The Guts (21 page)

It was simple, heartbreaking, the song of an emigrant who knew she’d never escape.

—THERE’S THE HEARTH STONE —

AND THE BELLOWS —

AND THERE’S MY OLD DOG—JACK —

It had none of the Paddy, none of the dishonesty at the core of every Irish song Jimmy had ever heard, except ‘Teenage Kicks’ and maybe ‘The Boys Are Back in Town’.

—OH—I’M TRAIPSIN’ THE WORLD —

WITH THE HOUSE ON MY BACK —

He lifted the stylus. It came back immediately, the delicacy and importance of the movement. He didn’t have a record player. They’d been waiting till the kids grew up.

Norman walked in.

—You’re back, Norman.

Norman looked a bit lost.

—How was that? Jimmy asked him.

I’m worse than my da. I’m my da’s fuckin’ da!

—Fine, said Norman.—Grand.

—We were talkin’ about Dolores McKenna there, said Jimmy. —D’you know annythin’ about her, Norman?

—There’s no need to keep repeating my name, said Norman.—I know who I am.

—Grand. Great.

—That’s her only record, said Norman.

He looked pleased, then anxious.

—That’s – my God, said Ocean.—Her only recording.

—No, said Norman.—Only record. It’s the only one in the world. As far as is known.

—Oh – my God.

—Jesus, Norman.

Jimmy went to lift Dolores off the turntable.

—No!

He stopped.

—Let Ocean do it.

—Okay, said Jimmy.—Fair enough.

He got out of her way.

—Anyway, he said, to Ocean.—That line, I’m traipsin’ the world.

—I love it.

She slid the record into the purple sleeve.

—Me too, said Jimmy.—But – here’s why I was wonderin’ about adjustin’ her name a bit.

—What? said Norman.

—Well, said Jimmy.—If she was American. A blues singer.

—Black?

—Is there any other colour? said Jimmy.—Anyway, when she sang that word traipsin’, we’d know she meant a bit more than just traipsin’. Walkin’ around, like.

There was no distance between his brain and his mouth; that
tube had come out with the surgery, into the bucket with the bowels. And the smile – the grin. He could feel it in his skin. It belonged to a man who knew he’d be wanting to vomit and die in less than forty-eight hours.

—What’re you talking about? said Norman.—Are you talking about sex, by any chance?

—Yeah, said Jimmy.

—And you think that line is about sex?

—No, said Jimmy.—It’s what can be suggested.

—It’s a girl with a lovely voice who misses her dog.

—I know.

—And her mother!

—I know. I know. Just bear with me.

He talked to Ocean.

—A blues singer in America in 1932 could sing the word traipsin’ in a way that hid meanings from official America. She could have been singin’ about sex or —

He looked at Norman – he tried to.

—missin’ the sex.

—With her dog?!

—No, not with her fuckin’ dog. Jesus, Norman, I’d have thought that you of all people would’ve —

—What? said Norman.—Would’ve what?

Ocean rescued him.

—An Irish woman sings traipsing in 1932, she means, I guess, moving along slowly with a bundle on her back. An African-American woman sings it in 1932, and she means, okay, moving along slowly. But she also means fucking. That, I think, is what Jimmy is saying. Right, Jimmy?

—No. Yeah. No.

He took a breath.

—No, no. Listen. Ireland in 1932 was a miserable place. That’s my guess, and I bet I’m right. Kids with no shoes, hunger, bad housin’, the Church supervisin’ everythin’. But the official picture was different. Happy peasants, glad to be rid of the Brits.

He was loving this.

—So anyway. One of the few escapes, beside real escape – emigration, like – was music. It’s always been like tha’. Music is the great escape. In the words an’ the rhythm. You could do things an’ say things that weren’t allowed. And not just sex now. Although everythin’ is sex.

It was hard to look at both of them, at either of them. But he did.

—But anyway. The music. Happy when times were bad. Or laments when they were bein’ told that things were lookin’ up. They could tell the priests an’ the politicians tha’ they’d do whatever seemed natural an’ they wouldn’t be askin’ for permission. Inside in the song. In Ireland, in 1932.

Norman and Ocean stood side by side, almost touching. They looked like a strange but happy couple.

—So, said Jimmy.—Dolores there. She’s singin’ about carryin’ the weight of her memories wherever she goes. And it’s brilliant. Thanks, Norman.

Norman smiled.

Norman fuckin’ smiled.

—It’s a sad image and it’s a very sad song. But where’s the defiance?

They were still glued to him.

—Where’s the fuck-you to the dump she’s had to leave? It’s when she sings about traipsin’ —

—Bellows, said Norman.

—Sorry, Norman?

—Bellows, he said again.

—What about it?

—I think it might mean the mickey, said Norman.

He took the hearing aid yoke from his waistcoat pocket, and put it back in.

—You mean it’s phallic? said Ocean.

—That’s a better way of putting it, said Norman.

—That’s
interesting
, said Ocean.

—It’s the way she stresses it, said Norman.—The word. I think she might have winked there.

—The hearth’s the vagina, said Ocean.

—And Jack?

—He’s not really a dog, said Norman.—And he has the bellows.

—In 1932.

—July the 17th, said Norman.—To be exact.

—But it’s hidden, said Jimmy.

—Oh, it is, said Norman.—It’s still a song about emigration.

—And it’s brilliant, said Jimmy.—But I’d love to find – what we need is a singer who hides nothin’. Is he here, Norman? Or she.

—No, said Norman.—No.

—Well, said Jimmy.—I’m goin’ to find him.

—The cancer trousers are back.

—Lay off, Aoife.

The nights were the worst. When he couldn’t sleep and he knew he wouldn’t be able to – until he woke up.

Two nights to go.

—What’re you doing?

—Oilin’ the valves, he said—I’m not sure if I’m doin’ it properly.

—It looks complicated.

—Not really.

She picked up the bottle.

—Blue Juice Valve Oil, she read.

—Yep.

She let him take the bottle. She watched him as he dipped the nozzle against what must have been one of the valves and let a few drops roll out onto its side – it looked oily already – before putting it down, on top of the bedroom radiator.

—Jimmy, she said again.

—Wha’?

—Can I say something?

He couldn’t hear her. He could – but he had to try hard. It was like trying to follow what someone was saying in a packed pub.

—Go on.

—Look at me.

—Hang on.

He lowered the valve back into the cylinder, or whatever it was.

Go away, go away
.

He jiggled it till he thought he heard a click and a tightness – the valve was home – and he screwed it down. He put fingers on the valves, and lowered them. He lifted the fingers and watched the valves rise.

—Done.

—I’m still here.

The way she’d said it – she was lovely.

—Sorry.

—Nervous?

—Not really. Yeah. Very.

He put the trumpet in the case.

—I’m terrified, he said.

Now he looked at her.

—Not the chemo, he said.

—I know.

—The nausea.

It felt good to say it.

—It’s like puttin’ your hand on a hotplate, he said.—Deliberately. Why would you fuckin’ do that?

—Do you want to stop?

—No. You mean call it off?

—Yes.

—No. Yeah, I’d love to. I’d – I’d faint with happiness if I was told – if they rang now an’ told me it was over.

Her arms were around him.

—But no.

She pulled at the waistband, and let it go.

—Lay off.

—Sorry. I’m listening.

—I’m finished, he said.—And sorry about the cancer trousers. I know you hate them.

—I want you to hate them.

—I do.

—Not really.

—No, I do. It’s just – the tension, I suppose.

He tried to show her.

—It’s all around my stomach, like it’s in it. Have I put on weight?

—No.

—It feels that way. With proper jeans on.

—Will you come downstairs?

—Yeah, yeah. In a minute.

—No, listen, she said.—I don’t know what you’re going through. Don’t take this wrong – but you’re frightening the kids. Even Marvin. Especially Marvin. When you’re like this. And I know – . But – do you understand, Jimmy?

—Yeah.

He nodded.

—Yeah.

His eyes were wet. So were hers.

—I’m tryin’.

—I know.

He wasn’t sure the bed would still be there when he moved, whether they were right at the edge of it and he’d end up face-first on the floor; he didn’t know where he was here. His feet were tangled in – it might have been a dressing gown, or a towel.

He was freezing.

—Are you in a hurry? said Imelda.

—No, he said.—No.

—Liar.

—I’m not, said Jimmy.—Seriously.

He’d walked in earlier, into the kitchen. He’d looked at Aoife. He’d smiled. Brave man, only one night left to chemo.

—How are you? she’d asked.

—Grand.

—How was the day?

—Grand, he said.—Not too bad. Shifted a few units.

—Good.

He’d gone upstairs. He’d sat on the bed. He’d thought about leaving, sliding out of the house. Driving to Howth Head. Stepping off it. Onto the rocks and into the sea.

It wasn’t real thought. He was messing.

He walked back into the kitchen. He looked down at the dog.

—Do we have a lead for this thing? he said.

—In under the sink, said Aoife.—But he’s a bit small for it, I’d say.

She was right. The lead was a thick length of rope, probably made for a harpoon. And, now that he thought of it, the dog didn’t have a collar yet.

—Do we have any string?

—No way, like.

It was Mahalia.

—Why not?

—You’ll strangle him.

—Only if I want to.

—Not funny, she said.—Hang on.

She was gone – he had to wait. But it was fine; he wasn’t panicking.

Mahalia was back.

—There.

She handed him what looked like the cord of a dressing gown.

—Grand, he said.—Hang on, this is mine.

—Tough shit, Sherlock.

He tied the cord around the dog’s neck, not too tight. He stood up and gave it a little tug. The dog yelped, and skidded. It was the shock, not the tightness.

Jimmy had to get out. He felt devastated, and fuckin’ great. He didn’t trust himself.

—I’m gone.

—We’ll eat when you get back.

If I get back
.

Gobshite
.

—Grand. Come on, Messi.

—Bring this.

Aoife handed him a SuperValu bag.

—Why?

—Poo.

—I’ll wait till I get home.

—You’re hilarious, she said.

He put the bag in his pocket.

—See yeh in a bit.

—Has he been wormed, by the way? he shouted back from the hall.

—Keep him off the grass!

That made about as much sense as anything did these days.

—Grand.

He slammed the front door. It was expected; everything was normal.

He gave the cord a bit of a tug. The dog didn’t budge. He actually did look a bit like Messi, the hair and the front legs. But not nearly as cheerful or enthusiastic.

—Come on, for fuck sake.

He took a few steps but the dog didn’t go with him. He didn’t realise it – the dog was so light – until he heard a knock on the window behind him, and he looked back and saw Messi on his side, claiming a fuckin’ penalty. He laughed, although he wanted to kick the dog down the road.

—Come on, stop messin’.

He picked him up and put him back down when he got past
the car and the gate. The dog pissed, then stood in the piss and shivered.

Jimmy pulled the dog out of the puddle, but any more pulling would have been cruel. He picked him up again, held him out and shook some of the piss off him. He took the SuperValu bag from his pocket and shook it open with his free hand. Then he put Messi into it.

That was the dog’s first walk, up to his neck in a SuperValu bag. His feet never touched the ground but he went as far as the coast, through the last of the daylight, across the wooden bridge to Bull Island.

Jimmy hadn’t walked this far in ages. But, then, he hadn’t committed adultery before. The word meant nothing. The sex felt like an achievement. The day before his third session of chemotherapy, with memories of the second one still raw enough to make him cry, he’d managed it. Simple as that. There were all sorts of reasons why he shouldn’t have done it, and all sorts of reasons why he shouldn’t have been able to do it. But he’d put his hands on the skin of a woman he didn’t really know, didn’t know well, and he’d pushed all the worries and doubts away. He’d given Imelda the best five minutes she’d had all week.

There were people staring at him.

Fuck them.

They could see the guilt on him.

That was just stupid. And he didn’t feel guilty.

He’d come too far, but he wanted to go to the end of the Wall. They’d be starving if they were waiting for him at home. He’d see if he could get a taxi when he got back onto the main road.

He should have told Imelda about the cancer. She’d liked his head; she’d said so. She’d run her hands over the stubble. His hair hadn’t fallen out – not yet. He was just a man with a shaved head. The excuse hadn’t been there to tell her.

You’ve no eyebrows, Jimmy
.

But that was shite.

He’d been afraid of tears and sympathy. He’d wanted her to sit on him because he was a man, not because he was dying.

He believed that.

—So, she’d said.—Are we going to do this again?

—Yeah.

He’d been dying to go, to get the fuck away. But he’d have stayed. She was still gorgeous.
Still
? He’d fancied her – and he’d
liked her – for more than a quarter of a century, and he’d have kissed her neck again, while her kids came skipping up the garden path. Were her kids still kids? Her garden path was a three-minute walk from his parents’ garden path.