Roddy Doyle - Bullfighting

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author would like to thank Deborah Treisman, Cressida Leyshon, Nick Hornby, Joseph OConnor, Neil Gaiman, Al Sarrantonio, Dan Franklin, Paul Slovak, Charlotte Northedge, Oona Frawley and the late David Marcus.

By the same author

Fiction

THE COMMITMENTS
THE SNAPPER
THE VAN
PADDY CLARKE HA HA HA
THE WOMAN WHO WALKED INTO DOORS
A STAR CALLED HENRY
OH, PLAY THAT THING
PAULA SPENCER
THE DEPORTEES
THE DEAD REPUBLIC

Non-fiction

RORY & ITA

Plays

BROWNBREAD
WAR
GUESS WHOS COMING FOR THE DINNER
THE WOMAN WHO WALKED INTO DOORS

For Children

THE GIGGLER TREATMENT
ROVER SAVES CHRISTMAS
THE MEANWHILE ADVENTURES
WILDERNESS
HER MOTHERS FACE

By the same author

Fiction

THE COMMITMENTS
THE SNAPPER
THE VAN
PADDY CLARKE HA HA HA
THE WOMAN WHO WALKED INTO DOORS
A STAR CALLED HENRY
OH, PLAY THAT THING
PAULA SPENCER
THE DEPORTEES
THE DEAD REPUBLIC

Non-fiction

RORY & ITA

Plays

BROWNBREAD
WAR
GUESS WHOS COMING FOR THE DINNER
THE WOMAN WHO WALKED INTO DOORS

For Children

THE GIGGLER TREATMENT
ROVER SAVES CHRISTMAS
THE MEANWHILE ADVENTURES
WILDERNESS
HER MOTHERS FACE

Recuperation

He walks. Every day, he walks. That was what the doctor had said. All the doctors. Plenty of exercise, theyd told him. It was the one thing hed really understood.

Are you a golf man, Mr Hanahoe?

No.

Hill walking?

No.

Do you walk the dog?

No dog.

Hed buried the dog a few years ago, in the back garden.

Well have to get you exercising.

Okay.

He walks now, every day. Sundays too. He hadnt even liked the dog. He walks, the same way. Except maybe when it was a pup, and the kids were younger. Every day, the same way. The way he went the first day. Up the Malahide Road.

Hanahoe walks.

When the dog died the kids were upset, but not upset enough to go out in the rain and dig the grave. The dog had been dying for years; the kids were living most of their time outside the house. It had been up to Hanahoe.

He starts at the Artane roundabout, his back to town, facing Malahide.

He starts.

Hed have waited till it stopped raining, but it didnt seem right, and it had been raining for days. So he dug in the dark. It was easy work, the ground was so wet. The spade sank nicely for him. And he dug up a rabbit. He saw it in the torchlight. A skeleton. Hed buried the rabbit years before: before the dog, after the goldfish.

It takes him ten minutes to get to the Artane roundabout but he doesnt count that. The walk starts, the exercise starts, when hes on the corner of Ardlea Road and the Malahide Road.

He had meant to tell the kids about the rabbit. He threw it back in, on top of the dog. Hed meant to tell them about it the next morning, before work and school. It was the only time they were all together in the house. But, he remembers now as he walks, he never did tell them. And he didnt throw the rabbit in. He lowered it, on the spade, and let it slide off, onto the dog. He forgot to tell them. He thinks he forgot. Hes not sure.

There are other places he could walk. There are plenty of places. He could get in the car and drive to St Annes or Bull Island, or the path along the coast, or even out to Howth. But he doesnt. Hes not sure why, just certain that he wont. But thats not true. He does know why; he knows exactly why. Its people. Too many people.

He got out of the habit of talking. As the kids were getting older. He put a stone slab, left over from the patio, over the dogs grave, and then remembered that there was no dog now to dig it up. There was no need for the slab. Another thing he was going to tell the kids, and didnt.

This is the stretch that Hanahoe has chosen. Starting outside the old folks flats. Mount Dillon Court. Hes never seen anyone coming out of there. Old or young a milkman or Garda, a daughter, grandchild. No one. And that suits him. Hed stop looking if he saw anyone.

Do you get down to the pub at all?

No.

The golf club?

You asked me that the last time. No.

He used to. He went to the pub now and again. Once a week, twice. Sometimes after mass. She came too. He thought shed liked it. Hed always thought that. A pint for him, something different for her. Gin and tonic, vodka and something, Ballygowan, Baileys. Shed never settled on one drink. And he doesnt remember ever thinking there was anything wrong with that.

He walks past the old cottages. Theyre out of place there, on the dual carriageway. He walks beside the cycle path. To the newer houses. Theyre on a road that runs beside the main road. Theyre well back and hidden, behind old hedges and trees. If people look out at him passing every day, he doesnt care, and he doesnt have to. He doesnt know them, and he wont. He walks on the grass. The ground is hard. It hasnt rained in a long time.

He wears tracksuit bottoms. She bought them for him. They were in a bag at the end of the bed when he got home from the hospital. Champion Sports. Two tracksuits. A blue and a grey. He doesnt wear the tops. And he wont. He doesnt know when she moved into their daughters bedroom; hes not sure, exactly. It was empty for a while. After the eldest girl moved out, and then her sister. And then shed moved in, after a few months. He has trainers as well, that he got himself after he came home. The first time he went out, up to Artane Castle. There was no row or anything when she moved into the girls room. He doesnt think there was. He woke up one night, and she wasnt there. And the next night he felt her getting out of bed. It was too hot, she said. The night after that, she said nothing. The night after, she went straight to the girls room. A few years ago. Two, three. The trainers still look new. She never came back to their room. And he never asked why not. Hes been wearing them for a month now. They still look new-white. It annoys him.

Past Chanel Road. Past the Rampa sign. Hes at the turn-off for Coolock. He looks behind, checks for cars. Hes clear, he crosses. Chanel to the left, the school. The kick-boxing sign on the gate pillar. Juniors and Seniors, Mondays and Fridays. Theyd nothing like that when his kids were younger. Kick-boxing. Martial arts. Skateboarding. Nothing like that he thinks.

Hanahoe crosses the road.

Are you a joiner?

What?

Do you join? Clubs. Societies.

No.

No, yet, or no, never?

He doesnt answer. He shrugs.

He used to be. He thought he was. A joiner. The residents, the football. Fundraising, bringing kids to the matches. He did it. He did them all. Hed enjoyed it. Then his sons stopped playing, and he stopped going. Less people to talk to it just happened that way. He didnt miss it at the time. He doesnt miss it now.

He passes the granite stone, Coolock Village carved into it, Sponsored by Irish Shell Ltd, 1998. Hes behind the petrol station, the second-hand cars, against the back wall. Behind the chipper, and Coolock Glass. A high wall, theres nothing to see. To his right, the traffic. Too early for the rush, but its heavy enough. He wonders what kick-boxing is like, what kick-boxing parents are like. He hasnt a clue. Hes at the church now, the car park. Theres nothing on funeral, wedding no one there. He enjoyed the football. He liked the men who ran the club he remembers that, he remembers saying it. There was a trip to Liverpool the car, the ferry. Three kids in the back, another father beside him. That had been good. A good weekend. Liverpool had won. Against Ipswich or Sunderland. Some team like that.