The Van

  —Bet yeh regret you didn’t get a mug of it for yourself now, wha’, said Jimmy Sr.

  They went home after that.

  They did something every day nearly. The weather was weird. It was lovely one minute; they’d have to take their jackets off, and even their jumpers. And then it would start snowing—it would! - or hailstoning.

  —Snow in April, said Bimbo, looking up at it.

  He liked it, only he was cold. They were in under the shelter at the pond in St Anne’s Park. Bimbo didn’t want to lean against the wall because he could smell the piss; it was terrible. They had Gina with them, in her buggy.

  —It’s mad alrigh’, said Jimmy Sr.

  —It was lovely earlier, said Bimbo.

  —That’s righ‘, said Jimmy Sr.—It’s the fuckin’ ozone layer; that’s wha’ I think’s doin’ it.

  —Is April not always a bit like this? said Bimbo.

  —Not this bad, said Jimmy Sr.—No.

  He made sure that Gina’s head was well inside her hood.

  —The greenhouse effect, he said.

  —I thought tha’ was supposed to make the world get warmer, said Bimbo.

  —It does that alrigh’, Jimmy Sr agreed with him. —Yeah; but it makes it go colder as well. It makes the weather go all over the shop.

  —Yeh wouldn’t know wha’ to wear, said Bimbo.—Sure yeh wouldn’t.

  He put his hands up into his sleeves.

  —Yeh’d be better off goin’ around in your nip, said Jimmy Sr.

  They laughed at that.

  —At least yeh’d know where yeh stood then, wha’, said Jimmy Sr.

  —I’d need shoes though, said Bimbo.

  —An’ somewhere to put your cigarettes, wha’.

  They laughed again.

  —I’m never happy unless I have me shoes on me, said Bimbo.—Even on a beach.

  —Is tha’ righ’?

  —Or slippers.

  Then it stopped. And the sun came out nearly immediately and it was like it had never been snowing, except for the snow on the ground. But that was disappearing quick; they could see it melting and evaporating.

  —I love lookin’ at tha’ sort o’ thing, said Bimbo.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

  He checked on Gina. She was still asleep.

  —Just as well, wha’, he said.—She makes enough noise, doesn’t she, Bimbo?

  —Ah sure, said Bimbo.—That’s wha’ they’re supposed to do at her age. She’s lovely.

  —Isn’t she but, said Jimmy Sr.—If the rest of her is as good as her lungs she’ll be a fine thing when she grows up.

  They got going. They had a read of the newspapers in the library, to get in out of the cold, on their way home. But they had to leave because Gina started acting up.

  They didn’t meet much at night; once or twice a week only.

  —Look, said Bimbo one morning.

  He took something out of a brown envelope with a window in it.

  Jimmy went over and turned so he could see it. Bimbo didn’t really hold it up to him; he just held it.

  It was his redundancy cheque.

  —Very nice, said Jimmy Sr.

  Bimbo put it back in the envelope and went into the kitchen and gave it to Maggie. Then they went out.

  Bimbo put a lot of the lump sum into the house. He got aluminium windows for the back; they already had them in the front. And he put his name down for the gas conversion, the Fifty-Fifty Cash Back. Jimmy Sr helped Bimbo put new paper up in his kitchen and Veronica went through him for a short cut when she saw the paste in his hair and he told her how it had got there. He had to promise to do their own kitchen before she’d get off his back, but they didn’t have the money to buy any paper or anything so it had been an easy enough promise to make.

  They went out to Howth as well sometimes, and had a walk down the pier and along the front. They were going to get fishing rods.

  Then a great thing happened. Bimbo helped out a bit with Barrytown United. He just went to the Under 13 matches cos Wayne, one of his young lads, was playing for them now; he was usually the sub, and Bimbo minded their gear and their money for them. And he sometimes drove some of the Under 18s to their matches, and home again. Anyway, he got a chance of two tickets to one of the World Cup warm-up matches, against Wales, in Lansdowne.

  —Not two tickets exactly, he explained to Jimmy Sr.

  —Wha’ does tha’ fuckin’ mean? said Paddy.

  —Was I talkin’ to you? said Bimbo.—We get into the game for nothin’, he told Jimmy Sr,—but we have to do a bit o’ stewardin’. Nothin’ much though.

  —Wha’?

  —I don’t know, said Bimbo.—Exactly. Are yeh on?

  —Okay, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Ah good, said Bimbo.

  —They’ll fuckin’ lose, Paddy told them.—Wait an’ see.

  —Fuck off you, said Jimmy Sr.

  Jimmy Sr loved soccer but he hadn’t been to a game in years, and now he could go to an international for nothing.

  —The tickets are like gold dust, he told Veronica.

  They got the DART straight across to Lansdowne. Jimmy Sr had Darren’s Ireland scarf on him. Darren still went to all the matches but he didn’t bother with the scarf any more. So Jimmy Sr had it.

  —How many stops after Amiens Street is Lansdowne? Jimmy Sr asked Bimbo.

  Bimbo looked up at the yoke with the stations on it over the window.

  —Eh——three——, said Bimbo.—Yeah; three.

  —Good, said Jimmy Sr.—I could do with a slash.

  They’d had a pint in the Hikers; just the two.

  —We’ll have one when we get there, said Bimbo.

  —Grand, said Jimmy Sr.—No hurry.

  —There’s a big jacks under the stand.

  —Grand, said Jimmy Sr.

  When they got to Lansdowne they had to put on these white jackets with Opel on them and they followed this fat fella, and he brought them up into the East Stand and what they had to do was show people where their seats were. It was easy. You’d want to have been a fuckin’ eejit not to have been able to find your own seat. He slagged Bimbo; said he’d buy him a torch and a skirt so he could get him a job in a cinema.—Can I help you, sir, he’d heard him saying to one fuckin’ eejit who couldn’t find his seat.

  Then they went down to the side of the pitch just after the game started, inside the barriers - it was great - and they watched the game. It was a shite match, woeful; but he enjoyed it and the weather stayed good. He took off his Opel jacket and the fat fella told him to put it back on, but he said it nicely, so Jimmy Sr did put it back on. Coming up to full time the fat fella told them to turn around and face the crowd and stop any young fellas from climbing over the barriers when the whistle went. Then Ireland got a penno, and they had to watch that; and that gobshite, Sheedy, missed it—Southall saved it - and he turned back, and the crowd went fuckin’ mad, and he turned back around and the new fella, Bernie Slaven, had scored a goal and Jimmy Sr’d fuckin’ missed it. He had to watch it on the telly later on that night. He didn’t know why he’d faced the crowd anyway; there was no way he was going to try and stop anyone from climbing over the barriers. They could chew their way through the barriers for all Jimmy Sr cared; it was none of his business. He enjoyed the whole day though. Mick McCarthy came over near to where himself and Bimbo were just before the end to take one of his famous long throws and Jimmy Sr nodded at him and said Howyeh, Mick, and McCarthy winked at him. He was a good player, McCarthy, a hard man.

  They were going to get into the Russia game as well for nothing at the end of the month. That was definitely something to look forward to; it would be a much better match.

  —Definitely, said Bimbo.

  They were on the DART home.

  —I don’t know, said Jimmy Sr.—I’d say tha’ glasnost shite has made them soft, d’yeh know tha’. They don’t have to worry abou’ bein’ sent to the salt mines if they lose any more.

  —We’
ll see, said Bimbo.

  So they filled their time no problem. Sometimes that was all they did; fill it - they just fucked around doing nothing till they could go home for their dinner or their tea. That wasn’t so good. And sometimes Jimmy Sr could tell that Bimbo had the blues. And sometimes as well he had the blues himself. But they were good for each other, him and Bimbo.

  And now—today—all Bimbo’s practice had paid off; he’d won the pitch and putt. And instead of winning a poxy voucher for the butchers or something he’d won a trophy, a huge one with a golfer on top of it; not cheap looking either, like a lot of them were. No, it was very nice, and Bimbo was fuckin’ delighted; he was fuckin’ glowing.

  They’d had a few pints to celebrate and now they were going out to the van to get a few chips and a bit of cod, because they were too late for their tea and too hungry to wait for Maggie and Veronica to rustle up something for them.

  —Are yeh righ’? said Jimmy Sr.

  Bimbo was collecting his clubs and his trophy, trying to work out the handiest way to carry them all.

  —Here, said Jimmy Sr.—Give us them.

  He took the clubs from Bimbo. He was fuckin’ starving.

  —Seeyis now, said Bimbo.

  He was saying goodbye to everyone.

  —Will yeh come on! said Jimmy Sr.—For Jaysis sake.

  They went out into the carpark. It was still bright; it was only eight o’clock. The sky was red over where the sun was.

  —Isn’t tha’ lovely? said Bimbo.

  —I’m havin’ a burger as well, Jimmy Sr told him.

  But the van wasn’t there.

  —Ah fuck it!

  And then they remembered that the van hadn’t been there in a long time; months in fact. They only missed it now when they wanted it.

  They headed over the Green to the real chipper.

  —Prob‘ly just as well really, said Bimbo.—You never know wha’ you were gettin‘, out o’ tha’ van.—It’s funny though—

  He was having problems keeping up with Jimmy Sr.

  —Tha’ van was a little gold mine, he said.

  Jimmy Sr agreed with him.

  —Yeah, he said.

  —Maybe he’s sick, said Bimbo.

  He nearly went through a puddle.

  —Or maybe he’s dead.

  —Good, said Jimmy Sr.

  —A little gold mine that place was, Bimbo said again.

  —It can’t have been tha’ much of a gold mine if it’s not there annymore, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Maybe, yeah, said Bimbo.—I’d say he’s just sick or dead.

  —I’ll be dead in a minute meself if I don’t get a bit o’ grub into me, said Jimmy Sr.—Come here, Bimbo, he said. —You’ll have to be careful yeh don’t get complacent just cos you’ve won once. I’m not bein’ snotty now—

  —I know tha’.

  —It happens a lot o’ fellas. They stop workin’ at their game, just cos they’ve won one poxy trophy; no offence.

  —Don’t worry, Bimbo assured him.—It’s not goin’ to happen to me.

  —Good man.—We wouldn’t want a job now, wha’. We’re too busy.

  Bimbo smiled back at him.

  There were bad times as well, of course. Of course there were. Poor oul’ Bimbo got the blues a bit, the way he used to himself before he got the hang of it, being a man of leisure. He - Bimbo—got the Independent every morning. It was supposed to be the best paper for jobs, and he went straight to the back pages. He hadn’t a hope in shite of getting a job out of it, he knew it himself; they knew nobody who’d ever got a job out of a paper. But he still got it and went down the columns with his finger and got ink on it and then on his face, and then got depressed when there was nothing for him. God love him, Jimmy Sr had to stop him from writing away for a job in McDonalds; there was a huge ad for them in Saturday’s paper.

  Jimmy Sr called for him. They were playing against each other in this week’s pitch and putt. And he was at the kitchen table starting to write the letter.

  Jimmy Sr read the ad.

  —You’re not serious, he said when he was finished. Bimbo finished writing his address.

  —You’re not fuckin’ serious, said Jimmy Sr.

  —I knew yeh’d say tha’, said Bimbo.

  He kept his eyes on the paper but he wasn’t writing anything. His address was the only thing on the paper so far.

  —Wha’ d’yeh think you’re at? Jimmy Sr asked him. —Well?

  He took care to make sure that what he said sounded just right, not too hard and not too sarcastic.

  —I’m just writin‘, said Bimbo.—To see wha’ they say, like.

  —They won’t want you, said Jimmy Sr.—They’re lookin’ for young ones an’ young fellas tha’ they can treat like shite an’ exploit. Not grown up men like you, like us.

  —I know, said Bimbo.—I know tha’—

  —They wouldn’t have a uniform to fit yeh.

  Bimbo had something he wanted to finish saying.

  —I want to see wha’ they say, yeh know. Wha’ they write back.

  —They won’t bother writin’ back, said Jimmy Sr.

  —They might, said Bimbo.

  —Jaysis, Bimbo; for fuck sake. You’re a fuckin’ baker.

  —There now, said Bimbo.

  He pointed his biro at the paper.

  —If I put tha’ in the letter, that I’m a baker, they might be impressed—I don’t know - not impressed; they might just think that I’ve experience an’—you’d never know.

  —Ah Bimbo.

  —I’m only writin’ to them.

  He stood up.

  —I’m only writin’ to them.—I’ll do it later.

  Bimbo won; he won the pitch and putt.

  —Yeh cunt yeh, said Jimmy Sr.

  They didn’t have a pint after; it was a bit early. They just went home.

  Jimmy Sr knew Bimbo; if he was offered one of those jobs he’d take it.—It’s a start, he’d say; and he wouldn’t give a shite who saw him in his polyester uniform. He’d even wear the fuckin’ thing to work and home, not a bother on him. And Veronica would ask him why he couldn’t get a job like Bimbo - but that wasn’t the reason he wanted Bimbo to cop on to himself. Veronica knew that if Jimmy Sr ever got offered proper work he’d jump at it, even if it was less than the dole. He couldn’t let a friend of his-his best friend-allow himself to sink that low. A man like Bimbo would never recover from having to stand at a counter, wearing a uniform that didn’t fit him and serving drunk cunts and snot-nosed kids burgers and chips. They weren’t even proper chips.

  They were at Bimbo’s gate.

  —You’re not goin’ to write tha’ letter to McDonalds, said Jimmy Sr.—Are yeh?

  —Ah—

  —You’d just be wastin’ the fuckin’ stamp, for fuck sake.

  —No, said Bimbo.—I don’t think I’ll bother.

  —Good man, said Jimmy Sr.—See yeh later.

  —See yeh, said Bimbo.

  Jimmy Sr went on, to his own house. He wondered would the front room be free this afternoon. Darren was doing a lot of studying for the Leaving, and Jimmy Sr wasn’t going to get in his way. Liverpool were playing Chelsea on RTE. Maybe Darren would be going out, meeting his mot.

  He’d forgotten his key. He knocked on the glass. Bimbo probably would write off to McDonalds even though he’d said he wouldn’t. He knocked again. He wouldn’t rest until he got himself one of those fuckin’ uniforms. He hid his eyes from the sun with his hand and looked in the window of the front room. There was no one in there. He knocked again. He should have got a knocker, one of those brass ones on the door. Bertie had one on his, and one of those spy-hole things. There was no one in.

  —Fuck it annyway.

  He’d go down to Bimbo’s for a bit, and watch the - Hang on though, no; there was someone coming down the stairs. He could hear it, and now he could make out the shape. It was Veronica. She must have been asleep, or studying. She was doing the Leaving as well in a couple of w
eeks, God love her. Fair play to her though. He was going to do the same himself next year.

  Veronica opened the door.

  —Wha’ kept yeh? said Jimmy Sr.

  Jimmy Jr came around with four cans of Carlsberg, still lovely and cold from the off-licence fridge. Jimmy Sr put his nose to the hole in his can.

  —I always think it smells like piss when yeh open it first, he said.—Not bad piss now, he explained.

  —Yeah, Jimmy Jr agreed.

  He got his jacket from behind the couch and took out two packets of Planter’s Nuts and threw one of them to Jimmy Sr.

  —Open them an’ smell them, he said.

  Jimmy Sr did.

  —Well? said Jimmy Jr.

  —They smell like shite, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Jr.—Fuckin’ gas, isn’t it? An’ they still taste lovely.

  Jimmy Sr took a swig and trapped the beer in his mouth and only let it down slowly. That way he didn’t belch. The remote control needed a battery so Jimmy Sr couldn’t turn up the sound without getting up, and he couldn’t be bothered. He’d turned it down when young Jimmy had come, to ask how he was and that, and how Aoife was. There’d been one more goal since then; Ian Rush had scored it. He didn’t need George Hamilton or Johnny Giles to tell him who’d scored it cos he’d seen it himself. He was sick of those two. Giles was always fuckin’ whinging.

  —They’re a machine, said Jimmy Sr.—Aren’t they?

  —What’s that’?

  —Liverpool, said Jimmy Sr.—They’re like a machine. Brilliant.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Jr.

  He didn’t follow football much.

  —A well-oiled machine, said Jimmy Sr.—There’s nothin’ like them.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Jr.—I’m gettin’ married.

  —They always do the simple thing, said Jimmy Sr.—It’s obvious but no one else fuckin’ does it.

  —I’m gettin’ married, said Jimmy Jr.

  —I heard yeh, said Jimmy Sr.

  —And?

  —And is she pregnant?

  —No, she fuckin’ isn’t!

  —That’s grand so, said Jimmy Sr.

  He held out his hand to Jimmy Jr.

  —Put it there.

  He’d have killed him if he’d put her up the pole; she was too nice a young one to have that sort of thing happen to her, far too nice.