The Van

  —Stop that, said Veronica.—It’s their homework.

  Darren was beginning to grin, so Jimmy Sr continued.

  —Anv after tha’ we’ll find bits ov paper stuck up beside the beds, wha’.

  —Stop!

  Darren laughed. And so did Jimmy Sr. He spoke to Gina.

  —We’d run ou’ of paper if we had to tick off every time you go to the jacks, wouldn’t we, Honey?

  Gina threw a chip at him, and hit. He pretended he was dying. Sharon picked up the chip before the dog, Larrygogan, got to it and she made Gina eat it.

  —There, she said.

  But Gina didn’t mind.

  -Do you not do maps and stuff like that? Veronica asked Linda and Tracy.

  —No, said Linda.—Sometimes only.

  —Nearly never, said Tracy.

  Veronica shrugged.

  Jimmy Sr belched.

  —Lovely dinner, Veronica, he said.

  —You liked those yokes, did you? said Veronica.

  —They were grand, said Jimmy Sr.—Much nicer than the ones yeh get in the chipper or the shops.

  —Yeah, well, said Veronica.—When I start getting some proper money again you won’t see them so often.

  —No no, said Jimmy Sr.—They’re grand.

  They looked at each other.

  Then Gina dropped her plate on Larrygogan.

  —Ah Jesus, said Sharon.

  —Starebock! said Gina.

  Jimmy Sr stood on some chips when he was trying to wipe the ketchup off Larrygogan.

  —Ah Jaysis—

  —Starebock!

  And Sharon slapped her.

  —Ah leave her, leave her, said Jimmy Sr.—It’s only chips.

  —She does it on purpose.

  Gina started some serious screaming. Sharon wanted to kill her, but only for a second. She lifted her out of her chair and rocked her. But Gina wasn’t impressed.

  —Jive Bunny, Gina, said Jimmy Sr.—Look it.

  —OH—

  He started twisting.

  —Look at Grandad, Gina, said Sharon.

  —LET’S TWIST AGAIN—

  LIKE WE DID LAST Jaysis!

  He slid on a chip and nearly went on his arse, saved by the table. Gina stopped screaming, to watch. Jimmy Sr, steadying himself and taking off his shoe, looked at Gina and sniffed victory. But Gina was getting ready to start again; he could tell by the way her cheeks were twitching.

  —Righv, he said to the rest.—Hawaii 5-0.

  He made a trumpet out of his fists and started.

  —DEH DEH DEH DEH—

  DEHHH DEH—

  Linda, Tracy, Darren, even Veronica made trumpets and joined in. Gina danced in Sharon’s arms and forgot about screaming. Larrygogan cleaned the chips off the floor and he cleaned the plate as well.

  Jimmy Sr sat watching the television. There was no sound on. The three other lads watching it all had earphones but Jimmy Sr couldn’t see another pair anywhere. He could’ve asked the young one behind the desk over there what he’d to do to get a pair of earphones for himself but he didn’t want to. She looked busy. Anyway, they mightn’t have been free. And anyway as well, what was on didn’t look that good; just fellas in togas talking; a play or something.

  Jimmy Sr was in the ILAC library, in town.

  It was terrific here, very nice.

  He’d never been in here before. It was great. There was a lot more to it than just the books. You could get tapes or records out or even those compact discs, or just listen to them in here. He’d go over there, to the music part, after this. There was a language resource centre, a room where you could learn more than sixty languages in one of those booth things. Or you could use the computer - he looked at the brochure again—to enhance your computer literacy skills. There was even a reading machine for if you had sight problems. Having one of them beside the bed would have been very handy for when you came home scuttered at night.

  He didn’t drink much any more; just the few pints twice a week.

  He’d go over and have a look at the machine in a minute.

  He was definitely joining. He had his application cards here. It was lovely here. You could stay here for ages and never get bored. You could even borrow pictures and bring them home.

  That was a bit fuckinv stupid when you thought about it; sticking a picture up on your wall for a fortnight and then having to bring it back again; on a bus or on the DART, sitting there like a gobshite with a big picture on your lap, of a woman in her nip or something.

  Still though.

  It was gas watching your men here watching the telly, and not being able to hear. One of them had laughed a minute ago, like he was trying not to, but the chaps on the telly had looked deadly serious. She’d asked him—your woman at the desk—if he was a householder when he’d asked her how you joined.

  He didn’t know.

  He told her it wasn’t for himself he was asking, and she gave him the cards and told him that he’d have to get a householder to sign the back of them.

  He sort of knew. But the problem was, he didn’t know— not exactly—if you actually had to own your house or if renting was enough. And he rented his, so if he’d said Yeah, I am a householder and he’d found out that he wasn’t one when he was filling in the card at the desk he‘d’ve felt like a right fuckin’ eejit. In front of the young one there. She looked younger than Sharon.

  Bimbo, one of his mates, owned his house. Jimmy Sr’d get him to sign it, to be on the safe side.

  There was a thing he’d seen downstairs in the shopping part of the ILAC on his way up here; a studio, a small one you went into and sang a song - for six quid. The twins would’ve loved that.

  Maybe they wouldn’t have, but; not any more. They’d have been too embarrassed. There was a list of the songs you could sing along to. New York New York was one of them. That was his song; he always sang it at weddings and on bank holiday Mondays in the Hikers.

  Six quid. Veronica would fuck him from a height if he came home with a tape of himself singing and she found out how much it’d cost.

  He got up. He was going to have a look at the books. When he joined up he could take out three at a time and keep them for three weeks, but he’d only take out one or maybe two. He wasn’t that quick of a reader. And anyway, he’d want to come here more than just once every three weeks so if he took out one book at a time he could come back more often than that.

  There was a sign - a handmade one—on the desk that said that you could get an Action Pack for the Unemployed but there weren’t any on the desk. You had to ask for one.

  He wondered what was in them. Action Pack. Probably just leaflets.

  And a compass and a fuckin’ hand grenade and one of them cyanide tablets for if you were caught behind enemy lines.

  He’d ask for one the next time. The young one was dealing with some people at the desk and one of them looked like he was going to start getting snotty with her.

  She was a nice-looking young one, lovely; not what you’d have expected. With a few buttons open at the front, fair play to her.

  He went over to the books. He wanted to find the Sports shelf. He was thinking of getting a couple of greyhounds.

  Veronica and Jimmy Sr were alone, sitting on their bed. Jimmy Sr watched Veronica putting on socks and then her boots.

  —We could always get a few bob from a lender, I suppose, said Jimmy Sr.

  —No, said Veronica.

  —A few bob only—

  —No, said Veronica.

  —You’re righ’; you’re right, o’ course, Veronica, said Jimmy Sr.—We’d only be gettin’ ourselves into—

  —I’d die before I’d go looking for help from one of those crooks, said Veronica.

  —You’re dead right, yeah. I just thought—Will Leslie come home, d’yeh think?

  Veronica didn’t want to answer this. But she did.

  —I doubt it, she said.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

  Les was in Engl
and, somewhere. They thought.

  —What abou’ Jimmy? said Jimmy Sr.

  —Ah yeah, said Veronica.

  She studied the soles of the boots.

  —Where else would he go? said Veronica.—If I pushed a bit harder my fingers would come through, look it.

  Well, don’t push then, Jimmy Sr nearly said, but he stopped himself.

  —Would he not go to - em - Aoife’s parents’ place? he said.

  Aoife and Jimmy Jr were living in a bedsit in Clontarf.

  —He’d better not, said Veronica.—If he does he needn’t come home for his Sunday dinner again.

  She stood up.

  —With his washing.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.—At least we won’t have to buy anythin’ for him.

  —Something small, said Veronica.

  —Very small, said Jimmy Sr.—So that’s the twins an’ Gina is all we have to get presents for really. An’ Darren. An’ somethin’ small for Sharon as well. That’s not too bad.

  Veronica wasn’t convinced.

  —Well—, she said.

  She was at the dressing-table mirror now.

  —What about all the food and the drink? There’s a lot more than just the presents. And there’s other presents as well, you know. Gerry’s kids and—

  —I’ll tell Gerry and Thelma and Pat they’re not to send ours any presents an’ we won’t send theirs any.

  —God, said Veronica.—I never—

  —Sure, they can’t afford it either, said Jimmy Sr.

  He didn’t want Veronica to finish. There was no point. He’d heard it before. It only made him angry now and he’d end up shouting. It wasn’t fair.

  —No one can, said Jimmy Sr.

  Veronica said nothing.

  —We were always broke at Christmas.

  —After it though, said Veronica.

  —Ah—! said Jimmy Sr.

  It wasn’t fuckin’ fair.

  —Ah sorry, said Veronica.

  She turned to look at him properly.

  —I didn’t mean anything.

  —Ah, I know.—I don’t blame yeh. It’s just—

  He looked at her looking at him.

  —We’ll manage, he said.

  —Yes, said Veronica.

  —I’ll win the turkey in the pitch ‘n’ putt annyway, he said.

  —You always do, said Veronica.

  —An’ maybe a hamper as well, wha’.

  —That’d be great.

  Neither of them wanted to talk any more about Christmas. It was still months away anyway; weeks. And Veronica had to go. She checked her folder.

  —Eh—how’re the oulv classes goin’, Veronica? said Jimmy Sr.

  —Grand, said Veronica.

  Veronica was doing night classes, two Leaving Cert subjects.

  —Are yeh the oldest? said Jimmy Sr.

  —No!

  —I’d say the maths is hard, is it?

  —It’s not too bad, said Veronica.

  That was a lie, only a small one though because it was getting easier. She was getting used to it, being in the classroom and having the teacher, a young lad Jimmy Jr’s age, looking over her shoulder all the time. And Darren was going to give her a hand.

  —I was thinkin’ I might do a few classes meself, Jimmy Sr told her.

  —You’re too late, Veronica told him.—You’ll have to wait till next year.

  She wasn’t sure if that was true - she thought it was: really—but she wanted to do it on her own, even going up to the school on her own and walking home; everything.

  She had to go.

  —Bye bye so, she said.—Are yeh stayin’ up here?

  —I am, yeah, said Jimmy Sr.—I’m goin’ to read one o’ me bukes.

  The twins were in the front room—he could hear them—and Darren would be in the kitchen but he didn’t mind staying up here. He’d lie back - it wasn’t that cold; just nice—and read.

  —I got three bukes ou’, he told Veronica.—Look it. But she was gone.

  —See you later, she said from the hall.

  —Okay, love, said Jimmy Sr.—Good luck. D’yeh have all your eccer done now?

  But she didn’t answer. She was gone. He heard the door.

  Fair play to her.

  He picked up one of his books. The Man in the Iron Mask. By Alexandre Dumas. Lousy cover. He could have drawn better himself.

  He remembered something. He got his thumb-nail and dragged it across the plastic covering. It worked, left a line of little grooves across the plastic. He did it again. The sound was the same as well, as when he was a kid.

  That was gas—

  He got up.

  He’d make himself a cup of tea—it was just a bit chilly up here—and then he’d get going. Fifty pages before Veronica got home.

  —Mind your house!

  That wanker over there had been roaring that since the start of the match. He probably didn’t even know what it meant, the stupid oul’ bollix. The ball was down at the Barrytown goal, about the first time it had gone in that direction in the second half.

  It was Saturday afternoon. Jimmy Sr was in St Anne’s Park, watching the Barrytown Utd Under 18s; watching Darren.

  Five-nil for Barrytown was the score. The opposition were useless. Jimmy Sr couldn’t even remember what they were called. Darren didn’t bother dashing back to help defend, and he was dead right. The last time this shower had seen the net shake was when their keeper farted.

  The ball was coming back up. Darren went to meet it. No one came with him.

  —Good man, Darren! Away yeh go!

  Darren stopped the ball. Normally he’d have had two or three men up his arse by now or, with the ground this soggy, someone sliding towards his ankle. Now though, two of their defence ran around him on their way back as if they didn’t want to get in his way because it was rude, so Darren held onto the ball for a while, turned and crossed where the centre line should have been.

  —Give us a display of your silky skills, Darren!

  That was the Barrytown keeper, Nappies Harrison.

  The sweeper was waiting for Darren. That was what he’d called himself; the sweeper.—We’re playin’ three central defenders, he’d told Darren in the first half.—Like Arsenal. He was waiting for Darren on the other side of a puddle, hunched as if he was going to dive into it. Kenny Smith was to Darren’s left, shouting for the ball. Darren lobbed the ball over the sweeper, ran around him (—Yeow, Darren!) and dug the ball out of the muck with his toe and sent it over to Kenny, hard so it wouldn’t get stuck again.

  —Good play, said their sweeper; Jimmy Sr heard him.

  Darren knew he’d be praised after the match for his unselfish play (—That’s the Liverpool way, lads) but he’d given the ball to Kenny because he couldn’t be bothered bringing it any further himself. He heard the ironic cheer. They’d scored again; an Anto Brennan diving header that he hadn’t really needed to dive for.

  Darren strolled back across the line. He hated these sort of games, when they won without sweating. They’d be beaten next week; it always happened.

  —Come on now, lads, the oul’ guy at the side shouted. —Make the score respectable, come on.

  —Will yeh listen to him, said Kenny.

  —Yeah, said Darren.—Fuckin’ pitiful.

  Most of them wouldn’t turn up for training on Tuesday night because of this win; their emphatic victory.

  The ball was in the centre circle. The ref picked it up and blew his whistle; game over, ten minutes early.

  —Thank fuck, said Pat Conlon.—It’s fuckin’ freezin’.

  —I was goin’ for me hat-trick, Kenny complained.

  —Ah, fuck off complainin’, said Pat.—Anyway, yeh’d never have got another two.

  —No problem to me against these cunts.

  The sweeper was waiting for Darren at the sideline, with his hand out.

  —Good game, he said.

  —Yeah, said Darren.—Thanks.

  —Best team wo
n.

  —The pitch wasn’t fit for playin’ on, said Darren.

  His da was waiting for him as well.

  —Well done, Darren.

  —Thanks, Da.

  He ran along the edge of the gravel path to the gates of the park.

  —Bring your ma with yis the next time, he heard Kenny telling the sweeper, and he heard his da laughing.

  Darren got into the back of one of the three Barrytown cars.

  —Push over, there, he said.

  —Ahh! Hang on; me leg!

  —Good man, Darren, said Mr Reeves, his da’s friend; Bimbo.—Is that everyone now?

  —No; Kenny.

  —Kenny! Darren roared.—Come on.

  —They were useless, weren’t they? said Mr Reeves.

  —Pitiful, said Darren.

  Hurry up, he wanted to say. Hurry up!

  Kenny climbed in the back on top of the three lads already in there. There were two more in the front, and Bimbo.

  Darren got the door shut.

  —Jaysis, said Bimbo.—We’re nearly scrapin’ the ground. Did yis have your dinners at half-time or somethin’?

  They laughed. The car moved. They cheered.

  But Bimbo braked.

  Darren’s da was at the front passenger window.

  —Will youse go with Billy, lads? he asked Muggah McCarthy and Pat Conlon.

  —Okay, said Muggah, and Darren’s da got in when the two of them got out.

  —Off yeh go, he said to Bimbo.

  Kenny leaned over (—Ah, Kenny! Watch it!) and rolled down Darren’s window. He roared at the other team as they climbed into their mini-bus.

  —Yis dozy cunts, yis!

  —Here; none o’ tha’! said Bimbo.

  He braked again.

  —Yeh can get ou’ here if you’re goin’ to start tha’.

  —Disgraceful behaviour, said Darren’s da, and he winked back at them.

  —Sorry, said Kenny.

  They nudged each other. Bimbo got the car going again.

  —Did yeh get this yoke off the Vincent de Paul, Mr Reeves? said Nappies.

  They laughed.

  —Yeah, said Kenny.—It’s pitiful, isn’t it, Darrah?

  —Fuck off, said Darren.

  His da laughed.

  —Gettin’ locked tonigh’, men? said Anto.