Charlie Savage Read online

  Anyway, it’s an Over-fifties Battle of the Bands night and the Pelvic Floors are battering the opposition, three sad bastards who seem to think they’re a-ha – one of them even dislocated his shoulder when he threw himself at the wall during the chorus of Take On Me – and two lads with guitars who call themselves Fifty Shades of Bald.

  Anyway, Carmel is screaming out the words of White Riot but my eyes are on the wife – on her hands holding the drumsticks, and on her face.

  I’m on my own. And I’m glad I am – because I’m speechless. I wasn’t talking to anyone but I know I wouldn’t be able to talk back.

  Her face! She’s not smiling – punks don’t smile. But I know: she’s happy.

  And beautiful.

  I feel it before I know it: I’m happy too. I’m bouncing up and down, I’m pogoing – and I never did that when I was twenty.

  12

  I’m up in Beaumont Hospital visiting the last of the uncles. He’s on the way out, slipping in and out of consciousness – mostly out.

  It’s amazing, really. I don’t think he knows who I am any more and I don’t think he can really see. But I just asked him to name the England team that won the World Cup in 1966, and he almost sat up.

  –In goal, Gordon Banks.

  –Just the surnames, Terry, I say. –Don’t tire yourself.

  –Right back, George Cohen, says Uncle Terry. –Centre backs, Bobby Moore and Big Jack Charlton. Left back – left back—.

  His eyes close.

  Terry is my mother’s little brother. He was only thirteen, I think, when I was born. He’d bring me to the football – Tolka Park, Dalymount. He had a Honda 50, and he got me a helmet of my own. Every Sunday afternoon, straight after the dinner, I’d be standing, waiting at the front door for Uncle Terry. He never let me down.

  His eyes open.

  –Left back—.

  –We’ll get back to him, Terry, I say. –What about midfield?

  – Alan Ball, he says. –Nobby Styles and the other Charlton, Bobby. Then Martin Peters. But the left back—.

  His eyes close.

  Men like Terry, men like me – we’ll forget our own names and we’ll forget that the things at the end of our legs are called feet, but we’ll always remember the 1966 World Cup team and who scored for Ireland in Stuttgart – all the other important names and results. The football will cling to the insides of our heads long after everything else has slid out.

  Terry’s eyes open.

  –Just the forwards left, Terry, I remind him.

  –Left back—.

  –We’ll get back to him, I say. –Give us the forwards.

  –Centre forwards, says Uncle Terry. –Roger Hunt and—.

  His eyes close.

  And open.

  –Geoff Hurst.

  There was a point about fifteen years ago when most of the actors and actresses became ‘your man’ or ‘the young one that used to be in that thing’. I’d forgotten most of the names – the actors and the films.

  It’s not like that with football. There are young lads playing today who are younger than my oldest grandkids – if that makes sense – and I’ve no problem remembering their names. Those two kids that are playing for Everton, Tom Davies and Ademola Look-man – if they were actors in Peaky Blinders I wouldn’t have a clue who they were, and I’d forget that the thing was called Peaky Blinders until the next time I was watching it.

  The last time Terry was in the house we watched a match together. (I could tell you the teams, the score, the scorers and the consequences, but I won’t.) Anyway, Terry put on what he called his football glasses and he sat up and leaned forward.

  –I’m never old when I’m watching the football, Charlie, he said. –I’m the same as I was when I was ten or eleven, there’s no difference.

  We watched for a while.

  –I’m not old, he said. –And the players aren’t young. Not when they’re playing.

  He pointed at the screen.

  –Look now, he said. –Eden Hazard’s getting ready to come on.

  Okay, it was Chelsea v. Spurs.

  –Standing there, said Terry. –Waiting to go on – he’s a young lad, look. Now he’s on – he’s run onto the pitch. And look – he’s a man. He doesn’t have an age.

  It was a great game. Four goals, two fights, and Leicester, who weren’t even playing, ended up winning the Premiership.

  –I’d have been dead years ago if it wasn’t for the football, said Terry.

  I knew what he meant. At the final whistle I got up to make the tea and I couldn’t straighten my legs; I nearly fell over Terry, headfirst into the telly. I’d just played a full ninety minutes of Premiership football and I hadn’t even sweated but the trip in to the kettle nearly killed me.

  I’m sitting beside Terry now. It’s just me and him. Terry never got married – he had no kids.

  He opens his eyes.

  –Left back –, he says. –Left back—.

  But he’s gone again – eyes closed.

  Terry didn’t like the changes in the game, the TV coverage.

  –It’s become a bloody fashion show, he said once, when we were watching the pundits on Sky at half–time. –With their gel there, and the hankies in their jacket pockets.

  It annoyed him; he even threw a biscuit at Thierry Henry, and the dogs went mental, right through the ads and the first ten minutes of the second half.

  –That’s the future of football, Charlie, he shouted over the dogs. –Thierry Henry’s fuckin’ cardigan.

  Now he opens his eyes.

  –Left back, he says.

  –Go on, Terry, I say. –Last name – go on.

  –Wilson, he says. –Ray Wilson.

  13

  I’ve been groaning for years. But for some reason this time they notice. Or, the grandson notices.

  –G’anda wusty, he says.

  I make ‘a deep, inarticulate sound conveying pain, despair, pleasure, etc’ (Oxford English Dictionary) when I’m standing up after my dinner, and the little lad says I’m rusty.

  –We can’t have that, says the daughter.

  And I know I’m in trouble. Ageing men are supposed to groan; as far as I know it’s in the job description. But my groaning days are probably over. The daughter is going to cure me or kill me.

  But I’m not going without a protest.

  –It was the shepherd’s pie, I say.

  –What was wrong with it? says the wife, even though it was me who made it.

  –Nothing, I say. –The opposite. It was an expression of my professional satisfaction.

  That’s not altogether true. Straightening the back and the legs at the same time – and at speed – has become a major, and a perilous, operation. I seem to lose contact with the world and the groan is the thing that brings me back down. But I can’t tell them that. It’s a man’s health thing – and men don’t have health.

  Anyway.

  My protests are pointless. I’ve become the daughter’s project – again.

  –We’ll turn fat into fit, Dad, she says.

  –What?

  –Better sore than sorry, like.

  Just to be clear: I’m not Fatty Arbuckle or Jabba the Hutt. I’m more like O’Connell Street – not great, a bit grim, but grand for the time being. But when the daughter starts talking in slogans she’s like Genghis Khan rampaging across central Asia – there’s no stopping her.

  First it’s the gear.

  I don’t mind the tracksuits too much but she tries to get me into some of the stuff you’d see on Usain Bolt. He seems like a nice lad and all, but I was groaning long before little Usain could even walk; I’m way ahead of him. But she has me in a pair of Usain’s shorts and I feel like I’m in underpants that were built for a six-year-old.

  –I can’t go out in these.

  –Not to the pub, like, she reassures me.

  –Not anywhere, I say. –I’d be arrested. Or I should be.

  She’s not listening.
/>   –The performance material is minimalist in design, she explains. –So there’s no weighing you down, like, when you’re building up a sweat.

  –I’m only going for a walk!

  –Sweat is fat crying, Dad.

  –What fat?

  The grandson – the daughter’s little lad – is staring at one of my shins. He points.

  –Hattoo?

  –No, love, I say. –Varicose vein.

  The groaning – I prefer ‘groaning’ to ‘grunting’; it has a bit more dignity to it. Anyway, it started years ago. I don’t think it’s a health issue, or even a part of growing old. I think it’s kind of an unconscious protest: ‘I don’t want to do this.’ We groan as we pick up the toys and the shopping, as we get up to answer the door or to find out why there’s a child crying in the room next door. We do these things because we have to, and we should – but the groan is the protest, the fight: ‘Fuck off and leave me alone.’ The groans keep us sane.

  It’s just a theory.

  And it’s clearly bolloxology, because I’ve been groaning nonstop but I’m still rigged out like Oscar Pistorius – and I’m only bringing the dogs for a walk around the block.

  And now she’s taking a photograph of me!

  –What’re you doing?

  –Don’t worry, she says. –It’s just for the WhatsApp group.

  –What WhatsApp group? I say.

  –The family group, she says.

  Suddenly, she looks caught, guilty. I haven’t seen that look since I caught her taking two euro out of the Trócaire box, years ago.

  –What family? I ask her.

  –Ours.

  We both seem to be speechless – for a bit. I decide not to tell her that I don’t know what WhatsApp is. The explanation would get in the way.

  I have to speak – it’s up to me. I make sure I don’t groan.

  –How come I’m not in the group? I ask.

  –It’s – like. We’re worried about you.

  –Why?

  She doesn’t answer. She’s crying now, though – and I suppose that’s the answer.

  –I’m just getting old, love, I tell her.

  –Yeah, she says. –But it’s crap, like.

  –That’s true, I say. –But look it.

  The grandson is hugging my Spandex-covered leg.

  –If I wasn’t getting old I wouldn’t be this fella’s grandad, I tell her. –And have you any idea how happy being his grandad makes me feel?

  She nods – she smiles.

  –It’s just part of the package, love, I say.

  I shrug. She nods – she understands.

  –Can I get back into my trousers? I ask.

  –Okay, she says. –Then we can discuss your diet, like.

  I groan – I actually grunt.

  14

  –Sardines fight cancer, Dad, says the daughter.

  –No, they don’t, love, I tell her – The average sardine couldn’t give a shite about cancer. Or anything else for that matter.

  –You’re gas, she says, sounding very like her mother.

  I’m looking down at a tin of the things – sardines – on the kitchen table. They disgust me, even with the lid still covering them. I know they’re in there, in a row, like an execution squad. The evil, oily bastards – I hate them. And I know I’m going to eat them.

  I’ve been arguing with the daughter for days now. She’s determined to change my lifestyle, just because I groan occasionally – when I stand up, say, or sit down or open the fridge or turn the page of the paper or press a button on the remote, or most activities, really – even thinking. I tried to explain it to her, that it’s just getting older and the groaning comes with the wrinkles, the ear hair and the – eh – the forgetfulness. And, in fairness, she calmed down on the exercise. I was able to persuade her that I’m never going to represent Ireland on the parallel bars and that a walk most days is as much as I need to keep the heart in order.

  But she came back hard with the diet. She has me eating things that I never knew existed. She’s been making me swallow stuff that might not even be food – or is rotten. ‘Fermented’ is the word she’s using but I might as well be eating the sludge at the bottom of the brown wheelie. Sauerkraut might do great things to the digestive tract – whatever that is exactly – but I’ve been farting away like the Orient Express on that long stretch between Bucharest and Constantinople. I even had to go out and stand in the garden last night – the poor dogs tried to excape over the back wall. The sauerkraut is turning me into a very lonely man. But I’ll keep eating it.

  Because of the grandson.

  Every time I raise an objection he steps out from behind the daughter and he stares up at me with those big eyes that are so exactly like hers.

  –Okay, okay, I say, and I immediately pull the lid off the sardines, put my head back like a cormorant and swallow them. I shovel the sauerkraut into me and stand out in the garden in the hail and sleet while the dogs howl and bite their own tails.

  Power food, me hole.

  –You are what you eat, Dad, she says.

  –I’m not a fuckin’ fish, I’d tell her if there wasn’t a sardine trying to fight its way back up my throat.

  Love is killing me.

  I don’t think I’m a fussy eater. I have no objection to vegetables as long as I’ve seen them before and I know what they’re called. I’m not fussed about the colour; they don’t have to be green. I’ll eat them even if I don’t particularly like them. All I ask, really, is that they look like they grew out of the ground, and on this planet.

  But she’s going into some health food shop in town – The Joys of Gravel, or something – and she’s bringing home little packets of roots and peelings that, under a certain light, look extraterrestrial. And I eat them – because the little lad keeps staring at me, especially after I groan.

  –G’anda wusty!

  I even ate half a packet of dried leaves before the daughter told me it was oolong tea.

  –It’s good for weight loss, she said.

  –I don’t doubt you, love, I said, and chewed a couple of sardines to help get rid of the taste.

  –What in the name of God is whey? I ask her now.

  I say it in a way that I hope is closer to David Attenborough than Vincent Browne; I’m aiming for curiosity, not despair. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

  –Not sure, she admits. –But it’s full of protein, like.

  –Grand, I say. –But what is it?

  I’ve a feeling it comes out of the Bible – gold, frankincense and whey. One of the three wise men gave it to Jesus for his birthday. But I might be wrong. And I’m distracted by something else.

  –What’s that?

  It looks like mince.

  –Bison, she says.

  –What? I say. –Like buffalo?

  –Think so.

  –Are they not extinct? I ask. –Did John Wayne not kill all of them?

  –There’s a few left, she says. –They’re a great source of protein.

  –Now we’re talking, I say. –But we’ll need a few chips.

  I bypass the daughter and go straight to the grandson.

  –Will we get some chips?

  He nearly passes out.

  –Cheee–ips!

  Now I look at the daughter.

  –What about you, love?

  –Ah, yeah, she says. –Go on ahead. Chips are full of—

  –Happy fats, I suggest.

  She grins.

  –Probably.

  15

  –There’s cheese on your chin, Charlie.

  –Fake news.

  –There is, Charlie, says the wife. –Your fly’s wide open.

  I grab the zipper and pull.

  –The information is true, I tell her. –The news is fake.

  I love Trump. He’s making my life a lot easier. The fly isn’t open; I just hadn’t closed it yet. The fact that I’m heading out the front door on my way to a funeral is neither here nor there
. The zip is on its way to being closed – big league.

  I gave up on buttons about ten years ago. I’d go to open my fly and discover it was already open, and a corner of my shirt sticking out just to advertise the fact – this after battling my way to the jacks through a pub packed with men and women ten, twenty, thirty years younger than me. The fly was open – and it had been like that since the last time I’d gone to the jacks. I finally surrendered when I realised I’d made the same discovery the previous time, the last occasion I’d gone to the jacks. The fly had been open then, I’d gone to the jacks, and forgotten to close it – again.

  Shirts weren’t the problem; I’ve never forgotten to button a shirt or a jacket. It was just the trousers – well, the jeans.

  Why is that?

  Why does old age discriminate against men who wear – or used to wear – jeans with buttons?

  Anyway, back then, when I finally admitted to myself that buttons were beyond me, I smuggled the old 501s out of the house – a blue pair and a black pair – when I was bringing the empties to the bottle bank. There’s one of those pink clothes recycling bins beside the row of bottle yokes, and that’s where they went. It was only two pairs of denim jeans in a plastic bag but I felt like I was shoving my whole life into a black hole.

  I cried a bit when I got back into the car.

  No, I didn’t. But I visit the bottle bank now and again, just to spend a few quiet moments with my former self.

  How’re you getting on, Charlie?

  Well, it’s not great in here, to be honest – trapped under bags of unwanted tights and underpants. I expected a bit more of the afterlife.

  Anyway.

  I rallied. I transferred my allegiance from Levi’s to Wranglers and that was grand – a bit of an adventure even, sartorial adultery. It would have helped if someone – anyone – had noticed or given a shite. But, anyway, I soon forgot that I used to forget to button my fly and I had a good eight or nine years when I could stroll through a pub or a wedding, a café or a funeral, safe in the knowledge that my fly would be open only if and when I wanted it to be open. I missed the buttons occasionally. There’s an art to buttons; it’s something you learn – a bit of a transition from child to adult, from apprentice to craftsman. I mean, any gobshite can use a zip but try opening the buttons on a brand-new pair of Levi 501s when you’ve four or five pints inside you and the lights in the jacks aren’t working. It’s the nearest most of us get to going over the top, and not all of us make it back alive.