by Roddy Doyle
They were two gates away now. He’d see them in a minute. He’d look the other way so Bimbo wouldn’t think anything. Not that he cared what Bimbo thought.
He’d see them now if he looked.
He’d say something to Bimbo, just to be talking to him when they went by.
—Will Palace beat United tomorrow, d’yeh—
—Compadres!
It was Bertie. He stayed at the gates and looked at the young ones’ arses when they’d gone by, not a bother on him; he didn’t give a shite who saw him.
—How’s Bertie? said Bimbo.
He wouldn’t give out to Bertie for looking at the young ones, of course; no way.
Bertie stayed at the gate. He was wearing an Italia 90 T-SHIRT. He held the collar and shook it to put some air between him and the cloth.
—Are yis busy, compadres?
—What’s it look like? said Jimmy Sr.
Bertie opened the gate and nodded at them to get up.
—Come on till I show yis somethin’.
It was filthy. He’d never seen anything like it. They walked around it. It was horrible to think that people had once eaten chips and stuff out of this thing; it was a fuckin’ scandal. There was no way he was going to look inside it.
He looked at Bimbo but he couldn’t see his face. Bimbo was looking under the van now. For what, Jimmy Sr didn’t know; acting the expert. The last place Jimmy Sr would have wanted to stick his face was under that fuckin’ van; it would probably shite on top of you. It was like something out of a zoo gone stiff, the same colour and all.
It didn’t even have wheels. It was up on bricks.
Bimbo stood up straight.
Bertie came out from behind the van, rolling a wheel in front of him.
—The wheels are new, compadres, he told them. —There’s three more behind there, he said.—In perfect nick.
He let the tyre fall over onto the grass.
—Wha’ d’yeh think? he asked Bimbo.
—Which end does it shite out of? said Jimmy Sr.
Bertie got in between Bimbo and Jimmy Sr. Bimbo was still looking at the van, moving a bit to the left and to the right like he was studying a painting or something. Jimmy Sr went over so he could get a good look at Bimbo.
Bimbo looked excited and disappointed, like a light going on and off. Jimmy Sr looked at the van again.
Ah Jesus, the thing was in fuckin’ tatters. The man was fuckin’ mad to be even looking at it. He couldn’t let him do this.
—Maggie’ll have to see it, Bimbo said to Bertie.
Thank God for that, thought Jimmy Sr. It saved him the hassle of trying to stop Bimbo from making a fuckin’ eejit out of himself. Maggie’d box his ears for him when she saw what he was dragging her away from her work to see.
Bimbo’s face was still skipping up and down.
—I’ll get her, he said.—Hang on.
Jimmy Sr and Bertie waited in the garden while Bimbo went and got Maggie. The garden was in rag order, as bad as the van. You could never really tell what state a house was in from the front. Jimmy Sr had walked past this house dozens of times - it was only a couple of corners away from his own - and he’d never noticed anything about it. He’d never noticed it at all really; it was just a house at the end of a terrace. It was only when you came round the back that you realised that there was a gang of savages living a couple of hundred yards away from you. It wasn’t just poverty.
—I don’t know how annyone can live like this, he said.
Bertie looked around.
—It’s not tha’ bad, he said.—A bit wild maybe.
—Wild! said Jimmy Sr.
He pointed at a used nappy on the path near the back door.
—Is tha’ wild, is it? That’s just fuckin’ disgustin’.
He looked around nearer to him - he was sitting on one of the wheels—as if he was searching for more nappies.
—They should be ashamed of themselves, he said.
—It’s not They, compadre, Bertie corrected him.
—Wha’ d’yeh mean?
—It used to be They but now it’s just He.—She fucked off an’ left him. An’ the kids.
—Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr.—That’s rough. Why?
—Why wha’?
—Why’d she leave him?
—I don’t know, compadre, said Bertie after a bit.—He’s an ugly cunt but.
—Did you ever see her? Jimmy Sr asked him.
—No, said Bertie.—But the kids are all ugly as well.
—Ah well then, said Jimmy Sr.
He had his back to the van, on purpose, kind of a protest. He looked over his shoulder at it.
—You’ve some fuckin’ neck though, he told Bertie.
—Wha’? said Bertie.
—Tryin’ to get poor Bimbo to throw his money away on tha’ yoke, Jimmy Sr explained.
—I’m not trying to get Bimbo to throw his money away on annythin‘, said Bertie.—He asked me to look ou’ for a van for him an’ that’s what I did.
Jimmy Sr took his time answering Bertie. He had to be careful.
—How did yeh find it? he asked Bertie.
—I followed me nose, said Bertie.
They laughed.
Jimmy Sr knew now that Bertie wouldn’t push Bimbo into buying it. Anyway, Maggie would never let Bimbo buy it.
—It hasn’t been used in years, he said.
—No, Bertie corrected him.—No, it’s not tha’ long off the road. A year about only.
He looked at the van from end to end.
—She’s a good little buy, he said.—Solid, yeh know. Tha’ dirt’ll wash off no problem.
Jimmy Sr changed his mind; the cunt was going to make Bimbo buy it.
—There’s more than dirt wrong with tha’ fuckin’ thing, he told Bertie.
—Not at all, compadre, said Bertie,—I assure you.
—Assure me bollix, said Jimmy Sr.
—Hey! said Bertie.
He was pointing at Jimmy Sr. Jimmy Sr’d been afraid that this was going to happen. But sometimes you had to stand up and be counted.
—Hey, said Bertie again, not as loud now that he had Jimmy Sr looking at him.—Listen you, righ’. You ask annybody—annybody—that’s ever dealt with me if they’ve anny complaints to make abou’ their purchases an’ what’ll they tell yeh?
Jimmy Sr didn’t know if he was supposed to answer.
—No signor, they’ll say, said Bertie.—Quality, they’ll say, is Bertie Gillespie’s middle name. My friend Bimbo, he asks me to find him a chipper van an’ I find him a fuckin’ chipper van. It needs a wash an’ its armpits shaved, but so wha’? Don’t we all?
Jimmy Sr shrugged.
—I was only givin’ me opinion, he said.
—Jimmy, said Bertie.—You’ve bought things from me, righ’? Many products.
—That’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr.
—Did annythin’ I ever gave yeh stop workin’ on yeh?
—Never, Bertie, Jimmy Sr assured him.—Linda’s Walk-man broke on her but tha’ was her own fault. She got into the bath with it.
—Well then, said Bertie.—If I say it’s a good van then it’s a good fuckin’ van. It’s the Rolls-Royce o’ fuckin’ chipper vans; si?
—Okay, said Jimmy Sr.—Sorry.
—No problem, said Bertie.—What’s keepin’ Bimbo annyway?
He stood up and hitched his trousers back up over his arse. Jimmy Sr stood up and did the same thing with his trousers, although he didn’t need to; he just did it - cos Bertie’d done it. He put his hands in his pockets and shoved the trousers back down a bit.
They looked at the van.
—Where’s the window? said Jimmy Sr.
—You’re beginnin’ to annoy me, said Bertie,—d’yeh know tha’?
—No, I didn’t mean it like—
—Who wants the van annyway? You or Bimbo? It’s nothin’ got to do with you, chum.
—I only fuckin’ asked! said Jimmy Sr.—For fuck sake.
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—Maybe, said Bertie.
—I only asked, said Jimmy Sr.—I did. I was only fuckin’ curious. Where’s the fuckin’ window, that’s all. It has to have one.
Bertie thought about this.
He went over to the van. He tapped it, at about chin level.
—No, he said.
He moved down a bit and tapped again.
—No, he said again.
He moved further down.
—It must be here somewhere, he said.
He tapped again.
—No.
He looked at his knuckles.
—Jesus, it’s fuckin’ dirty alrigh’, he said.
He stepped back and looked carefully at the side of the van from left to right.
—It must be round the other side, he told Jimmy Sr. —Does it have to have a window?
—’Course it does, said Jimmy Sr.
This was great; no fuckin’ window.
—Why? said Bertie.
—How else can yeh serve the fuckin’ customers? said Jimmy Sr.—Get up on the fuckin’ roof?
—Oh, said Bertie.—You mean the hatch, compadre. It’s round the back. A fine big hatch. Yeh could serve a small elephant through it.
—Ventilation, said Jimmy Sr.
—Que?
—Yeh’d want a window for ventilation, said Jimmy Sr.
—Me bollix yeh would, said Bertie.—Why would yeh? You’ve the hatch, for fuck sake. It’s as big as a garage door.
—Doesn’t matter a shite wha’ size it is if there isn’t a through draught.
—There’s the door for gettin’ in an’ ou’ as well, said Bertie.—That’ll give yeh your through draught.
Jimmy Sr studied the van.
—I don’t know, he said.
—Look it, said Bertie.—Let me at this point remind you of one small thing; uno small thing, righ’. It’s a van for selling chips out of, not a caravan for goin’ on your holidays in; comprende? It doesn’t matter a wank if there’s a window or not. Unless you’re plannin’ on—
—Oh God.
It was Maggie.
—Ah, said Bertie.—There yis are. Use your imagination, signora, he told Maggie as he stepped aside to let her have a good look at the van.
Maggie stayed where she was, as if she was afraid to go closer to it. She brought her cardigan in closer around her shoulders. Bimbo was beside her, looking at her carefully, hoping, hoping.
Like a kid, the fuckin’ eejit; buy me tha’, Mammy, he’d say in a minute, the fuckin’ head on him. If she did let him buy it Jimmy Sr’d - he didn’t know what he’d do. Fuck them, it was their money.
Bertie’s outstretched hand showed Maggie the van from top to bottom and back up again.
—A few minutes with a hose an’ maybe, just maybe, a few hours with a paint scraper an’ it’ll be perfect. The Rolls-Royce o’ chipper vans.
Jimmy Sr didn’t know why he didn’t want Bimbo to buy it. It just sort of messed things up, that was it. It was a shocking waste of money as well though.
—Have yeh looked inside it? Maggie asked Bimbo.
—Oh I have, yeah, said Bimbo.—No, it’s grand. It’s all there, all the equipment. It’s a bit, eh—
—What abou’ the engine? said Maggie.
Bertie got there before Bimbo.
—Wha’ engine would tha’ be, signora?
There was a window. They found it when they got it back to Bimbo’s. Two days after he bought it.
It was like a procession, pushing and dragging the van through Barrytown, Bimbo and Jimmy Sr and some of their kids although the twins were no help at all, just worried about getting their clothes dirty. Mind you, you didn’t even have to touch the van to get dirty from it, you only had to stand near it. It took them ages to get the wheels on it and then getting it around to the front without knocking a lump off the house took ages as well and it was nearly dark by the time they were on the road to Bimbo’s. The weather was great, of course, and everyone on the left side of the street was out on their front steps getting the last of the sun and by the time they’d got to the corner of Barrytown Road there was a huge fuckin’ crowd out watching them. Jimmy Sr kept his head down all the way, except when they were going down the hill just at the turn into Chestnut Avenue and he had to run up to the front to help Bimbo stop the van from taking off on its own, past the corner. They’d had to dig their heels in or else it would’ve gone over Bimbo and his young one, Jessica. He should have let it; that would have taught Bimbo a lesson about how to spend his money. Anyway, they got the useless piece of rusty shite to stop just after the corner and there was a really huge crowd by now and they cheered when they missed the corner, the cunts. They backed it back and Wayne, one of Bimbo’s young fellas, got the steering wheel around; the sweat was running off the poor little fucker, and they got it onto Chestnut Avenue and the cunts at the corner cheered again. No fear of the lazy shites giving them a hand, of course.
There really was a huge crowd out. It was a bit like Gandhi’s funeral in the film, except noisier. It was more like the Tour de France, the neighbours at the side of the road clapping and whooping, the cynical bastards.
—Hey Jimmy, are yeh pushin’ it or ridin’ it!?
And they all laughed, the eejits, like sheep.
—Yeow, Jimmy!
—Hey, look it! Mister Rabbitte’s wearin’ stripy kaks!
God, he wanted to kill someone when he heard that. Veronica was right; he should never have tucked his shirt inside his underpants; she’d been saying it for years. He tried to stand up straighter when he was pushing to make the underpants go back down in behind his trousers but he was probably too late, and he couldn’t put a hand behind and shove them back down; that would only have been giving in to them.
—Here, lads, look at the skidmarks!
Some people would laugh at anything. A kid had his ghetto blaster on full blast; it was like a jaysis circus. Only a couple of gates left and they’d be at Bimbo’s gate and it would be over. The worst part but, was earlier, going past the Hikers, not only because he’d have loved a pint but because loads of the lads came out with their pints and sat on the wall laughing and slagging them. Larry O‘Rourke was offering 3/1 that Jimmy Sr would die before they got to Bimbo’s. Ha fuckin’ ha. By Jaysis, the next bank holiday that fucker got up with the band and started doing his Elvis impressions Jimmy Sr would let him know who he really sounded like; Christy fuckin’ Brown.
—Come on, three to one Jimmy snuffs it. Anny takers?
—That’s a fuckin’ big pram he’s pushin’, isn’t it?
Jimmy Sr looked up to see who’d said that and it was Bertie.
He couldn’t believe it. He’d only enough breath in him to say one thing back at them.
—Fuck yis.
He got a bit more air in.
—Yis cunts.
They were there. Just one last big push up onto the path and into Bimbo’s drive and it was over.
Jimmy Sr couldn’t stand up straight for a while, his back was killing him. The sweat was worse though. He was wringing. His shoes squelched, his shirt was stuck to him, his arse was wet. He sat down on the grass. The twins wanted money for helping.
—Get lost, he managed to say.
—Ah, that’s not fair—
—Fuck off!
Jimmy Sr got the sweat out of his eyes and looked at Bimbo and Maggie looking at the van. Not a bother on Bimbo, of course; he didn’t even look dirty. He had his arm around Maggie’s shoulders and the two of them were gawking at the van like it was their first fuckin’ grandchild. Bimbo was anyway; Maggie didn’t look as delighted. You couldn’t blame her. If her first grandchild was in the same state as the van she’d want to smother it, and nobody would object. Then they looked at each other and started laughing and then they looked at the van and stopped laughing, and then they started again. It was nice really, seeing them like that.
Then Bimbo noticed Jimmy Sr on the grass.
About fuckin’ time.
—Tha’ was great gas, wasn’t it? he said.
—Eh—yeah. Yeah.
—D‘yeh know wha’ I think? said Bimbo then.
And he waited for Jimmy Sr to give him the green light.
—Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.
—It doesn’t look nearly as bad here, away from that other place.
He was talking through his arse, of course, but Jimmy Sr gave him the answer he was dying for.
—You’re righ’, yeh know, he said.
—The more I look at it, said Bimbo,—the more I think we’re after gettin’ a bargain; d’yeh know tha’.
Ah, thought Jimmy Sr, God love him.
—Yeh might be righ’ there, he said.
—This sounds stupid now, said Bimbo.
Maggie had come over now as well.
—But I think that it’s a godsend tha’ there’s no engine in it. We got it for nothin’.
—Umm, said Maggie.
They’d got it for eight hundred quid. Maggie’d put her foot down at seven hundred and fifty until Bertie’d introduced her to the owner with one of his motherless children, the youngest, in his arms.
—Poor Jimmy looks like he could do with a drink, Maggie told Bimbo.
—He’s not the only one, said Bimbo.—Wait now till I do somethin’ first.
He went through to the back of the house and came back with two bricks and put them behind the back wheels.
—There now, he said.—She’s rightly anchored.
He tapped one of the bricks with his foot and it didn’t budge.
—Tha’ should hold it annyway, he said.
He was pleased with his work.
—I’ll put a chain on the gate later, he told Maggie.—To make sure tha’ no young fellas decide to rob it durin’ the nigh’.
—Good thinkin’ tha’, said Jimmy Sr.
There actually were a few young fellas in Barrytown that nearly would have robbed even as worthless a pile of shite as poor Bimbo’s van, just for the crack. They’d’ve robbed themselves if there was no one else, some of the little bastards around here.
Jimmy Sr was feeling normal again.
—Could yeh manage a pint, Jim? Bimbo asked him.
—It’s abou’ the only thing I could manage, said Jimmy Sr.
—Come on so, said Bimbo.—Wha’ abou’ yourself, Maggie?