The Deportees

by Roddy Doyle

  —CARRY A SAWED–OFF SHOTGUN IN HIS HAND—

  He was tearing around, not a drop of sweat on him. He knocked into both Dans, and sent the trumpet flying. Ah Jesus, thought Jimmy; before they'd even started.

  —HAVE YOU HEARD HIS NAME ALL OVER THIS LAND.

  They were falling apart already.

  He found Mickah.

  —Give us a hand with Kenny.

  The two of them grabbed Kenny. He didn't resist, the stage was tiny – they had him out of the tent in a few big strides.

  Jimmy held Kenny's face.

  —Kenny! Kenny! What did yeh take?

  —Wha'?

  —What did yeh take? Come on.

  Jimmy pushed the back of Kenny's head, so he had to bend over.

  —We'll have to make him puke.

  It was Kenny who answered, not Mickah.

  —Why?

  —To get the fuckin' drugs out of you.

  —What drugs?

  Jimmy let go of Kenny.

  —Did yeh not take anythin'?

  —No.

  —Well, why were yeh goin' mad in there?

  —I was enjoyin' myself, said Kenny. —Sorry, like.

  —That's okay, said Jimmy. —Just, eh, take it easy, will yeh. You're not the only one up there.

  —Yeah; thanks, said Kenny, and he ran back into the tent. Jimmy and Mickah followed him, in time to see the band launch into the next tune. Some of the aunts and uncles were leaving, but that was grand. The younger gang had room now. The bottles came out, the funny tobacco; hands grabbed hands, faces met faces and mashed. The birthday girl took off her jumper and threw it at the roof. Christianity had left the tent.

  —SOO – LONG—

  IT'S BEEN GOOD TO KNOW YEH—

  This was dance music.

  —THIS DUSTY OLD DUSTY IS HITTING MY HOME—

  He hadn't known it when he'd thought of Woody Guthrie, ten minutes before that first band meeting, two days after Smokey was born. But that was what it was.

  —AND I'VE GOT TO BE DRIFTING AH-LONG—

  Dance music. Anything played by this band was dance music. They were that good. Jimmy looked at them. They were happy, sexy; they were cooking and Irish.

  Paddy roared.

  —I JUMPED THE GULLY—

  Agnes and King Robert joined him.

  —WE–EE – SHA–LL BE FREE–EE—

  —I JUMPED THE ROSEBUSH—

  —WE–EE – SHA–LL BE FREE–EE—

  Jimmy whooped; it just came out.

  —ACROSS THE PLOUGHED GROUND—

  —WE–EE SHA–LL BE FREE–EE—

  And they all sang now.

  —WHE–EH–EN THE GOOD LORD SETS YOU—

  FREE–EE–EE—

  The birthday girl was bringing her arse for a walk in a clapping circle made by her friends and cousins when Fat Gandhi stooped, and stepped into the tent. His jaw fell.

  And Agnes stepped up to the mic.

  —THERE'S—

  The clapping stopped.

  —A—

  The birthday girl stopped.

  It was a song they all knew but couldn't name. Except Jimmy.

  —'Somewhere', he told Mickah. —from West Side Story.

  —Nice one, brother, said Mickah.

  —D'you like it?

  —No.

  Gandhi stared at the stage. His jaw stayed where he'd dropped it. He'd just fallen in love.

  14 Spirit of the Nation

  Agnes held the mic; her hands were shaking, her eyes were closed.

  —THERE'S—

  A—

  What she was doing was beautiful, but Fat Gandhi wasn't looking at her, or listening. His jaw still hung dead. Agnes's voice and song had brought the aunties back into the tent. But Gandhi didn't notice or care. He was in love. With Gilbert.

  Gandhi knew the line: homosexuality was an abomination. He'd known it since he'd seen the light ten years ago, and quickly realised that his loud embrace of Christianity was very good for business. It bored most people, and frightened quite a few, but, even so, Gandhi's weird faith had made him suddenly respectable. Here was a man who could be trusted, a man who took the world seriously. So, he took it for what it was: golf without the exercise.

  Agnes wasn't shaking too badly now. She loved the words, how they broke and reassembled. SOME–WHERE. Her eyes were still shut, but she knew they were all looking as she told them there was a place for them, somewhere a place for them.

  Gandhi hadn't really looked at a man since. But here he was, in love again. It had happened once before, when he was seventeen. The love of his life, he'd thought ever since, a student from Lyons, a tall lad who'd played table tennis like a gorgeous maniac and never leaked sweat that didn't suit him. And here, out of nowhere, it was back. The feeling, the longing. The happiness and misery.

  Gilbert was drawing whispers from the drum. They surrounded Agnes as she stood there and, finally, opened her eyes.

  —SOME—

  WHERRRR–E.

  She stopped. It was over.

  There was silence. Gilbert straightened the silver wig.

  Gandhi was the first to clap; he had to do something – he brought his hands together with slaps that made his teeth, and everyone else's, rattle. The tent was full of whoops and applause. Gilbert and Leo thumped their drums, forced a rhythm on the crowd. And Paddy stepped up to the mic.

  —LOTS OF FOLKS BACK EAST THEY SAY—

  Gandhi knew: a Christian couldn't just walk away from his family.

  —IS LEAVIN' HOME EVERY DAY—

  And take off with a man, any man, let alone that particular man there in the silver wig.

  —BEATIN' THE HARD AND DUSTY WAY—

  He was stuck.

  —TO THE 'PUBLIC OF IRELAND LIY–INE—

  But not for long.

  Gandhi was the big embodiment of the spirit of the new Ireland. Easy come, easy go. That was then and this is fuckin' now. Right then and there, Fat Gandhi abandoned his religion.

  But he didn't tell anyone.

  Which was probably just as well because the birthday girl, his daughter, had decided that Gilbert was the second-best-looking man in the tent.

  King Robert took it from Paddy.

  —ACROSS THE DES–ERT SANDS THEY ROLL—

  Big Dan gave them a quick blast of Lawrence of Arabia, on the accordion.

  —GET–TING OUT OF THAT OLD–DD DUST BOWL—

  Gilbert let go of a scream.

  —THEY THINK THEY ARE GO–ING–GG TO THE SUG–AR BOWL—

  Fat Gandhi and the birthday girl screamed back.

  —BUT HERE IS WHAT THEY FIND—

  Paddy took the floor behind the mic again. Kenny came out of his hair and saw the birthday girl's little sister staring at him.

  —NOW THE GARDA AT THE POINT OF EN–TRY SAY–YYY—

  YOU'RE NUMBER FOUR–TEEN THOUS–AND FOR THE—

  DAY–YY–YY—

  Jimmy watched eyes meeting other eyes, but he couldn't keep up. Paddy, Agnes and King Robert sang huge.

  —OHHH—

  IF YOU AIN'T GOT THE DOH–RAY–MEEE – FOLKS—

  IF YOU AIN'T GOT THE DOH-RAY—

  MEEEEE—

  And Kenny roared over Agnes's shoulder.

  —That's fuckin' euros, boy!

  The little sister blinked for Kenny; she'd never been called Boy before.

  —WHY – YOU'D BETTER GO BACK TO BEAUTIFUL GHAN–A—

  OKLAHOMA, POLAND, GEORGIA, AFRIC–EEEE—

  Jimmy was sent flying; a dancing auntie followed, and landed on his chest.

  —BALLYFERMOT'S A GARDEN OF EEEE–DEN—

  And she wouldn't get off him.

  —A PARA–DISE TO LIVE IN OR—

  SEE–EEEEEE—

  Gilbert screamed again.

  —BUT – BELIEVE IT OR – NOT—

  The birthday girl was wearing Gilbert's wig. Jimmy rescued his phone; it was buzzing and biting his arse.

  —YOU WON'T FIND
IT SO – HOT—

  He got the phone to his ear, just before the auntie's tongue got there.

  —Jesus! Hello!

  —Nigger lover.

  Jimmy laughed, and held the phone in the air.

  —IF YOU AIN'T GOT THE DOH – RAY—

  MEEE-EEEE—

  He was still laughing as he stood and dried his ear. And he watched as Kerri the Yank took the microphone from Paddy.

  15 I'm Checkin' Out, Go'om Bye

  —Hello-o? Kerri said to the mic.

  —Hello, said every man in the tent, except Jimmy and maybe ten others.

  Young Dan led off this time – DOO DEH DEH – and they all went after him.

  —Hello-o, said Kerri. —Is this Harlem seven seven seven eleven?

  —Yeah!

  —John? said Kerri. —Is this you-ou-ou?

  Young Dan took off his fedora and put it over the bell of his horn.

  —WA–UH–WAH–AAAH—

  And Kerri started to sing.

  —I THOUGHT I'D PHONE YOU—

  I HOPE YOU AIN'T SICK—

  —DOO DEH DEH

  —COS I'M CHECKIN' OUT—

  GO'OM BYE—

  It was great, brilliant, better than Jimmy could ever have expected.

  —NICE TO HAVE KNOWN YOU–OU

  YOU WERE—

  MY BIG KICK—

  —DOO DEH DEH—

  He'd been getting a bit bored with Woody Guthrie. All that dust, it got on your wick after a while.

  —BUT I'M CHECKIN' OUT—

  GO'OM BYE.

  That was the thing about this gang. They'd play anything and make it theirs. A nursery rhyme, a rebel song, a good song, or any old syrup served up by Westlife or Mariah Carey, they'd give it the slaps and turn it into three or four good minutes of jumping, swaying, hard-rocking loveliness.

  —YOU TRIED AN OLD TRICK—

  —DOOH – DEH—

  They'd slow it right down, or laugh it into life.

  —YOU FOUND A NEW CHICK—

  —DOOH – DEH—

  Here now, they'd hopped from Woody Guthrie and Duke Ellington, and no one had noticed.

  —BUT I WAS TOO SLICK—

  —DOOH – DEH—

  They were happy up there. And Jimmy knew: they were staying.

  —I'M – IN – THE – KNOW—

  YOU'VE – GOT – GO—

  THE – CAKE – IS – ALL – GOIN'—

  Jimmy's right.

  —TOO BAD OUR BLISS—

  The Deportees will stay together.

  —HAS TO MISS OUT LIKE THIS—

  For years and albums.

  —I'M CHECKIN' OUT—

  GO'OM BYE.

  They'll get better and quite well known. They'll tour Wales and Nigeria.

  Some of them will leave, the band or the country; others will join, and some will come back. Leo will leave, home to Moscow. Kerri will be the second to go. She'll have a baby, and another, both girls, and she'll write regular articles for the Irish Times on the joys and demands of stay-at-home motherhood. Kenny will leave, and come back.

  —I only went to the fuckin' chipper, boy.

  Gilbert won't be deported. He'll out-sprint the Guards on Grand Canal Street, outside the Registry Office. It'll be a close thing. The Guards will have the tail of Gilbert's jacket in their fingers when they'll be stopped; the flying weight of his future daddy-in-law will deck the pair of them. And Gilbert will marry the birthday girl. Jimmy will be the best man, and Fat Gandhi, out on his own bail, will be their chauffeur for the duration of the honeymoon, a month-long tour of our great little country.

  —Did you have mountains like them in Nigeria, Gilbert?

  —No.

  —They're something else, aren't they?

  —Yes.

  —YOU TRIED AN OLD TRICK—

  There'll be no more little Rabbittes. Jimmy will have a vasectomy.

  —YOU FOUND A NEW CHICK—

  A birthday present from Aoife. And it will hurt. Especially when Mahalia drops the Pet Sounds box-set into his lap, half an hour after he gets home.

  —S'oop John B!

  But he'll recover. He'll be upright in time to lead his band into the studio for their first recording session, a surprise novelty World Cup hit, called 'You Might Well Beat the Irish But We Won't Give a Shite.' Jimmy's share of the royalties will buy half a wide-screen telly, and a box of Maltesers for Aoife.

  —I love you, Jimmy.

  —I love you too, bitch.

  —How's the war wound?

  —Not too bad.

  —BUT I WAS TOO SLICK—

  Their first album will be big in Chad and banned in parts of Texas.

  —I'M – IN – THE – KNOW—

  YOU'VE – GOT – TO – GO—

  THE – CAKE – IS – ALL – GOIN'—

  Mary's son, a scrawny kid called Zeus, will replace Kerri. Agnes will go home to Seville for Christmas, and come back with a drummer from Cabra. King Robert will join Fianna Fail – the Republican Party. He'll be the city's first black alderman, and the first mayor to sing 'Let's Stay Together' on Bloomsday.