Roddy Doyle - The Van

Sharon looked out the back door, and there was a gang of women coming towards the van, getting their money out of their handbags.

— There’s loads of them, she said, and she ran across the road to Flemings.

Jimmy Sr got the basket of chips — he’d been waiting all night to do this — and dropped it into the oil, and nearly fuckin’ blinded himself.

— Ahhh!!! — Jaysis!! — Me fuckin’—

He thought he was blinded. Little spits of fat stung all his face; he kept his eyes clamped shut.

— Are yeh alrigh’?

Bimbo didn’t sound all that worried.

— Me eyes, said Jimmy Sr.

— Oh, that’s shockin’, said Bimbo. — Here, he said. — Wash them.

He handed Jimmy Sr one of the milk bottles.

— Jesus, said Jimmy Sr.

He poured a small amount of the water into his palm and gave his face a wipe. That was better. The stinging was gone. It was no joke though; he’d have to be careful. He didn’t want to end up like the Phantom of the fuckin’ Opera.

He was ready. He lifted the basket and shook it, and carefully dropped it back in; he wasn’t sure why but he’d seen it being done all his life; to check if the chips were done, he supposed.

— Nearly ready over here, he told Bimbo. — Action stations, wha’.

Sharon was back with the milk bottles, full.

— Good girl, said Jimmy Sr. — Yeh missed me accident.

— They’re takin’ their time, said Sharon.

She was talking about the women outside, who were still approaching the van very slowly.

— Oul’ ones are always like tha’, said Jimmy Sr. — Yeh’d swear it was fur coats they were buyin’.

— What’ll I do now? Sharon asked.

— Help Bimbo with the orders, said Jimmy Sr. — I’d say. We’ll have to play it by ear.

She nearly pushed him up onto the hotplate getting her apron on, but he said nothing.

— How’re yis all? Bimbo said out the hatch, and Jimmy Sr went over to have a look at the oul’ ones himself.

There was a big crowd of them alright, a good few quid’s worth, if they ever made their fuckin’ minds up. He could tell; they were coming home from bingo. They were real diehards. Imagine: going to bingo on the night Ireland were playing their first ever World Cup match, and against England as well.

— Wha’ are yis havin’, girls? said Jimmy Sr.

No joy; they were still making their minds up. Jimmy Sr got back to his post. The chips were done. He gave the basket a good fuckin’ shake, and another one for good measure, and emptied the chips into the tray. He’d another basket ready with more chips and he lowered that into the fryer, but he stood well back this time. The going was getting very hot though.

The women were up at the counter now.

— A fresh cod, Sharon called back to him.

— Yahoo! said Jimmy Sr, and he slipped the cod into the fryer. Jesus, the noise; like having your ear up to a jet engine.

— Another one.

— A smoked, said Bimbo.

They were in business now alright.

Another five cods, three smoked ones, a spice-burger and an ordinary burger; now they were working.

— Chips just, said Sharon.

— Comin’ up.

He got the scoop in under the chips and got a grand big load into the bag, filled it right up. Good, big chips they were, and a lovely colour, most of them; one or two of them were a bit white and shiny looking.

— There yeh go.

He held them out for Sharon, and she dropped them.

— Not to worry, he said.

He filled another bag.

Bimbo was still taking orders.

— Three spice-burgers, two smoked cod—

Jimmy Sr sang.

— AN’ A PAR-TRIDGE IN A PEAR TREE.

The fryer was getting very full now. Some of the yokes at the top were hardly in the cooking oil at all. He skidded on the chips Sharon had dropped and nearly went on his arse. He kicked them out the back door but some of them were stuck to the floor. The fuckin’ heat, the sweat was running off him. There was too much for one man here.

— Gis a hand here, Sharon.

Sharon left Bimbo at the counter.

— Righ‘, Bimbo, shout ou’ those orders again till we get them sorted ou’.

He heard Bimbo.

— Wha’ was it you ordered, love?

— I told yeh, said some oul’ wagon. — A cod an’ a small chips.

— Got yeh, Jimmy Sr called back. — Hope she fuckin’ chokes on them, he said to Sharon.

Sharon was managing the chips and Jimmy was taking the other stuff out of the fryer. He had one of those tongs yokes but you had to be careful with it cos if you held the fish too tight it fell apart on you and if you didn’t it dived back into the fryer and you had to jump back quick or suffer the fuckin’ consequences. But he thought he had the knack of it. He dropped the cod into a small greaseproof bag and Sharon took it and put it into the big brown bag, along with the chips. They worked well together, Sharon and Jimmy Sr. They didn’t bump into each other. It was like they were two parts of the same machine.

The only problem now was Bimbo. He was good with the oul’ ones and he handled the salt and vinegar like a professional, but he couldn’t count for fuck.

— A cod an’ a small—’. Eh, — that’s, eh—

— One sixty-five, Sharon called back to him.

— Good girl, said Jimmy Sr.

They were nearly through with the oul’ ones; there were no more orders coming in. It was coming up to closing time though and then there’d be murder, with a bit of luck.

— One eighty, Sharon called.

She was sharp, that girl. She didn’t even have to think first.

He couldn’t make up his mind if the last spice-burger was done yet. He blew on it and poked it with a finger; it left a mark.

— Grand.

He dropped it into its bag and gave it to Sharon.

— I’ll give poor Bimbo a hand, he said.

Most of the women were still out there but away from the counter, up against the carpark wall eating their stuff. There were only a few left at the counter.

— Wha’ was yours? he asked one of them.

— A chips an’ a spicey burger.

She was tiny. He nearly had to climb out over the counter to see her.

— Large or small? said Jimmy Sr.

— Large, she said.

— An’ why not, said Jimmy Sr.

This was good crack. Sharon handed him the bag.

— The works?

— Oh yes.

He did the salt first, shook the bag to make sure it went well in. He looked at the women. They were real bingo heads alright; all the same, like a gang of twenty sisters.

— That’s enough, said the little woman.

He showed her the vinegar bottle.

— Say when, he said.

She had a nice enough face, he could see now.

— There y’are now, he said, and he held the bag for her to collect.

— Thanks v’ much. How much is tha’?

— Eh—

— One twenty-five, said Sharon.

— One twenty-five, said Jimmy Sr.

He waited while she put tenpences and twentypences up on the counter.

— Sorry—

— No no, said Jimmy Sr. — Take your time.

— I want to get rid of my change.

— Well, yeh came to the righ’ place, love.

There was a nice breeze coming in. Jimmy Sr held his arms out a bit, but nothing too obvious.

Bimbo was nearly having a row with the last of the women.

— D’you take butter vouchers? she asked him.

— No, he said. — God, no.

— They take them in the newsagents, she told him.

You couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She’d probably held back till the end so the other women wouldn’t hear her. Still though, they weren’t running a charity.

— Only money, Bimbo told her.

— Or American Express, said Jimmy Sr, and he gave Bimbo a nudge. — We’ll give yeh a shout when we start sellin’ butter, he told the woman, for a joke. She didn’t laugh though, and he felt like a prick. His face was hot and getting hotter. Still, if she could afford to go to bingo then she could afford to pay for her supper.