Roddy Doyle - The Van

He waited for Bimbo to nod.

— I mean the kind o’ women we saw in tha’ place back there. Stylish an’ glamorous—

— I think Maggie an’—

Jimmy Sr stopped him.

— know wha’ you’re going to say, Bimbo. And I agree with yeh. They are as good lookin’. But they’re not like those brassers back there, sure they’re not?

— No, said Bimbo. — Not really.

— Thank God, wha‘, said Jimmy Sr. — Can yeh imagine lettin’ any o’ them floozies rear your kids?

— God, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr sat up straight.

— But, let’s face it, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr. — They’re rides, aren’t they?

— Ah, I don’t—

— Go on, yeh cunt. Admit it.

They laughed. That was good, Jimmy Sr thought. They weren’t on their way home yet.

— That’s the thing though, said Jimmy Sr, back serious. — Veronica an’ Maggie. We’re lucky fuckin’ men. But they’re wives. Am I makin’ sense?

— Yeah.

— Those ones back there aren’t. They might be married an’ tha’ but — they’re more women than wives, eh — Fuck it, that’s the only way I can say it.

— I know wha’ yeh mean, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr felt so good, like he’d got something huge off his chest.

— Will I see if they’ll give us another? he said.

— What abou’—?

— We’ll get a taxi. Will I have a bash?

— Okay, said Bimbo. — Yeh’d better make it a short though, Jim. I’m full o’ drink.

Jimmy Sr picked on the younger barman and managed to get two Jamesons out of him, and that made him feel even better.

— How’s tha’?

— Fair play to yeh, said Bimbo. — Good man.

It was hard getting back down onto the stool, there were so many people around them, but Jimmy Sr did it without pushing anyone too hard. He was dying to get going again with Bimbo.

— Women like tha’—

He waited to see if Bimbo was following him.

— Women like your women go for money, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo. — They’ll wet themselves abou’ any ugly fucker or spastic just as long as they’re rich.

— I don’t know, said Bimbo.

— It’s true, said Jimmy Sr. — Look at your woman, Jackie Onassis. You’re not goin’ to tell me tha’ she loved your man, Aristotle, are yeh?

— She might’ve.

— Me arse. Sure, she had a contract an’ all drawn up before they got married, guaranteeing her millions o’ dollars; millions.

— Tha’ doesn’t mean tha’—

— An’ Grace Kelly.

— Princess Grace?

— She only married Prince what’s his fuckin’ name cos he was a prince. An’ Princess Diana as well.

— Wha’—

— She only married fuckin’ Big Ears for the same reason.

— I always thought there was somethin’ a bit odd about that’ match alrigh’.

— I’m tellin’ yeh, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr. — There are some women would do annythin’ for money. The women back there in tha’ place would annyway.

— You could never respect a woman like tha’, said Bimbo.

— No, Jimmy Sr agreed. — But yeh could ride the arse off her.

They roared.

— It’s grand, said Jimmy Sr before they’d really finished laughing. — When yeh think abou’it. If you’ve money, that is.

— Yeah, said Bimbo. — I suppose. If you’re interested in tha’ sort o’ thing.

— Who wouldn’t be? said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo didn’t say anything, and that was good enough for Jimmy Sr. He had Bimbo thinking with his bollix.

The pub was beginning to empty. Jimmy Sr looked at his watch; it wasn’t near midnight yet. It was good in a way, because now he could ask Bimbo the question.

— What’ll we do now?

Bimbo looked around, like he was waking up.

— Wha’ d’yeh mean?

— Where’!! we go? said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo looked at his watch.

— I suppose we’d better head—

— We can’t go fuckin’ home, said Jimmy Sr. — Not yet. Jaysis; it’s our fuckin’ big night ou’.

Bimbo was game, Jimmy Sr could tell, but lost. He let him speak first.

— Where can we go? said Bimbo.

— Somewhere where we can get a drink, said Jimmy Sr.

— Ah yeah, said Bimbo. — ’Course.

Jimmy Sr spoke through a yawn.

— We — we could try Leeson Street, I suppose; I don’t know. — Wha’ d’yeh think? It might be a laugh, wha’.

Jimmy Sr’s heart was loafing his breast plate.

So was Bimbo’s.

— Would yeh get a pint there? he said.

— Yeh would, yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — No problem.

They were on their way.

— Hang on though, said Jimmy Sr out of nowhere. — Wha’ colour socks are yeh wearin’?

They stopped. Bimbo looked down. He hoisted up a trouser leg.

— Eh — blue, it looks like—

— Thank God for tha’, said Jimmy Sr.

— Why?

— They don’t let yeh in if you’re wearin’ white socks, he told Bimbo. — The bouncers don’t. They’ve been told not to.

— Why’s tha’?

— Don’t know. Young Jimmy warned me about it. Wankers an’ trouble-makers wear white socks.

— Wouldn’t yeh think they’d cop on an’ wear another colour? said Bimbo.

— Who?

— The wankers.

— True, said Jimmy Sr. — Stilt, that’s wha’ makes them wankers, I suppose.

— Yeah. Wha’ colour are yeh wearin’ yourself?

Jimmy didn’t have to look.

— Not white anyway, he said.

They dashed to get into the gang of men going down the basement stairs. They were all pissed and loud, a few drinks away from being sick; business men, they looked like, about the same age as Jimmy Sr and Bimbo. The door opened; the ones in front said something to the bouncer; they all laughed, including Jimmy Sr, and they sailed in, no problem. It cost nothing, just like young Jimmy’d said.

— Thanks very much, Bimbo said when he was going past the bouncer.

— Shut up, for fuck sake! Jimmy Sr whispered. — Good bouncers can smell fear, he told Bimbo. — They’re like dogs.

— I only said Thanks to him, said Bimbo.

— Ah, forget it, said Jimmy Sr. — Forget it.

They were in now anyway.

— Will we hand in our jackets? said Bimbo.

— No, said Jimmy Sr. ’

A suit without a jacket was just a pair of trousers; his jacket was staying on.

The wallpaper was that hairy, velvety stuff. This was a good sign, Jimmy Sr decided. There was something about it, something a bit dirty. He could feel the music in the floorboards even before he turned into the dance and bar place. This was the business. He looked to see if Bimbo thought that as well, and caught him gawking into the women’s jacks. Two women were standing at the door, one of them holding it open.

— Jesus Christ, Bimbo, d‘yeh want to get us fucked ou’ before we’re even in?

— Wha’?

— Come on.

They were a right pair of bints, your women at the jacks door. Women like that didn’t need to piss; they just went in to do their make-up.

The bar was three-sided; the barmen were done up in red waistcoats and dickie-bows, the poor fuckin’ saps. It was hot. The dance-floor was over beyond the bar, not nearly as big as Jimmy Sr had imagined. The stools at the bar were all taken. Jimmy Sr led the way around the other side, nearer the dance-floor. There were tables further in, past the dance-floor; the mirrors made it hard to say how far the room went back. The only one dancing was a little daisy jumping around like her fanny was itchy. Every couple of seconds, when you thought you were going to get a goo at her knickers, she pulled down her skirt at the sides. She was very young.

— Are yeh havin’ a pint or wha’? Jimmy Sr asked Bimbo.

Bimbo was looking at the young one dancing.

— Is there somethin’ wrong with her? said Bimbo.