Bertie leaned in nearer to Bimbo.
— There’s a funny whiff off your mammy-in-law, he told him.
Bimbo looked shocked.
— She might be dead, said Bertie.
Jimmy Sr burst his shite laughing. Poor Bimbo’s face made it worse. Vera laughed as well. She just laughed straight out; she didn’t cluck cluck like a lot of women would’ve, like Veronica would’ve.
— Go over, Bertie told Bimbo. — I’m tellin’ yeh, compadre, the hum is fuckin’ atrocious.
— My God, said Bimbo, dead quiet. — Is she after doin’ somethin’ to herself?
— Go over an’ check, said Bertie. — It might have been just a fart, but—
Bimbo looked around, to make sure that none of the kids was around to witness this.
— Hang on, said Jimmy Sr. — I can smell somethin’ meself now alrigh’.
— Isn’t it fuckin’ woeful? said Bertie.
— Oh God, said Bimbo.
— This could ruin your Christmas dinner, compadre, Bertie told Bimbo.
Bottled Guinness got up into Jimmy Sr’s nose.
He went out into the hall to sort himself out and to laugh properly. This was great; this was the kind of thing you remembered for the rest of your life.
— You’ll never get it out o’ the upholstery, said Bertie.
Jimmy Sr wanted to go out into the garden and roar, really fuckin’ howl.
One of Bimbo’s kids — Wayne he thought it was — ran into the room to tell his da something—
— Get ou’! said Bimbo.
And then.
— Sorry, son; go in an’ tell your mammy I need her.
— Tell her to bring a few J-cloths, said Bertie.
— No! don’t, Wayne, said Bimbo. — Off yeh go.
Wayne came out, looking like he’d just changed his mind about crying, and galloped down to the kitchen walloping the side of his arse like he was on a horse.
When Jimmy Sr went back into the room Bimbo was over at his mother-in-law, pretending he was looking for something on the shelf behind her. Vera pointed at Bertie and whispered to Jimmy Sr.
— He did this to his brother last night, she said. — The exact same thing.
Bimbo came back. They got in together, to consult.
— I can’t smell annythin’, said Bimbo.
— Can yeh not? said Bertie.
— D‘yeh have a cold? Jimmy Sr asked Bimbo. — It’s gettin’ worse.
— It’s not, is it? said Bimbo. — God, this is desperate.
Maggie and Veronica arrived, and most of Bimbo’s kids.
— What’s up? said Maggie. — Ah howyeh, Vera.
— Howyeh, Maggie. Happy Christmas. Happy Christmas, Veronica.
— And yourself, Vera; happy Christmas.
— Never mind Christmas, said Bimbo.
He nodded his head back; he didn’t want to look. He whispered.
— We’ve an emergency on our hands.
— How come? said Maggie.
Jimmy Sr was having real problems keeping his face straight. So was Vera. Bertie though, he looked like a doctor telling you that you had cancer.
— Your mother—, said Bimbo.
— She has a name, you know, said Maggie.
— That’s not all she has, signora, said Bertie.
That was it; Guinness, snot, probably some of his breakfast burst up into Jimmy Sr’s mouth and nose; it didn’t get past his teeth — he was lucky there — but something landed on his shirt; he didn’t care, not yet; his eyes watered—
— Fuck; sorry.
And he laughed.
Veronica had her handkerchief out and was trying to get the snot off his shirt.
He laughed like he was dying of it; it was hurting him but it was fuckin’ great. Veronica was tickling him as well and that made it worse.
Veronica started laughing at him laughing.
They were all laughing now, even Bimbo. He knew he’d been had but he didn’t mind; he never did; only sometimes.
Jimmy Sr felt a fart coming on, and he didn’t trust himself with it; he couldn’t, not the way he was, helpless from the laughing and sweating and that; he’d have ended up being the one who’d ruined Bimbo’s Christmas — by shiteing all over his new carpet.
— Eh, the jacks, he said.
— Off yeh go, said Bertie.
It took him ages to get up the stairs; he had to haul himself up them.
He had a piss while he was up there, and gave his hands a wash; he always did when he was in someone’s house.
He was some tulip, Bertie; he was fuckin’ gas.
Jesus, the water was scalding.
He dried his hands, and looked at his watch: half-twelve. That was good; they’d stay another hour and a half or so. The crack would be good.
Vera; she was a fine-looking bird. She looked after herself — whatever that meant. She looked healthy, that was it. She looked healthier than Veronica. She was a good bit younger than Veronica, maybe ten years. But she looked like she’d been a young one not so long ago and poor Veronica looked like she’d never been a young one. It wasn’t just age though.
Bimbo had an electric razor.
He had two of them, two razors, the jammy bastard; an ordinary-looking one and a thin yellow one that didn’t look like it could’ve been much good. Jimmy Sr picked up the yellow one: Girl Care. What the fuck—
She was a bit of a brasser, Vera, but Jimmy Sr liked that. It was Maggie’s, that was it; for her legs or — only her legs probably. He pressed a small rubber button, and it came on but there was hardly any noise out of it. He put his foot up on the bath and lifted his trouser leg and pulled down his sock a bit; new socks, from the twins.
— One from each o’ yis, wha’, he’d said when he’d unwrapped them, earlier at home.
He looked at the door; it was alright, it was locked.
He slowly put the Girl yoke down on top of a couple of long hairs, there on his shin: nothing. He massaged another bit of his leg with it, and then felt it. It was smooth alright but — it was smooth there anyway. There was a clump of about ten hairs growing out of a sort of a mole yoke he’d had since he was a kid.
They were real wiry, these hairs, and blacker than the other ones. He wouldn’t put the head of the razor straight down on top of them; he’d just run the thing over the mole quickly and see what it did.
He looked at the door again. Vera probably used one of these, when she was shaving her legs—
— Ah fuck this!
He threw the Girl Care back onto the shelf over the sink.
God, he was a right fuckin’ eejit. Shaving his legs; for fuck sake!
He was sweating.
He’d better get back down to the others.
Shaving his fuckin’ legs.
He felt weak, hopeless, like he’d been caught. Was something happening him?
He turned on the cold tap.
No, fuck it; he’d only been curious, that was all; he’d only wanted to see if the fuckin’ thing worked, that was all.
The cold water was lovely on his face. Nice towel as well; lovely and soft. Maggie had probably put it into the bathroom just before they’d arrived, just for them. It wasn’t damp and smelly, the way it would’ve been if the whole family had been through it that morning.
Fair play to Bimbo; and Maggie. They had the house lovely.
He felt better now. That hot wetness was gone. He was grand now.
He unlocked the door and went downstairs.
It was nice. The window was open and it wasn’t cold at all. There was no one out on the road; no voices or cars. No one would’ve been out on Christmas Day night; there was nowhere to go, unless they’d been out visiting the mother or something and they were on their way home.
Veronica was asleep.
That was the first time they’d done the business in a good while; two months nearly. Made love. He’d never called it that; it sounded thick. Riding your wife was more than just riding, especially when yis hadn’t done it in months, but — he could never have said Let’s make love to Veronica; she’d have burst out laughing at him.