Fat Boy Swim (17 page)

Jimmy superimposed his Shadow Shape in place of GI Joe.
Mum and Dad,
he mouthed. Had they ever danced together? Had Frankie ever held Pol’s hand high and let her spin under his arm?

‘Popular guy, is Action Man,’ said Ellie. ‘Look, people keep slipping him money.’

‘He doesn’t mess about,’ said Jimmy, with admiration. ‘Gets things done.’

‘Like you,’ said Ellie, matter-of-factly.

Jimmy gulped, grateful that the dark kitchen hid his blushes.

Here’s
your
chance to get something done, you balloon. Put your arm round her. Say ‘Are you paying me a compliment
?
’

The first chord of a jig obliterated Jimmy’s advice to himself. Although his arm ached like a phantom limb to be around Ellie’s shoulder, he seemed to have been struck with rigor mortis.

‘Get things done? Me? You’re joking.’

He sneaked a sideways glimpse at Ellie. She was smiling, biting her thumbnail between her teeth, eyes jumping as she watched Mum organise dancers into sets of six. Jimmy was still staring at Ellie when her smile faded.

‘One more,’ Mum was beckoning. ‘Come on, hen. You’re not hiding in there all night.’

Despite Ellie backing herself into the darkness, she was dragged on to the dance floor.

‘I can’t do this,’ Ellie pleaded as the music started and Aunt Pol yanked her sideways in a wide and energetic circle.

Ellie was no twinkletoes, but as the pattern of the dance birled and twirled her, Jimmy held her in his sights. Utterly mesmerised.

Her hair was his marker, so chocolate-mousse fluffy and full, it landed long after the rest of her and all the other dancers had managed a
pas de bas
or whatever step Mum kept yelling at her to do. When the music ended and everyone turned to cheer the band, Jimmy watched Ellie weave across the dance floor.

She’s looking for me. She’s looking for me,
beat the tattoo of his heart in its ribcage as Ellie approached him waving, smiling.

‘I’m exhausted!’ Ellie sank against Jimmy, her hands spread on his chest just long enough to induce another bout of rigor mortis. It stiffened the arms that ached to cup her shoulders and pull her close.

Chapter
32

First last dance

Nobody actually spotted Victor’s graffiti until the end of the night when the lights went up in the function room, and Father Patrick creaked on to the stage to call – in his gloomiest funereal tone – a vote of thanks.

‘Blah! Blah! Blah!’ Aunt Pol groaned in Jimmy’s ear, grabbing his arm as he passed her. ‘Go and tell that old goat to put a sock in it, Jim,’ she giggled. Then suddenly inhaled cold air through her teeth, tightening her grip on Jimmy’s arm.

‘He’s not that bad –’ Jimmy began, nudging Aunt Pol. Then he realised that she wasn’t looking anywhere near Father Patrick, or the stage. Nor was anyone else.

They must have hung two dozen of the swimathon posters that afternoon, Ellie and GI Joe, while Jimmy set the tables up with fancy napkins and candles. They were all round the function room walls, Barry Dyer lending them the multicoloured pennants from the pool to frill them.

‘Really festive-looking!’ Mum had proclaimed when she saw what they were doing. ‘Your hall’s going to look great!’

With the lights down, all the posters probably did say
SWIMATHON
, which is why nobody noticed what Victor’s yellow highlighter pen had scrawled over the David Hockney blue of the Leisure Centre pool until the end of the evening. Altering every poster to read:

‘Disgusting!’

‘Obscene!’

‘Who would do this –?’

Instinctively, Jimmy retreated one, two, three steps towards the dark kitchen, aware of Aunt Pol tearing down two posters at once. Barry Dyer charging to the back of the room to do the same. Treesa beside him getting the wee wifeys on their feet. ‘C’mon ladies.’

Father Patrick, always slow to catch on, and used to folk fidgeting while he spoke, raised his voice and tapped the microphone. ‘One person we mustn’t forget,’ he intoned, oblivious to the reason why everyone in the room, except the band and Jimmy, was facing the walls, ‘is someone whose light has languished under a bushel far too long. Tonight, I want him up on this stage, so we can all congratulate him, not only for his cooking but for his marvellous performance in the swimming pool. So, come on Jimmy Kelly. Don’t be shy.
We
see you –’

Jimmy shrivelled inside, eyes on the outstretched signposting palm of Father Patrick.

‘Let’s hear it for chef,’ shrieked GI Joe at Coach pitch, ‘Hip, Hip –
Get him out of here,
’ he hissed at Ellie, shoving Jimmy through the swing doors to the kitchen before he knew what was happening.

As the first HOORAY waxed and waned in the dull swish of the door, Jimmy found himself in the fresh air. He seemed to be holding Ellie’s hand tight, although he couldn’t for the life of him remember grabbing it.

‘Nightmare,’ gulped Jimmy, ‘folk hearing I’m chef then seeing those posters. Turn their stomachs.’

‘Och, they all know you’re chef now,’ Ellie said. ‘Your Mum’s pal, Treesa, had the word round before anyone tasted a spoonful. Nobody’s bothered. They’re on your side. Proud of you. Listen, they’re cheering you.’ Ellie touched her finger to Jimmy’s lips until the final Hip Hooray died away, then whispered, ‘You deserve it.’

They stood on the kitchen doorstep, flanked by wheelie bins gaping rubbish, leaking spaghetti.

Still holding hands, thought Jimmy. How did that happen?

He stepped into the concrete yard. Enclosed by a high wall, it was practically pitch black, useless light filtering through a barred kitchen window. Clouds scudding the moon obscured any stars that might be twinkling down. The gentlest of drizzle fell.

Summer rain. Jimmy turned his face upwards to catch it. He breathed in its freshness, cool on his warm cheeks.

Ellie’s shoulder brushed the skin of his arm, the thrill of her touch forcing every hair follicle on Jimmy’s body to stand to attention. Inside the hall a waltz began, carried on the plangent notes of an accordion.

‘Last dance.’ Ellie squeezed his fingers gently.

Afraid to take the moment further, Jimmy offered no response.
Last dance, cloth-ears,
a voice hissed so loudly through Jimmy’s head that he was sure Ellie must hear.
Don’t you hear the lady? Your first last dance.

And she’s asking.

All you have to do is turn your feet forty-five degrees to the right and you’ll be face to face.

Just the two of you.

Piece of cake
. . .

Unless you were Jimmy Kelly:

She’ll push me away . . .

Tell me to piss off . . .

My hands are sweaty . . .

I must have BO . . .

Jimmy Kelly would still be in the middle of that dingy yard inventing excuses why he couldn’t make a move if Ellie hadn’t taken matters into her own hands. She turned Jimmy to face her, took his other hand in hers.

And that was all too much for Jimmy’s innate macho pride. It elbowed past all Jimmy’s reservations and took over.

Jimmy’s arm lifted to Ellie’s shoulder. He drew her to him.

It was delicious. The top of her head barely reached his collarbone. Jimmy only had to tilt his face to gorge himself on the smell of her hair, feel all the springy tendrils which haloed her head tickle his cheeks and lips.

‘I can’t dance,’ giggled Ellie as she and Jimmy shuffled around in a circle between the dustbins in the drizzle. Her arms reached two-thirds of the way around Jimmy’s waist. He could taste her hair against his lips.

‘You’ll do,’ said Jimmy, his voice strange and deep and faraway. Then his lips found Ellie’s in the dark.

Inside the hall, the accordion closed the night with a wistful chord. Cheers from the revellers drifted to the yard where not even a shadow betrayed two figures kissing in the soft rain.

BITTER
SWEETS

Chapter
33

Ocean view

Tonight was supposed to be a celebration.

‘A
Hurray! Jim and his Smelly Feet are Moving Out My Flat
Party,’ Aunt Pol joked in the taxi on their way back to Mum’s. Half in fun, she was, and wholly in earnest. First decent laugh they’d shared since Jimmy went to live with her. It had only been three weeks, but it felt like an eternity to Jimmy. This summer, instead of Mum having a few nights in Blackpool with the wee wifeys, she had accepted an invitation from her new beau, the Merry Widower, as Aunt Pol called Barry Dyer, and jaunted off on a tour of Ireland.

A wee trial run for you and Pauline,
Mum had called Jimmy’s new longer-term living arrangements with Aunt Pol.
See how things work out.

They hadn’t.

Which was why – and although Jimmy had felt pretty guilty admitting this to himself – tonight was to be something of a private celebration for him too. He was coming home. Where he belonged. To Mum. To his kitchen. He’d been stifled at Aunt Pol’s. Not just literally, because Aunt Pol lived in a tiny bedsit and Jimmy didn’t even have his own bed, and had to wait until Aunt Pol was tired before he could get his head down on her settee, and she sat up half the night. Smoking all over him. Watching old movies . . . But Jimmy had also been stifled by Aunt Pol’s efforts to embrace her new role and mother him. Smother him more like! Worse than Mum had ever done. Aunt Pol would barely let Jimmy out of her sight this weather, only allowing him to squad training, or to see Ellie under strict curfew.

‘Nine o’clock she wants me back in. Spiff, spiff. It’s still the flipping summer holidays,’ he had complained to Ellie. More than once. ‘I’m fifteen now. We know fine what
she
was up to at my age.’

‘Well, you know why she’s being so strict with you, Jimmy. Just doesn’t want history repeating itself.’

‘I’m hardly going to get myself pregnant, am I?’

‘Hey, she’s only trying to do her best.’

It was funny. Smart Ass Ellie
and
GI Joe kept giving Jimmy the same explanations for Aunt Pol’s Gestapo police tactics.

It had been the main topic of Jimmy’s last conversation with the priest, the day he went back to the middle of nowhere.

‘Don’t give Polly a hard time because things aren’t the way they were. She’s doing her best. Doesn’t want to see you make the mistakes she made and it’s a right tough call for her to get the balance right. Just you think of the guilt she’s carried around for fifteen years. It’s in another league from your cooking secret. She’s watched you, loved you. From a distance. Thinking,
you’re really mine, but I can’t tell you that in case you hate me.
Nightmare.’

GI Joe, who had been packing his tatty shorts and t-shirts in a case while he gave Jimmy this sermon, had turned. Laid both paws on Jimmy’s shoulders. Digging in. Then he relaxed his grip and gave Jimmy a bear hug. Squeezed him so hard there were tears in both their eyes.

‘You better write, Jim,’ he warned.

‘Soon as something interesting happens,’ Jimmy promised.

Jimmy wished GI Joe could be here tonight. Ellie at least. But Aunt Pol had been having none of that when Jimmy suggested it.

‘You see too much of her. She’s turning your head.’

‘But this is a party,’ said Jimmy before Mum arrived home with Barry. He’d made celebration scones. Mum would smell them from the bottom of the close and know Jimmy was home.

‘Still warm,’ he said, folding Mum in a hug, while Barry Dyer crushed his fingers in a friendly handshake. ‘Come and eat,’ Jimmy squeaked.

‘Later, pet,’ Mum said. Awful quiet, thought Jimmy. Didn’t even get her coat off. Something to show him, she said. ‘You too, Pauline.’ Mum sat Jimmy between herself and Barry on the saggy settee.

‘Look, son,’ Mum said, eyes watching Jimmy’s face. Her hand was trembling. Barry had to help her support the brochure she was holding open:
Ireland. Hotels and Guest Houses
the cover read.

‘We found your dad,’ Mum whispered.

Jimmy had no idea how long he stared at the brochure, scared to take his eyes from the page, scared to blink in case the photograph of Frankie Fallon’s face disappeared, devoured by Jimmy’s hungry eyes.

Frankie Fallon

Proprietor

Ocean View Hotel, Dingle Bay

Everyone in the room was watching Jimmy as he read the caption beneath the photograph, no one more intently than Aunt Pol. Curled up in Dad’s big winged chair, nail-gnawing, her eyes searched Jimmy’s face. Seeing him find the face he’d been looking for.

His own face, really. Older, bearded. It stared back at him. Still freckly. Half-smiling. Jimmy committed every detail of his father’s grown-up image to memory, hanging it in a space in his head where he’d always see it.

‘Lives in Dingle Bay,’ said Mum. ‘Looks out at the Atlantic. Beautiful.’

‘“In the name of the wee man, there’s Big Frankie Fallon,” I said to Maeve.’ Barry was bursting with the need to interrupt. ‘We were staying in
his
hotel. Would you credit it? “I saw you swim,” I says to him when I paid the bill. “You were a champ.” “Sure now, that was going back a bit,” Frankie says to me. He blushed.’