Bimbo shifted to one side and farted. They started laughing.
— My Jaysis, said Paddy. — You’re fuckin’ rotten.
— There’s somethin’ dead inside you, d’yeh know tha’? said Jimmy Sr, waving his hand in the air and leaning away from Bimbo.
Bimbo wiped his eyes with his fist.
— Yeh can smell it from here, said a voice from a distant corner.
That got them laughing again.
— They sound great in these chairs, Bimbo explained.
— Yeah, said Bertie. — Tha’ stuff’s great.
— Leatherette.
— Si.
— I don’t believe I’m hearin’ this, said Paddy.
— Ah fuck off, Paddy, said Jimmy Sr. — Annyway, it’s your twist.
Jimmy Sr turned back to Bertie.
— Okay, he said. — You’re on.
— Good, said Bertie. — Mucho good. Are yeh sure now you’ll be able to get me the jacks?
— No problem to me.
— An’ one o’ those yokes for washin’ your arse? A bidet.
— No problem.
— Wha’ would yeh want one o’ them for? Bimbo asked.
— For washin’ your arse, yeh fuckin’ eejit, said Paddy.
— Yeah, but wha’ would yeh want to do tha’ for? Bimbo wanted to know. — Puttin your arse wet back into your knickers.
— You’re got a point there, said Jimmy Sr.
— It’s a buyer’s market, Bimbo, compadre mio, said Bertie. — My client he wants to wash his hole, so — I’ll wash it for him meself if he pays me enough. Fawn? he asked Jimmy Sr.
— Okay. No problem.
— What’s fawn? Bimbo asked.
— The colour!
— Oh yeah.
— Jesus, said Paddy.
* * *
— Wha’ did yeh say to him? Yvonne asked.
— I said I couldn’t help it, said Sharon.
— He must be a righ’ fuckin’ bastard, said Jackie. — I know what I’d’ve told him.
— I said I couldn’t help it if I had to keep goin’ to the toilet. He blushed, yeh should’ve seen him. Just cos I said Toilet.
— Jesus, are yeh serious? He must be red all the time, is he?
— He’s a fuckin’ eejit, said Sharon. — He said it wasn’t fair on the other girls. An’ I said they didn’t mind. They don’t annyway. Most o’ them prefer the check-out. Cos they can sit down. — ’Cept when it’s really busy. But you’d swear stackin’ shelves was a fuckin’ luxury, the way he talked. That’s all he is annyway. A shelf stacker in a suit. He’s not a real manager at all. He’s only one o’ them trainee ones. Paddy in the bakery called him tha’ to his face once, a shelf stacker in a suit. It was fuckin’ gas.
— Is he good lookin’, Sharon? Mary asked.
— Are yeh jokin’ me! said Sharon. — Yeh know Roland the Rat? Well, he looks like him. Only not as nice.
They laughed.
— Jesus then, listen, said Sharon.
She’d remembered something else.
— He asked me why I wasn’t wearin’ me uniform, an’ I—
She did it as she said it.
— stuck me belly out an’ I said, It doesn’t fit me. Yeh should’ve seen his face, I’m not jokin’ yis.
They screamed.
— Ah, said Jackie. — The poor chap must’ve been embarrassed.
— Yeah, Sharon, said Mary. — You’re mean.
They laughed again.
— Well — said Sharon. — I was only standin’ up for me rights.
— You were dead right, Sharon, said Yvonne. — Yeh should’ve stuck one o’ your tits in his mouth as well.
— Jesus!!
They really screamed now.
— Oh look it, said Yvonne when they’d recovered. — There’s your chap, Mary.
They looked across at the lounge boy.
Yvonne waved at him.
— Come here!
— Is he comin’?
— No.
They started laughing again.
* * *
A few Sundays after Sharon had sorted out George Burgess, at a quarter to seven, Jimmy Sr was standing in the bar jacks, tucking a bit of shirt back into his fly. The lads had all gone home for their tea and to bring their wives back later — because it was Sunday. Jimmy Sr was going home now himself to collect Veronica.
He decided to wash his hands. They’d installed a new hand dryer and he wanted to have a go on it.
He had his hands in under the dryer and was wondering how long more it would take when he saw George Burgess in the mirror, coming in. George walked behind Jimmy Sr and put his hand on his shoulder. He smiled at Jimmy Sr in the mirror.
— How’s it goin’, Jimmy? he said.
Jimmy Sr shrugged violently.
— Get your fuckin’ hands off me, Burgess.
George was very surprised, and worried.
— What’s wrong with YOU? he asked, still looking at the mirror.
— You know fuckin’ well what’s wrong with me.
Jimmy Sr turned.
— I haven’t a clue, Jim, said George.
He stepped back a bit, to make room for Jimmy Sr.
— Don’t start, said Jimmy Sr. — If you’re goin’ to start tha’ then we’ll go outside an’ have it ou’ now.
George hadn’t been in a fight since 1959, in Bray. He’d lost it, and two of his teeth. And, he was only realizing it now that this was Sharon’s father he was having a row with.
— Look, Jimmy, I don’t know wha’ you’re talkin’ abou’ so you’ll have to tell me.
— I’ll tell yeh alrigh’. You were sayin’ things abou’ Sharon.
Jimmy Sr’s face dared George to deny it.
— I said nothin’ abou’ Sharon, Jimmy. I—
Jimmy Sr gave George’s chest a good dig. It was loud but not too hard; a warning.
— Yeh fuckin’ did, pal, said Jimmy Sr. — Cos Bimbo heard yeh.
— I didn’t mean anny harm, for fuck sake; it was only a joke—
Jimmy Sr thumped him again, harder. George stayed put. He wasn’t going to let himself be pinned to the urinal wall. He’d his good suit on him.
— You’ve got it wrong, Jim.
— Wrong me bollix!
— Yeh have, I swear.
— Me bollix.
Jimmy Sr was pressing into George by now.
— Just cos the poor young one’s pregnant, he said.
— Look—
George was up against the wall. He had to get up onto the step.
— Look, I’m sorry, Jimmy.
— Yeh’d fuckin’ want to be.
— I am, I sw—
— Yeh should be ashamed of yourself, a man o’ your age sayin’ things abou’ young girls like tha’.
— I know—
— Yeh bastard, yeh. — You’re not worth hittin’.
That, thought George, was good news.
— I’m sorry, Jimmy. Really now. On the Bible. I was just messin’ with the lads, yeh know.
— The lads! said Jimmy Sr. — Yeh sound like a fuckin’ kid.
Jimmy Sr turned away and went to the door. He wanted to whoop. He’d won. He stopped at the door.
— Come here, you, he said. — If you ever say another word abou’ Sharon again I’ll fuckin’ kill yeh. Righ’?
— Righ’, Jimmy. I won’t. Yeh needn’t worry. I’m not, eh—
George looked like a beaten man. And that chuffed Jimmy Sr a bit more.
— An’ come here as well, he said. — If yeh drop Darren off the team cos o’ this I’ll kill yeh as well.
— Jaysis, Jimmy, I’d never drop Darren!
* * *
Darren walked into the kitchen.
— Happy birthd’y, son.
— Happy birthday, Darren.
— Happy birth’y, Darren.
— Good man, Darren, said Jimmy Sr. — There y’are.
He handed Darren a thin cylindrical parcel.