Roddy Doyle - The Van

But he was only looking, day dreaming maybe. There was no harm in it, none at all. He wasn’t going to start chasing after them or following them or — he just liked looking at them, that was all.

They were coming back up the road. He could hear them, their heels. Bimbo’d been wrong; they weren’t going home to their mammies for their tea. He’d tell him that when they went by, the fuckin’ little altar boy.

They were two gates away now. He’d see them in a minute. He’d look the other way so Bimbo wouldn’t think anything. Not that he cared what Bimbo thought.

He’d see them now if he looked.

He’d say something to Bimbo, just to be talking to him when they went by.

— Will Palace beat United tomorrow, d’yeh—

— Compadres!

It was Bertie. He stayed at the gates and looked at the young ones’ arses when they’d gone by, not a bother on him; he didn’t give a shite who saw him.

— How’s Bertie? said Bimbo.

He wouldn’t give out to Bertie for looking at the young ones, of course; no way.

Bertie stayed at the gate. He was wearing an Italia 90 T-SHIRT. He held the collar and shook it to put some air between him and the cloth.

— Are yis busy, compadres?

— What’s it look like? said Jimmy Sr.

Bertie opened the gate and nodded at them to get up.

— Come on till I show yis somethin’.

It was filthy. He’d never seen anything like it. They walked around it. It was horrible to think that people had once eaten chips and stuff out of this thing; it was a fuckin’ scandal. There was no way he was going to look inside it.

He looked at Bimbo but he couldn’t see his face. Bimbo was looking under the van now. For what, Jimmy Sr didn’t know; acting the expert. The last place Jimmy Sr would have wanted to stick his face was under that fuckin’ van; it would probably shite on top of you. It was like something out of a zoo gone stiff, the same colour and all.

It didn’t even have wheels. It was up on bricks.

Bimbo stood up straight.

Bertie came out from behind the van, rolling a wheel in front of him.

— The wheels are new, compadres, he told them. — There’s three more behind there, he said. — In perfect nick.

He let the tyre fall over onto the grass.

— Wha’ d’yeh think? he asked Bimbo.

— Which end does it shite out of? said Jimmy Sr.

Bertie got in between Bimbo and Jimmy Sr. Bimbo was still looking at the van, moving a bit to the left and to the right like he was studying a painting or something. Jimmy Sr went over so he could get a good look at Bimbo.

Bimbo looked excited and disappointed, like a light going on and off. Jimmy Sr looked at the van again.

Ah Jesus, the thing was in fuckin’ tatters. The man was fuckin’ mad to be even looking at it. He couldn’t let him do this.

— Maggie’ll have to see it, Bimbo said to Bertie.

Thank God for that, thought Jimmy Sr. It saved him the hassle of trying to stop Bimbo from making a fuckin’ eejit out of himself. Maggie’d box his ears for him when she saw what he was dragging her away from her work to see.

Bimbo’s face was still skipping up and down.

— I’ll get her, he said. — Hang on.

Jimmy Sr and Bertie waited in the garden while Bimbo went and got Maggie. The garden was in rag order, as bad as the van. You could never really tell what state a house was in from the front. Jimmy Sr had walked past this house dozens of times — it was only a couple of corners away from his own — and he’d never noticed anything about it. He’d never noticed it at all really; it was just a house at the end of a terrace. It was only when you came round the back that you realised that there was a gang of savages living a couple of hundred yards away from you. It wasn’t just poverty.

— I don’t know how annyone can live like this, he said.

Bertie looked around.

— It’s not tha’ bad, he said. — A bit wild maybe.

— Wild! said Jimmy Sr.

He pointed at a used nappy on the path near the back door.

— Is tha’ wild, is it? That’s just fuckin’ disgustin’.

He looked around nearer to him — he was sitting on one of the wheels — as if he was searching for more nappies.

— They should be ashamed of themselves, he said.

— It’s not They, compadre, Bertie corrected him.

— Wha’ d’yeh mean?

— It used to be They but now it’s just He. — She fucked off an’ left him. An’ the kids.

— Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr. — That’s rough. Why?

— Why wha’?

— Why’d she leave him?

— I don’t know, compadre, said Bertie after a bit. — He’s an ugly cunt but.

— Did you ever see her? Jimmy Sr asked him.

— No, said Bertie. — But the kids are all ugly as well.

— Ah well then, said Jimmy Sr.

He had his back to the van, on purpose, kind of a protest. He looked over his shoulder at it.

— You’ve some fuckin’ neck though, he told Bertie.

— Wha’? said Bertie.

— Tryin’ to get poor Bimbo to throw his money away on tha’ yoke, Jimmy Sr explained.

— I’m not trying to get Bimbo to throw his money away on annythin‘, said Bertie. — He asked me to look ou’ for a van for him an’ that’s what I did.

Jimmy Sr took his time answering Bertie. He had to be careful.

— How did yeh find it? he asked Bertie.

— I followed me nose, said Bertie.

They laughed.

Jimmy Sr knew now that Bertie wouldn’t push Bimbo into buying it. Anyway, Maggie would never let Bimbo buy it.

— It hasn’t been used in years, he said.

— No, Bertie corrected him. — No, it’s not tha’ long off the road. A year about only.

He looked at the van from end to end.

— She’s a good little buy, he said. — Solid, yeh know. Tha’ dirt’ll wash off no problem.

Jimmy Sr changed his mind; the cunt was going to make Bimbo buy it.

— There’s more than dirt wrong with tha’ fuckin’ thing, he told Bertie.

— Not at all, compadre, said Bertie, — I assure you.

— Assure me bollix, said Jimmy Sr.

— Hey! said Bertie.

He was pointing at Jimmy Sr. Jimmy Sr’d been afraid that this was going to happen. But sometimes you had to stand up and be counted.

— Hey, said Bertie again, not as loud now that he had Jimmy Sr looking at him. — Listen you, righ’. You ask annybody — annybody — that’s ever dealt with me if they’ve anny complaints to make abou’ their purchases an’ what’ll they tell yeh?

Jimmy Sr didn’t know if he was supposed to answer.

— No signor, they’ll say, said Bertie. — Quality, they’ll say, is Bertie Gillespie’s middle name. My friend Bimbo, he asks me to find him a chipper van an’ I find him a fuckin’ chipper van. It needs a wash an’ its armpits shaved, but so wha’? Don’t we all?

Jimmy Sr shrugged.

— I was only givin’ me opinion, he said.

— Jimmy, said Bertie. — You’ve bought things from me, righ’? Many products.

— That’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr.

— Did annythin’ I ever gave yeh stop workin’ on yeh?

— Never, Bertie, Jimmy Sr assured him. — Linda’s Walk-man broke on her but tha’ was her own fault. She got into the bath with it.

— Well then, said Bertie. — If I say it’s a good van then it’s a good fuckin’ van. It’s the Rolls-Royce o’ fuckin’ chipper vans; si?

— Okay, said Jimmy Sr. — Sorry.

— No problem, said Bertie. — What’s keepin’ Bimbo annyway?

He stood up and hitched his trousers back up over his arse. Jimmy Sr stood up and did the same thing with his trousers, although he didn’t need to; he just did it — cos Bertie’d done it. He put his hands in his pockets and shoved the trousers back down a bit.