Veronica’s face was the same.
— Annyway, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s you says tha’ we can’t send any, not me.
Veronica’s face hardened. Jimmy Sr got in before she could.
— You said we can’t afford them, he said. — I don’t mind.
— We can’t afford them, said Veronica.
— There, said Jimmy Sr. — Yeh said it again. We can’t afford them. So we won’t send any. — So wha’ are yeh whingin’ abou’? It’s your idea.
Veronica sighed. She just looked sad again.
— That’s not fair, she said.
— How is it not fair? Jimmy Sr wanted to know. — How is it not fair!?
Veronica sighed again.
— How!?
— You’re blaming me, said Veronica.
— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — An’ you’re blamin’ me.
— What d’you mean? said Veronica.
— Yeh are, said Jimmy Sr. — You’ve decided tha’ we haven’t the money to buy Christmas cards an’ you’re probably righ’. But then you put this puss on yeh — It’s not my fault we’ve no fuckin’ money for your fuckin’ Christmas cards!
— I never said it was.
— No, but yeh looked it; I have eyes, yeh know.
He stood up.
— Ah, Jimmy—
— Ah, nothin’; I’m sick of it; just — fuck off!
Jimmy Sr was holding a bottle of Guinness. He had a can of Tennents in his other hand and an empty glass between his knees, so he was having problems. That was the worst thing about not being at home; just that; you weren’t at home, so you couldn’t do what you wanted. You had to watch yourself.
He was in Bimbo’s house.
If he’d been in his own gaff he wouldn’t have been sitting like this, like a gobshite, too far back in the armchair — he couldn’t get out of the fuckin’ thing because his hands were full. He didn’t want to put the can or the bottle on one of the arms of the chair because the wood was at an angle like a ski jump and very shiny; he could smell the polish. And Bimbo’s kids were flying around the place, in and out, like fuckin’ — kids. And this fuckin’ tie he had on him, it was killing him; it was sawing the fuckin’ neck off him. It was the shirt, a new one Veronica’d given him; she said he’d put on weight. It wasn’t fuckin’ fair: he was drinking far less but he was getting fuckin’ fatter. She said he was anyway. She’d probably said it because it was either that or admit that she’d bought him the wrong size of a shirt. Anyway, he was fuckin’ choking and he couldn’t loosen the poxy tie because his fuckin’ hands were full—
Jesus tonight!
It was Christmas morning. They did this every Christmas, went to one of their houses and had a few scoops before the dinner. It was good; usually. He wasn’t sure, but he had a good idea that it was really his and Veronica’s turn to have the rest of them in their house; he wasn’t sure. Bimbo had just said, Will yis all be comin’ to our place for your Christmas drinks? a few days ago and Jimmy Sr hadn’t bothered saying anything because there was no point; they hadn’t the money to buy the drink for them all.
They’d only a few cans for themselves at home, and Jimmy Jr was bringing some more. He was supposed to be anyway.
He leaned forward as far as he could go and put the Tennents on the floor; he could just reach it. That was better. Now he could organise himself a bit better. He rescued the glass from between his knees and held it for the Guinness.
Bimbo’s mother-in-law was still looking over at him.
Let her, the bitch.
He wished Bertie would hurry up. He was good with oul’ ones like that. He told them they were looking great and he wished he was a few years older and that kind of shite. Jimmy Sr was no good at that sort of thing, not this morning anyway.
She was still looking at him.
He smiled over at her.
— Cheers, he said.
She just looked at him.
Jesus, he didn’t know how Bimbo could stick it. Where the fuck was Bimbo anyway? He was by himself in here, except for Freddy Kruger’s fuckin’ granny over there. He said he’d be back in a minute. And that was hours ago. He was playing with one of the kids’ computers, that was what the cunt was doing; leaving Jimmy Sr here stranded.
Veronica was inside in the kitchen with Maggie, Bimbo’s one.
— That’s a great smell comin’ from the kitchen, wha’, said Jimmy Sr.
Her mouth moved.
— What’s tha’? he said, and he leaned out.
Maybe she hadn’t said anything. Maybe she couldn’t help it; she couldn’t control her muscles, the ones that held her mouth up. Ah Jaysis, this was fuckin’ terrible; fuck Bimbo anyway.
He heard feet on the path.
— Thank fuck.
It was out before he knew it. And she nodded; she did; she’d heard him; oh Christ!
She couldn’t have; no. No, she’d just nodded at the same time, that was all. Because, probably, her neck wasn’t the best any more, that was all. He hoped.
The bell rang; the first bit of Strangers in the Night.
She definitely hadn’t heard him.
Stupid fuckin’ thing for a bell to do, play a song. Anyway, they didn’t even need a bell. This house was the exact same as Jimmy Sr’s; you could hear a knock on the door anywhere in the house.
Bertie came in.
— Compadre!
Jimmy Sr got up out of the chair.
— Happy Christmas, Bertie.
They shook hands. Bertie’s hand was huge, and dry.
Vera, the wife, was with him; a fine thing, Jimmy Sr’d always thought; still in great nick.
— Howyeh, Jimmy love, she said, and she stuck her cheek out, sort of, for him to kiss.
He kissed it. It wasn’t caked in that powdery stuff that a lot of women wore when they were out. Mind you, Veronica didn’t wear that stuff either.
The room was fuller now; Jimmy Sr, Vera, Bertie, Bimbo and two of his kids, and the mother-in-law over there in her corner. Jimmy Sr felt happier now.
— What’!! yeh have, Vera? said Bimbo.
— D’yeh want a Tennents? Jimmy Sr asked Bertie.
— Oh si, said Bertie.
— Bimbo gave me one, Jimmy Sr explained, — an’ then he asked me if I’d prefer a bottle o’ stout an’ I said Fair enough, so—
He picked the can up off the floor.
— I didn’t open it or annythin’.
— Good man, said Bertie. — Gracias.
— Will yis have a small one with them? Bimbo asked Jimmy Sr and Bertie.
Jimmy Sr looked at Bertie and Bertie shrugged.
— Fair enough, yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — Good man.
This was the business now alright. He grinned at Vera, and lifted his glass.
— Cheers, wha’.
— What did Santy bring yeh, Jimmy? Vera asked him.
— This, said Jimmy Sr.
He showed her his new shirt.
— Very nice.
— It’s a bit small.
— Ah no; it’s nice.
Bertie had found Maggie’s mother.
— Isn’t she lookin’ even better than last year? he said to them.
— Def’ny, said Jimmy Sr, but he couldn’t look at her.
— They’re in the kitchen, Jimmy Sr told Vera.
— Good for them, said Vera.
Bimbo came back with the small ones and Vera’s drink, a gin or a vodka.
— The cavalry, said Bertie. — Muchos gracias, my friend.
— The girls are in the kitchen, Bimbo told Vera.
— Good, said Vera.
Jimmy Sr reckoned she’d had a few already. Maybe not though: she wasn’t really like the other women, always making fuckin’ sandwiches and tea and talking about the Royal Family and Coronation Street and that kind of shite. She kept their house grand though; any time Jimmy Sr had been in it anyway.