Roddy Doyle - The Van

— I won, sure! said Bimbo.

— Not really, yeh didn’t, said Jimmy Sr.

— You’re the loser, excuse me, said Bimbo. — And a cheater.

— Yeh’d want to be careful abou’ wha’ you’re sayin’, Jimmy Sr told him.

He knew well they all believed Bimbo; he didn’t give a fuck. He was enjoying himself.

— I’m only sayin’ what I saw, said Bimbo. — Yeh looked around yeh an’ yeh gave the ball a kick, then yeh shouted Found it! And then yeh said, I was lucky, it’s landed nicely for me.

Bertie and Paddy were roaring.

— Fuck yeh, said Jimmy Sr. — Wha’ were yeh lookin’ at me for annyway?

— You’ll have to buy a round because o’ tha’, compadre, Bertie said to Jimmy Sr.

— Fair enough, said Jimmy Sr.

He had a tenner that Jimmy Jr’d given him.

— Four pints over here, he roared at the young fella who was going past them with a trayload of empty glasses. — I’d still have beaten yeh, he told Bimbo.

— But I won, said Bimbo.

— It’s tha’ baldy bollix, Gorbachev’s fault. The grass should’ve been cut there; he’s useless. There’s always dog-shite in the bunkers as well.

— Annyone want a kettle jug? said Bertie.

— Free?

— No, said Bertie. — No, I’m afraid not. I can give it to yeh at a keen price though.

— How much? said Paddy.

— Fifteen quid, said Bertie. — Thirty-five in the shops. — Two for twenty-five.

— How many have yeh? Jimmy Sr asked him.

— Ask no questions, compadre, said Bertie. — Not tha’ many. A small herd. Well?

— No, said Jimmy Sr.

He looked around to see if there was anyone listening or watching.

— No, Paddy said. — We don’t need one.

— No, Bimbo agreed.

— Fair enough, said Bertie. — No problem.

— Yeh wouldn’t have a chipper van to sell, I suppose, said Bimbo, — would yeh, Bertie?

— No, said Bertie, like Bimbo’d just asked him if he’d any bananas.

Jimmy Sr and Paddy stared at Bimbo.

— Just a thought, said Bimbo.

And he left it at that.

Bertie loved a challenge.

— Wha’ abou’ a Mister Whippy one? Bertie asked Bimbo. — I think I could get me hands on one o’ them.

— No, said Bimbo.

— You’ve your heart set on a chipper one?

— Yeah. — Not really; just if yeh see one.

— Si, said Bertie. — I’ll see what I can do.

Jimmy Sr looked at Bimbo. But Bimbo was just looking the way he always did, friendly and stupid looking, no glint in his eye or nothing.

— Bimbo’s talkin’ abou’ gettin’ himself a chipper van, he told Veronica.

— I knew he liked his food, said Veronica. — But I didn’t know he was that bad.

Jimmy Sr didn’t get it at first.

— Ah yeah; very good.

Jimmy Sr had no luck trying to get anything out of Bimbo.

— It was just an idea, that’s all.

That was about as much as he’d tell him.

They were in Jimmy Sr’s front room watching Blockbusters.

— If Bertie finds one will yeh buy it? Jimmy Sr asked him.

— B M—, said Bimbo.

The girls’ team on the telly got to the answer before Bimbo.

— Are yeh listenin’ to me? said Jimmy Sr.

— M T, said Bimbo.

— Mother Teresa, said Jimmy Sr.

— Let’s see;—you’re righ’.

—‘Course I’m righ’.

— They’ve won, look it. You‘d’ve won if you’d o’ been on it, Jimmy.

— What’s the prize?

— A trip to somewhere.

— Would yeh take the van if Bertie found one for yeh? Jimmy Sr asked him again.

— Edinburgh; that’s where it’s to. That’s not all tha’ good, is it?

— Better than nowhere, said Jimmy Sr, defending the prize he could’ve won.

— That’s right, o’ course. They look happy enough with it annyway, don’t they?

Jimmy Sr looked at the two girls on the telly.

— Wouldn’t mind goin’ with them, he said.

The weather was glorious. All week the sun had been blazing away, none of the chill that you often got when it was sunny in May.

They were sitting on Jimmy Sr’s front step, Jimmy Sr and Bimbo, lapping up the sun. Bimbo had his eyes closed and his face shoved up to catch the sun, daring it to burn him.

— Lovely, he said.

— Fuckin’ sure, said Jimmy Sr. — You can really feel it, can’t yeh?

— God, yeah.

— Great drinkin’ weather, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo didn’t answer. He agreed with Jimmy Sr but he’d been talking with Maggie about them dipping into his redundancy money; they’d both been doing it, for clothes — Wayne had made his Confirmation two weeks ago — and Easter eggs and things that they’d always had. They’d taken all the kids to the pictures on Wayne’s Confirmation day and that had set them back nearly forty quid after popcorn and ice-creams, forty quid that they didn’t have, so it had come out of the lump sum. Maggie’d take a tenner out so they could have nice steak on a Sunday. And Bimbo’d been helping himself to the odd tenner so he could go up to the Hikers now and again. And the aluminium windows and the other bits and pieces. But it was stopping. This morning they’d had a meeting and they’d agreed that it had to stop or there’d be nothing left for when they really needed it. So the last treat they were giving themselves was three tickets for Cats, for himself and Maggie and her mother; they had them bought since last week, before the decision, so they were going to go ahead and go.

— Oh, here we go, said Jimmy Sr. — Look it.

Bimbo opened his eyes and looked at the ground till he got used to the light.

— Ah yes, said Jimmy Sr, nearly whispering.

There were three girls passing; girls about sixteen or seventeen. You could tell that they knew that Jimmy Sr and Bimbo were there. One of them looked in at them and away quickly. Bimbo felt sweaty suddenly and that annoyed him because it was Jimmy Sr that was really looking at them, not him.

— They’re only young ones, he said.

— There’s no harm, said Jimmy Sr.

He felt like a bollix now; he’d have to control himself — especially when the Child of fuckin’ Prague was sitting beside him.

— They’re goin’ home for their tea, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr saw him shiver when he said it.

— An’ to do their homework, said Bimbo.

— Those young ones aren’t in school annymore. They left—

— I know, said Bimbo. — Those particular girls aren’t goin’ to school annymore but—

— They work in tha’ sewin’ factory in Baldoyle, said Jimmy Sr.

— They’re still only young girls, said Bimbo. — Kids.

— Ah, rev up, said Jimmy Sr.

The sewing factory girls got a half day on Fridays. The first time Jimmy Sr’d looked at them on a Friday, from his bedroom window, he’d felt the blood rushing through his head, walloping off the sides, like he was watching a blue video and he was afraid that Veronica would come in and catch him. There was a gang of them — all of them seemed to be in denim mini-skirts — outside Sullivans. Derek and Ann Sullivan’s daughter, Zena, worked in the sewing factory. There was about six of them laughing and hugging themselves to keep out the cold; it was months ago and young ones like that never dressed properly for the weather. All of them had haircuts like your woman, Kylie Minogue. Jimmy Sr liked that. He thought curly hair was much better than straight. He’d looked at them for ages. He even dived back onto the bed when one of them was looking his way. He’d been afraid to go back and look out the window. But he did, and then they went, their heels making a great sound; he’d always loved that sound — he always woke up when he heard it. He’d felt like a right cunt then, gawking out the window; like a fuckin’ pervert.