Roddy Doyle - The Van

— Are we goinV or are we? said Paddy.

— Lead the way, compadre, said Bertie.

— Ah, I don’t—, said Bimbo. — I don’t know if—

— Come on for fuck sake, said Jimmy Sr. — The fresh air will fix yeh.

— There—, said Bimbo. — There’s nothin’ wrong with me.

— Come on then, said Jimmy Sr.

— Are — Hey, lads, said Bimbo. — Are — are we goin’ on a boat?

— Will yeh listen to him, said Paddy.

Bimbo started singing.

— Ah shite! said Paddy.

— WE COME ON THE SLOOP JOHN B—

— Ah si, said Bertie.

He liked this one, so he joined in with Bimbo.

— ME GRAN‘FATHER AN’ ME—

— Where’s it gone? Jimmy Sr asked Paddy.

— Wha’?

— The chipper van, said Jimmy Sr.

— Wha’ about it?

— Where is it?

— I don’t know!

— LET ME GO HOME—

LEHHHHH’ ME GO HOME—

— I want some fuckin’ grub, said Jimmy Sr. — Shut up, will yis.

And then he joined in.

— I FEEL SO BROKE UP—

I WANNA GO HOME—

They were finished. Bimbo looked much better. He started again.

— BA BA BAH—

— Hang on a minute, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr.

— BA BARBER ANN—

— Shut up!

Jimmy Sr nearly fell over, the shout had taken so much out of him.

— We’ve no fuckin’ chipper, he told them.

— That’s righ‘, said Bertie. — I thought there was somethin’ missin’ alrigh’.

There was always a van outside the Hikers, not just at the weekends either; always.

It wasn’t there tonight though. Bimbo looked up and down the road for it, and behind him.

— He must be sick, said Bimbo.

— He must’ve eaten one of his own burgers, said Bertie.

— What’ll we do? said Jimmy Sr.

— No problem, amigo. We’ll go to the chipper.

He meant the real chipper, the one not on wheels; the one over the Green between the Gem and the place where the Bank of Ireland used to be.

— No, way, said Jimmy Sr.

He shook his head and nearly went on his ear again.

— What’s wrong with yeh? said Bertie.

— WEEHHL—

THE WEST COAST FARMERS’ DAUGHTERS—

— Shut up, Bimbo.

— The chipper’s down there, said Jimmy Sr. — Righ’?

— Eh — si.

— An’ the fuckin’ seafront’s up there, said Jimmy Sr.

— Si.

— So there’s no way I’m goin’ all the way down there, then all the way back up here again.

— Paddy’ll go for us an’ we’ll wait for him.

— I will in me brown, said Paddy.

They sat on the carpark wall.

— May as well liberate these an’ annyway, said Bertie, — wha’.

He got his sixpack out of its paper bag.

— While we’re makin’ up our minds. Alrigh’, Bimbo?

— Yes, thank you.

— Annyone got an opener?

— I fuckin’ told yeh we should’ve got cans, said Paddy. — I told yeh.

— Fuck off.

— The cans don’t taste as nice, said Jimmy Sr.

— Si, said Bertie. — Correct.

He stood up and put the neck of the bottle to the edge of the wall.

— Let’s see now, he said.

He tried to knock the cap off the bottle.

— You’re goin’ to break it, said Paddy.

— Am I? said Bertie.

He lifted the bottle and held it out so the froth ran over his hand but not onto his clothes.

— Well done, Bertie, said Jimmy Sr.

— There y’are, Bimbo, said Bertie, handing him the opened bottle.

— My turn next, said Jimmy Sr.

— Do your own, said Bertie.

He put the top of the bottle to the edge of the wall, then pulled it down but he missed the wall and scraped his knuckles and dropped the bottle.

— Shite!

— Watch it.

A Garda car was crossing the road towards them.

The guards didn’t get out but the passenger opened his window.

— What’s goin’ on here?

Bertie took his knuckles out of his mouth.

— We’re waitin’ on your wife, he said.

Paddy started whistling the Laurel and Hardy music. Jimmy Sr nudged him but Paddy didn’t stop.

— None of your lip, said the garda to Bertie.

Jimmy Sr didn’t like this sort of thing.

Bertie went closer to the car and leaned down. He held his top lip.

— This one? he said.

Then his bottom lip.

— Or this one.

Paddy stood up now as well.

Bimbo whispered to Jimmy Sr.

— Do we know — know his wife?

Jimmy Sr didn’t know what he’d do if the cops got out of the car. He’d never been in trouble with the guards, even when he was a kid; only through Leslie.

The driver spoke.

— Mister Gillespie.

Bertie bent down further and looked past the passenger.

— Buenas noches, Sergeant Connolly, he said.

Bimbo got down off the wall and started picking up the broken glass.

— You’re looking grand and flushed, said Sergeant Connolly.

— That’s cos we’ve been ridin’ policemen’s daughters all nigh’, Sergeant, said Bertie.

Jimmy Sr wanted to get down and run.

Paddy leaned down beside Bertie to see the faces on the gardai. He hacked, like he was getting ready to spit, but the passenger didn’t budge. He wouldn’t even look at him.

Sergeant Connolly spoke.

— You wouldn’t know anything at all about a small bit of robbery of Supervalu in Baldoyle this afternoon, Mister Gillespie? he asked Bertie. — Would you, at all?

— Yeah, said Bertie. — I would.

— What?

— They got away, said Bertie.

The sergeant laughed. Jimmy Sr didn’t like it.

— You can come over to me house now an’ search it if yeh like, Bertie told the sergeant.

— We already did that, said the sergeant.

The passenger grinned.

— Wha’ are you fuckin’ grinnin’ at? said Paddy.

Bertie moved forward a bit and crowded Paddy out of the way.

— Did yeh find annythin’? he asked Sergeant Connolly.

— Not really, said the sergeant. — But tell your lovely wife Thank you, will you, like a good man. — I forgot to thank her myself. Good night now. Safe home.

The car moved away from the kerb and back across the road, and around onto Chestnut Avenue.

— The cunts, said Paddy.

— Where’s there a bin? said Bimbo.

— Over here, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr. — Look it.

He took Bimbo’s arm and made him come with him. He wanted to get home — and get Bimbo home — before the cops came back.

— See yis, he told Bertie and Paddy.

— Where’re you goin’? said Paddy.

— Home, said Jimmy Sr. — I’m knackered.

— Good nigh‘, compadre, said Bertie. — Here; bring one o’ the sixpacks here, look it.

— No, said Jimmy Sr. — No, thanks, you’re alrigh’. See yis.

He wanted to get the fuck home. He couldn’t handle that sort of thing at all. He didn’t want the guards thinking anything about him. And Bimbo; the two of them not working and that. Your man, Connolly, would start thinking that they were working for Bertie. And they’d raid the fuckin’ house or something. Veronica—

— Are we goin’ home, Jimmy? said Bimbo.

— Yeah.

— Good.

The next couple of weeks were great. He had to admit that. If he’d been looking for someone to be made redundant it would have been Bimbo. That didn’t mean that he’d wanted Bimbo to get the sack; not at all. What he meant was this: he couldn’t think of better company than Bimbo, and now that Bimbo wasn’t working he could hang around with Bimbo all day. It was fuckin’ marvellous.

He didn’t think he was being selfish. At first — during the first week or so — he’d felt a bit guilty, a bit of a bollix, because Bimbo was so miserable and he was the opposite. He couldn’t wait to get up and out in the mornings, like a fuckin’ kid on his summer holliers. But he didn’t think that way any more. Because he was helping Bimbo really. He wasn’t denying that he was delighted that Bimbo wasn’t working — not that he’d told anyone — but he didn’t have to feel bad about it because, after all, he hadn’t given poor Bimbo the sack and he’d never even wished it. And if Bimbo ever got his job back or got a new one he’d be the first one to slap him on the back and say Sound man. And he’d mean it as well.