Roddy Doyle - The Van

— I think you’re fuckin’ great, said Jimmy Sr.

— Ah fuck off, will yeh, said Jimmy Jr. — Packie saved the fuckin’ penalty, not me.

But he liked what he’d heard, Jimmy Sr could tell that. He gave Jimmy Sr a dig in the stomach.

— You’re not a bad oul’ cunt yourself, he said.

Larry O’Rourke had got up onto a table.

— WHEN BOYHOOD’S FIRE WAS IH-IN MY BLOOD—

I DREAMT OF ANCIE-HENT FREEMEN—

— Ah, somebody shoot tha’ fucker!

Jimmy Sr nodded at Mickah. Jimmy Jr looked at him.

— He’ll be alrigh’ in a bit, he said. — It’s a big moment for him, yeh know.

Bimbo tapped Jimmy Sr’s shoulder.

— We’d better go, he said.

It was a pity.

— Okay, said Jimmy Sr. — Duty calls, he said to Jimmy Jr.

— How’s business?

— Brilliant. Fuckin’ great.

— That’s great.

— Yeah; great, it is. McDonalds me arse. Seeyeh. — Good luck, Mickah.

But Mickah didn’t answer. He stood to attention, the only man with plenty of room in the pub.

— Seeyeh.

— Good luck.

— A NAAY-SHUN ONCE AGAIN—

A NAAAY-SHUN ONCE AGAIN—

Bimbo gave Jimmy Sr a piggy-back to the van. There were kids and mothers out on the streets, waving their flags and throwing their teddy bears up in the air. A car went by with three young lads up on the bonnet. They could hear car horns from miles away.

It was the best day of Jimmy Sr’s life. The people he served that night got far more chips than they were entitled to. And they still made a small fortune, sold everything. They hadn’t even a Mars Bar left to sell. They closed up at ten, lovely and early, and had a few quiet pints; the singing had stopped. And then he went home and Veronica was in the kitchen and she did a fry for him, and he cried again when he was telling her about the pub and the match and meeting Jimmy Jr. And she called him an eejit. It was the best day of his life.

And then they got beaten by the Italians and that was the end of that.

They got in. Bimbo put in the key.

The van had a new engine.

— Here we go.

It went first time.

— Yeow!

They went to Howth.

— Maybe we should get music for it, said Jimmy Sr when they were going through Sutton. They’d stalled at the lights, but they were grand now, picking up a head of steam.

— Like a Mister Whippy van.

— Would tha’ not confuse people?

— How d’yeh mean?

— Well, said Bimbo. — They might run out of their houses lookin’ for ice-creams an’ all we’ll be able to give them is chips.

Jimmy Sr thought about this.

— Is there no chip music? he said. — Mind that oul’ bitch there. She’s goin’ to open the door there, look it.

— What d’yeh mean? said Bimbo.

He stopped Jimmy Sr from getting to the horn.

— Yeh should’ve just taken the door off its fuckin’ hinges an’ kept goin’, said Jimmy Sr.

— The music, said Bimbo.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — The Teddy Bears’ Picnic is the ice-cream song, righ’. Is there no chipper song?

— No, said Bimbo. — I — No, I don’t think—

— Your man, look it; don’t let him get past yeh! — Ah Jaysis. — I’m drivin’ back, righ’.

They went through Howth village and up towards the Summit to see how the van would handle the hill. They turned back before they got to the top: they had to.

— We won’t be goin’ up tha’ far ever, said Jimmy Sr.

She was going a blinder downhill.

— Not at all, Bimbo agreed with him.

— No one eats chips up there, said Jimmy Sr.

— That’s righ’, said Bimbo.

They went over a dog outside the Abbey Tavern but they didn’t stop.

— Don’t bother your arse, said Jimmy Sr when he saw Bimbo going for the brake. — We’ll send them a wreath. No one saw us.

Bimbo said nothing till they got onto the Harbour Road. He looked behind — there was no rear view mirror, of course — but there was nothing to see except the back of the van.

Then he spoke.

— Wha’ kind of a dog was it?

— Jack Russell.

— Ah, God love it.

And Jimmy Sr started laughing and he didn’t really stop till they got to the Green Dolphin in Raheny and they went in for a pint cos Bimbo was still shaking a bit.

— Served it righ’ for havin’ a slash in the middle of the road, said Jimmy Sr.

He paid for the pints.

— Can I drive her the rest of the way? he asked.

— Certainly yeh can, said Bimbo.

— Thanks, said Jimmy Sr, although he didn’t really know why; the engine was his as much as Bimbo’s. — Good man.

Maggie had bought them a space in Dollymount, near the beach, for the summer; she’d found out that you rented the patches from the Corporation and she’d gone in and done it. It was a brilliant idea, and a great patch; right up near the beach at the top of the causeway road, where the buses ended and started. It couldn’t have been better. There was a gap in the dunes there where on a good day thousands of people came through at the end of the day, sunburnt and gasping for chips and Cokes. Except there hadn’t been a good day yet.

— The greenhouse effect, me bollix, said Jimmy Sr.

There hadn’t even been a half decent day.

They climbed up to the top of one of the dunes to have a decco and there wasn’t a sinner on the whole fuckin’ island, except for themselves and a couple of rich fat oul’ ones playing golf down the way, and a few learner drivers on the hard sand, and a couple of young fellas on their horses. It was fuckin’ useless. They got back into the van to make themselves something to eat and they were the only customers they had all day. It was money down the drain. Even in the van it was cold.

— It’s early days yet, said Bimbo. — The weather’ll get better, wait’ll yeh see.

He was only saying that cos Maggie’d organised the whole thing; Jimmy Sr could tell.

— It’s the worst summer in livin’ memory, he said.

— Who says it is? said Bimbo.

— I do, said Jimmy Sr. — I’m fuckin’ freezin’.

— It’s only July still, said Bimbo. — There’s still August an’ September left.

One of the horse young fellas was at the hatch, on his piebald.

— Anny rots, Mister? he said.

— Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.

— Anny rots.

Jimmy Sr spoke to Bimbo.

— What’s he fuckin’ on abou’?

The young fella explained.

— Rotten chips, he said. — For me horse.

— Fuck off, said Jimmy Sr. — There’s nothin’ rotten in this establishment, Tonto.

— I was only askin’, said the young fella.

Jimmy Sr and Bimbo looked at his horse. It wasn’t a horse really, more a pony; a big dog.

— How much was he? said Jimmy Sr.

— A hundred, said the young fella.

— Is that all?

— You can have him for a hundred an’ fifty, the young fella told them.

They laughed.

The young fella patted the horse’s head.

— You’d get your money back no problem, he said. — I’ll kill him for yis as well, if yis want.

They laughed again.

— Does he like Twixes? Jimmy Sr asked the young fella.

— He does, yeah, said the young fella. — So do I.

— There yeh go.

He handed out two Twixes and the young fella got the horse in closer to the hatch so he could collect them.

— He likes cans o’ Coke as well, he told them.

— He can fuck off down to the shops then, said Jimmy Sr.

The young fella’s mate went galloping past on his mule and the young fella got ready to go after him. He stuffed the Twixes into his pocket and geed up the horse the way they did in the pictures, even though he’d no spurs on him, no saddle either.