Mickah came out of the jacks.

–Sorry abou’ tha’, said Deco.—Yeah—annyway, the ma wrote in for me.

Deco decided to get all the confessing over with.

–I applied to sing in the National Song Contest as well.

–Oh—my—Jaysis!

–I don’t believe yeh, said Dean.

The Commitmentettes were starting to laugh.

–Well, said Deco.—Let’s put it this way.—

I’ve me career to think of.

Mickah started laughing. Deco didn’t know if this was good or bad.

James laughed too.

–Have yeh no fuckin’ loyalty, son? said Jimmy.—You’re in a fuckin’ group.

–A Song for Europe! said Outspan.—Fuckin’ God!—Wha’.

Imelda sang:—ALL KINDS—

OF EVERYTHIN’—REMINDS ME—

OF—YOU.

–Ah, fuck off, said Deco.—Look.—The group won’t last forever.

–Not with you in it.

–Look.—Be realistic, will yeh.—I can sing, righ’.—

–That’s not soul, Brother, Joey The Lips told Deco.

–Fuck off, you, said Deco,—an’ don’t annoy me.

That’s when Mickah stitched Deco a loaf, clean on the nose. It wasn’t broken but snot and blood fell out of it at a fierce speed.

Outspan got Deco to hold his head back. Natalie dammed the flow with a couple of paper hankies.

–That’s not soul either, Brother, Joey The Lips told Mickah.

–Probably not, said James.

–He shouldn’t o’ talken to yeh like tha’.—I’m sorry, righ’.

–Tell Brother Deco that.

–I will in me—

–Tell him.

–I’m sorry, righ’.

–Okay, said Deco.—Don’t worry abou’ it.

Deco’s nose was under control.

Jimmy remembered the good news.

–There might be an A an’ R man comin’ to see us next week.

–Sent from The Lord, said Joey The Lips.

He held his palms out. Jimmy slapped them. Then Joey The Lips slapped Jimmy’s palms.

–What’s an A an’ R man? Dean asked.

–I don’t know wha’ the A an’ R stand for but they’re talent scouts for record companies. They look at groups an’ sign them up.

The Commitments whooped and smiled and laughed and hit each other. They were all very happy, even Deco.

–A and R means Artists and Repertory, said Joey The Lips.

–I thought so, said Mickah.

–Wha’ label?

–A small one, said Jimmy.

–Aaaah! said Imelda.—A little one.—That’s lovely.

They laughed.

–Independent, said Jimmy.

–Good, said Dean.

–Wha’ are they called?

–Eejit Records.—They’re Irish.

They liked the name.

–They’d want to be fuckin’ eejits to want us.

–They’re only comin’ to see us, Jimmy warned.

–Don’t worry, Jim, said Outspan.—We’ll introduce them to Mickah.

–Good thinkin’, said Mickah.—They’ll fuckin’ sign us alrigh’.

–Plenty o’ lipstick next week, girls, said Jimmy.—Fuck yourself, you, said Natalie.

Jimmy hoped the good news would keep The Commitments going. But he was worried. He was losing sleep. Having problems with them one at a time was bad, but now both Dean and Deco were getting uppity. And James was worried about his exams, and Mickah was a looper.

He didn’t organize a rehearsal for the weekend, to give James time to study and to keep them away from each other so there’d be no rows before Wednesday.

Jimmy called to Dean’s house on Friday. He wanted to talk to him and maybe even catch him in the act, listening to jazz.

Dean was watching Blankety Blank.

They went up to Dean’s room. Jimmy eyed the wall for incriminating posters. Nothing; just an old one of Manchester United (Steve Coppell and Jimmy Greenhoff were in it) and one of Bruce Springsteen at Slane. But maybe Dean’s wall hadn’t caught up with Dean yet.

–Did yeh come on the bus? Dean asked Jimmy.

–I haven’t gone home yet, said Jimmy.—I went for a few scoops with a few o’ the lads ou’ o’ work.—Bruxelles.—D’yeh know it?

–Yeah.

–It’s good.—Some great lookin’ judies.

–Yeah.

–Eh—I was thinkin’ we could have a chat abou’ the group.

–Wha’ abou’ it?

–Wha’ d’yeh think of it?

–It’s okay.

–Okay?

–Yeah. Okay.—Why?

–How is it okay?

–Jaysis, Jimmy, I don’t know.—I like—the lads, yeh know, Derek an’ Outspan, an’ James. An’ Washin’ton D.C. An’ Joey’s taught me a lot, yeh know.—I like the girls. They’re better crack than most o’ the young ones I know.—It’s good crack.

–Wha’ abou’ the music?

–It’s okay, said Dean.—It’s good crack, yeh know.—It’s good.

–But?

–Ah, Jaysis, Jimmy. I don’t want to sound snobby but—fuck it, there’s not much to it, is there?—

Just whack whack whack an’ tha’ fuckin’ eejit, Cuffe, roarin’ an’ moanin’—an’ fuckin’ gurglin’.

–Forget Cuffe.—What’s wrong with it?

Jimmy sounded hurt.

–Nothin’.

Dean was glad this was happening, although he was uncomfortable.

–Don’t get me wrong, Jimmy.—It’s too easy.

It doesn’t stretch me.—D’yeh know wha’ I mean?

Em, it was grand for a while, while I was learnin’ to play. It’s limitin’, know wha’ I mean?—It’s good crack but it’s not art.

–Art!

–Well—yeah.

–You’ve been listenin’ to someone, haven’t yeh?

–No.

–Watchin’ Channel fuckin’ 4. Art! Me arse!

–Slag away. Sticks an’ stones.

–Art! said Jimmy. (Art was an option he’d done in school because there was no room for him in metal work and there was no way they could get him into home economics. That’s what art was.)—Cop on, Dean, will yeh.

–Look, Jimmy, said Dean.—I went through hell tryin’ to learn to play the sax. I nearly jacked it in after every rehearsal. Now I can play it. An’ I’m not stoppin’. I want to get better.—It’s art, Jimmy.

It is. I express meself, with me sax instead of a brush, like. That’s why I’m gettin’ into the jazz. There’s no rules. There’s no walls, your man in The Observer said it—

–I knew it! The Observer, I fuckin’ knew it!

–Shut up a minute. Let me finish.

Dean was blushing. He’d let the bit about The Observer slip out. He hoped Jimmy wouldn’t tell the rest of the lads.

–That’s the difference between jazz an’ soul. There’s too many rules in soul.—It’s all walls.

–Joey called them corners.

–That’s it, said Dean.—Dead on.—Four corners an’ you’re back where yeh started from. D’yeh follow me?

–I suppose so, said Jimmy.—Are yeh goin’ to leave?

–The Commitments?

–Yeah.

–No, Jaysis no. No way.

Jimmy was delighted with the way Dean answered him.

–How come? he said.

–It’s good crack, said Dean.—It’s good. The jazz is in me spare time. That’s okay, isn’t it?

–Yeah, sure.

–No, the soul’s grand, Jimmy. It’s good crack. It’s just the artist in me likes to get ou’ now an’ again, yeh know.

–Yeah, righ’. I know wha’ yeh mean. I’m the same way with me paintin’.

–Do you paint, Jimmy?

–I do in me bollix.

Dean was happy now. So he kept talking, to please Jimmy.

–No, I wouldn’t want to leave The Commitments. It’s great crack. The lads are great.—You’re doin’ a good job too. An’—Keep this to yourself now.

–Go on.

–I fancy Imelda a bit too, yeh know.

–Everyone fancies ’melda, Dean.

–She’s great, isn’t she?

–Oh, she is indeed.—A grand young one.

–Wha’ abou’ Joey’s ideas abou’ soul bein’ the people’s music an’ tha’?

–Don’t get me wrong, said Dean.—Joey’s great.—He’s full o’ shi’e though.—Isn’t he?

–I suppose he is a bit now tha’ yeh mention it.

–Brother Dean.—But go easy on the solos though, righ’.

–Okay.

Now that Jimmy thought of it, Imelda might have been holding The Commitments together. Derek fancied her, and Outspan fancied her. Deco fancied her. He was sure James fancied her. Now Dean fancied her too. He fancied her himself. Imelda had soul.