— Shut up, for fuck sake.
— Wha’?
They sat there for a bit, and relaxed.
— Ground’s damp.
— Stop whingein’.
— I don’t hear any music.
— It hasn’t started yet.
— So we paid a fortune for fuckin’ silence?
— Fuck off, said Jimmy. — It’ll kick off at four — I think.
He took the programme from his back pocket. He’d printed it out the night before. He had to bring it up to his eyes; he hadn’t brought his reading glasses.
— A quarter to four, he said.
— Who’s on tonight?
— Sigur Rós.
— Who?
— The xx.
— Fuckin’ who?
— Christy Moore.
— Ah, for fuck sake.
— I like Christy Moore, said Les.
— We all like Christy Moore, said Outspan.
Jimmy hated Christy Moore.
— But it’s like havin’ one o’ the neighbours gettin’ up onstage, said Outspan. — Who else? Someone we know — come on.
— Well, I’m going to Christy Moore, said Les. — A good old sing-song.
— Grand, said Jimmy.
Maybe Noeleen was right; he just automatically hated everything Irish.
— Why Christy? he asked Les.
— What d’you mean?
— Is it cos you live in England?
— Come on, said Les; he looked happily angry. — You think I cry into my pint, pining for home?
— No.
— He’s good, Jimmy.
— Okay.
— You haven’t changed.
How could he tell? How could Les know what Jimmy had been like twenty-five years ago, when Jimmy hadn’t a clue what Les had been like?
— I’m happy enough, said Jimmy. — I’ll watch Christy too.
— He’ll be fuckin’ delighted, said Outspan.
— Fuck off.
— He’ll write a fuckin’ song about yeh.
— Fuck off.
— Will we put up the tents?
— In a minute.
— Annyone hungry?
— No.
Jimmy could feel the heat now, on his neck and hands. The ground was cold under them though, even under plastic.
— When’s it open? Des asked.
— Three — I think.
— You didn’t answer me question, Rabbitte, said Outspan.
— Wha’ question?
— Who else is playin’? said Outspan. — That we’ve heard of.
— Tonigh’?
— Tonigh’. Come on.
— Grizzly Bear.
— Never heard of them.
— I have, said Des.
— Anny good?
— I don’t know, said Des. — I know the name. But I don’t think I’ve actually heard them.
— Ah now, Dezlie. For fuck sake.
— Dexys Midnight Runners, said Les.
— Tomorrow, said Jimmy.
— Fuckin’ brilliant, said Outspan. — Thirty thousand cunts singin’ ‘Come On Eileen’.
They were on their second cans.
— We should o’ brought some o’ those fold-up chairs.
— We might be able to buy some.
— My arse is numb.
— Like your fuckin’ head.
It was a great few hours. Doing nothing, getting to know the other lads. Jimmy liked Les. He liked being with him. He texted Darren. At the Picnic wth Les. Hows the baby? Les was a can ahead of the others but Jimmy made himself relax. Some of the passing kids stared at them, like they were afraid they’d find their parents with them.
— We’d better get the tents up or there’ll be no room.
— Good thinkin’.
It was hard standing up –
— Fuck.
— but good crack erecting the tents. Although they seemed a bit light and small, and useless.
— We should’ve brought some of those inflatable mattresses.
— Not at all. We’ll be grand.
They watched Les unrolling a rubber mat.
— Do we have annythin’ like that? Jimmy asked Outspan.
— What is it?
— A yoga mat.
Aoife had one like it, except hers had the dog’s teeth marks on it, and a corner missing.
— No, said Outspan.
— Wha’ have we?
— Wha’ d’yeh mean?
— To lie on.
— The fuckin’ ground.
Jimmy tapped the roof of the tent. It was like tapping a stretched silk shirt.
— Hope it doesn’t rain, he said.
— You’re startin’ to annoy me, Rabbitte, said Outspan, although Jimmy could tell that Outspan wasn’t annoyed. And he liked that, that they were slipping into their old selves, the way they’d known each other years ago.
— Just fuck off whingein’, said Outspan. — It’ll keep the rain ou’, no bother. Most of it, annyway.
— Grand.
— We’ll go for a wander, will we?
— Okay.
They threw all the stuff into one of the tents.
— Will it be safe?
— Probably not.
They followed Les. The grass was intact nearly everywhere. The boggier patches had been filled with wood chippings and bark, small bits of tree. There were people cooking, a gobshite playing a guitar, a few lads already skulled. Jimmy always thought of his own kids when he saw other kids drunk. But he’d park that for the weekend; he’d try to.
— Any sign of the jackses?
— The middle-aged bladder.
— Fuckin’ terrible, isn’t it?
— Over there — look it.
The muck looked more sinister as they got nearer the toilets, a line of plastic, windowless phone boxes that looked like they’d already taken a hammering. There was a urinal too, a long yellow plastic trough of a thing that was probably used for feeding cattle when the field wasn’t full of teenagers from Dublin. It was up against a wire fence, so they pissed while gangs of young ones and lads passed on the other side of the fence, and a group of older women who looked like they were normally a book club.
Outspan had gone into one of the phone boxes and he’d been in there for a fair while.
— Is he okay?
— He’s dyin’.
— Not now though — is he?
— Will I knock?
— Don’t know.
But Outspan spared them the decision. He climbed out of the thing, like he was getting out of a car. The kid who was next in line for Outspan’s jacks waited till Outspan had gone past, then moved to the back of a different queue.
— Alrigh’? said Jimmy.
— Grand, yeah, said Outspan. — That’ll do me till Sunday, I’d say.
— Ah good.
— Look.
Darfur had grown four or five times bigger since they’d arrived. The average age had gone up too, and some of the tents had seen serious use — these were people who’d brought families camping. There was movement; the kids were starting to migrate towards the stages and the main arena.
— I’ve changed me mind.
— Wha’?
— We’re not the ugliest nation in the world.
— Some of them are lovely, aren’t they?
— Most of them.
— Fuckin’ all o’ them. ’Cept your woman over there in the Donegal jersey.
— Were their mothers as good-looking?
— No way.
— Yeh sure?
— Positive, said Des. — I’d remember.
They could hear a band tuning up now, the noise drifting across at them.
— Who’s that?
— Don’t know, said Jimmy.
He hated having to admit it.
— Sounds shite anyway, he said. — Are we righ’?
They went back across to their tents. They packed jacks paper, rain jackets, middle-age hoodies, and Ambre Solaire –
— You’re fuckin’ optimistic.
— into two backpacks. They left everything else. The sun came out, sudden and strong, and Jimmy could see right through their tents. If the sun could do that what would the fuckin’ rain do?