The Van

  They shook hands.

  —Did you tell your mother yet?

  —No. No, I wanted to tell you first. There’s another goal, look it.

  —Barnes, said Jimmy Sr.—Brilliant. Pity he hasn’t an Irish granny.—Why?

  —Why, wha’?

  —Don’t start, said Jimmy Sr.—Why did yeh want to tell me first?

  Jimmy Jr was concentrating on the telly.

  —I just did, he said.—Eh, I’ll go in an’ tell Ma.

  —Shell be delighted.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Jr.

  He got up and went out.

  Liverpool had scored again but Jimmy Sr only noticed it when the replay came on and even then he didn’t really pay attention to it. He didn’t know who’d scored it.

  —What’re her parents like? Sharon asked Jimmy Jr.

  —Good question, said Jimmy Sr.—Look carefully at her mother cos that’s wha’ she’ll end up lookin’ like.

  —Will you listen to him, said Veronica.

  They were all having the dinner, Darren and the twins as well. It was very nice. Not the food - it was nice as well, mind you; lovely—the atmosphere.

  Young Jimmy had brought a bottle of wine. He poured a glass for the twins as well, just a small one, and Veronica didn’t kick up at all. Jimmy Sr looked at her. She couldn’t keep her eyes off young Jimmy.

  —They’re alrigh’, said Jimmy Jr.

  He put down his knife and fork, making noise on purpose.

  —No, they’re not, now that I think of it, he said.

  They cheered.

  —He’s a bollix—, said Jimmy Jr.

  —Stop that, said Veronica.

  —Sorry, ma, said Jimmy Jr.—He is though.

  They laughed, Veronica as well.

  —An’ she’s—, said Jimmy Jr.—I think she’s ou’ of her tree half the time.

  —Go ‘way, said Jimmy Sr.—Is tha’ righ’? Drink?

  —No, said Jimmy Jr.—I don’t think so.

  —Tippex, said Darren.

  —Stop that, said Veronica.

  —She looks doped, said Jimmy Jr.—When yeh go into the house she smiles at you abou’ ten seconds after she’s been lookin’ at you, yeh know. It’d freak you ou’.

  —Maybe she’s just thick, said Jimmy Sr.

  —You’ll be meetin’ her soon annyway, said Jimmy Jr, —so you’ll be able to judge for yourself.

  —That’s righ‘, said Jimmy Sr.—Is she good lookin’?

  —Who? Her ma?

  —O’ course! said Jimmy Sr.—Who d’yeh think I meant? Her da?

  They laughed.

  —I couldn’t give a shite wha’ her da looks like, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Excuse me, said Veronica.—You’d better not give a shite what her ma looks like either.

  —Yeow, Ma!

  They roared. Veronica was pleased.

  Jimmy Sr really did want to know what Aoife’s ma looked like. He didn’t know why; he just did - badly.

  —Well? he said.

  He put some more salt on his spuds. They were good spuds, balls of flour.

  —Is she?

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Jr.—I s’pose she - No, not really

  —Ah Jaysis—

  —It’s hard to say. She an oul’ one. She was probably nice lookin’ once alrigh’. Years ago but.

  —Can she not be good looking if she isn’t young? Veronica asked Jimmy Jr.

  —Eh—

  —’Course she can, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Yeah, Jimmy Jr agreed.—But she—

  —Be careful wha’ yeh say, son, Jimmy Sr warned him.

  —Some old women are lovely lookin’, said Sharon.

  —That’s true, said Jimmy Sr.—A few o’ them.

  He glanced over at Veronica.

  —What abou’ you? said Darren to his da.—Look at the state o’ you.

  Jimmy Sr looked at Darren. Darren was looking back at him, waiting for a reaction. Jimmy Sr wasn’t going to take that from him, not for another couple of years.

  He pointed his fork at Darren.

  —Don’t you forget who paid for tha’ dinner in front of you, son, righ’.

  —I know who paid for it, said Darren.—The state.

  Jimmy Sr looked like he’d been told that someone had died.

  —Yeh prick, Jimmy Jr said to Darren.

  But no one said anything else. Linda and Tracy didn’t look at each other.

  Jimmy Sr took a sip from his wine.

  —Very nice, he said.

  Then he got up.

  —Em—the jacks, he said.

  He had to sit down again and shift his chair back to get up properly.

  —Back in a minute, he said.

  —Yeh fuckin’ big-headed little prick, yeh, Jimmy Jr called Darren when they heard Jimmy Sr on the stairs, going up.

  —Stop that! said Veronica.

  —Wha’ did yeh go an’ say tha’ for? Sharon asked Darren, and wanting to slap the face off him.

  —Stop, said Veronica.

  —I was only jokin’, said Darren.

  It was true; mostly.

  Jimmy Jr grabbed Darren’s sleeve.

  —Stop!!

  Veronica looked around at them all.

  —Stop that, she said.—Now, eat your dinners.

  They did. Sharon kicked Darren under the table but didn’t really get him.

  Then Linda spoke.

  —Are they rich, Jimmy?

  —Who?

  —Her ma an’ da, said Linda.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Jr.—They are, kind of.—Yeah. —I suppose they are.

  They were all listening for noise from upstairs.

  —What did you do in school yesterday? Veronica asked Tracy.

  Tracy was stunned.

  —Eh—

  —Nothin’, said Linda.

  —The usual.

  —Tell us about it, said Veronica.

  —Ah, get lost—

  —Go on.

  —Yeah, said Sharon.—Tell us.

  —Well—, said Linda.

  She knew what was going on, sort of. They weren’t to be waiting for her daddy to come down.

  —Well, she said.—We had Mr Enright first class.

  —Lipstick Enright, said Darren.

  —Shut up, you, said Jimmy Jr.

  —Linda fancies him, Tracy told them.

  —I do not you, righ’!

  Veronica started laughing.

  —I used to—, said Linda.—I’m goin’ to kill you, Tracy, righ’.

  Jimmy Sr was coming down; they heard the stairs.

  —Why did yeh stop? Sharon asked Linda.—Fancyin’ him.

  Linda teased them.

  —I just did, she said.

  —She—, Tracy started.

  —Shut up, Tracy, said Linda,—righ’. I’m tellin’ it.

  —Tellin’ wha’? said Jimmy Sr.

  He’d combed his hair.

  —Why she doesn’t fancy Mr Enright annymore, Sharon told him.

  —Oh good Jaysis, he said.

  They all laughed, hard.

  He washed his face, put his hands under the cold tap and rubbed water all over his face and put them under again and held them over his eyes. God, he felt much better now. He was looking forward to going home. He had to wipe his face in his jumper because there was no towel. It was like when you ate ice-cream too fast and you had a terrible fuckin’ headache, a real splitter, and it got worse and worse and you had to close your eyes to beat it - and then it was gone and you were grand, not a bother on you. For a while after the dinner, he’d had to really stretch his face to stop himself from crying. And that passed and he’d thought he was going to faint - not faint exactly—He kept having to lift himself up, and sit up straight and open his eyes full; he couldn’t help it. He didn’t blame Darren; it was a phase young fellas went through, hating their fathers. He wouldn’t have minded smacking him across the head though.

  He was grand now, wide awake. The pint had helped, ni
ce and cold, and the taste had given him something to think about. He was grand.

  —Come here, you, he said to Bimbo when he got back from the jacks.—The only reason you beat me today was because I let yeh take your first shot again at the seventh.

  —Oh, said Bertie.—The tricky seventh; si.

  —I beat yeh by two shots, said Bimbo.

  —So?

  —So I’d still’ve beaten yeh.

  —Not at all, said Jimmy Sr.—Yeh went one up at the seventh. D‘yeh admit tha’?

  —Say nothin’, compadre, said Bertie.

  —Yeah, Bimbo said to Jimmy Sr.

  He was dying to know what Jimmy Sr was going to say next.

  —Yeh went up after I let yeh take your shot again. Yeah?

  —Yeah.

  —Well, that had a bad psychological effect on me. I shouldn‘t’ve let yeh. I’d’ve hockied yeh if I’d won tha’ hole like I should’ve.—Like I really did when yeh think about it.

  —Nick fuckin’ Faldo, said Paddy.

  —That’s not fair now, said Bimbo.

  He sat up straight.

  —That’s not fair, Jim, he said.—I beat yeh fair an’ square.

  —No, Bimbo, sorry; not really.

  Bimbo was annoyed.

  —Righ‘, he said.—Fair enough.—I wasn’t goin’ to mention it but—

  —Wha’?

  Jimmy Sr was worried now, but he didn’t show it.

  —Wha’? he said again.—Go on.

  —I seen yeh kickin’ the ball ou’ o’ the long grass on the ninth.

  —Yeh cunt!

  —I seen yeh, Bimbo insisted.

  —Yeh poxbottle fuck yeh; yeh did not!

  —I did, said Bimbo.

  —Serious allegations, said Bertie after he’d stopped laughing.

  —He’s makin’ it up, said Jimmy Sr.—Don’t listen to him.

  Bimbo tapped his face with a finger, just under his left eye.

  —He’s makin’ it up, said Jimmy Sr.—It’s pat’etic really. He’s just a bad loser.

  —I won, sure! said Bimbo.

  —Not really, yeh didn’t, said Jimmy Sr.

  —You’re the loser, excuse me, said Bimbo.—And a cheater.

  —Yeh’d want to be careful abou’ wha’ you’re sayin’, Jimmy Sr told him.

  He knew well they all believed Bimbo; he didn’t give a fuck. He was enjoying himself.

  —I’m only sayin’ what I saw, said Bimbo.—Yeh looked around yeh an’ yeh gave the ball a kick, then yeh shouted Found it! And then yeh said, I was lucky, it’s landed nicely for me.

  Bertie and Paddy were roaring.

  —Fuck yeh, said Jimmy Sr.—Wha’ were yeh lookin’ at me for annyway?

  —You’ll have to buy a round because o’ tha’, compadre, Bertie said to Jimmy Sr.

  —Fair enough, said Jimmy Sr.

  He had a tenner that Jimmy Jr’d given him.

  —Four pints over here, he roared at the young fella who was going past them with a trayload of empty glasses. —I’d still have beaten yeh, he told Bimbo.

  —But I won, said Bimbo.

  —It’s tha’ baldy bollix, Gorbachev’s fault. The grass should’ve been cut there; he’s useless. There’s always dog-shite in the bunkers as well.

  —Annyone want a kettle jug? said Bertie.

  —Free?

  —No, said Bertie.—No, I’m afraid not. I can give it to yeh at a keen price though.

  —How much? said Paddy.

  —Fifteen quid, said Bertie.—Thirty-five in the shops. —Two for twenty-five.

  —How many have yeh? Jimmy Sr asked him.

  —Ask no questions, compadre, said Bertie.—Not tha’ many. A small herd. Well?

  —No, said Jimmy Sr.

  He looked around to see if there was anyone listening or watching.

  —No, Paddy said.—We don’t need one.

  —No, Bimbo agreed.

  —Fair enough, said Bertie.—No problem.

  —Yeh wouldn’t have a chipper van to sell, I suppose, said Bimbo,—would yeh, Bertie?

  —No, said Bertie, like Bimbo’d just asked him if he’d any bananas.

  Jimmy Sr and Paddy stared at Bimbo.

  —Just a thought, said Bimbo.

  And he left it at that.

  Bertie loved a challenge.

  —Wha’ abou’ a Mister Whippy one? Bertie asked Bimbo. —I think I could get me hands on one o’ them.

  —No, said Bimbo.

  —You’ve your heart set on a chipper one?

  —Yeah.—Not really; just if yeh see one.

  —Si, said Bertie.—I’ll see what I can do.

  Jimmy Sr looked at Bimbo. But Bimbo was just looking the way he always did, friendly and stupid looking, no glint in his eye or nothing.

  —Bimbo’s talkin’ abou’ gettin’ himself a chipper van, he told Veronica.

  —I knew he liked his food, said Veronica.—But I didn’t know he was that bad.

  Jimmy Sr didn’t get it at first.

  —Ah yeah; very good.

  Jimmy Sr had no luck trying to get anything out of Bimbo.

  —It was just an idea, that’s all.

  That was about as much as he’d tell him.

  They were in Jimmy Sr’s front room watching Blockbusters.

  —If Bertie finds one will yeh buy it? Jimmy Sr asked him.

  —B M—, said Bimbo.

  The girls’ team on the telly got to the answer before Bimbo.

  —Are yeh listenin’ to me? said Jimmy Sr.

  —M T, said Bimbo.

  —Mother Teresa, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Let’s see;—you’re righ’.

  —‘Course I’m righ’.

  —They’ve won, look it. You‘d’ve won if you’d o’ been on it, Jimmy.

  —What’s the prize?

  —A trip to somewhere.

  —Would yeh take the van if Bertie found one for yeh? Jimmy Sr asked him again.

  —Edinburgh; that’s where it’s to. That’s not all tha’ good, is it?

  —Better than nowhere, said Jimmy Sr, defending the prize he could’ve won.

  —That’s right, o’ course. They look happy enough with it annyway, don’t they?

  Jimmy Sr looked at the two girls on the telly.

  —Wouldn’t mind goin’ with them, he said.

  The weather was glorious. All week the sun had been blazing away, none of the chill that you often got when it was sunny in May.

  They were sitting on Jimmy Sr’s front step, Jimmy Sr and Bimbo, lapping up the sun. Bimbo had his eyes closed and his face shoved up to catch the sun, daring it to burn him.

  —Lovely, he said.

  —Fuckin’ sure, said Jimmy Sr.—You can really feel it, can’t yeh?

  —God, yeah.

  —Great drinkin’ weather, said Jimmy Sr.

  Bimbo didn’t answer. He agreed with Jimmy Sr but he’d been talking with Maggie about them dipping into his redundancy money; they’d both been doing it, for clothes—Wayne had made his Confirmation two weeks ago - and Easter eggs and things that they’d always had. They’d taken all the kids to the pictures on Wayne’s Confirmation day and that had set them back nearly forty quid after popcorn and ice-creams, forty quid that they didn’t have, so it had come out of the lump sum. Maggie’d take a tenner out so they could have nice steak on a Sunday. And Bimbo’d been helping himself to the odd tenner so he could go up to the Hikers now and again. And the aluminium windows and the other bits and pieces. But it was stopping. This morning they’d had a meeting and they’d agreed that it had to stop or there’d be nothing left for when they really needed it. So the last treat they were giving themselves was three tickets for Cats, for himself and Maggie and her mother; they had them bought since last week, before the decision, so they were going to go ahead and go.

  —Oh, here we go, said Jimmy Sr.—Look it.

  Bimbo opened his eyes and looked at the ground till he got used to the light.

  —Ah
yes, said Jimmy Sr, nearly whispering.

  There were three girls passing; girls about sixteen or seventeen. You could tell that they knew that Jimmy Sr and Bimbo were there. One of them looked in at them and away quickly. Bimbo felt sweaty suddenly and that annoyed him because it was Jimmy Sr that was really looking at them, not him.

  —They’re only young ones, he said.

  —There’s no harm, said Jimmy Sr.

  He felt like a bollix now; he’d have to control himself—especially when the Child of fuckin’ Prague was sitting beside him.

  —They’re goin’ home for their tea, said Bimbo.

  Jimmy Sr saw him shiver when he said it.

  —An’ to do their homework, said Bimbo.

  —Those young ones aren’t in school annymore. They left—

  —I know, said Bimbo.—Those particular girls aren’t goin’ to school annymore but—

  —They work in tha’ sewin’ factory in Baldoyle, said Jimmy Sr.

  —They’re still only young girls, said Bimbo.—Kids.

  —Ah, rev up, said Jimmy Sr.

  The sewing factory girls got a half day on Fridays. The first time Jimmy Sr’d looked at them on a Friday, from his bedroom window, he’d felt the blood rushing through his head, walloping off the sides, like he was watching a blue video and he was afraid that Veronica would come in and catch him. There was a gang of them—all of them seemed to be in denim mini-skirts - outside Sullivans. Derek and Ann Sullivan’s daughter, Zena, worked in the sewing factory. There was about six of them laughing and hugging themselves to keep out the cold; it was months ago and young ones like that never dressed properly for the weather. All of them had haircuts like your woman, Kylie Minogue. Jimmy Sr liked that. He thought curly hair was much better than straight. He’d looked at them for ages. He even dived back onto the bed when one of them was looking his way. He’d been afraid to go back and look out the window. But he did, and then they went, their heels making a great sound; he’d always loved that sound—he always woke up when he heard it. He’d felt like a right cunt then, gawking out the window; like a fuckin’ pervert.

  But he was only looking, day dreaming maybe. There was no harm in it, none at all. He wasn’t going to start chasing after them or following them or—he just liked looking at them, that was all.

  They were coming back up the road. He could hear them, their heels. Bimbo’d been wrong; they weren’t going home to their mammies for their tea. He’d tell him that when they went by, the fuckin’ little altar boy.