Roddy Doyle - The Van

One night the kids went too far. They started throwing stones at the van; throwing them hard. Bimbo, Jimmy Sr and Sharon got an almighty fright when they heard the first bash, until they guessed what was happening. They were flinging the stones at the hot plate side. When he saw the dints the stones were making, fuckin’ big lumps like boils, Jimmy Sr nearly went through the roof. That was real damage they were doing. He grabbed one of the hatch bars and let an almighty yell out of him when he jumped out the back door. They weren’t going to throw any stones at him, he knew that; it was only the noise they were enjoying. So he knew he wasn’t exactly jumping to his death, but he still felt good when he landed, turned at them and saw the fear hop into their faces. Then he went for them. They legged it, and he kept after them. A kick up the hole would teach these guys a lesson. They weren’t like the Living Dead. There were five of them and when they turned and went up the verge onto the Green there were more of them, a mixed gang, young fellas and young ones, little lads sticking to their big brothers. Jimmy Sr wasn’t angry any more. He’d keep going to the middle of the Green, maybe catch one of the little lads or a girlfriend and take them hostage. He was closing in on one tiny kid who was trying to keep his tracksuit bottoms up. Jimmy Sr could hear the panic in the little lad’s breath. He’d just enough breath left himself to catch him, and then he’d call it a day.

Then he saw them.

He stopped and nearly fell over.

The twins. He barely saw Linda but it was definitely Tracy, nearly diving into the lane behind the clinic. Grabbing a young fella’s jumper to stay up. Then she was gone, but he’d seen enough.

The treacherous little bitches. Wait till he told Sharon.

He turned back to the van. He found the bar where he’d dropped it.

His own daughters, sending young fellas to throw stones at their da. With their new haircuts that he’d fuckin’ paid for last Saturday.

He’d scalp the little wagons.

— You’ve no proof, said Linda.

— I seen yeh, said Jimmy Sr, again.

— You’ve no witnesses.

— I fuckin’ seen yeh.

— Well, it wasn’t me annyway, said Tracy.

— Or me, said Linda.

— It was youse, said Jimmy Sr. — An’ if I hear anny more lies an’ guff ou’ o’ yis I’ll take those fuckin’ haircuts back off yis. And another thing. If yis go away before yis have this place cleaned properly — properly now, righ’ — I’ll ground yis.

He climbed out of the van.

— The floors an’ the walls, righ’. An’ if yis do a good job I might let yis off from doin’ the ceilin’.

He looked in at them.

— An’ that’ll fuckin’ teach yis for hangin’ around with gangsters.

Linda crossed her arms and stared back at him.

— I didn’t spend a fortune on your hair, said Jimmy Sr, — so yis could get picked up by snot-nosed little corner boys.

He loved watching the twins when they were annoyed; they were gas.

— Next time yis are lookin’ for young fellas go down to the snobby houses an’ get off with some nice respectable lads, righ’.

— Will yeh listen to him, he heard Linda saying to Tracy.

— He hasn’t a clue, said Tracy.

— Righ’, said Jimmy Sr. — Off yis go. The sooner yeh start the sooner yis’ll be finished. Mind yeh don’t get your flares dirty now.

— They’re not flares, righ’! They’re baggies.

He closed the door on them.

They’d do a lousy job, he knew that. It served them right though; it would give them something to think about, that and the hiding Sharon had given them last night. Veronica had had to go into the room to break up the fight.

He listened at the door. He held the handle. He couldn’t hear anything. He opened it quickly.

Linda was wiping the walls, kind of. Tracy was pushing a cloth over the floor with her foot.

— Do it properly!

— I am!

— PROPERLY!

— Jesus; there’s no need to shout, yeh know.

— I’ll fuckin’—

— Can we get the radio? said Linda.

— No!

— Ah, Jesus—

Jimmy Sr shut the door.

The weather stayed poxy well into July. But it was alright; the Dollymount patch was a long-term investment, Maggie explained. They took it easier; they only brought the van out at night, except on Fridays at teatime for the £1 Specials. They had time for the odd round of pitch ‘n’ putt, and their game hadn’t suffered too much because of the lack of practice. Jimmy Sr always won.

They stuck close to Barrytown but they kept an eye on the newspapers to see if there was anything worth going further for. Maggie scoured the Independent in the mornings and the Herald later to see if there were any big concerts coming up, or football matches. They were going to get the van as close as they could to Croke Park for the Leinster Final between Dublin and Meath. They’d have to be there before the start because all the Meath lads coming up from the country wouldn’t have had their dinners. So they had that Sunday afternoon pencilled in; Maggie’d done out a chart. The Horse Show was coming up as well but they weren’t going to bother with that; the horsey crowd didn’t eat chips.

— They eat fuckin’ caviar an’ tha’ sort o’ shite, said Jimmy Sr.

— An’ grouse an’ pheasant, said Bimbo.

— Exactly, said Jimmy Sr. — Yeh’d be all fuckin’ day tryin’ to get the batter to stay on a pheasant.

There were some big concerts coming up as well.

— Darren tells me they’re called gigs, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo and Maggie.

Maggie held her biro over the chart.

— What abou’ this one on Saturday? she said.

— Who is it again? said Bimbo.

— The The, said Maggie.

— Is tha’ their name? said Bimbo. The The, only?

— That’s wha’ it says here, said Maggie.

She had the Herald open on the kitchen table.

— Well?

— Darren says they’re very good, said Jimmy Sr. — He says they’re important.

— Will there be many there?

— He doesn’t know. He thinks so, but he’s not sure.

— Well—

— I think we should give it a bash, said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeah,but—

Maggie took over from Bimbo.

— You’ll be lettin’ down your regulars.

— There is tha’ to consider, said Bimbo. — Yeah.

— Wha’ d’yeh mean? said Jimmy Sr.

— It’s on on Saturday nigh’, said Maggie. — We always do very well outside the Hikers on Saturday nights.

What did she mean, We? She’d never been as much as inside the van in her—

— I see wha’ yeh mean, said Jimmy Sr. — There could be thousands at this gig though.

— It’s a bit risky but, said Bimbo. — Isn’t it?

— Well, said Maggie. — It’s up to yourselves—

Jimmy Sr didn’t want a row; and, anyway, they were probably right. They decided just to do midweek gigs and to concentrate on the closing-time market at the weekends.

— There’s a festival in Thurles, said Maggie.

— It can stay there, said Jimmy Sr.

He’d fight this one; there was no way he was going all the way down to Tipperary just to sell a few chips. But it was alright; Bimbo nearly fell over when Maggie mentioned Thurles.

— Ah, no, said Bimbo.

— Just a thought, said Maggie.

— We’ll stick to Dublin, said Bimbo. — Will we, Jimmy?

— Def’ny.

Jimmy Sr felt good after that. He’d been starting to think that Bimbo and Maggie rehearsed these meetings.

Sharon had started going with a chap called Barry, a nice enough fella — some kind of an insurance man; she’d already broken it off twice and him once, but they were back together and madly in love, judging by the size of the love bites Jimmy Sr’d seen on Barry’s neck the last time he’d called around. So Sharon wasn’t keen on working nights any more. They tried a few nights without her, just the two of them, but it was a killer. So Jimmy Sr said he’d recruit Darren — before Maggie came up with some bright idea. Darren already had his job in the Hikers but he was only getting two nights a week out of that, so Jimmy Sr reckoned he’d jump at the chance of making a few extra shillings. But—