Roddy Doyle - The Van

Jimmy Sr called for him. They were playing against each other in this week’s pitch and putt. And he was at the kitchen table starting to write the letter.

Jimmy Sr read the ad.

— You’re not serious, he said when he was finished. Bimbo finished writing his address.

— You’re not fuckin’ serious, said Jimmy Sr.

— I knew yeh’d say tha’, said Bimbo.

He kept his eyes on the paper but he wasn’t writing anything. His address was the only thing on the paper so far.

— Wha’ d’yeh think you’re at? Jimmy Sr asked him. — Well?

He took care to make sure that what he said sounded just right, not too hard and not too sarcastic.

— I’m just writin‘, said Bimbo. — To see wha’ they say, like.

— They won’t want you, said Jimmy Sr. — They’re lookin’ for young ones an’ young fellas tha’ they can treat like shite an’ exploit. Not grown up men like you, like us.

— I know, said Bimbo. — I know tha’—

— They wouldn’t have a uniform to fit yeh.

Bimbo had something he wanted to finish saying.

— I want to see wha’ they say, yeh know. Wha’ they write back.

— They won’t bother writin’ back, said Jimmy Sr.

— They might, said Bimbo.

— Jaysis, Bimbo; for fuck sake. You’re a fuckin’ baker.

— There now, said Bimbo.

He pointed his biro at the paper.

— If I put tha’ in the letter, that I’m a baker, they might be impressed — I don’t know — not impressed; they might just think that I’ve experience an’—you’d never know.

— Ah Bimbo.

— I’m only writin’ to them.

He stood up.

— I’m only writin’ to them. — I’ll do it later.

Bimbo won; he won the pitch and putt.

— Yeh cunt yeh, said Jimmy Sr.

They didn’t have a pint after; it was a bit early. They just went home.

Jimmy Sr knew Bimbo; if he was offered one of those jobs he’d take it. — It’s a start, he’d say; and he wouldn’t give a shite who saw him in his polyester uniform. He’d even wear the fuckin’ thing to work and home, not a bother on him. And Veronica would ask him why he couldn’t get a job like Bimbo — but that wasn’t the reason he wanted Bimbo to cop on to himself. Veronica knew that if Jimmy Sr ever got offered proper work he’d jump at it, even if it was less than the dole. He couldn’t let a friend of his-his best friend-allow himself to sink that low. A man like Bimbo would never recover from having to stand at a counter, wearing a uniform that didn’t fit him and serving drunk cunts and snot-nosed kids burgers and chips. They weren’t even proper chips.

They were at Bimbo’s gate.

— You’re not goin’ to write tha’ letter to McDonalds, said Jimmy Sr. — Are yeh?

— Ah—

— You’d just be wastin’ the fuckin’ stamp, for fuck sake.

— No, said Bimbo. — I don’t think I’ll bother.

— Good man, said Jimmy Sr. — See yeh later.

— See yeh, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr went on, to his own house. He wondered would the front room be free this afternoon. Darren was doing a lot of studying for the Leaving, and Jimmy Sr wasn’t going to get in his way. Liverpool were playing Chelsea on RTE. Maybe Darren would be going out, meeting his mot.

He’d forgotten his key. He knocked on the glass. Bimbo probably would write off to McDonalds even though he’d said he wouldn’t. He knocked again. He wouldn’t rest until he got himself one of those fuckin’ uniforms. He hid his eyes from the sun with his hand and looked in the window of the front room. There was no one in there. He knocked again. He should have got a knocker, one of those brass ones on the door. Bertie had one on his, and one of those spy-hole things. There was no one in.

— Fuck it annyway.

He’d go down to Bimbo’s for a bit, and watch the — Hang on though, no; there was someone coming down the stairs. He could hear it, and now he could make out the shape. It was Veronica. She must have been asleep, or studying. She was doing the Leaving as well in a couple of weeks, God love her. Fair play to her though. He was going to do the same himself next year.

Veronica opened the door.

— Wha’ kept yeh? said Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Jr came around with four cans of Carlsberg, still lovely and cold from the off-licence fridge. Jimmy Sr put his nose to the hole in his can.

— I always think it smells like piss when yeh open it first, he said. — Not bad piss now, he explained.

— Yeah, Jimmy Jr agreed.

He got his jacket from behind the couch and took out two packets of Planter’s Nuts and threw one of them to Jimmy Sr.

— Open them an’ smell them, he said.

Jimmy Sr did.

— Well? said Jimmy Jr.

— They smell like shite, said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Jr. — Fuckin’ gas, isn’t it? An’ they still taste lovely.

Jimmy Sr took a swig and trapped the beer in his mouth and only let it down slowly. That way he didn’t belch. The remote control needed a battery so Jimmy Sr couldn’t turn up the sound without getting up, and he couldn’t be bothered. He’d turned it down when young Jimmy had come, to ask how he was and that, and how Aoife was. There’d been one more goal since then; Ian Rush had scored it. He didn’t need George Hamilton or Johnny Giles to tell him who’d scored it cos he’d seen it himself. He was sick of those two. Giles was always fuckin’ whinging.

— They’re a machine, said Jimmy Sr. — Aren’t they?

— What’s that’?

— Liverpool, said Jimmy Sr. — They’re like a machine. Brilliant.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Jr.

He didn’t follow football much.

— A well-oiled machine, said Jimmy Sr. — There’s nothin’ like them.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Jr. — I’m gettin’ married.

— They always do the simple thing, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s obvious but no one else fuckin’ does it.

— I’m gettin’ married, said Jimmy Jr.

— I heard yeh, said Jimmy Sr.

— And?

— And is she pregnant?

— No, she fuckin’ isn’t!

— That’s grand so, said Jimmy Sr.

He held out his hand to Jimmy Jr.

— Put it there.

He’d have killed him if he’d put her up the pole; she was too nice a young one to have that sort of thing happen to her, far too nice.

They shook hands.

— Did you tell your mother yet?

— No. No, I wanted to tell you first. There’s another goal, look it.

— Barnes, said Jimmy Sr. — Brilliant. Pity he hasn’t an Irish granny. — Why?

— Why, wha’?

— Don’t start, said Jimmy Sr. — Why did yeh want to tell me first?

Jimmy Jr was concentrating on the telly.

— I just did, he said. — Eh, I’ll go in an’ tell Ma.

— Shell be delighted.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Jr.

He got up and went out.

Liverpool had scored again but Jimmy Sr only noticed it when the replay came on and even then he didn’t really pay attention to it. He didn’t know who’d scored it.

— What’re her parents like? Sharon asked Jimmy Jr.

— Good question, said Jimmy Sr. — Look carefully at her mother cos that’s wha’ she’ll end up lookin’ like.

— Will you listen to him, said Veronica.

They were all having the dinner, Darren and the twins as well. It was very nice. Not the food — it was nice as well, mind you; lovely — the atmosphere.

Young Jimmy had brought a bottle of wine. He poured a glass for the twins as well, just a small one, and Veronica didn’t kick up at all. Jimmy Sr looked at her. She couldn’t keep her eyes off young Jimmy.

— They’re alrigh’, said Jimmy Jr.

He put down his knife and fork, making noise on purpose.

— No, they’re not, now that I think of it, he said.