Roddy Doyle - The Van

— An’ maybe a hamper as well, wha’.

— That’d be great.

Neither of them wanted to talk any more about Christmas. It was still months away anyway; weeks. And Veronica had to go. She checked her folder.

— Eh — how’re the oulv classes goin’, Veronica? said Jimmy Sr.

— Grand, said Veronica.

Veronica was doing night classes, two Leaving Cert subjects.

— Are yeh the oldest? said Jimmy Sr.

— No!

— I’d say the maths is hard, is it?

— It’s not too bad, said Veronica.

That was a lie, only a small one though because it was getting easier. She was getting used to it, being in the classroom and having the teacher, a young lad Jimmy Jr’s age, looking over her shoulder all the time. And Darren was going to give her a hand.

— I was thinkin’ I might do a few classes meself, Jimmy Sr told her.

— You’re too late, Veronica told him. — You’ll have to wait till next year.

She wasn’t sure if that was true — she thought it was: really — but she wanted to do it on her own, even going up to the school on her own and walking home; everything.

She had to go.

— Bye bye so, she said. — Are yeh stayin’ up here?

— I am, yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — I’m goin’ to read one o’ me bukes.

The twins were in the front room — he could hear them — and Darren would be in the kitchen but he didn’t mind staying up here. He’d lie back — it wasn’t that cold; just nice — and read.

— I got three bukes ou’, he told Veronica. — Look it. But she was gone.

— See you later, she said from the hall.

— Okay, love, said Jimmy Sr. — Good luck. D’yeh have all your eccer done now?

But she didn’t answer. She was gone. He heard the door.

Fair play to her.

He picked up one of his books. The Man in the Iron Mask. By Alexandre Dumas. Lousy cover. He could have drawn better himself.

He remembered something. He got his thumb-nail and dragged it across the plastic covering. It worked, left a line of little grooves across the plastic. He did it again. The sound was the same as well, as when he was a kid.

That was gas—

He got up.

He’d make himself a cup of tea — it was just a bit chilly up here — and then he’d get going. Fifty pages before Veronica got home.

— Mind your house!

That wanker over there had been roaring that since the start of the match. He probably didn’t even know what it meant, the stupid oul’ bollix. The ball was down at the Barrytown goal, about the first time it had gone in that direction in the second half.

It was Saturday afternoon. Jimmy Sr was in St Anne’s Park, watching the Barrytown Utd Under 18s; watching Darren.

Five-nil for Barrytown was the score. The opposition were useless. Jimmy Sr couldn’t even remember what they were called. Darren didn’t bother dashing back to help defend, and he was dead right. The last time this shower had seen the net shake was when their keeper farted.

The ball was coming back up. Darren went to meet it. No one came with him.

— Good man, Darren! Away yeh go!

Darren stopped the ball. Normally he’d have had two or three men up his arse by now or, with the ground this soggy, someone sliding towards his ankle. Now though, two of their defence ran around him on their way back as if they didn’t want to get in his way because it was rude, so Darren held onto the ball for a while, turned and crossed where the centre line should have been.

— Give us a display of your silky skills, Darren!

That was the Barrytown keeper, Nappies Harrison.

The sweeper was waiting for Darren. That was what he’d called himself; the sweeper. — We’re playin’ three central defenders, he’d told Darren in the first half. — Like Arsenal. He was waiting for Darren on the other side of a puddle, hunched as if he was going to dive into it. Kenny Smith was to Darren’s left, shouting for the ball. Darren lobbed the ball over the sweeper, ran around him (—Yeow, Darren!) and dug the ball out of the muck with his toe and sent it over to Kenny, hard so it wouldn’t get stuck again.

— Good play, said their sweeper; Jimmy Sr heard him.

Darren knew he’d be praised after the match for his unselfish play (—That’s the Liverpool way, lads) but he’d given the ball to Kenny because he couldn’t be bothered bringing it any further himself. He heard the ironic cheer. They’d scored again; an Anto Brennan diving header that he hadn’t really needed to dive for.

Darren strolled back across the line. He hated these sort of games, when they won without sweating. They’d be beaten next week; it always happened.

— Come on now, lads, the oul’ guy at the side shouted. — Make the score respectable, come on.

— Will yeh listen to him, said Kenny.

— Yeah, said Darren. — Fuckin’ pitiful.

Most of them wouldn’t turn up for training on Tuesday night because of this win; their emphatic victory.

The ball was in the centre circle. The ref picked it up and blew his whistle; game over, ten minutes early.

— Thank fuck, said Pat Conlon. — It’s fuckin’ freezin’.

— I was goin’ for me hat-trick, Kenny complained.

— Ah, fuck off complainin’, said Pat. — Anyway, yeh’d never have got another two.

— No problem to me against these cunts.

The sweeper was waiting for Darren at the sideline, with his hand out.

— Good game, he said.

— Yeah, said Darren. — Thanks.

— Best team won.

— The pitch wasn’t fit for playin’ on, said Darren.

His da was waiting for him as well.

— Well done, Darren.

— Thanks, Da.

He ran along the edge of the gravel path to the gates of the park.

— Bring your ma with yis the next time, he heard Kenny telling the sweeper, and he heard his da laughing.

Darren got into the back of one of the three Barrytown cars.

— Push over, there, he said.

— Ahh! Hang on; me leg!

— Good man, Darren, said Mr Reeves, his da’s friend; Bimbo. — Is that everyone now?

— No; Kenny.

— Kenny! Darren roared. — Come on.

— They were useless, weren’t they? said Mr Reeves.

— Pitiful, said Darren.

Hurry up, he wanted to say. Hurry up!

Kenny climbed in the back on top of the three lads already in there. There were two more in the front, and Bimbo.

Darren got the door shut.

— Jaysis, said Bimbo. — We’re nearly scrapin’ the ground. Did yis have your dinners at half-time or somethin’?

They laughed. The car moved. They cheered.

But Bimbo braked.

Darren’s da was at the front passenger window.

— Will youse go with Billy, lads? he asked Muggah McCarthy and Pat Conlon.

— Okay, said Muggah, and Darren’s da got in when the two of them got out.

— Off yeh go, he said to Bimbo.

Kenny leaned over (—Ah, Kenny! Watch it!) and rolled down Darren’s window. He roared at the other team as they climbed into their mini-bus.

— Yis dozy cunts, yis!

— Here; none o’ tha’! said Bimbo.

He braked again.

— Yeh can get ou’ here if you’re goin’ to start tha’.

— Disgraceful behaviour, said Darren’s da, and he winked back at them.

— Sorry, said Kenny.

They nudged each other. Bimbo got the car going again.

— Did yeh get this yoke off the Vincent de Paul, Mr Reeves? said Nappies.

They laughed.

— Yeah, said Kenny. — It’s pitiful, isn’t it, Darrah?

— Fuck off, said Darren.

His da laughed.

— Gettin’ locked tonigh’, men? said Anto.

— Fuckin’ sure, said Kenny.

He started singing.

— HERE WE GO

HERE WE—

— Shut up in the back, said Bimbo.