The Snapper

by Roddy Doyle

  They got past Jimmy Sr without touching him. He heard Tracy when they’d got out of the kitchen.

  —I don’t care, I’m not doin’ it.

  Jimmy Sr rushed out and grabbed her and, without intending to, lifted her.

  —Wha’ did you say?

  —Aah!—Nothin’!

  —Are yeh sure?

  She was rubbing her arm and deciding whether to cry or not.

  —Yeah, she said.

  —Good, said Jimmy Sr.—Now get in there an’ cha cha cha.

  Darren was coming in the back door when Jimmy Sr got back to the kitchen.

  —Again? said Jimmy Sr.

  —Yeah, said Darren.

  He’d crashed again. One side of his face was grazed, the darkest, reddest scrape along his cheekbone.

  -Look.

  Darren showed them where his jersey was ripped.

  —Look it.

  He showed them the big, wide scrape down his leg. He was delighted.

  Jimmy Sr remembered having a gash like that, only bigger, when he was a young fella. He was going to tell Darren about it but he decided not to, not with Veronica there.

  —Wha’ happened yeh? he said instead.

  Sharon came in from work.

  —Hiyis.

  —There’s Sharon. Do us a favour, love. Talk to the twins, will yeh.—They’re talkin’ abou’ wantin’ to give up the oul’ dancin’, yeh know?

  He nodded at Veronica. Sharon looked at her.

  —Okay, she said.

  —Good girl. They’re in with the telly. Practisin’.

  Sharon saw Darren.

  —God, wha’ happened yeh?

  —I came off me bike.

  He smiled.

  —Sharon’ll sort them ou‘, Jimmy Sr told Veronica. —Are we havin’ the dinner?

  Veronica put the dress on the table. She stood up and looked around her, as if she’d just woken up with a fright.

  —It’ll have to be from the chipper, she said.

  —Grand, said Jimmy Sr.—Darren can go an’ show off his war wounds, wha’.

  Darren laughed.

  —How’d it happen? Jimmy Sr asked him.

  —I was blemmin’ down Tonlegee Road.

  —Jaysis! Was it a race?

  —Yeah, but I didn’t give up. I got on again an’ I finished it.

  —Good man, said Jimmy Sr.—Course yeh did. Did yeh win?

  —No. I was last but Mister Cantwell says I showed the righ’ spirit.

  —He’s dead righ’.

  He turned to Veronica.

  —Just like his da, wha’.

  He turned back to Darren.

  —Did yeh know I met your mammy when I fell off me bike?

  —Did yeh?

  —He was drunk, said Veronica.

  —It was love, said Jimmy Sr.—Love knocked me off me bike.

  Darren spoke.

  —Mister Cantwell says we’re not to bother with young ones cos they’ll only distract us.

  Jimmy Sr laughed.

  —Fair play to Mister Cantwell. He’s dead righ’. —Cantwell. He’s your man from across from the shops, isn’t he?

  —Yeah.

  —He does the church collection.

  —Yeah.

  —Isn’t he great? said Veronica.

  Jimmy Sr grinned at her.

  —An’ he’s your manager, is he?

  —Yeah.

  —Good. What’re yis called?

  —The Barrytown Cyclin’ Club.

  —Go ’way! That’s very clever.

  —Don’t mind him, Veronica told Darren.—He’s just being smart. Wash your cuts and then you’re to go to the chipper.

  —I don’t need to wash—

  —Do wha’ your mammy tells yeh.

  Darren did.

  Jimmy Sr looked at Veronica.

  —How’re yeh feelin’, love?

  —Ah—

  Linda and Tracy came in.

  —Yes? said Jimmy Sr.

  The twins looked at each other. Then Linda spoke.

  —Ma, we’re sorry.

  -Mammy.

  —Mammy. We’re sorry.

  —It’s not tha’ bad, said Tracy.—It’s not really stupid.

  —Won’t yeh keep makin’ our dresses? said Linda.

  —She will o’ course, said Jimmy Sr.

  —I’ll think about it, said Veronica to Jimmy Sr.

  —She’ll think abou’ it, said Jimmy Sr.

  He clapped his hands.

  —The few chips’ll go down well, he said.

  He went over to the bread bin.

  —I’ll butter a few slices, will I? For butties.

  —You think of nothing except your stomach, said Veronica.

  —It’s the family’s stomachs I’m thinkin’ of, Veronica, me dear.

  He rolled up two slices and shoved them into his mouth. He winked at Veronica and then he went back to the front room. Sharon was in there, alone. She was sitting on the couch, and reading Jimmy Sr’s book.

  —Who’s readin’ this? she asked Jimmy Sr when she saw him.

  He shouldn’t have left it there.

  —I am, he said.

  —You!

  The book was Everywoman.

  —Yeah.—Why not?

  He sat down beside her.

  —What’re yeh readin’ it for? Sharon asked him.

  —Aah—Curiosity. I suppose.

  —Where d’yeh get it?

  —Library.

  He looked at Sharon. He took the book from her.

  —I didn’t know there was so much to it, yeh know.

  —Yeah.

  —It’s like the inside of a fuckin’ engine or somethin’. ’Cept engines don’t grow.

  Sharon grinned.

  —D’yeh get cramps, Sharon? said Jimmy Sr.

  Sharon laughed a bit.

  -No. Not yet annyway.

  -Good. Good. I’d say they’d be a killer. We’ll have to keep our fingers crossed.—Anythin’ else?

  —Wrong?

  —Yeah.

  —No.

  -Good. That’s good.

  —I went to me antenatal check-ups.

  —Yeh did o’ course.—An’ wha’ were they like?

  —Grand.

  -Good.—Good. Darren’s gone to the chipper, for the dinners.

  —Yeah.

  —That’s some knock he got.

  —Yeah.

  —He got up though, fair play to him.—I was lookin’ at another chapter there.

  He opened the book and closed it and opened it again and looked at a diagram and closed it.

  —The one abou’—doin’ the business, yeh know.

  —Sex?

  —Yeah. Exactly.—Jaysis, I don’t know—It’s very fuckin’ complicated, isn’t it?

  Sharon laughed, and felt her face getting hot.

  —I can’t say I don’t know, she said.

  —Wha’? Oh yeah.—I’d say Georgie Burgess was a dab hand at the oul’—wha’ d’yeh macall it—the foreplay, wha’?

  —Daddy!

  —Sorry. Sorry, Sharon. It wasn’t Burgess, I know. I just said it for a laugh. But—abou‘, yeh know, ridin’ an’ tha’ —I thought it was just—D‘yeh know wha’ I mean?

  —I think so.

  —Jaysis, Sharon. I don’t know—

  —I’d better warn Mammy.

  —Wha’? Oh yeah. Very good. Yeah.—Annyway, I was lookin’ at another bit here. Look it.

  Les saved Sharon by sticking his head round the door. Jimmy Sr felt the draught and looked up.

  —Jaysis!

  —Howyeh.

  —Leslie. How are yeh?

  —Alrigh’.

  —Good man. How’re the jobs goin’?

  —Alrigh’.

  —Good man. Gardens?

  —Yeah.

  —An’ windows.

  —Yeah.

  -Good. Gives yeh a few bob annyway, wha’. Are yeh havin’ your dinner with us?

 
—Yeah.

  —My God. We’ll have to kill the fatted cod for yeh.

  —Wha’?

  —Darren’s gone to the chipper.

  —He’s back.

  —Is he?

  —Yeah.

  —Why didn’t yeh tell us? I’m fuckin’ starvin’.—Hang on.

  He took the book.

  —I’ll put this upstairs, he said to Sharon.—I wouldn’t want Darren to see it.—Or Jimmy.

  Sharon laughed.

  —I could blackmail yeh now.

  —Yeh could indeed. Yeh could alrigh’.

  They heard the radio being turned up.

  —Righ’ now, said Jimmy Sr.—Listen now.

  He looked up at the ceiling. Sharon and Veronica looked up at the ceiling.

  Alison Moyet was singing Is This Love. The sound dropped.

  —Now, said Jimmy Sr.

  They listened.

  —THIS IS JOMMY ROBBITTE - ALL - OVER - ORELAND.

  Then the sound went up again.

  —There, said Jimmy Sr.—Doesn’t he sound different?

  —Sorry, Sharon, said Jimmy Sr.—Sorry for interruptin’ yeh.

  Sharon wasn’t doing anything really. She hadn’t the energy even to get up. She was lying on the couch, flicking through the channels.

  Jimmy Sr was at the door.

  —Wha’ said Sharon.

  She was getting really tired of her da; all his questions.

  —How many weeks are yeh pregnant, exactly? said Jimmy Sr.

  —Thirty-five. Why?

  —Just checkin’.

  —What’re yeh lookin’ at?

  —Your ankles. They don’t look too swollen.

  —They’re not.

  —Good.

  Sharon hoped that was that.

  It wasn’t.

  —I was just readin’ there, said Jimmy Sr.—Abou’ what’s goin’ on, yeh know. It made me a bit worried.

  Sharon said nothing. She flicked to BBC 2; two hippies talking.

  —Pain is mentioned a bit too often for my likin’. —Are yeh in pain, Sharon?

  —No.

  —None?

  —No.

  —At all?

  —No!

  —Good.—I’ll leave yeh to your telly. Sorry for disturbin’ yeh.

  -Okay.

  He was becoming a right pain in the neck. He’d be down again in a few minutes with more questions. Last night he’d told Darren and the twins to get out of the room and then he asked her if her shite was lumpy!

  He came home earlier in the week with two new pillows for her so she could prop herself up in bed.

  —It’ll take some o’ the pressure off the oul’ diaphram, Sharon.

  Was she in pain, he asked her. The fuckin’ eejit; she’d give him pain if he didn’t get off her case. It was her pregnancy and he could fuck off and stay out of it. If he came in once more, once more she’d—

  She felt fuckin’ terrible.

  The screen became blurred.

  She was sweating and wet and she’d gone over herself with the hairdryer an hour ago only and she was still sweating and wet. Her hair was dead and manky. She could hardly walk. She was really hot and full; full like the way she used to be on Christmas Day when she was a kid; stuffed. It was brutal. She was a fat wagon, that was what she was.

  She hoped Jackie’d call down because she wanted to see her but she couldn’t be bothered getting up.—She’d been like this all her life.

  Ah fuck it; she tried to get up.

  The heat made her sleepy. She hated sleeping this way. It wasn’t right. Only oul’ ones did it.

  She thought she heard her daddy’s voice.

  —Good girl, Sharon.

  —What d’you think you’re doing down there? Veronica asked Jimmy Sr.

  —Hang on a minute.—How’s tha’, Veronica?

  —I’m cold.—Aah!

  —What’s wrong?

  —Your fingernail! Get up here; I’m freezing.

  -Okay.—I love you, Veronica.

  —Jesus. Get out and brush your teeth. No; hang on. Do that again.

  —Whav Tha’?

  —Yeah.

  —There. D‘yeh like tha’, Veronica?

  —It’s alright.

  She grabbed his hair.

  —Where did you learn it?

  —Ah, let go!

  —Where!?

  —In a buke! Let go o’ me!

  Her face was wet. She pushed the blanket and the sheet off and the nice cool air hit her and made her feel awake, and that was what she wanted.

  Bits of the dream clung. She’d had a miscarriage, in an empty bath. She kept having miscarriages; like going to the toilet. And they all lived, hundreds of them, all red and raw and folded over. All crawling all over her. And she lay there and more of them climbed out of her.

  It was only half-five but she got out of bed. By the time she’d got downstairs to the kitchen her head was clear and the dream wasn’t part of her any more. She just remembered it. It was stupid.

  She hadn’t thought about what the baby would be like before; only if it would be a boy or a girl. God, she hoped it would be normal and healthy and then she nearly stopped breathing when she realized she’d just thought that. What if it wasn’t? Jesus. What if it was deformed, or retarded like Missis Kelly’s baby down the road; what then? And she’d been worrying that it might look like Mister Burgess!

  She was kind of looking forward to being a mother but if—

  The kettle was boiling.

  It might be a Down’s Syndrome baby. It would never be able to do anything for itself. It wouldn’t grow properly. It would have that face, that sort of face they all had.

  The baby nudged her.

  She’d seen a programme about dwarfs. It said that there were ten thousand of them in Britain. The ones on the programme seemed happy enough.

  She started laughing. She’d suddenly seen her mammy making a ballroom dress for a dwarf.

  This was stupid. If she kept on like this something was bound to go wrong. That was what always happened.

  It had gone wrong already—it was too late—if anything HAD gone wrong, if there was something wrong with it.

  She spread her hands over her dressing gown.

  What was in there?

  The baby bounced gently off the wall of her uterus. She opened her dressing gown and put her hands back on her belly. It moved again, like a dolphin going through the water; that was the way she imagined it.

  —Are yeh normal? she said.

  She wished to fuck it was all over. She was sick of it, and worried sick as well.

  —Soon, she said.

  —Specially with a few chips, said Bertie.

  They howled.

  —I’m fuckin’ serious, righ’, said Jimmy Sr.

  He was getting furious.

  —It Is a fuckin’ miracle.

  —Fuckin’ sure it is, Your Holiness, said Paddy.

  Bimbo was wiping his eyes.

  —You’re a sick bunch o’ fuckers, said Jimmy Sr.

  Bertie pointed at Jimmy Sr, and sang.

  —MOTHER OF CHRIST—

  STAR OF THE SEA—

  Jimmy Sr mashed a beer mat.

  —Sharon, said Jimmy Sr.

  Sharon looked up from her Bella.

  Not again.

  —Yeah? she said.

  —D’yeh know your hormones?

  —Wha’?

  —Your hormones, said Jimmy Sr.

  Sharon was interested.

  —What abou’ them?

  —Are they givin’ yeh anny trouble?

  -Eh—wha’ d’yeh mean?

  —Well—

  He shifted his chair.

  —I was just readin’ there yesterday abou’ how sometimes your hormones start actin’ up when you’re pregnant an’ tha’. An’ yis get depressed or, eh, snotty or—yeh know?

  Sharon said nothing. She didn’t know she’d been asked a question.

  —Don’t ge
t me wrong now, Sharon, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Hormonal changes are perfectly normal. Part an’ parcel of the pregnancy, if yeh follow me. But sometimes, like, there are side effects. Snottiness or depression or actin’ a bit queer.

  —I’m grand, said Sharon.

  —Good, said Jimmy Sr.—Good girl. That’s good. I thought so myself. I just wanted to be on the safe side, yeh know.

  —Yeah, said Sharon.—No, I’m grand. I feel fine. I’d another check-up. Me last one, I think.

  —An’ no problems?

  —No.

  -Good. All set so.

  Sharon got back to her magazine, but Jimmy Sr wasn’t finished yet.

  —I was lookin’ at this other buke there an’—It was abou’ wha’ happens—

  He pointed at the table, just in front of Sharon.

  —inside in the woman for the nine months. The pictures. Fuckin’ hell; I don’t know how they do it. There was this one o’ the foetus, righ’. That’s the name o’—

  —I know what it is, Daddy!

  —Yeh do o’ course.—I’m a stupid thick sometimes.

  —Ah, you’re not.

  —Ah, I am. Annyway, it was only seven weeks, Sharon. Seven weeks. In colour, yeh know. It had fingers—

  He showed her his fingers.

  —Ah, Jaysis, everythin’. An’ the little puss on him, yeh know.

  —Yeah, it’s incredible, isn’t it?

  —It fuckin’ is, said Jimmy Sr.—It got me thinkin’. I know it sounds stupid but—

  He was blushing. But he looked straight at her.

  —Youse were all like tha’ once, said Jimmy Sr.—Yeh know. Even Jimmy.—I was as well long, long ago.

  He belched.

  —’Scuse me, Shar—

  He belched again.

  —Sharon. Tha’ fried bread’s a killer.—Wha’ I’m tryin’ to say is—when yeh look at tha’ picture, righ‘, an’ then the later ones, an’ then the born baby growin’ up—Well, it’s a fuckin’ miracle, isn’t it?

  —I s’pose it is, said Sharon.

  —It’s got to be, said Jimmy Sr.—Shhh!

  Veronica came back into the kitchen. She’d been upstairs, lying down.

  —There’s Veronica, said Jimmy Sr.—Yeh may as well fill the oul’ kettle while you’re on your feet.

  —God almighty, said Veronica.—You’d die of the thirst before you’d get up and do it yourself.

  —That’s not true, said Jimmy Sr.—I’d say I’d’ve got up after a while.

  The front door was opened and slammed. Jimmy Jr came in from work.

  —Hoy, said Jimmy Jr.

  Jimmy Sr studied him.

  —Ahoy, he said.—Shiver me timbers. It’s Jim lad, me hearties. Hoy! Is there somethin’ wrong with your mouth?