The Van

  —No, said Maggie.—Thirtysomething’s on in a minute.

  —She never misses it, Bimbo told Jimmy Sr when they were going to the gate.—She won’t video it either. She has to watch it live.

  That was when they found the window. Bimbo’s kids were inside in the van exploring and Wayne put his foot through it. Bimbo got them all out and checked Wayne’s foot. It was grand, no cuts or anything. Then he told the kids to stay out of the van cos it was dangerous until they got all the grease off the floor and, to the two youngest, that it was full of spiders that bit you and then he pretended to lock the door with one of his house keys.

  He was good with the kids; they’d all listened to him.

  —Now, he said when he’d done it.

  He patted the door and wiped his hand on his trousers and they went up to the Hikers.

  Jimmy Sr needed bubbles. Darren was working in the bar, collecting the glasses and that, and he recommended Budweiser. Jimmy Sr was looking suspiciously at the glass. He lifted it and took a sip, then a bigger one and then a much bigger one.

  —It’s not tha’ bad, he said.

  The seat was nice and cold against his back.

  Bimbo was very giddy, looking around him all the time, shifting, waving at every wanker that walked in.

  —Settle down, will yeh, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Wha’?

  —You’re like a performin’ flea there, Jimmy Sr told him. —You’re makin’ me fuckin’ nervous.

  —Sorry, said Bimbo.—It’s just—. Ah, yeh know.

  He lifted his pint.

  —Well, Jim, cheers, he said for the third time.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Will yeh have another one? Bimbo asked him.

  —There’s no—

  —Go on.

  —Fair enough, said Jimmy Sr.—Thanks very much; there’s no need.—Make it Guinness but, will yeh.

  —Good man, said Bimbo.—Darren! Two pints o’ Guinness, like a good man, please.

  —Poor Darren’ll be doin’ his Leavin’ durin’ the World Cup, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo.—Isn’t tha’ shockin’?

  —Ah that’s shockin’, said Bimbo.

  —Fuckin’ terrible, said Jimmy Sr.

  And Darren arrived with the pints and Jimmy Sr let him take the rest of the Budweiser.

  —It’s like drinkin’ fuckin’ Andrews, he sort of apologised to Bimbo.

  —Not to worry, said Bimbo.

  He gave Darren a big tip when he was going.

  —I was thinkin’, said Bimbo.—We’ll have to have the van ready in time for the World Cup.

  Jimmy Sr didn’t like the sound of that. We’ll.

  He said nothing.

  —The pubs’ll be jammered, said Bimbo.

  He still said nothing.

  —An’ there’ll be no cookin’ done, said Bimbo. —’Specially if Ireland do well.

  —They will, said Jimmy Sr.—Don’t worry.

  —It’s a great opportunity, said Bimbo.—Everyone’ll be watchin’ the telly for the whole month.

  —So will I, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Yeah, said Bimbo.—It should be smashin’.

  They drank. It was good to be back on the Guinness. They’d have a chat now about the World Cup. Jimmy Sr felt good now. He sang softly.

  —OLÉ—OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ—Did yeh hear tha’ song yet, Bimbo?

  —Which; the Ireland one?

  —The official one, yeah.

  —Ah, I did, yeah, said Bimbo.

  —Isn’t it brilliant? said Jimmy Sr.

  —Terrific.

  Jimmy Sr tried to do Jack Charlton.

  —Put them uunder presheh.

  —D’yeh want to be me partner, Jim? said Bimbo.

  —Wha’s tha’?

  He’d heard Bimbo alright but he was confused.

  —Would yeh think abou’ becomin’ me partner? said Bimbo.

  He looked serious in a way that only Bimbo could look; deadly serious.

  —We’d make a great team, said Bimbo.—I was talkin’ to Maggie about it.

  —Jaysis——, said Jimmy Sr.—Eh, thanks very much, Bimbo. I don’t know—

  —Will yeh think about it annyway? said Bimbo.

  —I will, Jimmy Sr assured him.—I will.—Thanks.

  —No, said Bimbo.—You’d be doin’ me a favour.

  —Oh, I know tha’, said Jimmy Sr.

  They laughed, and that gave Jimmy Sr a chance to wipe his eyes. He said it again.

  —Thanks very much.

  He took a big breath.

  —Fuckin’ hell, he said then.—What a day.

  Wait till Veronica heard.

  —McDonalds can go an’ fuck themselves, he said to Bimbo.—Isn’t tha’ righ’?

  Bimbo laughed, delighted.

  —That’s righ’.

  They laughed again.

  —Bimbo’s Burgers, said Jimmy Sr.—How does tha’ sound?

  Bimbo clapped his hands.

  —I knew it! he said.

  He held his hand out, and Jimmy Sr took it and didn’t let go of it for ages.

  Then he dropped Bimbo’s hand.

  —Hang on though, he said.

  He looked very worried.

  —Do I have to help you clean it?

  He watched Bimbo deciding if he was joking or not and then the two of them roared and shook hands again.

  Veronica was lying beside him, nearly asleep, God love her; she’d been studying all night for her exams. She’d told him how to make chips and it seemed easy enough.

  These were good chips, the ones he was eating now. They always were in the summer. There’d be a terrible smell of vinegar in the bedroom in the morning though.

  He’d bought a sausage-in-batter tonight as well. He held it up to the light coming in where the curtain stopped short of the wall, to get a decent look at it. He looked down at Veronica.

  —Veronica? he whispered.

  He didn’t want to talk to her unless she was awake anyway.

  —Mmmm? said Veronica.

  —Are yeh awake?

  —What?

  —Only if you’re awake.

  —Go on, said Veronica.

  —How do they make these? said Jimmy Sr.

  He brought the sausage down to the pillow so she could see it properly.

  Veronica snorted, kind of.

  —I don’t know, she said.—I don’t think they make them. I think they just find them.

  She found his knee and gave it a squeeze.

  There was only a month to go to the start of the World Cup so, as Bimbo said, they had it all to do. It wasn’t even a full month, a bit less than four weeks.

  They walked around the van again.

  —Righ‘, said Bimbo.—We’ll never get it cleaned up by just lookin’ at it.

  So he went through the house to the back and got his hose and rigged it up to the tap in the kitchen and brought the hose out to the front through the hall.

  —Wha’ colour is it annyway? Jimmy Sr asked.

  —White! said Bimbo.

  —How d’yeh know?

  —All chipper vans are whi’e, said Bimbo.—Stand back there, Jimmy.

  He roared into the hall.

  —Righ’! Turn her on.

  Someone inside turned on the cold tap and Bimbo pointed the hose at the side of the van. The water came out in two gushes and then in a steady stream and Bimbo went up close so the water would drum against the wall of the van. It made an impressive sound, and brought some of the neighbours out to watch. Bimbo sprayed right across; he put his thumb to the nozzle and aimed at one spot and held the jet of water at it for ages - but he might as well have been pissing at it for all the good it did.

  —Okay! Turn her off!—Turn her off!!

  He sounded annoyed.

  The water slowed down and stopped altogether.

  —Will yeh switch it on to the hot tap!? Bimbo yelled.

  Maggie answered.

  —I used up all the hot doin’ the clothes.


  —Ah, God almighty, Bimbo said quietly.

  He let the hose drop. They studied the side of the van.

  The dirt was still there, solid as ever, only shinier now because of the water. It looked even worse that way, almost healthy and alive.

  —How did it get greasy on the fuckin’ outside? Jimmy Sr asked.

  —God knows, said Bimbo.

  —Yeh could understand the inside, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Yeah, said Bimbo.—Yeah.

  —What’ll we do now? Jimmy Sr wanted to know.

  Bimbo scraped a clot of grease off with his fingernail.

  —It does come off, he said.

  Jimmy Sr did the same.

  —Yeah, he said.—Fuckin’hell though, Bimbo. It’s goin’ to take fuckin’ years.

  —Not at all, said Bimbo.

  They got paint scrapers, five of them, from Barney’s Hardware and attacked the van with them, and then they started getting somewhere. Once you got the blade in under the grease and the dirt it came away easily enough. It was a little bit disgusting alright but at least they could see that it was working, the grease was coming off, and that made up for it. But the feel of it was horrible, and the smell; it was hard to describe, fuckin’ terrible though. Jimmy Sr could smell it on his hands even after putting some of Veronica’s Oil of Ulay all over them. And his clothes; he’d have roasted himself if he’d sat too close to the fire after a day’s work. Veronica said she’d never seen dirt like it; she said it the first four days he came home, but she didn’t say it like she was annoyed, more like she was fascinated.

  They concentrated on the outside. They were both too scared to look carefully inside, but they didn’t say anything. They just did their work. They scraped all day and when they started sliding because of the grease on the ground they stopped and hosed the path and went at it with the yard brush. Bimbo got sawdust from the butchers and sprinkled it on top of the grease and that way they didn’t have to interrupt the work too often. It was manky work though, messy and slow. But Maggie said it wouldn’t go on for ever and she was right; it just felt that way. He’d get up at eight and go down to Bimbo’s and look at the bit he’d done the day before and it was like he’d never touched it; it was still filthy and shiny. But, then again, he’d be scraping away, breathing through his mouth, listening to the radio or chatting with Bimbo, and he’d see that there was no more grease to scrape off in this part; he’d reached the end, there was just white paint, a small island of it.

  He felt brilliant the first time that happened and he didn’t stop working till eight o’clock.

  They were getting there.

  There was more than just the cleaning of the van, of course. They had to become chefs before the end of the month, which was no fuckin’ joke. The first time he made chips, at home, he put far too much oil into the pan and nearly set fire to the fuckin’ kitchen when he lowered the chips into it. It frightened the shite out of him. But Veronica was a good teacher, very patient; she even let him make the dinner one night, which was very decent of her. He made a bit of a bollix of it - burnt fuck out of the burgers; it was like eating little hubcaps—but no one complained. She showed him how to peel spuds without peeling the skin off your hands as well, how to always peel out, away from your body, so you didn’t stab yourself.

  He cut his wrist the first time he did it; not cut it exactly, more scraped, but it was very fuckin’ sore all the same. He nearly went out the window when Veronica put Dettol on it but they laughed later in bed, imagining trying to kill yourself with a potato peeler scraping away till you hit an artery, and then start on the other wrist, quick before you fainted. They hadn’t laughed together like that in ages. She’d a good sense of humour, Veronica had. The only time she got annoyed was when he peeled all the potatoes in the house, practising. He didn’t blame her but, like he told her, they were running out of time. Another thing she showed him that he’d never known before; you put the chips you didn’t want to use immediately in water to keep them fresh and the right colour.

  —God, he said.—The simple things are the most ingenious, aren’t they?

  He caught Sharon grinning at him when he was practising his peeling.

  —Fuck off, you, he said.

  And he brought the bucket and the spuds up to the bedroom so he could do his practice in peace. Later on, Sharon asked him if she could work in the van some nights, when it was on the road. And he said Yeah.

  It would do her good.

  —She’d be a good worker, said Jimmy Sr.

  He wanted to clout Bimbo, the way he was looking at him, like he’d farted at mass during the Offertory; that sort of look.

  —I know tha’, said Bimbo.—I never said different, Jimmy, now.

  —Well then—?

  —Staff appointments should be a joint decision, Jimmy. Between the two of us.

  —It’s only Sharon, for fuck sake.

  —Still, though—

  He was right really. But—

  —D‘yeh want me to sack her, is tha’ it? Before she’s even started.

  —Ah, Jimmy—

  —Ah, me arse.

  But Bimbo was right, Jimmy Sr could see that. He just hated losing.

  —I’ll tell her we don’t want her, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo, like he was giving in to him.

  —Not at all, said Bimbo.—No way.

  —Wha’ then? said Jimmy Sr.—I’m fuckin’ lost.

  —Just, in future we’ll make these decisions together, said Bimbo.—Is tha’ alrigh’?

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.—No problem. Sorry abou’—

  —Ah no, said Bimbo.—No. No.

  They got back to work and didn’t say anything to each other for a good while.

  The roof wasn’t as bad as the sides but it was very tricky. There was no grease up there but that didn’t mean that you couldn’t fall off. Bimbo did fall off but he landed on the grass, so it wasn’t too bad; there was no real damage done. Still, the noise he made when he hit the ground was terrifying, like a huge thump. Jimmy Sr was on his hands and knees up there, afraid to budge. Maggie felt Bimbo hitting the ground from where she was in the house and she came out and got him up on his feet and gave out shite to him once she knew that he wasn’t dying on her. Poor oul’ Bimbo was a bit shook after it, so they called it a day. The only problem was getting down off the fuckin’ roof. Jimmy Sr’s leg couldn’t find the ladder and he was shaking like fuck, but he got down eventually and he took Bimbo off for a pint. They took a look back at the van when they got out to the path, just to see what it looked like from a distance, and it didn’t look too bad at all; it wasn’t as white as it could’ve been, like new teeth, but it was definitely white.

  They went on a reconnaissance mission. That was what Bimbo called it, but he was only messing. They went to a chipper; not the one they normally used cos the crowd in there were a snotty bunch of fuckers and Jimmy Sr hadn’t got on well with them since Leslie threw a dead cat over the counter into the deep fat fryer. That was years ago, long before Leslie went to England, and they still held it against him. Actually, it was gas when it happened. Jimmy Sr and the lads had gone in after closing time and the old fella, the one the kids called the Fat Leper, told Jimmy Sr what Les had done with the cat and Bertie changed his order from a batter burger to a smoked cod.—Just to be on the safe side, compadres, he said. Jaysis, they howled. And the Fat Leper barred the lot of them. And Bertie offered to buy the cat if that would make him feel any better, as long as he didn’t expect him to eat it as well. Anyway, the barring order only lasted one night—they were cute fuckers, the Italians; you don’t make your fortune by barring your best customers—but they still glared at Jimmy Sr. The Fat Leper didn’t; he’d died last year, but the rest of them did. Even the ones that had been in Italy when it had happened.

  So they went to a different chipper, one in Coolock. It was kind of exciting going in; stupid really, but Jimmy Sr couldn’t help thinking that he was a bit of a thrill seeker. Bimbo went ahead of
him. It was empty except for them.

  —So far so good, said Bimbo.

  There were two young fellas behind the counter, one of them opening the bags they put the chips into, putting a line of them on top of the counter, at the ready. Good thinking, thought Jimmy Sr, and he made a mental note of it. The other one was leaning against the back wall, scratching his hole. There were more of them inside, behind the yellow and red and blue plastic strips they always put over doorways in chippers but there was only the two lads on duty.

  —Howyeh, lads, said Bimbo.

  —Yeah? said the hole scratcher.

  —Two singles, said Bimbo.—Like a good man, please.

  —Large or small?

  Bimbo looked at Jimmy Sr.

  —A large’ll do me, Jimmy Sr told him.

  —Two large, said Bimbo.

  They stood there at the low part of the counter, where they put the vinegar on the chips and took the money. They leaned over and tried to see the lads in action, but the chips were already done so all they did was bag them.

  —That all? said the other one.

  —Yeah, said Bimbo,—thanks. We’re just after the dinner.

  Jimmy Sr nudged him.

  —Wha’?

  —Go on, said Jimmy Sr.—Ask him.

  It would be too late in a minute.

  —Eh, lads—? said Bimbo.

  They looked at him.

  Jimmy Sr had to nudge Bimbo again; he was fuckin’ useless.

  —Where d‘yis get your chips? Bimbo asked them.—Eh, if yeh don’t mind me askin’ now.

  —In the ground, said the hole scratcher, the smartarsed little prick, and the two of them laughed.

  Jimmy Sr had to drag Bimbo away from the counter.

  —Come on.

  —Wha’ abou’ the chips? said Bimbo.

  —Fuck them, said Jimmy Sr.

  He pushed Bimbo out the door. The two behind the counter were annoyed now because they’d two singles wrapped and ready and no home for them. Jimmy Sr gave them the fingers.

  —Go back to your own country, he said.—Fuck the EEC.

  He felt a lot better after that. He went back to give them more.

  —An’ bring Tony Cascarino with yis, he said.—He’s fuckin’ useless annyway.

  And he left the door open, so one of them would have to come around and close it cos it was quite chilly out.