— Will I say it again or wha’? said Jimmy’s da.
— Say what?
— You’ve a great collection o’ records.
— I know.
— That’s why I brought young Jimmy with me.
— I know.
— And — what’s your name again, love?
— Ocean.
— An’ Ocean, Jimmy’s da told Norman. — She’s here as well.
— I can see that.
If the room had a middle, Norman was in it. He was moving no closer to the shelves; he was telling them nothing, and showing them nothing.
— Norman, said Jimmy’s da. — The Eucharistic Congress.
— What about it?
— You heard me?
— Every word.
— Grand. Sorry if I seem—. Annyway, Jimmy’s lookin’ for music from 1932.
Norman looked at Jimmy.
— 1932?
— That’s right, said Jimmy.
— Is it in here, Norman? asked Jimmy’s da. — Or in one o’ the other rooms?
— Is what in here?
— 1932.
— Why would there be a year in my kitchen?
— Your 1932 records, said Jimmy’s da. — Are they in here?
— Hold on here, said Norman. — Do you think I catalogue the records by the year?
— Well —
— Are yeh mad? said Norman.
— I’m open to persuasion.
Norman pointed at a wall.
— So that’s supposed to be 1947, is it? Or 1583?
— I think I left somethin’ in the van, said Jimmy’s da.
He walked past Jimmy.
— I’ll be back with a spanner, he said. — We can beat the information out o’ the fucker.
He hitched up his jeans and kept going. Jimmy looked around. He did the full turn.
— This is amazin’, Norman, he said.
Norman nodded.
— I’ve never seen anythin’ like it, said Jimmy. — Have you, Ocean?
— No, said Ocean. — It’s like the Smithsonian.
— Exactly, said Jimmy.
— It’s such a thrill, said Ocean.
Norman was listening.
Jimmy met his da at the hall door.
— I had to get out before I smacked him, said his da. — I’ll go back in now an’ get him movin’.
— Stay here a bit, said Jimmy. — Ocean’s chattin’ to him. He’s givin’ her the tour. I thought I’d leave them to it.
— Usin’ her feminine charms, yeah?
— Yeah. Spot on.
— She’s wastin’ her time, said Jimmy’s da.
— Wha’?
— Norman, said Jimmy’s da. — Did yeh not notice?
— Notice wha’?
— He’s gay, for fuck sake.
— Norman?
— The Norman in there, yeah.
— He’s gay?
— Yeah.
— Since when?
— Wha’?
— Like, he’s old, said Jimmy.
— It’s not a recent thing, if that’s what yeh mean, said his da. — I don’t think it works tha’ way. Yeh don’t wake up thinkin’ you’re gay at the age of seventy-eight or nine.
— But —, said Jimmy.
— I fuckin’ hope not, an’anyway.
— But—. I mean — how long have yeh known?
— Always.
— All your life, like?
— Yeah, said Jimmy’s da. — Norman was always Norman.
— Even way back?
— All I can tell yeh is tha’ he was always Norman. In the family, like. An’ no one gave much of a shite.
— He was openly gay, like?
— Jesus, man. Go back sixty years. D’you think those words meant annythin’? 1952. Here’s Norman Rabbitte. He’s openly gay. For fuck sake.
— Okay.
— No one was openly annythin’ in 1952, Jimmy’s da told Jimmy. — But as near to fuckin’ open as he could be, Norman was open. An’ it was all grand, in the family. As far as I ever knew. But relax, don’t worry. He was probably miserable.
Jesus Christ, my da’s becoming me.
— There now, said Jimmy. — Listen.
They heard music coming from the back of the house.
— Ocean’s worked her magic.
They went after the noise, and found it.
— Jesus.
It was ceili music, but wilder and rougher than Jimmy thought was normal. And there was something else in it, something that made him want to laugh.
— Is tha’ feet?!
Norman turned to look at him. He was holding the cover of an old Parlophone 78.
— Dancing, he shouted. — They’re all dancing!
The room was full of the sound of dancing feet, dozens, maybe hundreds, of pairs of shoes landing on a wooden floor.
— What year is that from, Norman?!
— Wha’?
— Wha’ year —?
— 1932!
— Brilliant!
Jimmy could feel the feet beneath him, coming up from the floor. The dancers on the record were all long dead — they had to be — but he could feel them in the room. There were moments when they were all in the air, then — bang — down, they hit the floor together.
The nausea could fuck off, and the diarrhoea.
— What’s it called, Norman?!
—’Kiss the Bride in the Bed!’
Jimmy looked at his da, and at Ocean.
— Track One! he shouted.
— What’s this?
— That’s the second time in the last few months you’ve looked at a dog and asked, What’s this?
— It’s a dog.
— Yes, said Aoife.
— Is it ours?
— Yes.
— I don’t want a dog.
— Yes, you do.
— Okay.
Shepherd’s pie — Jimmy’s choice. He could only manage baby food and he didn’t want the kids to see that even the thought of most food made him want to be sick.
But the nausea — he hated the fuckin’ word — seemed to be gone. That feeling that made him snap his eyes and even his head — his mind — shut.
— Any gigs comin’ up, Marv?
— No.
— How come?
— Dunno.
— Grand, said Jimmy.
He could eat. He could look properly at the kids, even the ones who wouldn’t look at him. It didn’t upset him. It was temporary.
— So, he said. — The dog.
He put some mince in his mouth.
— Delicious, he said, to Aoife — to all of them.
Young Jimmy thought of something; his head was up from his plate.
— Hey, Dad, he said. — That sounded like you said the dog is delicious.
The laughter filled the place.
— All these years, said Jimmy. — And you never knew what went into shepherd’s pie.
— That’s, like, gross, said Mahalia.
She was eating beans and mashed potato.
— Anyway, said Jimmy. — We’ve a dog. That right, Smoke?
Brian nodded so much his face had problems keeping up.
— Well, said Jimmy. — I want the right to name him.
There was silence, except for the cutlery.
— What’s wrong?
— Nothing.
— Does he have a name already?
— No, said Mahalia.
— Then wha’ then? said Jimmy. — There’s somethin’ wrong. What?
— There’s nothing wrong, said Aoife.
— It’s the way you said it, said Mahalia.
— Said what?
— I want the right to name it.
— How did I say it?
— Like it was your last wish, like, said Mahalia.
— Did I?
Aoife was looking at Mahalia.
— You’re amazing, she said.
— I’m just saying the truth, said Mahalia.
— Yes.
— Did I though? said Jimmy.
A chair scraped, not very dramatically. But Brian was standing, wet-faced, heading for the door to the hall.
— I’ll go after him, said Jimmy. — God, Jesus — I’m sorry.