Roddy Doyle - The Van

But he couldn’t.

He wanted to, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t have known what to do any more.

He went back down to the kitchen very carefully, and stepped down over the stair with the creak in it.

Veronica had been in already to have a look at her. It was his turn now. One, two—

He grabbed the handle and went straight into the front room.

— Sorry, Darren; for bargin’ in on yeh — Oh, hello.

— Hi.

She smiled. God, she was lovely.

He held his hand out to her.

— Darren’s da, he said. — Howyeh.

She blushed a bit; lovely.

— This is Miranda, Darren told Jimmy Sr.

— Sorry, said Jimmy Sr. — I didn’t catch—

— Miranda, said Darren.

— Miranda, said Jimmy Sr. — Howyeh, Miranda.

— Fine, thank you, said Miranda.

—’Course yeh are, said Jimmy Sr.

— Were yeh lookin’ for somethin’ in particular? Darren asked him.

He had one of his smirks on him, one of his they-treat-me-like-a-kid ones. But he was chuffed as well, you could tell.

Jimmy Sr patted him on the head.

— I am indeed, Darren, son, he said. — I’m lookin’ for Gina.

— She’s not here.

— No, that’s true, Jimmy Sr agreed. — But Miranda is, wha’. Bye bye, Miranda.

He shut the door after him. She was a cracker alright. Veronica’d said she was lovely but women always said that other women were lovely and they weren’t; they hadn’t a clue. Miranda though, she was a—

A ride; she was. It was weird thinking it; his son was going out with a ride; but it was true. He could’ve given himself a bugle now, out here in the hall, just remembering what she was like and her smile; no problem.

He’d never gone out with a young one like that.

He went back into the kitchen to tell Veronica he liked her.

There were days when there was this feeling in his guts all the time, like a fart building up only it wasn’t that at all. It was as if his trousers were too tight for him, but he’d check and they weren’t, they were grand; but there was a little ball of hard air inside in him, getting bigger. It was bad, a bad sort of excitement, and he couldn’t get rid of it. It was like when he was a kid and he’d done something bad and he was waiting for his da to come home from work to kill him. He used to use his belt, the bollix. He didn’t wear a belt; he only kept it for strapping Jimmy Sr and his brothers; under the sink he kept it, a big leather thing; he’d take ages bending over, looking for it and then testing it on the side of the sink and saying Ah yes as if he was pleased with it; and he’d stare at Jimmy Sr and make him stare back and then Jimmy Sr’d feel the pain on the side of his leg and again and again and it was fuckin’ terrible and it was worse if he took his eyes off his da’s eyes, the fuckin’ sadistic cunt, so he had to keep staring back at him; it was agony, but not as bad as the waiting. Waiting for it was the worst part. If he did something early in the day and his mother said she was going to tell his da, that was it; she never changed her mind. He’d go through the whole day scared shitless, waiting for his da to come home, praying that he’d go for a pint first or get knocked down by a car or fall into a machine at work or get a heart attack, any fuckin’ thing.

And that was how he sometimes — often — felt now, scared shitless. And he didn’t know why.

— Did yeh ever read David Copperfield, Veronica? said Jimmy Sr.

— No, said Veronica.

She was reading Lord of the Flies at the kitchen table.

— Did yeh not? said Jimmy Sr. — Ah, it’s very good.

The best thing he’d ever done was give up on that Man in the Iron Mask fuckology.

— Look at the size of it but, he said. — Eight hundred pages. More. Still though, it’s the business. There’s this cunt in it called Mr Micawber an‘, I’m not jokin’ yeh — D’yeh want to read it after me, Veronica?

Veronica finished the note she was taking, about: Piggy getting his head smashed. She knew what he wanted her to say.

— Okay, she said.

— Do yeh? said Jimmy Sr. — Fair enough. I’d better finish it quick so. I’ve to bring it back to the library on the twenty-first of December.

He checked the date.

— Yeah, he said.

— We’ve loads of time, said Veronica.

—’Course we have, said Jimmy Sr.

He was delighted. He didn’t know why, exactly.

— Do you want this one when I’m finished with it? Veronica asked him.

— Okay, said Jimmy Sr. — That’s a good idea. A swap, wha’.

— Yes, said Veronica.

He looked at her reading and stopping and taking her notes. He wondered if maybe he should take notes as well. He sometimes forgot what—

No; that would just have been thick; stupid.

— I’ll go up an’ get a few more chapters read before the tea, he told Veronica.

— Grand, said Veronica.

— They’re stupid fuckin’ things annyway, said Jimmy Sr.

— Ah — I know, but—

Veronica wasn’t convinced.

Jimmy Sr picked up one of the cards.

— For instance, he said, — look at this one, look it. Dessie an’ Frieda; they only live around the fuckin’ corner, we see them every fuckin’ day!

Veronica’s face was the same.

— Annyway, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s you says tha’ we can’t send any, not me.

Veronica’s face hardened. Jimmy Sr got in before she could.

— You said we can’t afford them, he said. — I don’t mind.

— We can’t afford them, said Veronica.

— There, said Jimmy Sr. — Yeh said it again. We can’t afford them. So we won’t send any. — So wha’ are yeh whingin’ abou’? It’s your idea.

Veronica sighed. She just looked sad again.

— That’s not fair, she said.

— How is it not fair? Jimmy Sr wanted to know. — How is it not fair!?

Veronica sighed again.

— How!?

— You’re blaming me, said Veronica.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — An’ you’re blamin’ me.

— What d’you mean? said Veronica.

— Yeh are, said Jimmy Sr. — You’ve decided tha’ we haven’t the money to buy Christmas cards an’ you’re probably righ’. But then you put this puss on yeh — It’s not my fault we’ve no fuckin’ money for your fuckin’ Christmas cards!

— I never said it was.

— No, but yeh looked it; I have eyes, yeh know.

He stood up.

— Ah, Jimmy—

— Ah, nothin’; I’m sick of it; just — fuck off!

Jimmy Sr was holding a bottle of Guinness. He had a can of Tennents in his other hand and an empty glass between his knees, so he was having problems. That was the worst thing about not being at home; just that; you weren’t at home, so you couldn’t do what you wanted. You had to watch yourself.

He was in Bimbo’s house.

If he’d been in his own gaff he wouldn’t have been sitting like this, like a gobshite, too far back in the armchair — he couldn’t get out of the fuckin’ thing because his hands were full. He didn’t want to put the can or the bottle on one of the arms of the chair because the wood was at an angle like a ski jump and very shiny; he could smell the polish. And Bimbo’s kids were flying around the place, in and out, like fuckin’ — kids. And this fuckin’ tie he had on him, it was killing him; it was sawing the fuckin’ neck off him. It was the shirt, a new one Veronica’d given him; she said he’d put on weight. It wasn’t fuckin’ fair: he was drinking far less but he was getting fuckin’ fatter. She said he was anyway. She’d probably said it because it was either that or admit that she’d bought him the wrong size of a shirt. Anyway, he was fuckin’ choking and he couldn’t loosen the poxy tie because his fuckin’ hands were full—