Roddy Doyle - The Van

Jesus tonight!

It was Christmas morning. They did this every Christmas, went to one of their houses and had a few scoops before the dinner. It was good; usually. He wasn’t sure, but he had a good idea that it was really his and Veronica’s turn to have the rest of them in their house; he wasn’t sure. Bimbo had just said, Will yis all be comin’ to our place for your Christmas drinks? a few days ago and Jimmy Sr hadn’t bothered saying anything because there was no point; they hadn’t the money to buy the drink for them all.

They’d only a few cans for themselves at home, and Jimmy Jr was bringing some more. He was supposed to be anyway.

He leaned forward as far as he could go and put the Tennents on the floor; he could just reach it. That was better. Now he could organise himself a bit better. He rescued the glass from between his knees and held it for the Guinness.

Bimbo’s mother-in-law was still looking over at him.

Let her, the bitch.

He wished Bertie would hurry up. He was good with oul’ ones like that. He told them they were looking great and he wished he was a few years older and that kind of shite. Jimmy Sr was no good at that sort of thing, not this morning anyway.

She was still looking at him.

He smiled over at her.

— Cheers, he said.

She just looked at him.

Jesus, he didn’t know how Bimbo could stick it. Where the fuck was Bimbo anyway? He was by himself in here, except for Freddy Kruger’s fuckin’ granny over there. He said he’d be back in a minute. And that was hours ago. He was playing with one of the kids’ computers, that was what the cunt was doing; leaving Jimmy Sr here stranded.

Veronica was inside in the kitchen with Maggie, Bimbo’s one.

— That’s a great smell comin’ from the kitchen, wha’, said Jimmy Sr.

Her mouth moved.

— What’s tha’? he said, and he leaned out.

Maybe she hadn’t said anything. Maybe she couldn’t help it; she couldn’t control her muscles, the ones that held her mouth up. Ah Jaysis, this was fuckin’ terrible; fuck Bimbo anyway.

He heard feet on the path.

— Thank fuck.

It was out before he knew it. And she nodded; she did; she’d heard him; oh Christ!

She couldn’t have; no. No, she’d just nodded at the same time, that was all. Because, probably, her neck wasn’t the best any more, that was all. He hoped.

The bell rang; the first bit of Strangers in the Night.

She definitely hadn’t heard him.

Stupid fuckin’ thing for a bell to do, play a song. Anyway, they didn’t even need a bell. This house was the exact same as Jimmy Sr’s; you could hear a knock on the door anywhere in the house.

Bertie came in.

— Compadre!

Jimmy Sr got up out of the chair.

— Happy Christmas, Bertie.

They shook hands. Bertie’s hand was huge, and dry.

Vera, the wife, was with him; a fine thing, Jimmy Sr’d always thought; still in great nick.

— Howyeh, Jimmy love, she said, and she stuck her cheek out, sort of, for him to kiss.

He kissed it. It wasn’t caked in that powdery stuff that a lot of women wore when they were out. Mind you, Veronica didn’t wear that stuff either.

The room was fuller now; Jimmy Sr, Vera, Bertie, Bimbo and two of his kids, and the mother-in-law over there in her corner. Jimmy Sr felt happier now.

— What’!! yeh have, Vera? said Bimbo.

— D’yeh want a Tennents? Jimmy Sr asked Bertie.

— Oh si, said Bertie.

— Bimbo gave me one, Jimmy Sr explained, — an’ then he asked me if I’d prefer a bottle o’ stout an’ I said Fair enough, so—

He picked the can up off the floor.

— I didn’t open it or annythin’.

— Good man, said Bertie. — Gracias.

— Will yis have a small one with them? Bimbo asked Jimmy Sr and Bertie.

Jimmy Sr looked at Bertie and Bertie shrugged.

— Fair enough, yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — Good man.

This was the business now alright. He grinned at Vera, and lifted his glass.

— Cheers, wha’.

— What did Santy bring yeh, Jimmy? Vera asked him.

— This, said Jimmy Sr.

He showed her his new shirt.

— Very nice.

— It’s a bit small.

— Ah no; it’s nice.

Bertie had found Maggie’s mother.

— Isn’t she lookin’ even better than last year? he said to them.

— Def’ny, said Jimmy Sr, but he couldn’t look at her.

— They’re in the kitchen, Jimmy Sr told Vera.

— Good for them, said Vera.

Bimbo came back with the small ones and Vera’s drink, a gin or a vodka.

— The cavalry, said Bertie. — Muchos gracias, my friend.

— The girls are in the kitchen, Bimbo told Vera.

— Good, said Vera.

Jimmy Sr reckoned she’d had a few already. Maybe not though: she wasn’t really like the other women, always making fuckin’ sandwiches and tea and talking about the Royal Family and Coronation Street and that kind of shite. She kept their house grand though; any time Jimmy Sr had been in it anyway.

Bertie leaned in nearer to Bimbo.

— There’s a funny whiff off your mammy-in-law, he told him.

Bimbo looked shocked.

— She might be dead, said Bertie.

Jimmy Sr burst his shite laughing. Poor Bimbo’s face made it worse. Vera laughed as well. She just laughed straight out; she didn’t cluck cluck like a lot of women would’ve, like Veronica would’ve.

— Go over, Bertie told Bimbo. — I’m tellin’ yeh, compadre, the hum is fuckin’ atrocious.

— My God, said Bimbo, dead quiet. — Is she after doin’ somethin’ to herself?

— Go over an’ check, said Bertie. — It might have been just a fart, but—

Bimbo looked around, to make sure that none of the kids was around to witness this.

— Hang on, said Jimmy Sr. — I can smell somethin’ meself now alrigh’.

— Isn’t it fuckin’ woeful? said Bertie.

— Oh God, said Bimbo.

— This could ruin your Christmas dinner, compadre, Bertie told Bimbo.

Bottled Guinness got up into Jimmy Sr’s nose.

He went out into the hall to sort himself out and to laugh properly. This was great; this was the kind of thing you remembered for the rest of your life.

— You’ll never get it out o’ the upholstery, said Bertie.

Jimmy Sr wanted to go out into the garden and roar, really fuckin’ howl.

One of Bimbo’s kids — Wayne he thought it was — ran into the room to tell his da something—

— Get ou’! said Bimbo.

And then.

— Sorry, son; go in an’ tell your mammy I need her.

— Tell her to bring a few J-cloths, said Bertie.

— No! don’t, Wayne, said Bimbo. — Off yeh go.

Wayne came out, looking like he’d just changed his mind about crying, and galloped down to the kitchen walloping the side of his arse like he was on a horse.

When Jimmy Sr went back into the room Bimbo was over at his mother-in-law, pretending he was looking for something on the shelf behind her. Vera pointed at Bertie and whispered to Jimmy Sr.

— He did this to his brother last night, she said. — The exact same thing.

Bimbo came back. They got in together, to consult.

— I can’t smell annythin’, said Bimbo.

— Can yeh not? said Bertie.

— D‘yeh have a cold? Jimmy Sr asked Bimbo. — It’s gettin’ worse.

— It’s not, is it? said Bimbo. — God, this is desperate.

Maggie and Veronica arrived, and most of Bimbo’s kids.

— What’s up? said Maggie. — Ah howyeh, Vera.

— Howyeh, Maggie. Happy Christmas. Happy Christmas, Veronica.

— And yourself, Vera; happy Christmas.

— Never mind Christmas, said Bimbo.

He nodded his head back; he didn’t want to look. He whispered.

— We’ve an emergency on our hands.