Roddy Doyle - The Van

— Ah, good Jesus, said Jimmy Sr.

He got up off the floor. His trousers were wringing, his back was killing him. He’d been going at the floor with sudsy water and a nailbrush for the last half hour and the floor still looked the wrong colour.

— We’re fightin’ a losin’ battle here, I think, he said to Bimbo.

Bimbo was attacking the gobs of grease on the wall around the hotplate and the fryer. He was making progress but it was like the grease spots were riding each other and breeding, they were all over the wall. Bimbo took a breather. The thing about it was, even if you cleaned all day — and that was what they did for the first week or so — it would be back to dirty normal by the end of the night.

— Look it, said Jimmy Sr. — Tha’ grease there—

He pointed at the grease above the fryer.

— It’s fresh cos it only got there last nigh‘, cos it was clean there when we started last nigh’. D’yeh follow?

— Yeah, said Bimbo.

— So, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s doing’ no harm. It’s fresh. It’s grand for another couple o’ days. Then it’ll be gettin’ bad an’ we’d want to get rid of it cos it’d be a health hazard then, but it’s fuckin’ harmless now.

Bimbo didn’t disagree with him.

— All we have to worry abou’ every day before we start is the floor, said Jimmy Sr. — Cos we’ll go slidin’ an’ split ourselves if it’s not clean, but that’s all.

Bimbo just wanted to check on one thing first. He opened the hatch and then got out of the van and went round to the hatch and looked in, to see if he could see the dirt from out there. He couldn’t.

— Okay, he said. — I’m with yeh.

Bimbo couldn’t watch, but Jimmy Sr could, no problem; he loved it. Nil-all after extra time, a penalty shoot-out.

— Pennos, said Paddy when they saw the ref blowing the final whistle.

— Fuckin’ hell.

— Packie’ll save at least one, wait’ll yeh see.

— He let in nine against Aberdeen a couple o’ weeks ago, remember.

— This is different.

— How is it?

— Fuck off.

It got very quiet. Jimmy Sr’s heart was hopping, but he never took his eyes off the screen, except when the young one behind him screamed. She did it after the Romanians got the first penalty. Women had been screaming all through the match but this one stood out because when the ball just got past Packie’s fingers there were a couple of hundred groans and only the one scream.

Bertie turned round to the young one.

— Are yeh like tha’ in the scratcher? he said.

The whole pub erupted, just when Kevin Sheedy was placing the ball on the spot, like he’d scored it already. There was no way he’d miss it after that.

He buried it.

— YEOWWW!!

— One-all, one-all; fuckin’ hell.

Houghton, Townsend, Tony Cascarino.

Four-all.

— Someone’s after faintin’ over there.

— Fuck’m.

They watched Packie setting himself up in his goal for the fifth time.

— Go on, Packie!

— ONE PACKIE BONNER—

— Shut up; wait.

— He has rosary beads in his bag, yeh know, said some wanker.

— They’ll be round his fuckin’ neck if he misses this one, said Jimmy Sr.

No one laughed. No one did anything.

Packie dived to the left; he dived and he saved the fuckin’ thing.

The screen disappeared as the whole pub jumped. All Jimmy Sr could see was backs and flags and dunphies. He looked for Bimbo, and got his arms around him. They watched the penno again in slow motion. The best part was the way Packie got up and jumped in the air. He seemed to stay in mid-air for ages. They cheered all over again.

— Shhh! Shhh!

— Shhh!

— Shhh!

Someone had to take the last penalty for Ireland.

— Who’s tha’?

— O’Leary.

— O’Leary?

Jimmy Sr hadn’t even known that O’Leary was playing. He must have come on when Jimmy Sr was in the jacks.

— He’ll be grand, said someone. — He takes all of Arsenal’s pennos.

— He does in his hole, said an Arsenal supporter. — He never took a penno in his life.

— He’ll crack, said Paddy. — Wait’ll yeh see.

Jimmy Sr nearly couldn’t watch, but he stuck it.

— YEH—

David O’Leary put it away like he was playing with his kids at the beach.

— YESSS!

Jimmy Sr looked carefully to make sure that he’d seen it right. The net was shaking, and O‘Leary was covered in Irishmen. He wanted to see it again though. Maybe they were all beating the shite out of O’Leary for missing. No, though; he’d scored. Ireland were through to the quarter-finals and Jimmy Sr started crying.

He wasn’t the only one. Bertie was as well. They hugged. Bertie was putting on a few pounds. Jimmy Sr felt even better.

— What a team, wha’. What a fuckin’—

He couldn’t finish; a sob had caught up on him.

— Si, said Bertie.

They showed the penno again, in slow motion.

— To the righ’; perfect.

— Excellent conversion, said some gobshite.

Where was Bimbo?

There he was, bawling his eyes out. A big stupid lovely grin had split his face in half.

— OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLÉ—

OLÉ—

OLÉ—

Jimmy Sr took a run and a jump at Bimbo and Bimbo caught him.

— ONE DAVE O’LEARY—

— OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLE

— THERE’S ONLY ONE DAVE O’LEARY—

They stood there arm in arm and watched O’Leary’s penalty again, and again.

— I’ll tell yeh one thing, said Larry O‘Rourke. — David O’Leary came of age today.

Jimmy Sr loved everyone but that was the stupidest fuckin’ thing he’d ever heard in his life.

— He’s thirty fuckin’ two! he said. — Came of age, me bollix.

— ONE DAVE O’LEEEEARY—

He hugged Bimbo again, and Bertie and Paddy, and he went over and hugged Sharon. She was crying as well and they both laughed. He hugged some of her friends. They all had their green gear on, ribbons and the works. He wanted to hug Sharon’s best friend, Jackie, but he couldn’t catch her. She was charging around the place, yelling Ole Ole Ole Ole, not singing any more because her throat was gone.

There was Mickah Wallace, Jimmy Jr’s pal, standing by himself with his tricolour over his head, like an Irish Blessed Virgin. He let Jimmy Sr hug him.

— I’ve waited twenty years for this, Mister Rabbitte, he told Jimmy Sr.

He was crying as well.

— Twenty fuckin’ years.

He gulped back some snot.

— The first record I ever got was Back Home, the English World Cup record, he said. — In 1970. D’yeh remember it?

— I do, yeah.

— I was only five. I didn’t buy it, mind, said Mickah. — I robbed it. — Tweh-twenty fuckin’ years.

Jimmy Sr knew he was being told something important but he wasn’t sure what.

— D’yeh still have it?

— Wha’?

— Back Home.

— Not at all, said Mickah. — Jaysis. I sold it. I made a young fella buy it off o’ me.

Jimmy Jr rescued Jimmy Sr.

— Da.

— Jimmy!

— I didn’t see yeh.

Jimmy Jr was in his Celtic away jersey, with a big spill down the front. He nodded at the jacks door.

— It’s fuckin’ mad in there.

They stood there.

— CEAUSESCU WAS A WANKER

CEAUSESCU WAS A WANKER

LA LA LA LA

LA LA LA — LA

— Fuckin’ deadly, isn’t it?

— Brilliant. — Brilliant.

They started laughing, and grabbed each other and hugged till their arms hurt. They wiped their eyes and laughed and hugged again.

— I love yeh, son, said Jimmy Sr when they were letting go.

He could say it and no one could hear him, except young Jimmy, because of the singing and roaring and breaking glasses.