— You’re the boss, said Jimmy Sr. — I’ll go where I’m told but I’m not goin’ to be exploited, d’yeh hear me? I want me overtime.
— Who’s exploitin’ yeh—?
— You are. If yeh don’t pay me properly.
— I do pay yeh—
— There’s laws, yeh know. We’re not in the Dark Ages annymore. — should be at home with Veronica. An’ the kids.
Bimbo waited a bit.
— Is tha’ wha’ tha’ letter’s abou’? he then asked.
— Wha’ letter?
— The letter inside, on the shelf.
Jimmy Sr bent forward and felt his back pocket, looking for something.
— The letter from the Allied something — the union, said Bimbo.
— Have you been readin’ my letters? said Jimmy Sr.
— No! I just saw it there.
The letter had been Bertie’s idea. He’d got the name and address for Jimmy Sr from Leo the barman and Jimmy Sr’d written off to them, the Irish National Union of Vintners, Grocers and Allied Trade Assistants, asking how he’d go about joining up. He’d got a letter back from them, inviting him in for a chat. He kept it in his back pocket. He wasn’t thinking of joining. He had no time for unions. He’d been in one for years and they’d never done a fuckin’ thing for him. They were useless.
— It’ll be ammo for yeh, compadre, Bertie’d said.
It was a smashing idea. They’d burst their shites laughing. And he was right, Bertie; the letter had been ammunition, like a gun nearly, in his back pocket.
— You’ve no righ’ to be readin’ my letters.
— It was just lyin’ there.
— Where?
— Inside on the shelf.
Jimmy Sr felt his back pocket again, and looked at Bimbo like he’d done something.
— Is tha’ what it’s abou’? said Bimbo.
— It’s none o’ your business what it’s abou’. It’s private.
— You don’t need to be in a union, said Bimbo.
— I’ll be the best judge o’ tha’, said Jimmy Sr; then quieter, — Readin’ my fuckin’ letters—!
— I didn’t read it.
— Why didn’t yeh tell me when yeh found it?
— I didn’t know you’d lost it.
Jimmy Sr leaned forward, to see out if there was more rain coming.
— Are yeh really joinin’ a union? said Bimbo, sounding a bit hurt and tired now.
Jimmy Sr said nothing.
— Are yeh?
Jimmy Sr sat back.
— I’m just lookin’ after meself, he said. — An’ me family.
Bimbo coughed, and when he spoke there was a shake in his voice.
— I’ll tell yeh, he said. — If you join any union there’ll be no job here for yeh.
— We’ll see abou’ tha’, said Jimmy Sr.
— I’m tellin’ yeh; that’ll be it.
— We’ll see abou’ tha’.
— If it comes to tha’—
— We’ll see.
Bimbo got out and went for a stroll up and down the road. Jimmy Sr turned the page and stared at it.
He’d gone down to the shops himself instead of sending the twins down — they wouldn’t go for him any more, the bitches — and got them sweets and ice-creams, even a small bar of Dairymilk for the dog. It had been great, marvellous, that night and watching the dog getting sick at the kitchen door had made it greater. Even Veronica had laughed at the poor fuckin’ eejit whining to get out and vomiting up his chocolate.
— Just as well it wasn’t a big bar you bought him, Darren said.
It had been a lovely moment. Then Gina waddled over to rescue the chocolate and she had her hand in it before Sharon got to her. Jimmy Sr wished he’d a camera. He’d get one.
They’d had a ride that night, him and Veronica; not just a ride either — they’d made love.
— You seem a lot better, Veronica said, before it.
— I am, he’d said.
— Good, she’d said.
— I feel fine now, he’d said. — I’m grand.
— Good, she’d said, and then she’d rolled in up to him.
But it hadn’t lasted. Even the next day his head was dark again; he couldn’t shake it off. When Darren came into the front room to have a look at Zig and Zag on the telly, Jimmy Sr’s jaw hurt. He’d been grinding his teeth. He snapped out of it, but it was like grabbing air before you sink back down into the water again.
He kept snapping out of it, again and again, for the next two days. He’d take deep breaths, force himself to grin, pull in his stomach, think of the ride with Veronica, think of Dawn. But once he stopped being determined he’d slump again. His neck was sore. He felt absolutely shagged. All the time. But he tried; he really did.
He was really nice to Bimbo, extra friendly to him.
— How’s it goin’, and he patted his back.
He whistled and sang as he worked.
— DUM DEE DEE DUM DEE DEE — DUM — DEE—
But, Christ, when he stopped trying he nearly collapsed into the fryer. You’re grand, he told himself. You’re grand, you’re alright. You’re grand. You’re a lucky fuckin’ man.
But it only happened a couple of times, the two of them feeling good working together. And it wasn’t even that good then because they were nervous and cagey, waiting for it to go wrong again.
It was like a film about a marriage breaking up.
— The cod’s slow enough tonight—
Bimbo saw Jimmy Sr’s face before he’d finished what he’d been going to say, and he stopped. Jimmy Sr tried to save the mood. He straightened up and answered him.
— Yeah, — eh—
But Bimbo was edgy now, expecting a snotty remark, and that stopped Jimmy Sr. They were both afraid to speak. So they didn’t. Jimmy Sr felt sad at first, then annoyed, and the fury built up and his neck stiffened and he wanted to let a huge long roar out of him. He wanted to get Bimbo’s head and dunk it into the bubbling fat and hold it there. And he supposed Bimbo felt the same. And that made it worse, because it was Bimbo’s fault in the first place.
Darren wouldn’t work for them any more.
— It’s terrible, he explained to Jimmy Sr. — You can’t move. Or even open your mouth. — It’s pitiful.
— Yeah, Jimmy Sr almost agreed. — Don’t tell your mother, though. Just tell her the Hikers pays better or somethin’.
— Why d‘you keep doin’ it, Da?
— Ah—
And that was as much as he could tell Darren.
— But mind yeh don’t tell your mother, okay.
— Don’t worry, said Darren.
— It’d only upset her, said Jimmy Sr. — An’ there’s no need.
There was just the two of them in the van now, except maybe once a week when Sharon was broke or doing nothing better. She wasn’t as shy as Darren.
— Wha’ are youse two bitchin’ abou’? she asked them one night after Jimmy Sr had grabbed the fish-slice off Bimbo and Bimbo’d muttered something about manners.
(It had been building up all night, since Bimbo’d looked at his watch when he answered the door to Jimmy Sr, just because Jimmy Sr was maybe ten minutes late at most.
— Take it ou’ of me wages, he’d said.
— I didn’t say annythin’, said Bimbo.
— Me bollix, said Jimmy Sr, just over his breath.
And so on.)
Neither of them answered Sharon.
— Well? she said.
— Ask him, said Bimbo.
— Ask me yourself, pal, said Jimmy Sr.
— Jesus, said Sharon. — It’s like babysittin’ in here, so it is. For two little brats.
And she slapped both their arses.
— Layoff—!
But she slapped Jimmy Sr again, messing. He had to laugh. So did Bimbo.
— How was it tonight? Veronica asked him when he got into the scratcher and his cold feet woke her up.
— Grand, he said.