Roddy Doyle - The Van

Jimmy Sr came out from under the skirt.

— Get ou’!

Linda ran, and so did Veronica.

— They didn’t understand, Jimmy Sr told Veronica.

They were in bed. The light was out. Jimmy Sr had been telling Veronica about the Cocktail routine.

— They thought we were messin‘, doin’ it for a laugh.

Veronica sighed. She’d thought that as well. She had to say something.

— I’m sure they didn’t, she said.

— They did, said Jimmy Sr. — Maggie did annyway. She wouldn’t’ve just gone back into the house if she hadn’t of.

— Well, explain it to her.

— I will not. Why should I?

Veronica sighed again, harder this time; a different sort of sigh.

— It’s not my fault if she doesn’t recognise a good fuckin’ marketin’ strategy when she sees it, said Jimmy Sr.

— You’re working yourself up again, Veronica told him. — You won’t be able to sleep again.

— Ah layoff, will yeh. — You’re as bad as she is. — Veronica—.—Don’t start pretendin’ you’re asleep; come on Veronica?—

— Get out o’ me fuckin’ light, will yeh, said Jimmy Sr.

Then he sort of saw himself, a narky little bollix, the type of little bollix he’d always hated. But at nearly the same time he felt better, and clearer: he’d had an idea.

— D‘yeh know wha’ we need, Bimbo? he said.

It was half-ten about, outside the Hikers.

He waited for Bimbo to stop what he was doing, opening bags and setting them up in little rows on the counter.

— Wha’? said Bimbo.

— A night on the batter, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo looked over at the pile of fish.

— Not tha’ sort o’ fuckin’ batter, said Jimmy Sr. — Tha’ just shows yeh we’ve been workin’ too hard if yeh can’t remember wha’ a night on the batter is.

Bimbo didn’t laugh.

— Are yeh on? said Jimmy Sr. — It’ll do us good. Wha’ d’yeh say?

— Righ’, Jim. Okay.

— Good man, said Jimmy Sr.

He clapped his hands.

— We’ll have a fuckin’ ball.

— That’s righ’, said Bimbo.

They both laughed now.

Jimmy Sr wanted to check that Bimbo had picked him up right.

— Just the two of us, wha’.

— That’s righ’.

— Into town, said Jimmy Sr. — Will we go into town?

— Jaysis—

— We may as well, wha’.

— Okay. — Where in town?

— Everyfuckin’where.

They laughed again.

They wore their suits in; Jimmy Sr insisted. They were in the Barrytown DART station now. It was a horrible damp grey shell of a place with plastic wobbly glass in the doors, and a smell. He got the tickets and his change from the young fella behind the glass, a big thick-looking gobshite, and when he turned back he saw Bimbo trying to figure out the timetable on the wall.

— There’s one in a minute, Jimmy Sr told him.

— No, said Bimbo. — It’s the last one I’m lookin’ for, to see wha’ time it is.

— Never mind the last one, said Jimmy Sr.

He got Bimbo and shoved him through the door out onto the platform.

There was a fair gang on the southbound platform; a bunch of young fellas near the end probably dodging their fare, a few couples, a family that looked like they were going to visit someone in hospital.

— There’s a fine thing over there, said Jimmy Sr. — Look it.

There was a young one by herself on the northbound with a red mini-skirt and a tan and hair that made her head look three times bigger than it should have been.

— Oh yeah, said Bimbo.

— She must be goin’ ou’ to Howth, said Jimmy Sr.

— Wha’ for? said Bimbo.

— The fish, said Jimmy Sr.

There were some things that Bimbo hadn’t a clue about. Jimmy Sr could see him deciding if she was really going out to Howth to buy fish.

— I’d say she’s meetin’ her boyfriend or somethin’, said Bimbo.

— Maybe he’s a fisherman, said Jimmy Sr.

The DART was coming.

— Here we go, said Jimmy Sr. — Is there a duty-free shop in the last carriage?

Bimbo laughed.

Thank fuck, Jimmy Sr said to himself. He’d been starting to think that Bimbo had lost his sense of humour from leaning over the deep fat fryer for too long.

The trip into town was grand. A scuttered knacker and a couple having a row kept them entertained as far as Connolly. Their carriage was full of dolled-up young ones. And Bimbo began to get more relaxed looking. Things were looking up.

— What’s keepin’ the cunt? said Jimmy Sr when the train stopped for a minute at the depot behind Fairview Park. — Me mouth’s beginnin’ to water.

— So’s mine, said Bimbo. — There’s a few people are goin’ to have to go without their chips tonigh’, wha’.

— No harm, said Jimmy Sr.

The train staggered, and got going again.

— We’re off again, said Jimmy Sr. — ‘Bout fuckin’ time.

It was going to be a great night; he could feel it now. He was liking Bimbo again, and Bimbo liked him. He was leaning in closer to him, shoulder to shoulder, the two of them together. Away from the van, and Maggie, and the pressure and the rows and all the rest of the shite, they’d have their couple of pints and a good laugh, get locked, and they’d be back to normal, the way they used to be; the way they’d stay.

Bimbo started to get up when the train crept into Connolly.

— Sit down there, said Jimmy Sr.

— Wha’?

— We’re gettin’ off at Tara.

— Oh.

— We’ll have a few in Mulligans first, Jimmy Sr told him.

— Oh, very good.

— The best pint in Dublin.

— So I’ve heard.

Jimmy Sr knew where he was bringing them; he had a kind of a plan.

By the time they got past the ticket collector they were really excited and they ran around the corner to Mulligans, pushing each other for the mess, and they nearly got knocked down by a fire engine when they were legging it across Tara Street.

— Ring your fuckin’ bell! Jimmy Sr yelled after it, and he ran after Bimbo, into Mulligans.

There were two women climbing off their stools when Jimmy Sr found Bimbo at the bar.

— Were yeh keepin’ them warm for us, girls? said Jimmy Sr.

One of them stared at him.

— We’re not girls, she said.

— That’s true, said Jimmy Sr when she’d gone past him.

They got up on the stools. Jimmy Sr rubbed his hands.

— Hah hah!

— Here we are, said Bimbo.

— That’s righ‘, said Jimmy Sr. — An’ here’s the barman. Two pints, please.

It was a bit awkward sitting in the suits. You had to sit up straight; the jackets made you. And you couldn’t just park your elbows and your arms on the counter when you were wearing your good suits; they made you kind of nervous. Still though, they’d need them for later.

— Wha’ did you think of your women? said Jimmy Sr.

— Eh—

— Lesbians, I’d say.

— Ah, no.

— I’d say so. Did yeh hear her? We’re not girls.

— Tha’ doesn’t mean—

— Not just tha’. Drinkin’ in here, by themselves yeh know. Like men. Here’s the pints, look it.

The pints arrived, and Jimmy Sr had an idea. He stood up and got his jacket off and folded it, put it on the stool and carefully sat on it.

— That’s better. My God, that’s a great fuckin’ pint. — Isn’t it?

Most of Bimbo’s was gone.

— Lovely.

— A great fuckin’ pint.

— Lovely.

They had two more great fuckin’ pints, then Jimmy Sr got them up and out before they got too comfortable in there. They put their jackets back on, went for a slash (—The first one’s always the best) and headed off for somewhere new.

— Where? said Bimbo.

Doyle’s, Bowe’s, the Palace; two pints in each of them. They were new places to Bimbo, and to Jimmy Sr although he’d walked past them and had a look in. He’d promised himself that if he ever had any money again he’d inspect them properly. And here he was.