She couldn’t stop crying. She wasn’t trying to stop.

She leaned her back against the shelter ad. She gulped, and let herself slide down to the ground. She fell the last bit. She didn’t know how she’d get up again. She didn’t care.

She gulped, and gulped, and cried.

Sharon tried to explain it to Veronica.

–I’m sick of it, she said.

She tried harder.

–I hate it, watchin’ the oul’ ones countin’ their twopences out o’ their purses an’ lookin’ at yeh as if you were goin’ to rob them. An’ listenin’ to them complainin’ abou’ the weather an’ the prices o’ things.

Her mother was still looking hard.

–And anyway, said Sharon.—Me back’s really killin’ me these days an’ I’m always wantin’ to go to the toilet an’—

She was crying.

–tha’ bastard Moloney is always houndin’ me. He’s only a shelf stacker in a suit, an’ Gerry Dempsey—prick!—he put his arm round me. In front of everyone, an’ he said to give him a shout if I was havin’ anny more babies.—An’

I’m sick of it an’ I’m not goin’ back. I don’t care!

Veronica wanted to go around to Sharon and hold her but—

–Sharon, love, she said.—A job’s a job. Could you not wait—

–I don’t care, I’m not goin’. You can’t make me.

Veronica let it go.

–You’d love to make me go back, wouldn’t yeh? said

Sharon.—Well, I’m not goin’ to. I don’t care.—All you care abou’ is the money.

Veronica got out of the kitchen. She sat on the bed in her room.

–Yeh did righ’, Sharon, said Jimmy Sr.

–Yeah—well—

–No; you were dead righ’.

–It was just—Sharon started; then stopped.

–I shouldn’t have paid any attention to them, she said.—I’d only the rest of the week to go anyway. I’ll go back tomorrow an’—

–You won’t, said Jimmy Sr.—If yeh don’t want to.

–Sure, me maternity leave; I’ve three months off after Saturday annyway.

–Well, you’ve the rest o’ your life off if yeh want it, wha’.

–Wha’ abou’ Mammy?

–Your mammy’s grand, said Jimmy Sr.—She doesn’t want you to go back there if you don’t want to either. She was just a bit worried abou’ you havin’ no job after you have the baby—but—She’s grand. She doesn’t want you to go in an’ be treated like tha’—by thicks.

–Ah—said Sharon.

She’d been thinking about it.

–They ARE fuckin’ thick, she said.—If he’d said it—half an hour earlier even I’d’ve told him to feck off or I’d’ve laughed or—But when he said it—an’ they all started laughin’, I just—If he said it now—

–We’d feed the bits of him to the dog, wha’.

–Yeah.

–You’re not goin’ back so.

It was sort of a question.

–No.

–Good.

–I’d like to go back just—An’ walk ou’ properly, yeh know?

–I do, yeah.—The lady o’ leisure, wha’.

–Yeah.

–Wish I was.

–Ah fuck this, said Jimmy Sr.

He let go of the lawn-mower. He looked at his palms. He was sure he’d ripped the skin off them. But, no, it was still there, and bit redder but alright. That meant he’d have to keep going.

–Fuck it, he said.

Jimmy Sr was cutting the grass, the front. Last night Bimbo had called Jimmy Sr’s house Vietnam because of the state of the front garden. Jimmy Sr had laughed. But when Bimbo told him that everyone called it that Jimmy Sr’d said, Enough; fuck it, he’d cut the grass tomorrow, the cunts.

–Give us a lend o’ your lawn-mower, Bimbo, he’d said.

–No way, Bimbo’d said.

–Ah go on, he’d said,—for fuck sake. I’ll give it back to yeh this time.

–Okay, Bimbo’d said.

–Good man, he’d said.

So here he was trying to cut the grass. In November.

–Fuck Bimbo, he said to himself.

The grass was too long for the mower. And it was damp, so the mower kept skidding. He’d have to get the shears to it first. Bimbo’d insisted that he take the shears as well when he’d called for the mower. That was why he said Fuck Bimbo.

He’d have to get down on his hunkers now. But it had to be done.

He was a changed man, a new man. That trouble a while back with Sharon had given him an awful fright and, more important, it had made him feel like a right useless oul’ bollix. He’d done a lot of thinking since then. And a lot of reading, and looking at pictures. Those little foetuses all curled up—with their fingers, and the lot.

There was more to life than drinking pints with your mates. There was Veronica, his wife, and his children. Some of his own sperms had gone into making them so, fuck it, he was responsible for them. But, my Jaysis, he’d made one poxy job of it so far. Bimbo’d said he was being too hard on himself; his kids were grand, but Jimmy Sr’d said that that was just good luck and Veronica because he’d had nothing to do with it. But from now on it was going to be different. Darren and Linda and Tracy, and even Leslie, were still young enough, and then there’d be Sharon’s little snapper as well. A strong active man in the house, a father figure, would be vital for Sharon’s snapper.

–Vital, Bimbo. Vital.

–Oh God, yes, Bimbo’d agreed.

So cutting the grass was important. The new short grass would be a sort of announcement: there’s a new man living in this house, so fuck off and mind your own business.

Jimmy Sr looked at the garden. For a small garden it grew a terrible lot of grass. The Corporation should have cut it; he’d always said it. But they were useless.

It was up to him.

He chose a spot to put his knees. It looked soft.

There was a problem but. Any minute now Darren would come flying around the corner, down the road and past the house and he’d be expecting Jimmy Sr to shout out how long the lap had taken him. Because, as well as cutting the grass, Jimmy Sr was training the Barrytown Wheelies Under 14 squad; Darren and three of his pals. They had a team time trial at the weekend and Darren had said that they’d have to be ready and Jimmy Sr agreed with him. So he had them doing laps of the estate, and he was pretending to time them. He was only pretending because he couldn’t get the hang of the stop-watch Bertie’d got him. He couldn’t admit this to the team because it would’ve been bad for morale. The last thing a new, breakaway, very keen team needed to know was that their manager couldn’t operate the stop-watch.

He’d wait till they cycled past, then he’d do a few minutes shearing and he’d be waiting for them when they came around again.

He leaned on the wall and held the stop-watch ready. It looked like an easy enough yoke to use. He was sure it was. He’d bring it up to the Hikers and see if one of the lads could figure it out.

–How’s it goin’, Mister Rabbitte?

Jimmy Sr looked. It was one of Jimmy Jr’s pals, Mickah Wallace.

–Howyeh, Mick, said Jimmy Sr.—He’s upstairs doin’ his DJin’. Or shavin’ his legs or somethin’. No fear of him givin’ me a hand here an’ annyway, that’s for fuckin’ certain.

–Wha’; holdin’ the wall up?

–Wha’—No. No; I’m cuttin’ the grass. Hang on, here they come.

Darren was first. He came out of Chestnut Drive onto Chestnut Avenue. He was slowing but he still had to go up on the far path to get a wide enough angle to turn. Then he was through two parked cars, back onto the road and across to the proper side and towards Jimmy Sr and Mickah, picking up speed again. Two more followed Darren across the road, onto the path. One of them got too close to the wall and must have scraped his knee. The last lad was on an ordinary bike, the poor little sap. No gears or nothing. Jimmy Sr would’ve loved to have got him a proper bike, if he’d had the money. But he didn’t have it. And anyway, he was the manager. He had to be ruthless. If he didn’t have gears he’d just have to pedal faster. He was part of a team.