The Van

by Roddy Doyle

  Jimmy Sr had got David Copperfield for Darren, and he’d liked it; you could tell. To Darren From His Father; that was what he’d written inside it. He saw Darren reading it after the tea.

  They’d had their turkey as well, same as always; a grand big fucker. They’d be eating turkey sandwiches for weeks. He’d won it with two Saturdays to spare, and a bottle of Jameson. His game had definitely improved since he’d gone on the labour.

  He got a tea-towel for Veronica, with Italia 90 on it. She liked it as well. She showed it to Sharon and the two of them laughed. He gave out to her later when he caught her using it to dry the dishes and she’d laughed again, and then he had as well. That was what it was for, he supposed. But she could have kept it for - he didn’t know - a special occasion or something.

  —Jimmy, love, she’d said.—Christmas is a special occasion.

  Then she’d shown him how to use it; for a laugh. It had been a good oul’ day.

  You got used to it. In fact, it wasn’t too bad. You just had to fill your day, and that wasn’t all that hard really. And now that the days were getting a bit longer—it was January —the good weather would be starting soon and he’d be able to do things to the garden. He had plans.

  The worst part was the money, not having any of it; having to be mean. For instance, Darren had gone to Scotland with the school when he was in second year, but the twins wouldn’t be going anywhere. They’d come home soon and ask and he’d have to say No, or Veronica would; she was better at it.

  Unless, of course, he got work between now and then.

  Only, it was easier to cope if you didn’t think things like that, getting work. You just continued on, like this was normal; you filled your day. The good thing about winter was that the day was actually short. It was only in the daylight that you felt bad, restless, sometimes even guilty. Mind you, the time went slower, probably because of the cold.

  It hadn’t been cold at all yet this winter, not the cold that made your nose numb. Inside in the house during the day, when they didn’t have a fire going—when the kids were at school—and they didn’t have any heaters on, except in Sharon’s room for Gina, it was never really cold, just sort of cool, damp without being damp. It wasn’t bad once you were dressed properly.

  He’d had to take his jacket off a good few times when he was out walking with Gina it was so warm. He did that a lot, went out with Gina. He even took her to the pitch ‘n’ putt once, and some fuckin’ clown had sent a ball bouncing off the bar of her buggy when Jimmy Sr was teeing up at the seventh, the tricky seventh. God, if he’d hit her he’d have killed her, and he’d only said Sorry and then asked Jimmy Sr did he see where his fuckin’ ball had gone. Jimmy Sr told him where the fuckin’ ball would go if he ever did it again. But it had scared him.

  Mind you, at least he’d had something to tell Veronica when he got home, something genuine. Sometimes he made up things to tell her, little adventures; some oul’ one dropping her shopping or some kid nearly getting run over. He felt like a right prick when he was telling her but he kind of had to, he didn’t know why; to let her know that he was getting on fine.

  He went into town and wandered around. He hadn’t done that in years. It had changed a lot; pubs he’d known and even streets were gone. It looked good though, he thought. He could tell you one thing: there was money in this town.

  —Si.

  Bertie agreed with him, and so did Bimbo.

  Young ones must have been earning real money these days as well; you could tell by the way they dressed. He’d sat on that stone bench with the two bronze oul’ ones chin-wagging on it, beside the Halfpenny Bridge; he’d sat on the side of that one day and he’d counted fifty-four great-looking young ones going by in only a quarter of an hour; brilliant-looking women now, and all of them dressed beautifully, the height of style; they must have paid fortunes for the stuff they had on them; you could tell.

  He’d read three of your man, Charles Dickens’ books now; they were brilliant; just brilliant. He was going to do some Leaving Cert subjects next year, next September; at night, like Veronica. He read the papers from cover to cover these days. He read them in Raheny Library, or Donaghmede if he felt like a change. He preferred Raheny. And he watched Sky News in the day. He couldn’t keep up with what was happening these days, especially in the Warsaw Pact places. They were talking about it one day, him and Darren and Sharon and Veronica, and even the twins, at their dinner; they were talking about it and he’d noticed one thing: the twins called Thatcher Thatcher and Bush Bush but they called Gorbachev Mr Gorbachev: that said something. Because they could be cheeky little bitches when they wanted to be.

  Sky News was good, better than their other poxy channel, Sky One. But he wouldn’t pay for it when they had to start paying for it later in the year sometime. It wasn’t worth it, although he didn’t know how much they were going to charge. And that reminded him: there’d been a bill from Cablelink stuck up on the fridge door for weeks now. It could stay there for another few; fuck it.

  He’d made a list of things to do in the house and he was doing one a week. He’d fixed the jacks yesterday, for example; tightened the handle. It was working grand again now. That sort of thing. But nothing mad. He wasn’t going to become one of those do-it-yourself gobshites, fixing things that didn’t need fixing, and then invading the neighbours and fixing their stuff as well, and probably making a bollix of it. Once the weather got better and the days got a bit longer, he’d be out there in the garden, ah yes; he wouldn’t notice the days flying past him then. He had plans.

  He had loads of things to keep him going. The money was the only thing. He’d be going past a pub in town and he’d have the gum for a pint—he always did when he heard the voices and the telly on - just one pint, but he couldn’t go in; he couldn’t afford it. Or he couldn’t buy an ice-cream for Gina when they were out, not that he’d let her have an ice-cream in this weather, but that kind of thing; it was irritating. It was humiliating.

  Still though, money wasn’t everything. He was happy enough.

  Bimbo was crying.

  Jaysis.

  Bimbo; of all—

  —What’s up? said Jimmy Sr.

  But that sounded bad, like nothing big was happening. The man was crying, for fuck sake.

  —What’s wrong with yeh?

  That was worse.

  —Are yeh alrigh’?

  Better.

  He sat down, in front of Bimbo, at the other side of the table. He blocked Bimbo from the rest of the bar so no one could see him, unless they were looking.

  —Ah, I’m—

  Bimbo tried to smile. He wiped his cheeks with the outside of his hand.

  —I’m grand.

  It was like Bimbo remembered where he was. He sat up and lifted up his pint. Jimmy tasted his; it was fine, the first in five days.

  —I got a bit o’ bad news earlier, said Bimbo.—It knocked me a bit.

  He shrugged.

  Bimbo’s parents were already dead. Jimmy Sr knew that because he remembered that they’d died very close to each other, a couple of weeks between them only. Maybe Maggie’s mother had snuffed it but—Bimbo was a bit of a softy but he wouldn’t break out crying in his local for Maggie’s mother; she’d been as good as dead for fuckin’ years. One of the kids—

  Oh fuck. He wished Bertie was here.

  Bimbo spoke.

  —I was let go this mornin’.

  —Wha’?

  —Let go.—I’m like you now, Jimmy, wha’. A man o’ leisure.

  —You were—?

  —Yeah; gas, isn’t it?

  He could see Bimbo’s eyes getting watery again. Poor Bimbo.

  —How come? said Jimmy Sr, hoping that it might get Bimbo talking instead of crying.

  —Oh. Ten of us got letters. The oldest, yeh know. In the canteen, on our way ou’.

  Bimbo was a baker.

  —The chap from the office said tha’ they had to compete with the big boys. That’s wha’ he
called them, the big boys. —The fuckin’ eejit.

  Bimbo hardly ever said Fuck.

  —They need our wages to compete with the big boys —wha’.

  —That’s shockin’, said Jimmy Sr.

  Bimbo was twirling the stout in his glass; he didn’t know what he was doing.

  —Any chance they’ll take yeh back when they’ve—yeh know?

  —He said Yeah, the young fella from Personnel tha’ gave us the letters. I didn’t believe him though. I wouldn’t believe him if he—Tha’ sort o’ fella, yeh know.

  Bimbo sat up straight again.

  —Ah sure—

  He grinned.

  —We’ll keep each other company anyway, wha’.

  —Ah yeah, said Jimmy Sr.—Fuckin’ sure.

  There was that about it. He stopped himself from thinking that this was good news, but he nearly couldn’t help it.

  It was shocking though. Bimbo was younger than him and he was being fucked out on his ear because he was too old.

  —My father, God rest him, got me in there, said Bimbo.

  —That’s righ’.

  —His brother, me Uncle Paddy, he worked there.

  —Yeah.

  —I’ll never forget comin’ home the first week with me first wage packet. I ran all the way, nonstop all the way with me hand in me pocket to stop me money from fallin’ ou’. An’ a bag o’cakes tha’ had been sent back. Fruit slices. Fly cemeteries. I was more excited abou’ the cakes than I was abou’ the money, that’s how young I was. I knew I’d be king o’ the castle when me sisters saw the fruit slices. Marie’s little one has epilepsy, did I tell yeh?

  Marie was one of Bimbo’s sisters, the one Jimmy Sr liked.

  —No; is tha’ righ’?

  —Yeah; Catherine. She’s only six. Sad, isn’t it?

  —Jesus, yeah.—Six?

  Bimbo started crying again. His face collapsed. He rubbed his nose. He searched for a hankie he didn’t have. He gulped. He smiled through it.

  —What am I goin’ to do, Jimmy?

  They got locked, of course. Bertie was great when he arrived.

  —That’s great news, compadre, he told Bimbo.—You were always a poxy baker anyway, wha’.

  And Bimbo burst his shite laughing; he was delighted. And Bimbo’s laugh; when Bimbo laughed everyone laughed. Veronica always said that Bimbo’s laugh lassoed you.

  —Three nice pints, por favor, Bertie roared across to Leo, the barman.—An’ John Wayners, lads?

  —Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr.

  He hadn’t much money on him. Still though—

  —Fair enough, he said.

  —Okay, said Bimbo.—Me too.

  —Good man, said Bertie.—An’ Leo? he roared.—Three Jamesons as well.

  And then Paddy turned up.

  —How much of a lump sum will yeh be gettin’? Paddy asked Bimbo when he came in.

  —Jesus Christ, said Jimmy Sr.—He isn’t even sittin’ down yet an’ he wants to know how much money you’re gettin’.

  Bimbo laughed.

  —I couldn’t give a shite how much he’s gettin’, said Paddy.

  —Then wha’ did yeh ask him for then?

  —I only asked him, said Paddy.—Fuck off.

  —A couple o’ thousand, said Bimbo.

  —Don’t tell him, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Around three, said Bimbo.—I don’t know. They’re tellin’ us on Monday.

  —We’ll meet up here at teatime on Monday so, said Bertie.

  —Ah yeah, Bimbo assured them.—We’ll have to have a few pints out of it alrigh’.

  —You’ll go to pieces without somethin’ to do, Paddy told Bimbo.

  —Shut up the fuck! said Jimmy Sr.

  He gave Bimbo a quick look, but Bimbo didn’t mind.

  —You’d make a great doctor, Bertie told Paddy,—d‘yeh know tha’. I can just see yeh. You have cancer, missis, your tit’ll have to come off.

  —Oh Jesus, said Bimbo.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Sr, when he’d stopped laughing. —Will he be alrigh’, Doctor? No, missis, he’s fucked.

  They laughed again.

  —Wha’ will yeh do but? Paddy asked Bimbo.

  —There’s loads o’ things he can do, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Like?

  —Doin’ up his house, eh—

  —His house is already done up, said Bertie.—It’s already like Elvis’s gaff; what’s it - Graceland.

  Bimbo laughed at that, but he was pleased.

  —His garden, said Jimmy Sr.

  —His garden’s like—

  —It’s not like a human garden at all, said Bertie.

  —There’s loads o’ things he can do, Jimmy Sr insisted.

  —Yeah, said Paddy.—I’m sure there is. Wha’ though?

  —He can clean the church on Monday mornin’s, said Bertie.

  They roared.

  —Some oul’ one tried to get Vera to start doin’ tha‘, said Bertie.—Help cleanin’ the fuckin’ church on Monday mornin’s.

  —I wouldn’t say that’d be Vera’s scene exactly, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Not at all, said Bertie.—She doesn’t even help to dirty the fuckin’ place on Sunday mornin’s.

  Bertie knocked back half of his pint.

  —Ahh, he said.

  —My turn, said Bimbo.

  —The first of many, said Bertie.

  —Leo, Bimbo shouted.—When you’re ready. Three—

  —Four, said Paddy.

  —Four pints an’ four small ones like a good man, please! They said nothing for a bit.

  —Ah yes, said Bertie.

  He was getting them ready.

  —I know wha’ I’d do if I got a lumpo sum like Bimbo’s gettin’, he said.

  One of them had to say it. So—

  —Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.

  —I’d bring it into the Gem, righ’.

  —Eh—, righ’.

  —An’ I’d wave it under Mandy’s nose an’ let her sniff it a bit.

  Jimmy and Paddy started laughing.

  —Then I’d bring her round the back, behind the fridge, righ’.

  —Oh God.

  Bimbo started laughing now.

  —An’ I’d—die happy.

  They laughed on top of what they were laughing already; Bertie sounded so sincere.

  —My Jaysis, compadres, said Bertie when he’d recovered a bit,—I’m not jokin’ yis.

  Paddy nodded. He liked Mandy from the Gem as well.

  They all liked Mandy.

  —You’re a dirty fucker, Jimmy Sr told Bertie.

  —I said nothin’ tha’ yis don’t all think when yis go into tha’ shop. Tha’ signorita. My fuckin’ Jaysis.

  —She’s only sixteen, abou’, said Bimbo.

  —So?

  Bimbo shrugged. It didn’t matter; they were only messing.

  —I was in there this mornin‘, said Bertie.—She is unfuckinbelievable; isn’t she? I was gettin’ me Sun. She’s as good lookin’ as anny of them Page Three brassers.

  —She’s better lookin’, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Si, said Bertie,—She fuckin’ is. I said it as well; I told her.

  —Yeh didn’t, said Paddy.

  Bertie stared Paddy out of it for a second. Then he got back to Mandy.

  —I opened it up at page three, righ‘, an’ I showed it to her. Tha’ should be you, I told her.

  —Did she say ann‘thin’ back to yeh?

  —Si. She told me to fuck off. But she was delighted, yeh could see.

  —She’s a lovely-lookin’ girl alrigh’, said Bimbo.

  —I made her get a packet o’ crisps for me as well, said Bertie.—I hate the fuckin’ things.

  They laughed. They knew what was coming next.

  —Just to get her to bend over, yeh know. Caramba, lads, I nearly broke the counter with the bugle I had on me. When she gave them to me I said Salt an’ vinegar so she had to do it again.

  —She’ll be fat by the time she’s e
ighteen, said Paddy.

  —No, said Jimmy Sr.—No, she won’t.

  —Why not?

  —She’s not like tha‘, said Jimmy Sr.—She’s not like those young ones tha’ look like women when they’re fourteen an’ then they’re like their mothers before they’re twenty. She’s not like tha’.

  He wondered if he should have been talking like this, if he was maybe giving something away. But Bertie agreed with him.

  —Si, he said.

  —My twist, said Jimmy Sr.

  He wanted to get up. Halfway through talking there he’d felt dirty; kind of. And then stupid. Talking about young ones like that, very young ones. But when Bertie joined in it was safe. Darren was doing lounge boy tonight though. If he heard—

  He stood up.

  —Same again over here, Darren, please!

  —Wha’?

  —Leo knows. Just tell him the same again.

  It was getting crowded. Leo was skidding up and down behind the bar.

  —So annyway, Bimbo, said Bertie when Jimmy Sr was sitting back down.—Compadre mio, that’s wha’ I’d do if I was you.

  —How though? said Paddy.

  —Wha’?

  —How would yeh do it?

  —The same way I’ve always done it.

  —No, I don’t mean the ridin‘, Paddy explained.—I mean gettin’ her to do it. How would yeh manage tha’?

  —No great problem there, compadre, said Bertie.—I’d show her the money an’ tell her I’ll give her some of it if she’ll say hello to the baldy fella; there’d be nothin’ to it.

  —Ah fuck off, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Wha’? said Bertie.

  —Yeh can’t just do tha’.

  —Why not?

  —Cos the girl’s not a fuckin’ prostitute, that’s why not.

  —No, Bimbo agreed.

  —Listen, compadre, said Bertie.—All women are prostitutes.

  —Ah now—, said Bimbo.

  —Will yeh listen to him, said Jimmy Sr.