wha’? said Yvonne——
Mary changed the subject.
—Anny news, Sharon? she asked.
—No, said Sharon.—Not really.
Sharon told no one else yet.
She bought a book in Easons and read about the first fourteen weeks of pregnancy and waited for the changes to happen; the breasts swelling, the urinating, the nausea and that. She looked at herself in her parents’ wardrobe mirror. She looked the same. And from the side; the same as well. She was ten weeks and two days pregnant. She didn’t bother including the hours and minutes, but she nearly could have. The book said that the real changes started after the tenth week. And that was now.
Her nipples were going to get darker. She didn’t mind that too much. The veins in her breasts would become more prominent. Sharon didn’t like the sound of that. That worried her. She wondered would they be horrible and knobbly like her Auntie Mona’s varicose veins. The joints between her pelvic bones would be widening. She hoped they wouldn’t pinch a sciatic nerve, which ran from her arse down through the back of her legs, because she had to stand a lot of the time in work and a pinched sciatic nerve would be a killer. She read about her hormones and what they were doing to her. She could picture them; little roundy balls with arms and legs. She hoped her bowel movements stayed fairly regular. Her uterus would soon be pressing into her bladder. What worried her most was the bit about vaginal secretions. They’d make her itchy, it said. That would be really terrible in work, fuckin’ murder. Or when she was out. She’d have preferred a pinched sciatic nerve.
She hoped these changes came one at a time.
She read about eating. Nearly everything she normally ate was wrong. She decided she’d follow the instructions in the book. She wasn’t getting sick in the mornings but she started having dry toast for her breakfast, just to be on the safe side. It was good for morning sickness. She ate raw carrots. She took celery home from work and chewed that. Jimmy Sr banned the carrots and the celery when the telly was on, except during the ads. If she didn’t go easy on the carrots, he said, she’d give birth to a fuckin’ rabbit. And there were enough bunnies in the house already.
She ploughed through her book, about three pages a night. It was hard going, and frightening. There was a lot more to being pregnant than she’d thought. And there was so much that could go wrong.
She didn’t feel pregnant yet, not really.
She read about the feelings she might have at this stage. She might, she read, feel increased sensuality. She looked that up in Darren’s dictionary and that wasn’t how she felt at all. She might feel like she was in love: no way. She might feel great excitement:—no.
She was sitting between Jimmy Sr and Veronica a few days after she’d told them the news. Blankety Blank was over. The panel were waving out at them. Jimmy Sr stuck his fingers up at them. Darren laughed.
—Your man, Rolf Harris, is an awful gobshite, said Jimmy Sr.—I’ve always said it.
—He’s a great painter, said Veronica.
—He is in his hole a great painter, said Jimmy Sr.—He slaps a bit o’ paint around an’ if it looks like somethin’ he says it an’ if it doesn’t he starts singin’ Two Little Boys Had Two Little Toys. To distract us.
—He’s good for the kids, said Veronica.
—He’s good for the bowels, said Jimmy Sr.—You don’t like him, do yeh, Darren?
—No way.
—I don’t like him either, said Tracy.
—I don’t like him either, said Linda.
—There now, Veronica, said Jimmy Sr.
—What’s perception? Sharon asked.
—Wha?
—What’s perception?
—Sweat, Jimmy Sr told her.—Why?
Sharon whispered to Jimmy Sr.
—It says my perception might be heightened when I’m pregnant.
—Yeh smell alrigh’ from here, love, said Jimmy Sr.
He leaned over.
—What’s the buke abou’?
—Pregnancy.
—Jaysis, d’yeh need a buke to be pregnant these days?
—I didn’t have a book, said Veronica.
—Shhh! went Jimmy Sr.
—You wouldn’t’ve been able to read it, Ma, said Darren.
The remote control hit his shoulder and bounced off his head.
—Wha’ was tha’ for!? he cried.
His hand tried to cover both sore spots.
—Mind your own business, you, said Jimm
y Sr.—Don’t look at me like tha’, son, or I’ll—Say you’re sorry to your mother.
—I was on’y—
—SAY YOU’RE SORRY.
Sorry.
—PROPERLY.
—I’m sorry, Ma.
—You don’t look it, said Veronica.
—I can’t help it.
—You get that from your father.
—It’s not all he’ll get from his father, said Jimmy Sr.
—Turn on Sky there, he barked at Darren,—for the wrestlin’.
—His master’s voice, said Veronica.
—No chips for you tonigh’, Jimmy Sr told her.
—Aw.
Jimmy Sr pointed at a diagram in Sharon’s book.
—What’s tha’ supposed to be? he asked her.
—The inside of a woman, said Sharon, softly.
—Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr.—Sky, I said. That’s RTE 2. Look at the wavy lines, look. That’s RTE 2. It’s one o’ their farmin’ programmes.
Linda and Tracy giggled.
Jimmy Sr studied the diagram.
—Where’s it all fit? he wanted to know.—Is this an Irish buke, Sharon?
-No. English.
—Ah, said Jimmy Sr.
—Is Sharon havin’ a baby? Linda asked.
—No! said Jimmy Sr.
—Are yeh, Sharon?
—Are yeh havin’ a baby, Sharon? said Tracy.
—NO, I SAID.
—Sharon, are yeh?
—Aaah! said Jimmy Sr.
—No, I’m not, Sharon told them.—A friend o’ mine is, that’s all.
—Ah, said Tracy, very disappointed.
—Ma? said Linda.
—Mammy, said Veronica.
—Mammy. Will you be havin’ more babies?
—Oh my Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr. -Here. Here. Come here.
He dug into his pockets. He’d no change, so he gave Linda a pound note.
—Go ou’ an’ buy sweets.—Say Thank—
But they were gone. Jimmy Sr saw Darren looking at him.
—What’re you lookin’ at?—Here.
It was a pound.
—Thanks, Da. Rapid.
—Get ou’.—I think yeh’d better read tha’ buke up in your room, Sharon. I can’t afford to do tha’ every nigh’.
—D’yeh think they know? Sharon asked him.
—Not at all, said Jimmy Sr.—They’ll have forgotten all abou’ it once they have their faces stuffed with—with Trigger Bars an’ Cadbury’s fuckin’ Cream Eggs.
—Stop that.
—Sorry, Veronica.—Annyway sure, we’ll have to tell them some time annyway, won’t we?
—Yeah. I suppose so.—Yeah. I hadn’t thought o’ tha’, said Sharon.
—I have, Veronica told her.
Sharon brought the book upstairs.
She read on. She might feel shock: no, not now. She might feel a loss of individuality. She might feel she didn’t matter: no. Like a vessel: no. Loveless: yeah—not really. Scared: a bit. Sick: not yet. Not ready for pregnancy: sort of, but not really.
What she really felt, she decided later in bed, was confused. There was so much. And she wouldn’t have really known that if she hadn’t bought the bleedin’ book.
But she wanted to know. She wanted to know exactly what was going to happen, what was happening even now. She put her hand on her stomach: nothing.
She felt a bit impatient too. Sometimes she didn’t think anything was going to happen. She hoped the changes came soon. She was ready for it; getting bigger, backache, and the rest of it. In a way she wanted it. She didn’t mind people knowing she was pregnant—as long as no one knew who’d helped her—but she couldn’t go around telling everyone. She could never have done that. Once she started getting bigger, then they’d know. Then they could laugh and talk about it and try and guess who she’d done it with, and then leave her alone.
Though she’d have to tell her friends, Jackie and them.
Jimmy Sr woke up. His neck was killing him. He hated falling asleep sitting on the couch, but he’d had a few pints with the lads after the pitch and putt, so he didn’t know he was falling asleep till now, after he’d woken up. He tried to stretch, and lift his head up.
—Ah—!—fuck—
He shook himself. His chin was wet, and a bit of his shirt.
—Ah Jaysis, he gave out to himself.—Yeh fuckin’ baby, yeh.
He looked at the telly. Cricket.
—Ah, fuckin’ hell.
He always got angry the minute he saw cricket. It really annoyed him, everything about it; the umpires, the white gear, the commentators, the whole fuckin’ lot.
He couldn’t find the remote control, so he had to stand up. When he got to the telly he didn’t bother looking to see if there was anything else on. He just turned it off.
His mouth and throat were dry. He needed Coke, or anything fizzy and cold.
Veronica was in the kitchen, at the table, cutting material.
—Is it still Saturday? said Jimmy Sr.
—The dead arose, said Veronica.
Jimmy Sr went to the fridge. He bent down and took out a large yellow-pack bottle, empty.
—Fuck it annyway!
—Now now.
—There was loads in it this mornin’. I only had a few slugs.
—Jimmy had the rest of it before he went to work, Veronica told him.—He didn’t look very well.
—Fuck’m, said Jimmy Sr.—Why can’t he buy his own?
—Why can’t YOU buy your own?
—I bought this one!
—Excuse ME. I bought it.
—With my fuckin’ money.
Veronica said nothing. Jimmy Sr sat down. He shouldn’t have shouted at her. He felt guilty now. He’d send one of the kids to get her a choc-ice when one of them came in.
—What’s tha’ you’re makin’, Veronica? he asked. Veronica glanced at him over her glasses.
—A skirt. For Linda, she said.
—No one’ll run her over in the dark annyway, wha’, said Jimmy Sr.
The material was very bright, shiny red.
—Ha ha, said Veronica.—It’s for their majorettes.
—Their wha’?
—Majorettes. You know. Marching to music.
—Wha’? Like in American football?
—That’s right.
This worried Jimmy Sr.
—They’re a bit young for tha’, aren’t they?
—Don’t be stupid, said Veronica.—They’re doing it in school.
—Oh, fair enough so, said Jimmy Sr.—What’s for the dinner?
—You had your dinner, Veronica reminded him.
She put the scissors down on the table. That was that for one day. Her eyes were sore.
—For the tea, said Jimmy Sr.
A fry, said Veronica.
—Lovely, said Jimmy Sr.—An’ some fried bread maybe?
Veronica looked across. There was one full sliced pan and most of another one.
—Right, she said. -Okay.
—Veronica, said Jimmy Sr.—I love yeh.
—Umf, said Veronica.
The back door opened and Les charged through the kitchen. They heard him walloping the stairs as he ran up to the boys’ room.
—Don’t say hello or ann’thin’! Jimmy Sr roared.
There wasn’t an answer. The door slammed.
—No one just closes doors annymore, said Jimmy Sr. —Did yeh ever notice tha’, Veronica?
Veronica had her head in the fridge. She was wiping some dried milk off the inside of the door.
—They either slam them or they leave the fuckin’ things open, said Jimmy Sr.—I went into the jacks there this mornin’ an’ Linda was sittin’ in there readin’ a comic. Or it might’ve been Tracy.
—You should have knocked, said Veronica.
—The door was open, said Jimmy Sr.—An open jacks door means the jacks is empty. Everywhere in the world except in this house. Walk into the jacks in this house an’
you’ll find a twin, or Jimmy pukin’, or Leslie wankin’—
—Stop that!
—Sorry.—That’s the sort o’ stuff they should be teachin’ them in school. Not Irish or—or German. Shuttin’ jacks doors an’ sayin’ Hello an’ tha’ sort o’ thing. Manners.
—Will you look who’s talking about manners, said Veronica, and she stabbed a sausage a couple of times and turned it, and stabbed it again.
Jimmy Jr came in, from work.
—Howyis, he said.
—Get stuffed, you, said Jimmy Sr.
—Manners! said Veronica.
—Listen here, you, said Jimmy Sr.—You’re not to be drinkin’ all the Coke in the mornin’, righ’. Buy your own.
—I put me money into the house, said Jimmy Jr.
—Is tha’ wha’ yeh call it? Yeh couldn’t wipe your arse with the amount you give your mother.
He pointed at the sausages.
—D’you know how much they cost, do yeh?
—Do YOU know? Veronica asked him.
Darren came in the back door, and saved Jimmy Sr.
—Did yeh win, Darren? he asked.
—Yeah, said Darren.—I saved a penno.
—Did yeh? Ah, good man. Good man yourself. Wha’ score?
-Two-one.
—Yeh let one in.
—It wasn’t my fault.
—Course it wasn’t.
—Muggah McCarthy let it through his legs an’—Veronica looked at Darren.
—Get up, you, and wash some of that muck off you. The twins came in as Darren went out.
—Ma, Da, said Linda.—Can we keep this?
It was a pup, a tiny black wad of fluff with four skinny legs and a tail that would have looked long on a fully grown dog. It was shaking in Linda’s hands, terrified.
—No, said Veronica, and—Yeah, said Jimmy Sr at the same time.—Yeh can o’ course.
—Not after the last one, said Veronica.—They never stopped crying after Bonzo got run over. And Darren and Sharon.
—And you, said Jimmy Sr.
—Ah, Mammy. We won’t cry this time. Sure we won’t, Tracy?
—Yeah, said Tracy.—We’ll tie the gate so he can’t get ou’.
—No, I said.
—Ah, Ma-mmy! Let’s.
—Who’ll feed it? Veronica wanted to know.
—Wha’ is it? said Jimmy Sr.
—A dog, said Linda.—It’ll grow bigger.
—Will it? said Jimmy Sr.—That’s very clever. Veronica laughed. She couldn’t help it.
