Roddy Doyle - The Van

Good Jesus, there was the poor young one trying to make every man watching her come in their kaks and Bimbo wanted to know if there was something wrong with her!

— A pint? said Jimmy Sr.

— Not here, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr agreed with him; a pint of stout in this place would leave them pebble-dashing the jacks for the rest of the weekend.

— Budweiser, said Jimmy Sr.

— Grand.

He had to shout over the music.

There were two women at the bar, not too young and just good looking enough. Jimmy Sr got in between their stools.

— Sorry, girls.

He lassoed a barman on his way past.

— Two pints o’ Budweiser, when you’re ready!

— Wine bar only.

The barman looked like he’d said this before.

— Wha’?

— No beer or spirits. We’ve a wine licence only.

— Are yeh serious?

The barman didn’t say anything; he just nodded, and went further down the bar.

— Good shite, said Jimmy Sr.

For a second he was lost. Bimbo was at his shoulder.

— Will he not serve yeh? he asked.

— He’ll serve me alrigh’, said Jimmy Sr. — Only he’s fuck all that I want.

One of the women laughed. Jimmy Sr turned to her and grinned; it was that kind of laugh.

He was away here.

— Try the wine, said the woman.

Jimmy Sr stepped back a bit to let Bimbo stand beside him.

— Wha’ would yeh recommend? he asked her.

— What’s wrong? Bimbo asked him, right into his ear.

— Nothinv, said Jimmy Sr.

He tried to use his eyes to point out the women to him but it wasn’t easy.

— The house red’s very nice, the woman told Jimmy Sr.

— Is tha’ righ’? said Jimmy Sr. — Are yis drinkin’ it yourselves?

— We are, yes, she said. — Aren’t we, Anne Marie?

— Yeah, said her friend.

— That’s grand so, said Jimmy Sr. — We’ll have a drop o’ tha’.

Jimmy Sr stepped back a bit more to include the friend, the one called Anne Marie, and he had a quick look at Bimbo to see if he’d copped on, and he had. He was gawking at Anne Marie.

— I’m Jimmy, by the way, he told the girls. — An’ this is Bim—

He couldn’t remember Bimbo’s real name.

— Brendan, said Bimbo.

That was it.

— Brendan, said Jimmy Sr.

— Hello, Brendan, said the woman. — Well, my name’s Dawn. And this is Anne Marie.

— Howyis, said Jimmy Sr.

He spoke to Anne Marie.

— Two names, wha’. Is one not good enough for yeh?

She didn’t get it. He smiled to let her know he was only messing and turned back to Dawn.

— Better order the oul’ vino, he said. — The house somethin’, didn’t yeh say?

He got in closer to Dawn — great fuckin’ name, that — and gave Bimbo loads of room to manoeuvre for himself.

— The house red, said Dawn.

— Grand, said Jimmy Sr. — An’ it’s the business, is it?

— It’s quite nice, said Dawn. — I think myself anyway. And it’s quite reasonably priced.

— Never mind the price, said Jimmy Sr. — Let me an’ Bim — Brendan worry abou’ the price. Here!

He’d captured a barman.

— A bottle o’ house red wine, like a good man.

This was great. There weren’t bad-looking birds at all. Nicely done up; just the right side of brassy. Somewhere in their thirties. Dawn had the fine set of lungs on her, and her arse fitted nicely on the stool; there was nothing flowing over the sides. Her eyelashes were huge, but they looked real enough. He could see the dark roots in her hair; another couple of months and she’d look like a skunk. But she’d get her hair done again long before that happened. She took care of herself. She’d do grand.

There was something about Anne Marie as well though.

Bimbo edged in closer, but he wouldn’t look at her for too long. He leaned on the bar.

The barman had come back with the wine.

— Just park it there, son, Jimmy Sr told the barman.

Anne Marie was fatter than Dawn; not fat though, no way. If he’d been standing right at the bar he’d have been able to see right up to her arse the way her legs were crossed. She was smoking one of those thin cigars. Her expression; it was like she didn’t give a shite about anything. He was sure she went like a fuckin’ sewing machine, certain of it.

— He wants to know do you want to taste it first, Dawn told Jimmy Sr.

— Fuckin’ sure I do, said Jimmy Sr. — Pardon the French, Dawn.

He leaned past her, brushed against her — she didn’t move back — and picked up the glass. There was only half a mouthful in it. He put his nose to the glass, and sniffed.

— Ah, yes, he said.

Dawn laughed.

— Very ginnick, said Jimmy Sr.

He took a sip, leaned back and gargled. Even Anne Marie laughed. He swallowed.

— A-one, he said.

He gave the barman the thumbs up.

— Pour away, compadre, he said. — How much is tha’?

— Twenty-three pounds, sir.

— Wha’?

He hadn’t heard him.

— Twenty-three pounds.

— Grand—

My fuckin’ Jesus—!

He handed over a twenty and a fiver. Thank Christ, his hand wasn’t shaking.

— There yeh go, he said. — Keep the change.

— Thank you very much, sir.

— No problem.

If he didn’t get his hole after forking out twenty-five snots for a poxy bottle of wine he’d He looked at Bimbo; he looked like he’d got a wallop off a stun-gun. Jimmy Sr grinned and smiled at him, and winked. Bimbo smiled back. Dawn was pouring the drink. Jimmy Sr would have to go to the jacks in a bit to see how much money he’d left. It was a long walk home to Barrytown.

— Cheers, Jimmy.

Dawn was holding her glass up, waiting for the others to join in.

— Yes, indeed, said Jimmy Sr.

He picked up his glass. He had to shout over the music.

— Cheers, eh — Dawn.

He laughed, and so did she.

They all clinked their glasses.

— Cheers, Brendan, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo looked to see who he was talking to, then remembered.

— Oh, thanks very much.

Twenty-five fuckin’ quid. He could probably have got a wank in a massage parlour for that, and the fuckin’ bottle was nearly empty already. He’d have to buy another one in a minute. He put his hand against the bar, across Dawn’s back, just barely touching it. She stayed put. Anne Marie helped herself to another glass. She had the look of a dipso about her alright; another year and she’d be in rag order. The music was shite.

— Great sounds, said Dawn.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — Brilliant.

He nodded his head as he spoke cos it was very loud; the thump-thump-thump crap that young Jimmy used to play when he lived at home. She had to put her mouth up near his ear.

— Wha’? he said.

It was fuckin’ ridiculous.

— Are the two of you out on the town for the night? she asked.

She was asking him were they married, Jimmy Sr reckoned.

— Ah no, he said. — No.—Not really. This is nothin’ special.

She nodded.

Maybe she didn’t care. He put his hand in his pocket to adjust his gooter — the way she kept putting her mouth up to his ear — . Bimbo was chatting away to Anne Marie. Fair play to him. He’d thought that Bimbo might be a liability. But no, they were nodding and yapping away; he was doing his bit. Anne Marie had her glass leaning on her bottom lip. When Dawn turned to get her glass off the bar Jimmy Sr got his hand in under his gooter and yanked it into an upright position — and Anne Marie was looking at him. He pretended he’d spilt some wine on his trousers and he was inspecting them to see if there was a stain.

— What’s wrong?

Dawn was looking at him now.

— Ah, nothin’.