Roddy Doyle - The Van

They went out to Howth as well sometimes, and had a walk down the pier and along the front. They were going to get fishing rods.

Then a great thing happened. Bimbo helped out a bit with Barrytown United. He just went to the Under 13 matches cos Wayne, one of his young lads, was playing for them now; he was usually the sub, and Bimbo minded their gear and their money for them. And he sometimes drove some of the Under 18s to their matches, and home again. Anyway, he got a chance of two tickets to one of the World Cup warm-up matches, against Wales, in Lansdowne.

— Not two tickets exactly, he explained to Jimmy Sr.

— Wha’ does tha’ fuckin’ mean? said Paddy.

— Was I talkin’ to you? said Bimbo. — We get into the game for nothin’, he told Jimmy Sr, — but we have to do a bit o’ stewardin’. Nothin’ much though.

— Wha’?

— I don’t know, said Bimbo. — Exactly. Are yeh on?

— Okay, said Jimmy Sr.

— Ah good, said Bimbo.

— They’ll fuckin’ lose, Paddy told them. — Wait an’ see.

— Fuck off you, said Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr loved soccer but he hadn’t been to a game in years, and now he could go to an international for nothing.

— The tickets are like gold dust, he told Veronica.

They got the DART straight across to Lansdowne. Jimmy Sr had Darren’s Ireland scarf on him. Darren still went to all the matches but he didn’t bother with the scarf any more. So Jimmy Sr had it.

— How many stops after Amiens Street is Lansdowne? Jimmy Sr asked Bimbo.

Bimbo looked up at the yoke with the stations on it over the window.

— Eh — three—, said Bimbo. — Yeah; three.

— Good, said Jimmy Sr. — I could do with a slash.

They’d had a pint in the Hikers; just the two.

— We’ll have one when we get there, said Bimbo.

— Grand, said Jimmy Sr. — No hurry.

— There’s a big jacks under the stand.

— Grand, said Jimmy Sr.

When they got to Lansdowne they had to put on these white jackets with Opel on them and they followed this fat fella, and he brought them up into the East Stand and what they had to do was show people where their seats were. It was easy. You’d want to have been a fuckin’ eejit not to have been able to find your own seat. He slagged Bimbo; said he’d buy him a torch and a skirt so he could get him a job in a cinema. — Can I help you, sir, he’d heard him saying to one fuckin’ eejit who couldn’t find his seat.

Then they went down to the side of the pitch just after the game started, inside the barriers — it was great — and they watched the game. It was a shite match, woeful; but he enjoyed it and the weather stayed good. He took off his Opel jacket and the fat fella told him to put it back on, but he said it nicely, so Jimmy Sr did put it back on. Coming up to full time the fat fella told them to turn around and face the crowd and stop any young fellas from climbing over the barriers when the whistle went. Then Ireland got a penno, and they had to watch that; and that gobshite, Sheedy, missed it — Southall saved it — and he turned back, and the crowd went fuckin’ mad, and he turned back around and the new fella, Bernie Slaven, had scored a goal and Jimmy Sr’d fuckin’ missed it. He had to watch it on the telly later on that night. He didn’t know why he’d faced the crowd anyway; there was no way he was going to try and stop anyone from climbing over the barriers. They could chew their way through the barriers for all Jimmy Sr cared; it was none of his business. He enjoyed the whole day though. Mick McCarthy came over near to where himself and Bimbo were just before the end to take one of his famous long throws and Jimmy Sr nodded at him and said Howyeh, Mick, and McCarthy winked at him. He was a good player, McCarthy, a hard man.

They were going to get into the Russia game as well for nothing at the end of the month. That was definitely something to look forward to; it would be a much better match.

— Definitely, said Bimbo.

They were on the DART home.

— I don’t know, said Jimmy Sr. — I’d say tha’ glasnost shite has made them soft, d’yeh know tha’. They don’t have to worry abou’ bein’ sent to the salt mines if they lose any more.

— We’ll see, said Bimbo.

So they filled their time no problem. Sometimes that was all they did; fill it — they just fucked around doing nothing till they could go home for their dinner or their tea. That wasn’t so good. And sometimes Jimmy Sr could tell that Bimbo had the blues. And sometimes as well he had the blues himself. But they were good for each other, him and Bimbo.

And now — today — all Bimbo’s practice had paid off; he’d won the pitch and putt. And instead of winning a poxy voucher for the butchers or something he’d won a trophy, a huge one with a golfer on top of it; not cheap looking either, like a lot of them were. No, it was very nice, and Bimbo was fuckin’ delighted; he was fuckin’ glowing.

They’d had a few pints to celebrate and now they were going out to the van to get a few chips and a bit of cod, because they were too late for their tea and too hungry to wait for Maggie and Veronica to rustle up something for them.

— Are yeh righ’? said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo was collecting his clubs and his trophy, trying to work out the handiest way to carry them all.

— Here, said Jimmy Sr. — Give us them.

He took the clubs from Bimbo. He was fuckin’ starving.

— Seeyis now, said Bimbo.

He was saying goodbye to everyone.

— Will yeh come on! said Jimmy Sr. — For Jaysis sake.

They went out into the carpark. It was still bright; it was only eight o’clock. The sky was red over where the sun was.

— Isn’t tha’ lovely? said Bimbo.

— I’m havin’ a burger as well, Jimmy Sr told him.

But the van wasn’t there.

— Ah fuck it!

And then they remembered that the van hadn’t been there in a long time; months in fact. They only missed it now when they wanted it.

They headed over the Green to the real chipper.

— Prob‘ly just as well really, said Bimbo. — You never know wha’ you were gettin‘, out o’ tha’ van. — It’s funny though—

He was having problems keeping up with Jimmy Sr.

— Tha’ van was a little gold mine, he said.

Jimmy Sr agreed with him.

— Yeah, he said.

— Maybe he’s sick, said Bimbo.

He nearly went through a puddle.

— Or maybe he’s dead.

— Good, said Jimmy Sr.

— A little gold mine that place was, Bimbo said again.

— It can’t have been tha’ much of a gold mine if it’s not there annymore, said Jimmy Sr.

— Maybe, yeah, said Bimbo. — I’d say he’s just sick or dead.

— I’ll be dead in a minute meself if I don’t get a bit o’ grub into me, said Jimmy Sr. — Come here, Bimbo, he said. — You’ll have to be careful yeh don’t get complacent just cos you’ve won once. I’m not bein’ snotty now—

— I know tha’.

— It happens a lot o’ fellas. They stop workin’ at their game, just cos they’ve won one poxy trophy; no offence.

— Don’t worry, Bimbo assured him. — It’s not goin’ to happen to me.

— Good man. — We wouldn’t want a job now, wha’. We’re too busy.

Bimbo smiled back at him.

There were bad times as well, of course. Of course there were. Poor oul’ Bimbo got the blues a bit, the way he used to himself before he got the hang of it, being a man of leisure. He — Bimbo — got the Independent every morning. It was supposed to be the best paper for jobs, and he went straight to the back pages. He hadn’t a hope in shite of getting a job out of it, he knew it himself; they knew nobody who’d ever got a job out of a paper. But he still got it and went down the columns with his finger and got ink on it and then on his face, and then got depressed when there was nothing for him. God love him, Jimmy Sr had to stop him from writing away for a job in McDonalds; there was a huge ad for them in Saturday’s paper.