He let go of Jimmy’s elbow and put his hand, palm open, on Jimmy’s chest, where his heart was — Jimmy wasn’t sure. It was terrible. It was fuckin’ excruciating.
Ned was looking at something over Jimmy’s shoulder. Jimmy looked. It was the intern, and she’d rescued him.
— Her name’s Ocean, he told Ned.
— Yes, said Ned.
— Some arse on her, wha’.
— Steady on, Jimmy.
Anyway, that was the breathlessness sorted. And he needed exercise. The specialist — Jimmy couldn’t remember his name — the doctor who was a mister, had told him. He had to stay fit, or get fit for the first time since he’d given up the football thirty years ago. Mister Dunwoody.
The cunt.
He slid out of the velour and climbed into the bed. He lay back. But something stopped him. Something hard hit against his feet. He tried pushing it off the bed but it wouldn’t budge. It was tucked in, tangled in the duvet.
— Fuck it.
He leaned across, turned the light on. He sat up and pulled off the duvet.
It was a suitcase. That was what it looked like, black and rectangular. But it was too narrow, like a suitcase had been sawed down the middle. He pulled it towards him. It wasn’t heavy but it didn’t feel empty. It was quite thick, deep — like a suitcase again. He opened it, pulled the zip across the front.
— Fuckin’ hell.
It was a trumpet. A fuckin’ trumpet. It was a beautiful thing, shining brass, in its red plush coffin. He picked it up. It felt heavier than the case had. It was cold too. He put his cheek against the horn — he caught himself doing it. It was amazing, though, the most beautiful thing he’d ever held. It was definitely a woman.
— Do you like it?
It was Aoife. He hadn’t heard her.
— Is it mine?
He knew he sounded stupid, but it was hard to think that he could actually own one of these.
— Yes, she said. — It’s yours. Keepies.
— It’s gorgeous.
— Yes, she said.
He’d seen a trumpet before, of course. An oul’ lad in his first band — Joey the Lips Fagan — had been a trumpet player, and there’d been a trumpet in two of his later bands. But he’d never held one. He brought it up to his mouth.
— Where’s the yoke? The mouthpiece.
It wasn’t there. The trumpet looked unfinished, a bit useless, without it.
— It’s separate, said Aoife.
She pointed at the case.
— See? It has its own little space.
Jimmy took the mouthpiece from the case.
— He said to be sure not to put it in too tightly, said Aoife.
— Sound advice.
He put it to his mouth.
He changed his mind. He took it away.
— Are you not going to give it a go?
— No, he said. — Not now. It’ll be terrible. Tomorrow, I’ll try it. But not now.
He looked properly at her.
— Jesus, Aoife. Thanks.
— You’re welcome.
— It’s just — amazin’.
— I know.
He pulled out the mouthpiece and put it back in its hole.
— It’s funny, he said. — I don’t even know how to hold it properly.
— You can have lessons.
— Yep.
He put the trumpet back into the case.
— He said you —
— Who?
— The man I bought the trumpet from. He said you’d be able to play a tune by next Christmas.
— Great.
He looked at her.
— Brilliant.
He closed the case and zipped it.
— You like it, so?
— It’s—, he said. — Well — it’s perfect.
— Good.
— And it looks perfect.
— It does, doesn’t it?
— Yeah.
— And sexy.
— Oh yeah.
She picked up the velour.
— So, she said. — Do you like your new cancer trousers?
— Fuck off now.
He’d whacked Ned.
That fact whacked him at his mother’s. It shook him. He couldn’t remember ever hitting anyone. Anyone else — ever. He’d always avoided fights, and no one had ever really started on him. In a pub or club, or a taxi rank — the usual places — the queue in the chipper. He’d never picked a fight that needed a boot or a fist.
But there it was.
He looked at his right hand. There were no marks or cuts, no sudden pain to match the clout of the memory.
But he’d whacked the man. Outside, after the office do. It was there in his head, something that had definitely happened.
The house was packed. It was the same every Stephen’s Day. All the kids and grandkids, the wives, husbands, and the latest life partners. It had started years ago, when Jimmy and his sister, Sharon, had first moved out. They’d eat the stuff left over from Christmas Day. Now though, there weren’t enough leftovers. It was a whole new turkey, more spuds, ham, the works and the leftovers. They ate in shifts or standing up, or on the stairs. A couple of the kids even ate on the street, holding their plates and kicking a ball.
— This is our big day now, his ma had told him.
She spoke quietly.
— How are yeh, love?
— Grand.
— No, she said. — Listen to me. I’ve been livin’ too long with your father. How are you — really?
His ma had shrunk. She was in under his chin, a hand on his chest and a hand on his back, the way he’d often held onto his own kids.
— Really, he said. — I’m grand.
— Grand, she said. — I hate that bloody word.
His da was pretending to count the grandkids.
— You’re new, he said to Brian.
— I’m not, Grandda.
— Well, yeh weren’t here last year.
— I was.
— And which one is your da?
Brian pointed.
— Him.
— Far as yeh know, said Jimmy’s da.
His ma let go of Jimmy.
— In you go. If you can find a bit of space.
His sisters and brother — No Les! — and the other adults all hugged him carefully or shook his hand, carefully, and gave him enough space to park a car. They were just being considerate but he found himself in front of the only empty chair in the house, probably in Barrytown, and surrounded by loved ones who were waiting to see if he’d manage to sit without his guts spilling onto the carpet.
He stayed standing.
Ned had been walking ahead of him. Jimmy had held back, just for a few seconds. He was getting used to the air, and waiting till he thought he’d be able to walk without strolling out onto the road. But he was fine, he was grand. He was getting the hang of simple things again, how to walk with people close to him, how to talk to more than one person at a time, how not to panic, how not to give up and just go home, how not to worry about the taste of the mulled wine that kept coming back up at him.
He was grand. He was grand.
— Alright, Jimmy?
— Grand, yeah. I’m just waitin’ on Des.
— He’s ahead of us, look.
— Oh, grand.
He could walk. He was fine.
— Sorry.
He’d bumped into someone — the twit.
— No worries.
He’d been walking. There’d been nothing to it. Easy.
There were women ahead. He’d catch up. He’d soak up their sympathy and love. The mulled wine was there again, a ball of it bursting at the top of his throat. He kept going, though. He was grand. There was Noeleen. And girlfriends and wives. He’d nearly caught up. And he saw Ned’s hand. Sliding down the back of your woman Ocean’s jacket, down towards her arse. And Jimmy grabbed Ned’s arm, kind of leaned forward — he remembered this — like he was crossing a finishing line or something. Ned turned and Jimmy thumped him — no, slapped him. That was it — he’d slapped Ned across the face. Jimmy could feel the beard on his open hand.