It was great having the few bob in the pocket again. They didn’t just count the night’s takings and divide it in two. They were more organised than that; it was a business. There was stock to be bought, the engine to save for. Maggie kept the books. They paid themselves a wage and if business was really good they got a bonus as well, an incentive, the same way footballers got paid extra if they won. Jimmy Sr took home a hundred and sixty quid the first week. He had his dole as well. He bought himself a new shirt — Veronica’d been giving him grief about the smell off his clothes — a nice one with grey stripes running down it. He’d read in one of Sharon’s magazines that stripes like that made you look thinner but that wasn’t why he bought it; he just liked it. He handed most of the money over to Veronica.
— You’re not to waste it all on food now, d‘yeh hear, he said. — You’re to buy somethin’ for yourself.
— Yes, master, said Veronica.
The country had gone soccer mad. Oul’ ones were explaining offside to each other; the young one at the check-out in the cash-and-carry told Jimmy Sr that Romania hadn’t a hope cos Lacatus was suspended because he was on two yellow cards. It was great. There were flags hanging out of nearly every window in Barrytown. It was great for business as well. There were no proper dinners being made at all. Half the mammies in Barrytown were watching the afternoon matches, and after the extra-time and the penalty shoot-outs there was no time left to make the dinner before the next match. The whole place was living on chips.
— Fuck me, said Jimmy Sr. — If Kelly an’ Roche do well in the Tour de France we’ll be able to retire by the end o’ July.
He’d brought home two hundred and forty quid the second week.
They were going to get a video.
— Back to normal then, said Jimmy Sr. — Wha’.
— Yep, said Veronica.
She was going to say something else, something nice, but Germany got a penalty against Czechoslovakia and she wanted to see Lothar Matthaeus taking it; he was her favourite, him and Berti, the Italian. Jimmy Sr liked Schillaci; he reminded him of Leslie, the same eyes.
— Ah, good Jesus, said Jimmy Sr.
He got up off the floor. His trousers were wringing, his back was killing him. He’d been going at the floor with sudsy water and a nailbrush for the last half hour and the floor still looked the wrong colour.
— We’re fightin’ a losin’ battle here, I think, he said to Bimbo.
Bimbo was attacking the gobs of grease on the wall around the hotplate and the fryer. He was making progress but it was like the grease spots were riding each other and breeding, they were all over the wall. Bimbo took a breather. The thing about it was, even if you cleaned all day — and that was what they did for the first week or so — it would be back to dirty normal by the end of the night.
— Look it, said Jimmy Sr. — Tha’ grease there—
He pointed at the grease above the fryer.
— It’s fresh cos it only got there last nigh‘, cos it was clean there when we started last nigh’. D’yeh follow?
— Yeah, said Bimbo.
— So, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s doing’ no harm. It’s fresh. It’s grand for another couple o’ days. Then it’ll be gettin’ bad an’ we’d want to get rid of it cos it’d be a health hazard then, but it’s fuckin’ harmless now.
Bimbo didn’t disagree with him.
— All we have to worry abou’ every day before we start is the floor, said Jimmy Sr. — Cos we’ll go slidin’ an’ split ourselves if it’s not clean, but that’s all.
Bimbo just wanted to check on one thing first. He opened the hatch and then got out of the van and went round to the hatch and looked in, to see if he could see the dirt from out there. He couldn’t.
— Okay, he said. — I’m with yeh.
Bimbo couldn’t watch, but Jimmy Sr could, no problem; he loved it. Nil-all after extra time, a penalty shoot-out.
— Pennos, said Paddy when they saw the ref blowing the final whistle.
— Fuckin’ hell.
— Packie’ll save at least one, wait’ll yeh see.
— He let in nine against Aberdeen a couple o’ weeks ago, remember.
— This is different.
— How is it?
— Fuck off.
It got very quiet. Jimmy Sr’s heart was hopping, but he never took his eyes off the screen, except when the young one behind him screamed. She did it after the Romanians got the first penalty. Women had been screaming all through the match but this one stood out because when the ball just got past Packie’s fingers there were a couple of hundred groans and only the one scream.
Bertie turned round to the young one.
— Are yeh like tha’ in the scratcher? he said.
The whole pub erupted, just when Kevin Sheedy was placing the ball on the spot, like he’d scored it already. There was no way he’d miss it after that.
He buried it.
— YEOWWW!!
— One-all, one-all; fuckin’ hell.
Houghton, Townsend, Tony Cascarino.
Four-all.
— Someone’s after faintin’ over there.
— Fuck’m.
They watched Packie setting himself up in his goal for the fifth time.
— Go on, Packie!
— ONE PACKIE BONNER—
— Shut up; wait.
— He has rosary beads in his bag, yeh know, said some wanker.
— They’ll be round his fuckin’ neck if he misses this one, said Jimmy Sr.
No one laughed. No one did anything.
Packie dived to the left; he dived and he saved the fuckin’ thing.
The screen disappeared as the whole pub jumped. All Jimmy Sr could see was backs and flags and dunphies. He looked for Bimbo, and got his arms around him. They watched the penno again in slow motion. The best part was the way Packie got up and jumped in the air. He seemed to stay in mid-air for ages. They cheered all over again.
— Shhh! Shhh!
— Shhh!
— Shhh!
Someone had to take the last penalty for Ireland.
— Who’s tha’?
— O’Leary.
— O’Leary?
Jimmy Sr hadn’t even known that O’Leary was playing. He must have come on when Jimmy Sr was in the jacks.
— He’ll be grand, said someone. — He takes all of Arsenal’s pennos.
— He does in his hole, said an Arsenal supporter. — He never took a penno in his life.
— He’ll crack, said Paddy. — Wait’ll yeh see.
Jimmy Sr nearly couldn’t watch, but he stuck it.
— YEH—
David O’Leary put it away like he was playing with his kids at the beach.
— YESSS!
Jimmy Sr looked carefully to make sure that he’d seen it right. The net was shaking, and O‘Leary was covered in Irishmen. He wanted to see it again though. Maybe they were all beating the shite out of O’Leary for missing. No, though; he’d scored. Ireland were through to the quarter-finals and Jimmy Sr started crying.
He wasn’t the only one. Bertie was as well. They hugged. Bertie was putting on a few pounds. Jimmy Sr felt even better.
— What a team, wha’. What a fuckin’—
He couldn’t finish; a sob had caught up on him.
— Si, said Bertie.
They showed the penno again, in slow motion.
— To the righ’; perfect.
— Excellent conversion, said some gobshite.
Where was Bimbo?
There he was, bawling his eyes out. A big stupid lovely grin had split his face in half.
— OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLÉ—
OLÉ—
OLÉ—