The Van

by Roddy Doyle

  —That’s not fair, she said.

  —How is it not fair? Jimmy Sr wanted to know.—How is it not fair!?

  Veronica sighed again.

  —How!?

  —You’re blaming me, said Veronica.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.—An’ you’re blamin’ me.

  —What d’you mean? said Veronica.

  —Yeh are, said Jimmy Sr.—You’ve decided tha’ we haven’t the money to buy Christmas cards an’ you’re probably righ’. But then you put this puss on yeh—It’s not my fault we’ve no fuckin’ money for your fuckin’ Christmas cards!

  —I never said it was.

  —No, but yeh looked it; I have eyes, yeh know.

  He stood up.

  —Ah, Jimmy—

  —Ah, nothin’; I’m sick of it; just—fuck off!

  Jimmy Sr was holding a bottle of Guinness. He had a can of Tennents in his other hand and an empty glass between his knees, so he was having problems. That was the worst thing about not being at home; just that; you weren’t at home, so you couldn’t do what you wanted. You had to watch yourself.

  He was in Bimbo’s house.

  If he’d been in his own gaff he wouldn’t have been sitting like this, like a gobshite, too far back in the armchair—he couldn’t get out of the fuckin’ thing because his hands were full. He didn’t want to put the can or the bottle on one of the arms of the chair because the wood was at an angle like a ski jump and very shiny; he could smell the polish. And Bimbo’s kids were flying around the place, in and out, like fuckin’ - kids. And this fuckin’ tie he had on him, it was killing him; it was sawing the fuckin’ neck off him. It was the shirt, a new one Veronica’d given him; she said he’d put on weight. It wasn’t fuckin’ fair: he was drinking far less but he was getting fuckin’ fatter. She said he was anyway. She’d probably said it because it was either that or admit that she’d bought him the wrong size of a shirt. Anyway, he was fuckin’ choking and he couldn’t loosen the poxy tie because his fuckin’ hands were full—

  Jesus tonight!

  It was Christmas morning. They did this every Christmas, went to one of their houses and had a few scoops before the dinner. It was good; usually. He wasn’t sure, but he had a good idea that it was really his and Veronica’s turn to have the rest of them in their house; he wasn’t sure. Bimbo had just said, Will yis all be comin’ to our place for your Christmas drinks? a few days ago and Jimmy Sr hadn’t bothered saying anything because there was no point; they hadn’t the money to buy the drink for them all.

  They’d only a few cans for themselves at home, and Jimmy Jr was bringing some more. He was supposed to be anyway.

  He leaned forward as far as he could go and put the Tennents on the floor; he could just reach it. That was better. Now he could organise himself a bit better. He rescued the glass from between his knees and held it for the Guinness.

  Bimbo’s mother-in-law was still looking over at him.

  Let her, the bitch.

  He wished Bertie would hurry up. He was good with oul’ ones like that. He told them they were looking great and he wished he was a few years older and that kind of shite. Jimmy Sr was no good at that sort of thing, not this morning anyway.

  She was still looking at him.

  He smiled over at her.

  —Cheers, he said.

  She just looked at him.

  Jesus, he didn’t know how Bimbo could stick it. Where the fuck was Bimbo anyway? He was by himself in here, except for Freddy Kruger’s fuckin’ granny over there. He said he’d be back in a minute. And that was hours ago. He was playing with one of the kids’ computers, that was what the cunt was doing; leaving Jimmy Sr here stranded.

  Veronica was inside in the kitchen with Maggie, Bimbo’s one.

  —That’s a great smell comin’ from the kitchen, wha’, said Jimmy Sr.

  Her mouth moved.

  —What’s tha’? he said, and he leaned out.

  Maybe she hadn’t said anything. Maybe she couldn’t help it; she couldn’t control her muscles, the ones that held her mouth up. Ah Jaysis, this was fuckin’ terrible; fuck Bimbo anyway.

  He heard feet on the path.

  —Thank fuck.

  It was out before he knew it. And she nodded; she did; she’d heard him; oh Christ!

  She couldn’t have; no. No, she’d just nodded at the same time, that was all. Because, probably, her neck wasn’t the best any more, that was all. He hoped.

  The bell rang; the first bit of Strangers in the Night.

  She definitely hadn’t heard him.

  Stupid fuckin’ thing for a bell to do, play a song. Anyway, they didn’t even need a bell. This house was the exact same as Jimmy Sr’s; you could hear a knock on the door anywhere in the house.

  Bertie came in.

  —Compadre!

  Jimmy Sr got up out of the chair.

  —Happy Christmas, Bertie.

  They shook hands. Bertie’s hand was huge, and dry.

  Vera, the wife, was with him; a fine thing, Jimmy Sr’d always thought; still in great nick.

  —Howyeh, Jimmy love, she said, and she stuck her cheek out, sort of, for him to kiss.

  He kissed it. It wasn’t caked in that powdery stuff that a lot of women wore when they were out. Mind you, Veronica didn’t wear that stuff either.

  The room was fuller now; Jimmy Sr, Vera, Bertie, Bimbo and two of his kids, and the mother-in-law over there in her corner. Jimmy Sr felt happier now.

  —What’!! yeh have, Vera? said Bimbo.

  —D’yeh want a Tennents? Jimmy Sr asked Bertie.

  —Oh si, said Bertie.

  —Bimbo gave me one, Jimmy Sr explained,—an’ then he asked me if I’d prefer a bottle o’ stout an’ I said Fair enough, so—

  He picked the can up off the floor.

  —I didn’t open it or annythin’.

  —Good man, said Bertie.—Gracias.

  —Will yis have a small one with them? Bimbo asked Jimmy Sr and Bertie.

  Jimmy Sr looked at Bertie and Bertie shrugged.

  —Fair enough, yeah, said Jimmy Sr.—Good man.

  This was the business now alright. He grinned at Vera, and lifted his glass.

  —Cheers, wha’.

  —What did Santy bring yeh, Jimmy? Vera asked him.

  —This, said Jimmy Sr.

  He showed her his new shirt.

  —Very nice.

  —It’s a bit small.

  —Ah no; it’s nice.

  Bertie had found Maggie’s mother.

  —Isn’t she lookin’ even better than last year? he said to them.

  —Def’ny, said Jimmy Sr, but he couldn’t look at her.

  —They’re in the kitchen, Jimmy Sr told Vera.

  —Good for them, said Vera.

  Bimbo came back with the small ones and Vera’s drink, a gin or a vodka.

  —The cavalry, said Bertie.—Muchos gracias, my friend.

  —The girls are in the kitchen, Bimbo told Vera.

  —Good, said Vera.

  Jimmy Sr reckoned she’d had a few already. Maybe not though: she wasn’t really like the other women, always making fuckin’ sandwiches and tea and talking about the Royal Family and Coronation Street and that kind of shite. She kept their house grand though; any time Jimmy Sr had been in it anyway.

  Bertie leaned in nearer to Bimbo.

  —There’s a funny whiff off your mammy-in-law, he told him.

  Bimbo looked shocked.

  —She might be dead, said Bertie.

  Jimmy Sr burst his shite laughing. Poor Bimbo’s face made it worse. Vera laughed as well. She just laughed straight out; she didn’t cluck cluck like a lot of women would’ve, like Veronica would’ve.

  —Go over, Bertie told Bimbo.—I’m tellin’ yeh, compadre, the hum is fuckin’ atrocious.

  —My God, said Bimbo, dead quiet.—Is she after doin’ somethin’ to herself?

  —Go over an’ check, said Bertie.—It might have been just a fart, but—

/>   Bimbo looked around, to make sure that none of the kids was around to witness this.

  —Hang on, said Jimmy Sr.—I can smell somethin’ meself now alrigh’.

  —Isn’t it fuckin’ woeful? said Bertie.

  —Oh God, said Bimbo.

  —This could ruin your Christmas dinner, compadre, Bertie told Bimbo.

  Bottled Guinness got up into Jimmy Sr’s nose.

  He went out into the hall to sort himself out and to laugh properly. This was great; this was the kind of thing you remembered for the rest of your life.

  —You’ll never get it out o’ the upholstery, said Bertie.

  Jimmy Sr wanted to go out into the garden and roar, really fuckin’ howl.

  One of Bimbo’s kids - Wayne he thought it was - ran into the room to tell his da something—

  —Get ou’! said Bimbo.

  And then.

  —Sorry, son; go in an’ tell your mammy I need her.

  —Tell her to bring a few J-cloths, said Bertie.

  —No! don’t, Wayne, said Bimbo.—Off yeh go.

  Wayne came out, looking like he’d just changed his mind about crying, and galloped down to the kitchen walloping the side of his arse like he was on a horse.

  When Jimmy Sr went back into the room Bimbo was over at his mother-in-law, pretending he was looking for something on the shelf behind her. Vera pointed at Bertie and whispered to Jimmy Sr.

  —He did this to his brother last night, she said.—The exact same thing.

  Bimbo came back. They got in together, to consult.

  —I can’t smell annythin’, said Bimbo.

  —Can yeh not? said Bertie.

  —D‘yeh have a cold? Jimmy Sr asked Bimbo.—It’s gettin’ worse.

  —It’s not, is it? said Bimbo.—God, this is desperate.

  Maggie and Veronica arrived, and most of Bimbo’s kids.

  —What’s up? said Maggie.—Ah howyeh, Vera.

  —Howyeh, Maggie. Happy Christmas. Happy Christmas, Veronica.

  —And yourself, Vera; happy Christmas.

  —Never mind Christmas, said Bimbo.

  He nodded his head back; he didn’t want to look. He whispered.

  —We’ve an emergency on our hands.

  —How come? said Maggie.

  Jimmy Sr was having real problems keeping his face straight. So was Vera. Bertie though, he looked like a doctor telling you that you had cancer.

  —Your mother—, said Bimbo.

  —She has a name, you know, said Maggie.

  —That’s not all she has, signora, said Bertie.

  That was it; Guinness, snot, probably some of his breakfast burst up into Jimmy Sr’s mouth and nose; it didn’t get past his teeth - he was lucky there - but something landed on his shirt; he didn’t care, not yet; his eyes watered—

  —Fuck; sorry.

  And he laughed.

  Veronica had her handkerchief out and was trying to get the snot off his shirt.

  He laughed like he was dying of it; it was hurting him but it was fuckin’ great. Veronica was tickling him as well and that made it worse.

  Veronica started laughing at him laughing.

  They were all laughing now, even Bimbo. He knew he’d been had but he didn’t mind; he never did; only sometimes.

  Jimmy Sr felt a fart coming on, and he didn’t trust himself with it; he couldn’t, not the way he was, helpless from the laughing and sweating and that; he’d have ended up being the one who’d ruined Bimbo’s Christmas - by shiteing all over his new carpet.

  —Eh, the jacks, he said.

  —Off yeh go, said Bertie.

  It took him ages to get up the stairs; he had to haul himself up them.

  He had a piss while he was up there, and gave his hands a wash; he always did when he was in someone’s house.

  He was some tulip, Bertie; he was fuckin’ gas.

  Jesus, the water was scalding.

  He dried his hands, and looked at his watch: half-twelve. That was good; they’d stay another hour and a half or so. The crack would be good.

  Vera; she was a fine-looking bird. She looked after herself - whatever that meant. She looked healthy, that was it. She looked healthier than Veronica. She was a good bit younger than Veronica, maybe ten years. But she looked like she’d been a young one not so long ago and poor Veronica looked like she’d never been a young one. It wasn’t just age though.

  Bimbo had an electric razor.

  He had two of them, two razors, the jammy bastard; an ordinary-looking one and a thin yellow one that didn’t look like it could’ve been much good. Jimmy Sr picked up the yellow one: Girl Care. What the fuck—

  She was a bit of a brasser, Vera, but Jimmy Sr liked that. It was Maggie’s, that was it; for her legs or—only her legs probably. He pressed a small rubber button, and it came on but there was hardly any noise out of it. He put his foot up on the bath and lifted his trouser leg and pulled down his sock a bit; new socks, from the twins.

  —One from each o’ yis, wha’, he’d said when he’d unwrapped them, earlier at home.

  He looked at the door; it was alright, it was locked.

  He slowly put the Girl yoke down on top of a couple of long hairs, there on his shin: nothing. He massaged another bit of his leg with it, and then felt it. It was smooth alright but—it was smooth there anyway. There was a clump of about ten hairs growing out of a sort of a mole yoke he’d had since he was a kid.

  They were real wiry, these hairs, and blacker than the other ones. He wouldn’t put the head of the razor straight down on top of them; he’d just run the thing over the mole quickly and see what it did.

  He looked at the door again. Vera probably used one of these, when she was shaving her legs—

  —Ah fuck this!

  He threw the Girl Care back onto the shelf over the sink.

  God, he was a right fuckin’ eejit. Shaving his legs; for fuck sake!

  He was sweating.

  He’d better get back down to the others.

  Shaving his fuckin’ legs.

  He felt weak, hopeless, like he’d been caught. Was something happening him?

  He turned on the cold tap.

  No, fuck it; he’d only been curious, that was all; he’d only wanted to see if the fuckin’ thing worked, that was all.

  The cold water was lovely on his face. Nice towel as well; lovely and soft. Maggie had probably put it into the bathroom just before they’d arrived, just for them. It wasn’t damp and smelly, the way it would’ve been if the whole family had been through it that morning.

  Fair play to Bimbo; and Maggie. They had the house lovely.

  He felt better now. That hot wetness was gone. He was grand now.

  He unlocked the door and went downstairs.

  It was nice. The window was open and it wasn’t cold at all. There was no one out on the road; no voices or cars. No one would’ve been out on Christmas Day night; there was nowhere to go, unless they’d been out visiting the mother or something and they were on their way home.

  Veronica was asleep.

  That was the first time they’d done the business in a good while; two months nearly. Made love. He’d never called it that; it sounded thick. Riding your wife was more than just riding, especially when yis hadn’t done it in months, but—he could never have said Let’s make love to Veronica; she’d have burst out laughing at him.

  He wasn’t tired. He hadn’t drunk much. There hadn’t been that much to drink, but that didn’t matter; he wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. Anyway as well, he’d had a snooze after they got back from Bimbo’s while Veronica and Sharon were getting the dinner ready.

  Veronica had caught him feeling her legs to see if they were smooth, to see if she shaved them.

  -What’re you doing?

  —Nothin’.

  She hadn’t really caught him; he’d have been doing it anyway. But he’d had to keep feeling them up and down from her knees up to her gee after she’d said that, so she wouldn’t think he’d
stopped just cos she’d said it.

  They were smooth, except on her shins. They were a bit prickly there.

  Young Jimmy’d come for the dinner. In a taxi, no less. Fair play to him. And five cigars for Jimmy Sr from Aoife, his mot. That was very nice of her; he’d only met her the once. She was a nice young one, too nice for that—

  That wasn’t fair. He was alright, young Jimmy. He was staying the night, downstairs with Darren. And Darren was well set up as well, with a lovely-looking young one.

  Aoife and Miranda.

  Two lovely names. There was something about them; just thinking of the names, not even the girls themselves, got him going. They were models’ names.

  Veronica wasn’t what you’d have called a sexy name. Or Vera.

  Vera wasn’t too bad though. There was no saint called Vera as far as he knew.

  Veronica shifted and moved in closer to him. That was nice. He felt guilty now; not really though. He put his hand on her back.

  That fucker Leslie hadn’t got in touch; not even a card. Even just to tell them where he was; and that he was alive.

  He’d been caught robbing a Lifeboat collection box out in Howth. He hadn’t even been caught, just seen by an off-duty cop who knew him. And that was why he’d left, for robbing a couple of quids’ worth of fivepences and two-pences. Last August that was. He’d spent two nights in Veronica’s sister’s in Wolverhampton, and that was it; they hadn’t heard from him since. On the run. He was only nineteen. He’d have gone eventually anyway; he was always in trouble and never at home, and you couldn’t be held responsible for a nineteen-year-old. They were better off without him. Jimmy Sr had taken the day off work to go with Leslie to court the first time, about five years ago now, for trespassing on the tracks.

  Poor Veronica had bought a present for him, just in case; a jumper. But she hadn’t put it under the tree. It was up in the wardrobe over there, all wrapped up. She hadn’t said anything when he didn’t turn up yesterday or even today. She’d been in good form all day. You never knew with Veronica.

  Jimmy Sr would throw the little shitehawk out on his ear if he turned up now. No, though; he wouldn’t.

  Trespassing on the tracks. Then he’d gone on to the big time, robbing fuckin’ poor boxes. He was probably sleeping in a cardboard box—

  It hadn’t been a bad day; not too bad at all. Fair enough, probably nobody got the present they’d really wanted - the faces on the poor twins when they’d seen their presents, clothes. They used to get new clothes anyway, their Christmas clothes; their presents had always been separate. Still, they were happy enough with the clothes. They’d been changing in and out of them all day. They were getting very big, real young ones. Gina was the only real child left in the house.