Roddy Doyle - The Van

— How come? said Maggie.

Jimmy Sr was having real problems keeping his face straight. So was Vera. Bertie though, he looked like a doctor telling you that you had cancer.

— Your mother—, said Bimbo.

— She has a name, you know, said Maggie.

— That’s not all she has, signora, said Bertie.

That was it; Guinness, snot, probably some of his breakfast burst up into Jimmy Sr’s mouth and nose; it didn’t get past his teeth — he was lucky there — but something landed on his shirt; he didn’t care, not yet; his eyes watered—

— Fuck; sorry.

And he laughed.

Veronica had her handkerchief out and was trying to get the snot off his shirt.

He laughed like he was dying of it; it was hurting him but it was fuckin’ great. Veronica was tickling him as well and that made it worse.

Veronica started laughing at him laughing.

They were all laughing now, even Bimbo. He knew he’d been had but he didn’t mind; he never did; only sometimes.

Jimmy Sr felt a fart coming on, and he didn’t trust himself with it; he couldn’t, not the way he was, helpless from the laughing and sweating and that; he’d have ended up being the one who’d ruined Bimbo’s Christmas — by shiteing all over his new carpet.

— Eh, the jacks, he said.

— Off yeh go, said Bertie.

It took him ages to get up the stairs; he had to haul himself up them.

He had a piss while he was up there, and gave his hands a wash; he always did when he was in someone’s house.

He was some tulip, Bertie; he was fuckin’ gas.

Jesus, the water was scalding.

He dried his hands, and looked at his watch: half-twelve. That was good; they’d stay another hour and a half or so. The crack would be good.

Vera; she was a fine-looking bird. She looked after herself — whatever that meant. She looked healthy, that was it. She looked healthier than Veronica. She was a good bit younger than Veronica, maybe ten years. But she looked like she’d been a young one not so long ago and poor Veronica looked like she’d never been a young one. It wasn’t just age though.

Bimbo had an electric razor.

He had two of them, two razors, the jammy bastard; an ordinary-looking one and a thin yellow one that didn’t look like it could’ve been much good. Jimmy Sr picked up the yellow one: Girl Care. What the fuck—

She was a bit of a brasser, Vera, but Jimmy Sr liked that. It was Maggie’s, that was it; for her legs or — only her legs probably. He pressed a small rubber button, and it came on but there was hardly any noise out of it. He put his foot up on the bath and lifted his trouser leg and pulled down his sock a bit; new socks, from the twins.

— One from each o’ yis, wha’, he’d said when he’d unwrapped them, earlier at home.

He looked at the door; it was alright, it was locked.

He slowly put the Girl yoke down on top of a couple of long hairs, there on his shin: nothing. He massaged another bit of his leg with it, and then felt it. It was smooth alright but — it was smooth there anyway. There was a clump of about ten hairs growing out of a sort of a mole yoke he’d had since he was a kid.

They were real wiry, these hairs, and blacker than the other ones. He wouldn’t put the head of the razor straight down on top of them; he’d just run the thing over the mole quickly and see what it did.

He looked at the door again. Vera probably used one of these, when she was shaving her legs—

— Ah fuck this!

He threw the Girl Care back onto the shelf over the sink.

God, he was a right fuckin’ eejit. Shaving his legs; for fuck sake!

He was sweating.

He’d better get back down to the others.

Shaving his fuckin’ legs.

He felt weak, hopeless, like he’d been caught. Was something happening him?

He turned on the cold tap.

No, fuck it; he’d only been curious, that was all; he’d only wanted to see if the fuckin’ thing worked, that was all.

The cold water was lovely on his face. Nice towel as well; lovely and soft. Maggie had probably put it into the bathroom just before they’d arrived, just for them. It wasn’t damp and smelly, the way it would’ve been if the whole family had been through it that morning.

Fair play to Bimbo; and Maggie. They had the house lovely.

He felt better now. That hot wetness was gone. He was grand now.

He unlocked the door and went downstairs.

It was nice. The window was open and it wasn’t cold at all. There was no one out on the road; no voices or cars. No one would’ve been out on Christmas Day night; there was nowhere to go, unless they’d been out visiting the mother or something and they were on their way home.

Veronica was asleep.

That was the first time they’d done the business in a good while; two months nearly. Made love. He’d never called it that; it sounded thick. Riding your wife was more than just riding, especially when yis hadn’t done it in months, but — he could never have said Let’s make love to Veronica; she’d have burst out laughing at him.

He wasn’t tired. He hadn’t drunk much. There hadn’t been that much to drink, but that didn’t matter; he wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. Anyway as well, he’d had a snooze after they got back from Bimbo’s while Veronica and Sharon were getting the dinner ready.

Veronica had caught him feeling her legs to see if they were smooth, to see if she shaved them.

— What’re you doing?

— Nothin’.

She hadn’t really caught him; he’d have been doing it anyway. But he’d had to keep feeling them up and down from her knees up to her gee after she’d said that, so she wouldn’t think he’d stopped just cos she’d said it.

They were smooth, except on her shins. They were a bit prickly there.

Young Jimmy’d come for the dinner. In a taxi, no less. Fair play to him. And five cigars for Jimmy Sr from Aoife, his mot. That was very nice of her; he’d only met her the once. She was a nice young one, too nice for that—

That wasn’t fair. He was alright, young Jimmy. He was staying the night, downstairs with Darren. And Darren was well set up as well, with a lovely-looking young one.

Aoife and Miranda.

Two lovely names. There was something about them; just thinking of the names, not even the girls themselves, got him going. They were models’ names.

Veronica wasn’t what you’d have called a sexy name. Or Vera.

Vera wasn’t too bad though. There was no saint called Vera as far as he knew.

Veronica shifted and moved in closer to him. That was nice. He felt guilty now; not really though. He put his hand on her back.

That fucker Leslie hadn’t got in touch; not even a card. Even just to tell them where he was; and that he was alive.

He’d been caught robbing a Lifeboat collection box out in Howth. He hadn’t even been caught, just seen by an off-duty cop who knew him. And that was why he’d left, for robbing a couple of quids’ worth of fivepences and two-pences. Last August that was. He’d spent two nights in Veronica’s sister’s in Wolverhampton, and that was it; they hadn’t heard from him since. On the run. He was only nineteen. He’d have gone eventually anyway; he was always in trouble and never at home, and you couldn’t be held responsible for a nineteen-year-old. They were better off without him. Jimmy Sr had taken the day off work to go with Leslie to court the first time, about five years ago now, for trespassing on the tracks.

Poor Veronica had bought a present for him, just in case; a jumper. But she hadn’t put it under the tree. It was up in the wardrobe over there, all wrapped up. She hadn’t said anything when he didn’t turn up yesterday or even today. She’d been in good form all day. You never knew with Veronica.