Free The Commitments by Roddy Doyle Page A

one spot. This was good. In his track-suit he hopped around the garage and got in the way and on the nerves. Dean swapped jackets with Jimmy. (—Why have you got a suit? Outspan asked Jimmy.

—Soul is dignity, said Jimmy.
    —This is a great fuckin’ group, said Outspan. —I must say. Even the skivvies wear fuckin’ monkey suits.
    —I’m no skivvy, said Jimmy. —I’m your fuckin’ manager, pal.
    —An’ don’t you forget it, said James.
    —Fuckin’ righ’, said Jimmy.) There was more room in Jimmy’s jacket so Dean could still lift the sax up high. Billy didn’t knock over any drums.
    Joey The Lips showed Jimmy how to use the mixer.
    —So all I have to do is push these lads up or down a bit when the sound’s a bit gammy?
    —That’s correct, said Joey The Lips.
    —That’s great, said Jimmy. —There’s nothin’ to it. Anny fuckin’ dope could do tha’. I might even pull a few birds this way, wha’. Wha’ d’yeh think? Blind them with science, wha’.
    —It works, my man. ——It works.
    They finished early, got back into their civvies, and went for a drink.
    *   *   *
    Kick-off was at half-seven.
    The Commitments said they’d meet at the hall at six. Jimmy was there at five, his dress suit hidden by a snorkel jacket he hadn’t worn since he’d left school.
    Billy arrived soon after with Dean. Billy had his van from work. They got the gear out but they left Joey The Lips’ mother’s piano in the van until some more arrived to help them.
    At half-five the caretaker appeared out of a door beside the stage.
    —Wha’ do youse want? the caretaker asked.
    He saw the drums.
    —That’s not the bingo stuff.
    —There’s no bingo tonigh’, pal, said Jimmy.
    —It’s Sahurday but, said the caretaker.
    He took his Press out of his jacket pocket and looked at the date.
    —Yeah. ——Sahurday.
    Jimmy explained. —Hopa——The fella tha’ calls the numbers is in hospital so Father Molloy said we could have the hall for the nigh’.
    —He told me nothin’ abou’ it, said the caretaker. —So yis can take your bongos off o’ the stage there an’ the rest o’ your tackle with it an’ get ou’. As far as I’m concerned there’s bingo tonigh’. Until I’m officially told otherwise.
    —Why don’t yeh go across an’ ask him? said Jimmy.
    Father Molloy’s house was right across the road.
    —I will not, said the caretaker. —It’s not my job to go across an’ ask him.
    —Wha’ is your job? Billy asked.
    —I’m the caretaker, said the caretaker.
    —You’re not very good at it, are yeh? said Billy.
    —The state o’ the place.
    —Shut up a minute, Billy, said Jimmy. —Look.
    ——If I go across to Father Molloy will tha’ do?
    —Yis’ll have to get your gear ou’ first. I want nothin’ in here till I’m officially informed.
    Jimmy looked at Billy and Dean.
    They started to gather the drums.
    —It’s our church collection money goes to pay your wages, Billy told the caretaker.
    —I wouldn’t get very far on the money you’d put in the collection, so I wouldn’t, said the caretaker.
    —Well, yeh’ll be gettin’ tenpence less from now on.
    —Make tha’ twenty, said Dean.
    —That’s no problem, said the caretaker. —I put in fifty meself. I’ll oney put in thirty from now on.
    They were beginning to like each other. The caretaker carried two mike stands for them.
    —It’s a cushy one, I’d say, is it? said Billy.
    —Wha’?
    —Your job.
    —Oh, it is alrigh’, the caretaker admitted. —I do fuck all to be honest with yeh. I watch a few women polishin’ the floor on Tuesdays. An’ I put ou’ the chairs for the bingo. An’ I open the windows to get rid o’ the smell o’ the footballers. That’s abou’ it. ——Mind you, the pay’s useless.
    —I s’pose so, said Billy.
    He took a cigarette from the packet the caretaker held out.
    —The soccer fellas are much smellier than the gaelic ones, said the caretaker. —I think it’s because