Roddy Doyle - The Van

Thursdays, he got paid. Like everyone else.

The second Thursday his pay was in one of the little brown envelopes wages always came in. He looked at it. His name was written on it.

— Where did yeh get the envelope? he asked.

— Easons, said Bimbo.

— Good man, said Jimmy Sr.

But Bimbo was busy in his corner mixing the batter.

Jimmy Sr stuck the envelope into his back pocket.

Bimbo was manning the hatch, and sweating.

— Two cod, two large! he shouted again.

He turned and saw Jimmy Sr, leaning against the shelf, pouring himself a cup of tea from his new flask. He was holding a sandwich between his teeth.

— Jimmy! said Bimbo. — For God sake—

Jimmy Sr put down the flask and screwed the top back on it. Then he took the sandwich out of his mouth.

— I’m on me break, he told Bimbo.

Bimbo looked the way he did when he didn’t know what was going on.

— I’m entitled to ten minutes’ rest for every two hours that I work, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo still looked lost.

— I looked it up, said Jimmy Sr.

He saw that Bimbo’s face was catching up with his brain.

Bimbo stood back from the hatch. Jimmy Sr took a slug of the tea.

— I needed tha’, he said.

— Stop messin’, will yeh, said Bimbo.

— I’m not messin’, said Jimmy Sr. — I’m entitled to me break.

— Sure Jaysis, said Bimbo, — we did nothin’ all nigh’ except for a few minutes ago.

— Not the point, said Jimmy Sr. — Not the point at all. I was here. I was available to work.

— Hurry up, will yis!

That came from outside.

— I’ve five minutes left, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo. — Then I’ll sweat for yeh.

— Just get us me fuckin’ cod an’ chips, will yeh!

Bimbo glared at Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr looked back at him, through the steam coming up off his tea.

Bimbo went over and filled two bags with chips and got two cod out of the fryer. Jimmy Sr raised his arm to the small crowd outside and clenched his fist. But no one cheered or clapped or said anything. It was too cold and wet.

Jimmy Sr and Veronica had the front room to themselves. Jimmy Sr’d just been watching the News. Saddam Hussein was still acting the prick over in Iraq. Veronica had her coat on. She’d just come in; she’d been up at the school registering for more night classes — Leaving Cert History and Geography this time.

— Geography? Jimmy Sr’d said when she’d come in. — That’s great. You’ll be able to find the kettle when you go into the kitchen.

— Humour, said Veronica, imitating Darren.

— Fair play to yeh though, he’d said. — I should do somethin’ as well.

They were talking about something different now though. Jimmy Sr was going out to work in a few minutes.

— It’s not too bad now, Jimmy Sr told Veronica.

— Good, said Veronica.

— I’m callin’ him Bimbo again, said Jimmy Sr.

Veronica smiled.

— I still take me breaks though, said Jimmy Sr. — If I’m goin’ to be just a wage earner—

— You’ll never be Just anything, Jimmy, don’t worry.

— Ah Veronica, said Jimmy Sr. — You say lovely things sometimes.

— Ah—

— Twice a year, abou’.

Veronica slapped him. Jimmy Sr leaned over and kissed her cheek. It was still cold, from outside.

— I’m glad it’s better, said Veronica. — It’d be a shame.

Jimmy Sr nodded and sighed.

— I can’t get over it though, he said. — I wouldn’t mind—

He’d been telling her this for weeks now. She didn’t mind though; he was entitled to feel sorry for himself.

— but it was his idea in the first fuckin’ place. To be his partner — But there’s no point in-It’s done, wha’.

Veronica could still get upset thinking about him roaming around the house, stooped and miserable, with nothing to do; trying to smile at her; sitting on the front step watching the girls go by and not even bothering to straighten up for them. Only a few months ago. Waiting for him to creep over to her side of the bed.

— I’ll go, said Jimmy Sr.

— Right, said Veronica. — Come into the kitchen and I’ll do your flask for you.

— Grand. Will I run up an’ put the blanket on for yeh?

— Yes. Thanks.

They sat on the couch together for a little bit longer.

He dreaded climbing into the van. The worst part though was stocking it up, having to go through Bimbo’s house, out to the back to the shed; that was fuckin’ terrible. She was always there.

— How’s Jimmy?

— Grand, Maggie. An’ yourself?

The cunt, he hated her. It was easier than hating Bimbo.

She was the one.

He paid for everything he took.

— I’m puttin’ the twenty-seven pence in, okay?

He held the money over the box.

— Wha’? said Bimbo.

— I took a Twix, said Jimmy Sr.

He showed it to Bimbo.

— There’s the money for it, okay?

He dropped it in.

— Ah, there’s no need—

— No, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s yours.

Bimbo fished the twenty-seven out and handed it back to Jimmy Sr.

— There’s no need, he said.

— No, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s yours.

And he left Bimbo standing there with his hand stretched out, and wiped the hatch counter. He heard Bimbo throwing the coins into the box.

He did the same thing with Maggie. He was going through the kitchen with a tray of cod. She was at the table cutting pastry into roundy shapes.

— There y’are, Maggie, he said, and he put the twenty-seven pence down on the table in front of her.

She looked up.

— I took a Twix, he told her, and he was out before she’d time to figure it out.

He hadn’t taken a Twix at all.

It was enjoyable enough in a sad sort of way, acting the prick.

— Will I turn on the gas?

— Wha’ d’yeh mean? said Bimbo.

— Will I turn on the gas? said Jimmy Sr.

They’d just parked outside the Hikers and climbed into the back. It was a very stupid question.

— I don’t get yeh, said Bimbo, although Jimmy Sr saw that he was starting to smell a bit of a rat.

— D’yeh want me to turn on the gas? Jimmy Sr asked him.

— Wha’ d’yeh need to ask me for? said Bimbo.

— Well, — you’re the boss—

— I’ll turn it on meself!

He went too far sometimes, like asking Bimbo would he take the chips out of the fryer, would he put the chips into the fryer; he just fell into the habit of asking Bimbo’s permission to do everything.

— You’ll ask me can yeh wipe your arse next, said Bimbo once.

— No, I won’t, said Jimmy Sr. — Me arse is me own.

It was at that moment — the way Bimbo had said it; the pretend annoyance in his voice — that Jimmy Sr realised that Bimbo was enjoying it, being the boss; like he was giving out to a thick lad, a thick kid he liked: he wasn’t embarrassed any more.

He’d seen a photograph in the Herald of a field, like a football pitch with an embankment around it, with a sign at the side — Danger No Swimming. It wasn’t a field. It was the Vartry reservoir, dried out. And the chap from the Corporation, the spokesman — the fella that used to be a runner for Ireland but never won anything — he said that there was a crisis because it was the mildest September on record. But Jimmy Sr was fuckin’ freezing, and so was everyone else. He complained about it but he didn’t mind it at all. The Dollymount business was over, so he’d most of the day to himself. He took Gina for walks. They brought the dog with them. He was still trying to teach Larrygogan to fetch a. ball, after three years, but Larrygogan was either too thick or too intelligent to do it. Gina fetched the ball instead and Larrygogan went with her.