— D’yis know wha’ they had me doin’ today, do yis? Yis won’t believe this.
— Wha’? said Bimbo.
— They were teachin’ us how to use the phone.
— Wha’!?
— I swear to God. The fuckin’ phone.
— You’re not serious.
— I am, yeh know. I fuckin’ am. The gringo in charge handed ou’ photocopies of a diagram of a phone. I think I have it — No, I left it back at the Ponderosa. I’ll show it to yis tomorrow. — A fuckin’ phone.
— Don’t listen to him.
— It’s true, I’m tellin’ yeh. I was embarrassed for him, the poor cunt. He knew it was fuckin’ stupid himself. You could tell; the poor fucker tellin’ us where to put the tenpences. One chap told him where he could stick the tenpences an’ then he walked ou’.
They laughed.
— Then he was tellin’ us, Bertie continued, — wha’ we should an’ shouldn’t say when we’re lookin’ for work.
— Wha’ should yeh not say? Bimbo asked.
— Anny chance of a fuckin’ job there, pal.
They laughed.
— It was the greatest waste o’ fuckin’ time, said Bertie. — You should always tell the name o’ the paper yeh saw the ad in. There now. An’ there’s no job ads in the Mirror.
Unless it’s the manager o’ Spurs or Man United or somethin’.—I wouldn’t mind, compadres, but I’ve abou’ thirty fuckin’ phones in cold storage. Mickey Mouse an’ Snoopy ones.
— Jessica’d like a Snoopy one, said Bimbo. — For her birth’y.
— You don’t have a phone, said Paddy.
— So?
— So a Snoopy one won’t be much use to Jessica, will it?
— For an ornament, I meant. For her bedside locker.
— Her wha’?
— Her bedside locker.
— I bet yeh you made it yourself.
— No! — I bought it an’ put it together.
Paddy raised his eyes to heaven.
— Do anny of yis ever hit your kids? Jimmy Sr asked them all.
He lowered a third of his latest pint while they looked at him.
— Never, said Bimbo.
— Now an’ again, said Paddy.
— Well, yeah, said Bimbo. — Now an’ again, alrigh’. When they’re lookin’ for it. Specially Wayne.
— It’s the only exercise I get, Bertie told them. — I wait till they’re old enough to run but. To give them a fair chance, yeh know.
Bimbo knew he was joking, so he laughed.
— I’m dyin’ to give Gillian a good hidin’, said Bertie. — But she never does annythin’ bold. She’d give yeh the sick. Trevor’s great though. Trevor’s a desperado.
Jimmy Sr took control of the conversation again.
— Yis’d want to be careful, he told them.
— Why’s tha’, compadre?
— Cos if you’re caught you’re fucked.
— What’re yeh on abou’? said Paddy.
— Child abuse, said Jimmy Sr.
— Would yeh ever fuck off, said Paddy. — Givin’ your kids a smack for bein’ bold isn’t child abuse.
— No way.
— I don’t know, said Jimmy Sr. — It looks to me like yeh can’t look crooked at your kids now—
— Don’t be thick, said Paddy. — You’re exaggeratin’. Yeh have to burn them with cigarette butts or—
— I’m not listenin’ to this, said Bimbo.
— Don’t then, said Paddy. — Or mess around with their—
— SHUT UP.
It was Bimbo. Paddy stopped.
— You’re makin’ a joke of it, said Bimbo.
— I’m not.
— Yeh are.
— Whose twist is it? said Bertie. — Someone’s shy.
— Four pints, Leo, Jimmy Sr shouted. — Like a good man. — Maybe you’re righ’, he said to both Bimbo and Paddy. — It’s shockin’ though, isn’t it? The whole business.
— Fuckin’ terrible, said Bimbo.
— Come here, said Bertie. — Guess who I spied with my little eye this mornin’.
— Who?
— Someone beginnin’ with B.
— Burgess!
— Si.
— Great. Where?
— Swords.
— How was he lookin’? said Jimmy Sr.
— Oh, very thin an’ undernourished, said Bertie. — An’ creased.
— Yahaah!
Jimmy Sr rubbed his hands.
I nearly gave the poor cunt twopence, Bertie told them.
They liked that.
— There mustn’t be another mot so, said Paddy. — If he’s in rag order like tha’.
— Unless she’s a brasser.
— Were yeh talkin’ to him? Bimbo asked.
— No, said Bertie. — I was on me way to learn how to use the phone.
— Now, Leo called. — Four nice pints over here.
— Leo wants yeh, Paddy told Jimmy Sr.
Jimmy Sr brought the pints down to the table and sat down. Bertie picked up the remains of his old pint.
— To the Signor Horge Burgess, he said.
— Oh def’ny, said Bimbo.
They raised their glasses.
— The fuckin’ eejit, said Jimmy Sr.
— Ah now, said Bertie. — That’s not nice.
* * *
Sharon was nowhere near the Abbey Mooney at eight o’clock on Tuesday.
She lay in bed later, half expecting stones to start hitting the window. Or something.
* * *
It was that Sharon Rabbitte one from across the road. She was pregnant. She’d come to the house. She was the one; she knew it.
Dear Doris,
I hope you are well—
People probably knew already. They always did around here. Oh God, the shame; the mortification. She’d never be able to step out of the house again.
I am writing to you to let you know why I left you last week—
If he’d died and left her a widow it would’ve been different, alright; but this wasn’t fair. He was making her feel ashamed, the selfish bastard, and she hadn’t done anything.
Doris, I’ve been having a bit of an affair with a girl. This girl is expecting—
The Rabbitte one; it had to be.
I am very sorry—
It had to be.
I hope you will understand, Doris. I cannot abandon this girl. She has no one else to look after her—
The next bit was worse.
I still love you, Doris. But I love this girl as well. I am, as the old song goes, torn between two lovers. I will miss you and the children very much—
Oh God!
He was her husband!
Twenty-four years. It wasn’t her fault.
P.S.
I got a lend of the paper.
Doris sniffed.
He’d always been an eejit. She’d never be able to go out again. — Men got funny at George’s age. She’d noticed the same thing with her father. They went silly when there were girls near them; when her friends had been in the house. They tried to pretend that they weren’t getting old and made eejits out of themselves. And, God knew, George had a head start there.
The Rabbitte one probably took money off him as well.
* * *
Veronica made out Doris Burgess’s shape through the glass. The hair was the give-away.
She opened the door.
— Doris, she said.
— Is Sharon in? said Doris.
— She’s at work. Why?
Veronica knew; before she had it properly worked out.
Doris tried to look past Veronica.
— Why do you want her? said Veronica.
Now Doris looked at Veronica.
— Well, if you must know, she’s been messin’ around with George. — He’s the father.
— Get lost, Doris, said Veronica.
— I will not get lost now, said Doris. — She’s your daughter, isn’t she?