Roddy Doyle - The Van

— I’m a vegetarian, Darren told him.

— Wha’!?

Darren shrugged.

— You as well? said Jimmy Sr. — Jaysis. — Hang on but—

He’d been watching Darren eating his dinners and his teas since he was a baby.

— Since when?

— Oh — Tuesday.

— Ah, now here—

— I’d been thinkin’ about it for a long time and I just made up me, eh—

— Okay, said Jimmy Sr. — Okay.

He raised his hands.

— Good luck to yeh. — Do vegetarians eat fish?

— Yeah; some do.

— Do you?

— Yeah.

— That’s grand so, said Jimmy Sr. — You can just do the fish an’ meself an’ Bimbo’ll handle the rest. How’s tha’?

Darren was a broke vegetarian.

— Okay, he said. — Eh — okay.

— Sound, said Jimmy Sr.

They shook on it. That was great. It would be terrific having Darren working beside him, fuckin’ marvellous.

— Wha’ abou’ burgers? said Jimmy Sr.

Darren didn’t look happy.

— There’s fuck all meat in them, Jimmy Sr assured him.

— No.

— Fair enough, said Jimmy Sr.

He liked the way Darren had said no.

— I was just chancin’ me arm, he said. — How’s Miranda?

— Okay, said Darren.

— Good, said Jimmy Sr. — She’s a lovely-lookin’ girl.

Darren wanted to escape but what his da had said there needed some sort of an answer.

— Thanks, he said. — Yeah; she’s fine. Someone ran over her dog a few weeks ago, and she was a bit—, but she’s alrigh’ now.

— Where was tha’? said Jimmy Sr.

— Howth.

— A Jack Russell?

— Eh, yeah. How did yeh know?

— I didn’t, Jimmy Sr told him. — It’s just, nearly all the dogs yeh see dead on the road seem to be Jack Russells. Did yeh ever notice tha’ yourself?

— No.

— Keep an eye ou’ for them an’ yeh’ll see what I mean.

The weather picked up. There were a few good, sunny days on the trot and suddenly everyone was going around looking scalded.

— Thunderbirds are go, said Jimmy Sr.

They got to Dollymount at half-three. Sharon was with them. There was a Mister Whippy on their spot. Bimbo had a photocopy of the Corporation permit in his back pocket. Jimmy Sr took it and went up to have it out with Mister Whippy. He got in the queue, with Sharon. Bimbo stayed with the van. The kid in front of Jimmy Sr ran off with his two 99s to get back to the beach before they melted, and Jimmy Sr was next.

— Yeah? said Mister Whippy. Jimmy Sr looked up at him.

— What d’yeh want? said Mister Whippy.

— Justice, said Jimmy Sr.

He held out the permit and waved it.

— Have a decco at tha’, he said.

Mister Whippy, a spotty young lad, looked scared.

— What is it? said the young fella.

— Can yeh not read? said Jimmy Sr.

— It’s a permit, said Sharon.

— That’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr. — My glamorous assistant, Sharon, is quite correct there.

Young Mister Whippy was still lost but he was braver as well.

— So wha’? he said.

— So fuck off, said Jimmy Sr.

He took back the permit.

— It’s ours, he said. — We paid for this patch here, where you are. We did, you didn’t. You’ve no righ’ to be here, so hop it; go on.

Mister Whippy couldn’t decide what to do.

— Go on, said Jimmy Sr. — Yeh can go over to the other side o’ the roundabout.

— No one’ll see me there.

— We’ll tell them you’re there, said Jimmy Sr. — Won’t we?

— Yeah, said Sharon.

— An’ anyway, said Jimmy Sr. — Yeh can play your music an’ they’ll hear yeh.

Mister Whippy still didn’t look too sure.

— Listen, said Jimmy Sr. — Shift now or we’ll fuckin’ ram yeh.

He stepped back from the van and shouted.

— Rev her up there, Bimbo!

Bimbo turned the key and then Mister Whippy got behind the wheel and did the same thing, and moved away around to the far side of the roundabout, away from the dunes.

— Seeyeh, said Sharon and she waved.

Bimbo brought the van up to them.

Mister Whippy turned on The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.

— They’re playin’ our song, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo.

For about a week the weather stayed that way, grand and hot, no sign of a cloud. They came down to Dollier at half-three or so and stayed till half-six and went home with a clatter of new pound coins jingling away in their money box. It was easy enough going; didn’t get hectic till after five. Sharon went over to the beach and got some sun and Jimmy Sr and Bimbo hung around the van and watched the world go by. Then coming up to teatime they’d climb into the van and stoke up the furnace. Then the crowds came up over the dunes and the smell hit them, and no one can resist the smell of chips.

The only bad thing was having to stare down at all those peeling faces staring up at you outside the van. Noses, arms, foreheads; it was fuckin’ revolting. Red raw young ones with shivery legs would take their bags of stuff and give you their money, turn around to get away from the van and they’d be white on the other side. Sharon wasn’t like that; she’d more sense. She did herself front and back and the sides as well, even.

— Like a well-cooked burger, Jimmy Sr told her.

— Jesus!

— It’s a compliment, it’s a compliment.

— Thanks!

The only other bad thing about the beach business was the sand. It got into everything. Even with no wind to blow it they’d find a layer of it on the hatch counter, on the shelves, grains of it floating on top of the cooking oil before they lit the burner; everywhere. Jimmy Sr did a burger for himself and when he bit into it, before his teeth met, he could feel the sand in the bundle. He chewed very carefully. When they got the van back to Bimbo’s they had to get damp cloths and go over everything with them, to pick up the sand, but they never got all of it. Jimmy Sr always had a shower before he went out again to do the closing-time business and there was enough sand up his hole and in his ears to build a block of flats. He couldn’t understand it because he never went down to the beach, except once or twice to see if there was anything worth looking at; and there never was, hardly ever. He’d keep his eyes on the ground till he got to the beach and then he’d look around him, hoping, and all he ever saw was scorched gobshites getting more scorched. And white lines where bra straps got in the way of the sun. Dollier definitely wasn’t like the resort in some island in Greece or somewhere he’d seen in a blue video Bertie’d lent him a few years ago; my Jaysis, the women in that place!; walking around with fuck all on, not a bother on them. Climbing out of the pool so that their tits were squeezed together; bending over so he could see the water dripping off their gee hairs. There were no women like that in Dollymount. It was mostly mammies with their kids. Still though, they were good for business. There was nothing like a screaming kid to get a ma to open her purse. He couldn’t see the brassers in that video going mad for chips; and, anyway, they’d probably have wanted them for nothing.

It was busy, getting dark; the Living Dead were out there somewhere. Bimbo had had to dash home for a shite, so Jimmy Sr was by himself at the hatch, taking the orders. And he’d three burgers doing on the hotplate and he asked Darren to turn them for him, and he wouldn’t do it.

— I’m not askin’ yeh to eat them, said Jimmy Sr, trying not to sound too snotty in front of the customers. — I only want yeh to turn them fuckin’ over.

Darren said nothing, and he didn’t do anything either.

— Darren? said Jimmy Sr.

But Darren just started filling the bags with chips.