Roddy Doyle - The Van

He climbed into the van. Bimbo was fighting his apron.

It was getting dark. They had two big torch lights, the ones well-prepared drivers always had in case they had to change a tyre at night. Jimmy Sr turned them on.

— OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLE. They’re grand now, aren’t they?

— Terrific, said Bimbo.

Bimbo had already rigged up the Kozengas canisters to the fryer and the hotplate. The canisters were outside, at the back beside the steps, cos there was no room for them inside. That made Jimmy Sr a bit nervous; he didn’t like it. Kids were bound to start messing with them, disconnect them, or worse, start cutting the tubes and before you knew it Jimmy Sr, the van and half of Barrytown would be blown to shite. Still, there was no room for them in here. He had a quick look outside; there was no one at them.

— OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLÉ—

Jimmy Sr got the box of matches and took one out. He didn’t like this either. He stuck the match into the hollow tube of a biro. He got down on his hunkers in front of the hotplate. He lit the match, turned on the gas, pressed in the knob and held the biro to the jet in under the hotplate. He heard the gas go whoosh and he got his hand to fuck out from under there. He’d never get used to doing that. The smell; fuck it, he’d singed his hair again.

— I fuckin’ hate tha’, he said.

He got the deep fat fryer going as well, but he didn’t need the biro this time. He threw a slab of lard onto the hotplate and topped up the cooking oil in the fryer; everything under control.

— WE ARE GREEN — WE ARE WHI’E

WE ARE FUCKIN’ DYNAMI’E

LA LA LA LA — LA LA LA — LA — May as well open the hatch, wha’, he said.

— Righto, said Bimbo.

It was the moment they’d been waiting for but they pretended it wasn’t. Bimbo was dipping the bits of fish into the deep fat for a few seconds to make the batter stay on them, a trick they’d picked up the last time they’d gone to a chipper; it made a lot of sense. You could pile them up and it didn’t get messy and you could have the fish ready to fling back into the fryer whenever anyone ordered one. That was what Bimbo was doing when Jimmy Sr unfastened the hatch and pushed it back and got the steel poles in under it to hold it up and made sure that they were secure. Jimmy Sr concentrated on what he was doing. He didn’t want to look too soon, to see how many were outside waiting.

There was no one.

They said nothing; they just kept doing their work. Jimmy Sr didn’t have much to do. He spread the melted lard all over the hotplate. He was using one of the wallpaper scrapers they’d left over after cleaning the van. There was a hole in the corner of the plate where the fat dripped down through, onto the cans of drinks and the Mars Bars and Twixes.

— Oh shite, said Jimmy Sr when he saw what was happening.

He looked around for something, and took the cup off the top of Bimbo’s flask and put it under the hole, balanced on top of the cans. It worked. Jimmy Sr scraped some of the lard over to the hole and got down to check that it all dripped into the cup. It did. That was good.

He stood up; still no one outside. He couldn’t hear honking horns any more. It was like a fuckin’ ghost-town out there.

Still though, it was early days yet.

— Go easy on the fish there, Bimbo, he said. — We don’t want to be stuck with a load of it at the end of the nigh’.

It was beginning to look like they’d be stuck with a lot more than just a couple of dozen cod. Still though—

— OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLÉ—

Getting the fish to stay inside the batter was easier said than done. Bimbo’d just scooped out a smashing piece of batter, lovely and crispy; but it was empty. He was rooting around in the oil for the fish.

A couple of people, kids mostly, walked by and gawked in, and kept walking, the fuckin’ eejits.

Jimmy Sr checked the fryer. It was ready and waiting. The chips were in the basket. He picked it up and shook it; just right. He got a burger and threw it on the hotplate, just to be doing something. The noise it made at the beginning was a bit like something screaming. He pressed it down hard with the fish slice, and it screamed again; it wasn’t a scream really, more a watery crackle.

He turned to keep an eye on the hatch and caught Bimbo helping himself to a Mars Bar.

— Jesus Christ, Bimbo; could yeh not wait till we’ve sold somethin’!

The head on Bimbo, snared rapid.

— I was a bit hungry—

— Haven’t yeh half Ireland’s fuckin’ fish quota over there with yeh?

He was joking but suddenly he was annoyed.

— I didn’t want to touch them, said Bimbo. — In case—

— No one else fuckin’ wants them, said Jimmy Sr.

He was thinking of something good, something nice to say when — Jaysis! — there was a young fella at the hatch. He could see the top of his head.

He jumped over to him.

— Yes, son?

— A choc-ice, said the young fella.

Sharon climbed into the van in time to hear her da.

— Wha‘’—Fuck off ou’ o’ tha’ or I’ll—

Sharon started laughing.

— Do yeh not sell choc-ices? said the young fella.

Bimbo looked out at him. The poor little lad was only about ten.

Jimmy Sr leaned out and pointed.

— What’s tha’? he asked the young fella.

He was pointing at the sign.

— A big burger, said the young fella.

— That’s righ‘, said Jimmy Sr. — Wha’ does it tell yeh?

— Bimbo’s Burgers, the young fella read. — Today’s chips today.

— That’s righ‘, said Jimmy Sr. — It doesn’t say annythin’ abou’ choc-ices, does it?

— No.

— No, it doesn’t, sure it doesn’t. So, fuck off.

Jimmy Sr went back to his burger. It was stuck to the hotplate.

— Shite on it!

Bimbo took over at the hatch.

— We’ve no fridge, he explained to the little young fella.

— Yeh can get choc-ices an’ stuff in other chippers, Mister, the young fella told him.

— Yeah, said Bimbo; he was whispering — but we’ve no fridge, yeh see. We’ve no electricity.

He looked around at Jimmy Sr. He was trying to get some lard in under the burger so it would slide off the plate.

— Here, he said to the young fella.

He handed him down the rest of his Mars Bar, then shooed him off.

— Thanks very much, Mister.

— Shhhh!

Jimmy Sr’s neck was going to snap; that was how it felt. There were still little bits of the burger soldered to the hotplate; the scraper kept sliding over them, the useless fuckin’ thing! he’d get them off if it fuckin’ killed him!

— Yeaahh!

Sharon and Bimbo kept well away from him. That wasn’t easy in a space as big as two wardrobes. You couldn’t go anywhere without someone getting out of your way first. Bimbo handed two milk bottles over Jimmy Sr’s head to Sharon.

— We need more water, love, he told her.

Sharon was lost.

— Pop over the road an’ she’ll fill them for yeh, Bimbo told her. — Rita Fleming; Missis Fleming. D’yeh know which house she’s in?

— Yeah.

She didn’t do anything yet though. She thought she’d been told to go over to the Flemings with two milk bottles and ask Missis Fleming to fill them for her, but she wasn’t sure.

— I asked her earlier, said Bimbo. — There’s no problem. So long as it’s not too late.

— Can I not just run home—

— Do wha’ you’re told, said Jimmy Sr.

— Who rattled your cage? said Sharon.

— Customers! said Bimbo. — Quick, love; off yeh go.

He said it just when Jimmy Sr got the last lump of burger off the hotplate; his timing couldn’t have been better.

— Great stuff, said Jimmy Sr.