— You’ll have to tell me now.
— I’m goin’ to tell yeh. I’ve every intention of tellin’ yeh. Is he workin’ on my pint over there?
Jimmy pretended to look across at the bar and the barman he didn’t know behind it.
— He is, yeah, he told his da.
— Grand.
— Are yeh goin’ blind?
— No. But — no. It’s like everythin’ else.
Jimmy knew what his da meant and it was a good place to give him his own news. But he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t ready.
— Bertie, he said.
— Fuckin’ Bertie, said his da. — He told me his youngest fella, Gary I think it is. He’s about the same age as your Marvin.
— Seventeen.
— Abou’ tha’, yeah. A year or two older. A little fucker, by all accounts. Annyway, he told Bertie and Bertie told me that he — Gary, like — gets off with older women on Facebook.
— I heard abou’ that alrigh’.
— Did yeh?
— I did, yeah.
— Wha’ sort of a fuckin’ club is tha’?
— A good one, said Jimmy. — If it’s what you’re into. They’re called cougars.
— What are?
— The older women tha’ prey on the younger men.
— Jesus, said Jimmy Sr. — Veronica watches tha’ one.
— Wha’?
— Cougar Town. On the telly. And that’s what it’s about, is it? I thought it was like Born Free or somethin’.
— What’s Born Free?
— A film, said Jimmy Sr. — Before you were born. One o’ those nature things. Africa, lions, a load of shite. Andy Williams sang the song. Where’s tha’ cunt with my pint?
He was squinting across at the bar again.
— Does he know he’s supposed to be bringin’ it down? Jimmy asked.
— He should.
— Stay there.
Jimmy went up to the bar, paid for the pint, waited for his change, and brought the pint back to his father.
— Good man.
He waited till Jimmy was sitting again.
— So, he said. — This Cougar Town thing is abou’ oul’ ones chasin’ after young lads?
— I think so, said Jimmy. — I’ve never seen it.
He was lying. He loved it. Courteney Cox still gave him the horn.
— Yeh don’t think Ma’s up to anythin’ like tha’, do yeh? he asked.
— This conversation isn’t goin’ the way I wanted it to, said Jimmy Sr. — No, I don’t. She’d tell me.
— Would she?
— No.
— You’re safe enough, I’d say, said Jimmy.
— She’s seventy-one, for fuck sake.
— That’s not old.
— Ah, it is. The cougars, they’re late 30s, early 40s.
— You’ve seen it.
— No, I haven’t — fuck off. Just the pictures in the paper. Annyway. This Facebook thing. It’s the young lads, Gary an’ tha’, who’re chasin’ the older birds.
— The older birds are chasin’ them as well. That’s what I meant by social networkin’. Are yeh thinkin’ of givin’ it a go yourself?
— No, I’m not.
He smiled.
— But —
— Because, if you are, said Jimmy. — I have to tell yeh. Most o’ the women older than you are actually dead.
— Well, at least I wouldn’t have to talk to them. An’ just so yeh know.
He sat up, moved his pint an inch.
— What I said earlier. Abou’ goin’ blind an’ tha’. Everythin’ deterioratin’ when yeh get older.
He waited, made sure Jimmy was paying proper attention.
— Go on, said Jimmy.
— I still wake up with a hard one, said his father.
— Do yeh? said Jimmy.
Don’t blush, he told himself. Don’t blush.
— Every mornin’, said Jimmy Sr. — Includin’ Sundays.
— That’s great. Well done.
— Fuck off.
Jimmy Sr picked up his pint, took a swig, put it back down.
— I know, he said. — You’re my son an’ all. So it’s a strange thing to be tellin’ yeh an’ it isn’t even dark outside. I wouldn’t have told yeh twenty years ago. I wouldn’t’ve dreamt of it. But what’re yeh now? You’re wha’? Forty-seven?
— Bang on.
— Well then, I thought I’d let yeh know, said Jimmy Sr. — I noticed yeh grunted there when you were sittin’ down. An’ there’s a lot more of your forehead on view than there used to be. Happens to us all. It’s desperate. Men are hit particularly bad. So, but. It isn’t all bad, is what I’m tryin’ to say. Father to son, like.
— D’you know wha’, Father?
— Wha’?
— That’s the first time you’ve ever spoken to me like tha’. Father to son.
— Is tha’ right?
— Yeah.
— No.
— Fuckin’ yeah.
— You’re not annoyed, are yeh?
— No, I’m not.
— Grand.
— But tell us, said Jimmy. — Wha’ do yeh do with your hard one?
— You’re missin’ the point, son. That’s a different conversation. An’ I don’t think it’s one we’ll ever be havin’.
— Grand, said Jimmy.
They said nothing for a bit.
— How come Bertie has such a young son? Jimmy asked.
— Ah Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr. — He rode his missis. It’s no great mystery.
— Still though, said Jimmy. — He’s quite old to be havin’ a teenager for a son.
He watched his father shrug. One of the shoulders was slower coming back down than the other and he seemed to be in a bit of pain as the second shoulder settled.
— Bertie’d be a bit younger than me, said Jimmy Sr.
— Not that much, said Jimmy. — One of his kids, the mad one. Jason. He was a year behind me in school. He must be forty-five or six now.
— He must be, said Jimmy Sr.
— Where is he these days?
— Over there, said Jimmy Sr.
— The fat guy in the Arsenal jersey?
— That’s him, said Jimmy Sr. — He’s let himself go since he came off the heroin. Still lives at home.
— Hate tha’.
— Don’t be talkin’. It’s not natural. The state of him. Bertie says he has an Arsenal duvet cover an’ all.
— They’re not a bad team.
— They’re overrated. Ah, it’s sad. He did time, yeh know.
— Portlaoise.
— That’s righ’. Gun but no bullets. Still, he had the gun. Walks into a credit union with it. So, fuck’m. He deserved what he got. But annyway.
He picked up his pint. There was about half of it left.
— Hang on, said Jimmy.
He went up to the bar to order another pint for his da. He wanted to stand, just for a bit. He was restless, angry. Not really angry — nervous.
He looked at Bertie’s Jason. He didn’t look like a man to be scared of, a man who’d done time for armed robbery. He was sitting beside two other guys — now they looked a bit frightening — but he wasn’t really with them. They were much younger than Jason, harder, firmer, shouting quietly at each other.
— Fuckin’ did.
— Fuckin’ didn’t, fuck off, m’n.
He waited for the pint and paid for it. He took the change.
— Thanks.
And he went back down to his da.
— There yeh go.
— Good man, said Jimmy Sr.
He put the empty glass on the table to his left, and put the new one on top of his beer mat.
— So. Young Jason.
— Yeah.
— He gets out. But the family’s gone.
— Where?
— No, not gone anywhere. Just not his any more. She doesn’t want annythin’ to do with him. A lovely bird, by the way. You’d never guess it, looking at George fuckin’ Clooney over there in his Arsenal gear. Fuckin’ lovely.