Roddy Doyle: The Van

He’d the best of both worlds now; his days to himself and a job to go to later. He got a good wage on Thursdays, and he’d none of the responsibilities. The hours weren’t bad, just a bit unsocial. He was a lucky fuckin’ man; he had no problem believing that. He believed it.

So he really couldn’t understand why he felt so bad, why at least a couple of times a day, especially when he was hungry or tired, he was close to crying.

He was lonely. That was it.

He was wide awake, lying on the bed, hands behind his head. He’d brought the little electric air heater up to the room with him — to read, he’d said — so he was grand and warm. It was about four o’clock, getting gloomy. He’d stretched back and opened the book but he’d drifted, awake but away from the book. The print was too small; it took too long to read a page. But he didn’t blame the book. Maybe it was too warm. He lay back, not thinking, let himself wander. He didn’t think about women, Dawn or—. It was like his head got heavier and duller and then it burst out—

Lonely.

It was like he’d learnt something, worked it out for himself. He even smiled.

His eyes filled, the room and the things in it divided and swam, but he kept his hands behind his head. He had to blink. Then he could feel a tear climb out of his right eye and creep along the side of his nose. He lifted his head to see if it went quicker and blinked to feed it more water, and it went off his cheek down the side onto the pillow. Now he wiped his face; it was getting too wet. He didn’t stop crying though.

He was safe enough up here.

There was a ball inside him, a ball of hard air, like a fart but too high up to get at. It nearly hurt sometimes. It made him restless, all the time. He squirmed. He sat on the jacks and nothing happened. Pressing made it worse. Hardened it more. He knew he was wasting his time but he went to the jacks anyway. And he knew there was nothing physically wrong with him, even though he could feel it. And he knew as well that he’d felt this way before; it was kind of familiar, definitely familiar. He couldn’t remember exactly — . But when he’d noticed himself feeling this way, tight and small and exhausted, he’d recognised it immediately.

He chatted away to Bimbo on the way out to Ballsbridge. Shamrock Rovers were playing in their new ground, the RDS, against St Pats. It had pissed rain the night before — the first decent rain in Dublin for weeks — and again that morning, but it was clearing up nicely for the afternoon. The game was bound to be a cracker and there’d be a huge crowd there. They got a good space to park, up on the path on the river side of the Anglesea Road, and got into the back to get everything ready.

Jimmy Sr took out the letter and left it on the shelf when Bimbo wasn’t looking. He took it back again — Bimbo still had his back turned — and opened it up a small bit so that Bimbo would be able to read the top part of the letter and see the letterhead. Then Jimmy Sr got down to work. If Bimbo picked it up or even just saw the top, grand; if he didn’t Jimmy Sr’d stick it back in his pocket and keep it for another time.

But Bimbo saw it alright.

Jimmy Sr’s face glowed, and not from the heat coming up off the fryer. He saw Bimbo twist his head a bit so he could read the letter without moving it.

He said nothing.

Jimmy Sr left the letter there. He looked at it later himself the way Bimbo had, when Bimbo was busy at the hatch — trying to add up the price of two large cod and a spice-burger, the fuckin’ eejit. He couldn’t see much of it, only the letterhead and the Dear Mr Rabbitte and half the line under that. It was enough though.

They were waiting now for when the crowd came out after the game.

— Pissed off an’ hungry, said Jimmy Sr.

— D’yeh want to go into the match? Bimbo asked Jimmy Sr.

— No; fuck tha’.

— It’ll be a cracker, I’d say.

— How will it? said Jimmy Sr. — They’re only fuckers that aren’t good enough to play in England.

— Ah now—

— You’d see better in St Annes, said Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr had the Sunday World with him and he gave half of it to Bimbo; the inside half, the kids’ and the women’s pages and the pop stuff and the scandal from Hollywood, the stuff he never bothered reading himself.

They didn’t talk.

Jimmy Sr opened his window a bit. It was only a bit after four, more than an hour before the crowd would be coming out. He sighed.

— D‘yeh mind waitin’? Bimbo asked him.

— I don’t care, said Jimmy Sr. — It makes no difference to me. Just as long as I’m paid, I’ll sit here for the rest of the season. It’s your money.

— You’ll be paid, don’t worry, said Bimbo.

— I’d fuckin’ better be, said Jimmy Sr, but not too aggressively; messing.

Bimbo kind of laughed.

Then Jimmy Sr thought of something.

— Double time.

— Wha’?

— Double time for Sundays, said Jimmy Sr.

— Now, hang on here—

— Sundays an’ bank holidays. Time an’ a half for all other overtime.

Bimbo’s voice was very loud.

— Who says this is overtime? he said.

— There’s no need to shout, said Jimmy Sr. — I can hear yeh.

— How d’yeh mean Overtime?

— That’s better.

— Well?

— Well wha’?

— Abou’ this overtime.

— What abou’ it?

— Well—

Bimbo started again.

— Are yeh doin’ this out o’ spite; is that it?

— No!

— Well, it sounds like tha’ to me.

— I’m just lookin’ after me welfare, said Jimmy Sr. — That’s all I’m doin’.

— Welfare!? said Bimbo. — Yeh get paid, don’t yeh? Well paid.

— I earn it, said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeah, said Bimbo. - But why d’yeh suddenly think you’re entitled to—

— That’s it, said Jimmy Sr. — I AM entitled to it. I am entitled to it, he said again before Bimbo got the chance to say anything back. — I work seven days a week as it is.

— Not days—

— Nights then. That’s worse.

Jimmy Sr kept his eyes on the paper and pretended that he was still reading.

— Seven nights, he said. — How many does tha’ leave me? Eh, wait now till I think, eh — None.

He snapped the paper and stared down at A Little Bit Of Religion.

— An’ now I’m havin’ to give up me Sunday afternoons as well, he said.

— You’ll get paid—

— You’re the boss, said Jimmy Sr. — I’ll go where I’m told but I’m not goin’ to be exploited, d’yeh hear me? I want me overtime.

— Who’s exploitin’ yeh—?

— You are. If yeh don’t pay me properly.

— I do pay yeh—

— There’s laws, yeh know. We’re not in the Dark Ages annymore. — should be at home with Veronica. An’ the kids.

Bimbo waited a bit.

— Is tha’ wha’ tha’ letter’s abou’? he then asked.

— Wha’ letter?

— The letter inside, on the shelf.

Jimmy Sr bent forward and felt his back pocket, looking for something.

— The letter from the Allied something — the union, said Bimbo.

— Have you been readin’ my letters? said Jimmy Sr.

— No! I just saw it there.

The letter had been Bertie’s idea. He’d got the name and address for Jimmy Sr from Leo the barman and Jimmy Sr’d written off to them, the Irish National Union of Vintners, Grocers and Allied Trade Assistants, asking how he’d go about joining up. He’d got a letter back from them, inviting him in for a chat. He kept it in his back pocket. He wasn’t thinking of joining. He had no time for unions. He’d been in one for years and they’d never done a fuckin’ thing for him. They were useless.

— It’ll be ammo for yeh, compadre, Bertie’d said.