Roddy Doyle - The Van

— Very nice, she said.

— Which but? said Jimmy Sr.

— Oh, she said. — Is it a quiz?

And Veronica kicked Jimmy Sr’s leg before he could say anything back.

— Will we go for the Champion Burger so? said Maggie.

— Is tha’ the third one? said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeah.

— Def’ny then, said Jimmy Sr. — They were bigger as well.

— That’s only because o’ the way I cut it, said Maggie. — I gave you the biggest bit.

— Still though, said Jimmy Sr. — I thought it was head an’ shoulders above the others.

— Champion? said Maggie. — Goin’ once — twice — Champion, it is.

Jimmy Sr was delighted; he’d won. He knocked back his water and got up to get more.

— What’s next? said Bimbo.

— Spice-burgers, said Maggie.

Herself and Veronica started laughing again.

They were all feeling a bit queasy by the time they’d finished — very fuckin’ queasy actually — but it was great crack all the same. Fresh cod-in-batter, small bricks of the stuff, was next, followed closely by smoked cod-in-batter.

— It’s not really smoked cod at all, yeh know, Maggie told them. — It’s black mullet.

Veronica took her bit out of her mouth when she heard that but Jimmy Sr thought it was grand. His philosophy was that he didn’t give a shite what it was so long as it tasted alright, and he made that point to the rest of them. Bimbo didn’t agree with him.

— I don’t think yeh should sell somethin’ if it’s really somethin’ else, he said.

— Fair enough, said Jimmy Sr. — Put Black mullet-in-batter up on the, eh, menu an’ see how many yeh sell.

— Maybe if we can’t get real smoked cod we shouldn’t sell it at all.

— Yes, said Veronica.

— People like smoked cod! said Jimmy Sr. — I love a bit o’ smoked cod.

— But it isn’t really smoked cod.

— So wha’?

Veronica wanted to say something.

— Does it have to be all these processed things? she asked. — Could you not get your fish in Howth and prepare it yourselves.

— Too dear, I’m afraid, said Maggie.

She consulted her clipboard.

— An’ anyway, said Jimmy Sr. — As well as tha’, how would we smoke the cod an’ tha’? We don’t know how. We’re not — fuckin’ Amazon tribesmen or somethin’.

He took another hunk of the mullet and chewed fuck out of it.

— Well, I think it’s fuckin’ lovely, he said.

And bloody Veronica started laughing again.

Maggie was gas once she had a few scoops inside in her. She made her mother try out two different types of ketchup.

They watched her putting a little fingerload of the second ketchup onto her tongue.

— Now, Mammy, said Maggie. — Was tha’ one any less disgustin’ than the last one?

— Oh yes, she said. — Definitely.

They’d polished off the few cans that Bimbo had hidden under the stairs (—I‘d’ve sworn tha’ there was more in there), so they went for a few pints before closing time, to get rid of the taste of all the gunge and shite they’d been experimenting with all night.

Maggie’s mother stayed at home.

— I think the last spice-burger must’ve floored her a bit, said Bimbo.

— Ah yeah; God love her, said Jimmy Sr.

Veronica burst her hole laughing when he said that. She was really enjoying herself. Jimmy Sr held her hand for a bit when they were going up the road.

They were both nervous going in. The World Cup was only two and a bit weeks away now. They climbed in and stood there, sweating already before they’d done anything. They breathed through their mouths, air that hadn’t been used in months; it smelt a bit like old runners, but far worse than that.

— No rust, said Bimbo, after a fair while.

— Everythin’ else though, said Jimmy Sr.

— How’ll we manage it? said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr had an idea; he’d had it since he’d started sweating.

— A couple o’ kids would be better in here than us, he said. — Much more effective.

Bimbo didn’t look too keen.

— We’d just get them to take off the first layer, Jimmy Sr explained. — An’ then we can do the rest ourselves easily. We won’t be gettin’ in each other’s way.

It was Saturday; no school.

— I’ll get Wayne up, said Bimbo.

— Good man, said Jimmy Sr. — Bribe him.

— I’ll have to, said Bimbo. — Wayne loves his bed.

Wayne grew up that day; he earned his first day’s wages. God, he was great. Early on, only a little while after he’d started, he got out of the van and got sick, and climbed back in again, not a bother on him. He didn’t even want a glass of water when Bimbo said he’d get one for him. Bimbo got another of his young fellas, Glenn, when he came home from his football and that made two of them inside and Bimbo and Jimmy Sr outside handing buckets of hot water into them. It was a lovely day, the sun was powerful and a nice breeze as well. Wayne was small and Glenn was tiny.

— Made for this kind o’ work, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo agreed with him.

— They’re good in school as well though, Jimmy, he said. — Glenn is tops in his class.

— Yeh can see that alrigh’, said Jimmy Sr. — He’s a man’s head on him.

He looked in at them again.

— D‘yeh know wha’? he said. — If they’d been around a hundred years ago they‘d’ve spent all their time up fuckin’ chimneys.

Bimbo looked in as well; he couldn’t help laughing, but he was beaming, delighted with himself.

— Now now, lads, he said.

They were throwing water at each other.

— D‘yeh know what I was thinkin’? said Jimmy Sr.

They were sitting on the grass, keeping an eye on the lads.

— Wha’?

— We should have a big paintin’ there beside the hatch, said Jimmy Sr. — An’ another one to match it on the other side.

— What sort of a paintin’? said Bimbo.

— I don’t know, said Jimmy Sr. — A burger or somethin‘, an’ a few chips beside. Like an ad. Not a painting paintin’ like the Mona Lisa or annythin’. A sign.

Glenn slid out of the van headfirst but he was going fast enough to miss the path and land on the grass. He laughed and got up to do it again. Bimbo grabbed him by the kaks; he was only wearing his runners and his underpants.

— No messin’ now, Glenn.

But they were sliding around like Torvill and Dean in there, not on purpose; they couldn’t help it. Then Bimbo had a brainwave. He got sheets of sandpaper — he had loads of them, of course — and tied them to the soles of their runners, and it worked.

He kept looking in at them and their feet.

— Take it easy, Bimbo, will yeh, said Jimmy Sr. — You’re not after inventin’ fuckin’ electricity.

— You’re only jealous, Bimbo told him.

— Fuck off, will yeh.

By the end of the day the two lads were shagged but they’d done a great job. Maggie gave out shite; she said she’d never be able to get the rings off the bath. She’d soaked the two of them till their skin was wrinkly and they still looked grey.

— Take a look at wha’ they did though, said Bimbo.

Maggie looked into the van. And she had to admit it; they’d done a great job.

They climbed into the van.

— They did a smashin’ job, didn’t they? said Bimbo.

It was Monday morning, bright and early.

It was still manky, there was still a very funny smell — it was worse now that the van was much cleaner; more out of place — but it looked a hell of a lot better than it had two days ago.

The door was at the back of the van. The driver and passenger seats were separate; you had to get out and walk round to the back to get into the van bit. There was a step up to the door. When you came in the hatch was on your right. It was wide enough for two using their arms and elbows, with a good wide counter, although you’d have to lean out a bit to get the money. The door of the hatch was like the emergency exit at the back of a double-decker bus, but without the glass. You pushed it out and up. The hotplate and the deep fat fryer were behind the hatch, on the other side of the van. There was a small window above them, without the glass since Wayne had put his foot through it. There was a sink at the back and not a lot else; a few shelves and ledges. The sink was behind where the passenger seat was.