The Van

by Roddy Doyle

  —There’s somethin’ else supposed to go into it but I can’t remember what it is.

  He started whisking again.

  —Doesn’t matter though, he said.—This’ll be grand.

  He stopped and showed Bimbo the result.

  —There, he said.—Batter. Not bad, wha’.

  It looked right.

  —Is tha’ all there is to it? said Bimbo.

  —That’s it, said Jimmy Sr.—Except for the thing I’m after forgettin’. Let’s see if it works now.

  He’d already put an open can of pineapple rings on the table.

  —Remind me to replace this one, will yeh, he said. —Veronica’ll go spare if she goes to get it on Sunday and it’s not there.—Let’s see now—

  He took a ring out and let it down onto a sheet of kitchen roll.

  —Yeh dry it first; that’s important.

  He dabbed the top of the ring with the edge of the roll.

  —Tha’ should do it.

  He held up the ring and picked the bits of fluff off it.

  —It’s only the paper, he said.—Harmless.

  —Yeah.

  —Righ’; fingers crossed.

  He lowered the pineapple ring into the batter, and let it sink in completely. He got a fork and searched for the ring, and found it.

  —Our father who art in heaven—Fuckin’ brilliant! Look it; completely covered.

  —That’s great, said Bimbo.

  —An’ all yeh do then is drop it into the fryer.—That’s great now; the batter’s just righ’. If it was too watery it wouldn‘t’ve stuck an’ if it was too thick the hole in the ring would’ve disappeared. But that’s just righ’ now. Perfect.

  —We’ll cut them up into different sizes, said Jimmy Sr.—People prefer tha’.

  That was what they were doing now, peeling the spuds and cutting them up and throwing them all into a big plastic bin full of water; out in the shed.

  —When we’ve the money, said Jimmy Sr,—maybe we should get a chip machine like Maggie was talkin’ abou’ and just cut up a few o’ the spuds by hand an’ mix them in so people’ll think they’re all done tha’ way.

  —Yeah, said Bimbo.

  Jimmy Sr looked into the bucket and gave it a kick to flatten out the chips.

  —There’s enough in there now, I’d say, he said.

  —Good.

  They took a handle each and carried the bin through the house out to the van. They’d a job getting it up the step, and in; the water made it very heavy and it was slopping over the sides. They were all set; tonight was the night. Everything in the van was gleaming; nearly everything. They’d had to buy some new equipment, some of the trays and the basket for the deep fat fryer. Bimbo bought it; Jimmy Sr hadn’t a bean to his name. They put the bin under the sink. That was the best place for it, because it got in the way anywhere else and the sink was fuck all use to them.

  —We should just pull it ou’ altogether, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Ah no, said Bimbo.—Not now annyway.

  The thing got on Jimmy Sr’s wick, a sink with no water; it was about as useful as an arse with no hole. He let it go though. They’d other things to do today.

  —Will we put the rest of the stuff in? said Bimbo.

  —We might as well, said Jimmy Sr.

  They didn’t want to leave anything in the van for too long. Some of the stuff from the freezers would go soft or even bad if they took it out too early. The timing was vital.

  —The difference between a satisfied customer and a corpse, Jimmy Sr’d said.

  They’d laughed, but it wasn’t funny.

  They got out, and stopped to look at the burger on the side of the van again. It was a huge big burger, a bunburger with BIMBO’S BURGERS above it and TODAY’S CHIPS TODAY under it.

  The bottom bit was Maggie’s idea.

  —I still don’t like tha’ ketchup, said Jimmy Sr.—It’s too like fuckin’ blood. It’ll put people off.

  —Ah no, said Bimbo.—It’s nice an’ bright.

  Maggie’s brother’s kid, Sandra, had done it; she went to some painting college or something.

  —The bit o’ meat stickin’ ou’ as well, said Jimmy Sr.

  He pointed to it.

  —It’s like a fuckin’ tongue hangin’ ou’.

  —Well, to be honest with yeh, Jimmy, said Bimbo. —I’ve never seen a tongue made o’ mince.

  —It’s the same colour as—

  —Look it, said Bimbo.—She put all those little black speckles on it to make it look like mince.

  He went over and touched them, showing them to Jimmy Sr.

  —They just make it look like it’s gone off, said Jimmy Sr.

  —It was your bloody idea in the first place, said Bimbo.

  —D‘yeh want to know why I don’t like it? said Jimmy Sr.—An’ annyway, I do like it. It’s just the colours I don’t like. D’yeh want to know why?

  —Why then?

  —Cos the young one tha’ done it is a vegetarian, that’s why.

  He had him now. Sandra’d told him that, when he was talking to her while she was painting; a lovely-looking girl, she was, but a bit snotty; a good laugh though.

  Bimbo looked lost.

  —Sabotage, yeh dope, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Wha’?

  —Sabotage, said Jimmy Sr.—Animal rights.

  —Wha’ d’yeh mean?

  —Is it not fuckin’ obvious?

  —Eh—no.

  —A vegetarian, righ‘, paints a picture of a burger an’ wha’ does she do?—She paints it horrible colours to put people off buyin’ anny.

  —Sandra?

  —They’re all the same, said Jimmy Sr.—Fanatics, for fuck sake. Sure, they’re puttin’ bombs under people’s cars over in England, just cos they experiment with animals.

  —Hang on now, said Bimbo.—We’re not experimentin’ with animals.

  —No, said Jimmy Sr.—But we’re slappin’ them up on the hot plate an’ fryin‘ fuck ou’ o’ them. An’ then gettin’ people to eat them.

  Bimbo gave this some thought. He looked at the burger.

  —Ah, I don’t think so, he said.

  —Please yourself, said Jimmy Sr.—It’s your fuckin’ money. Come on or we’ll be late.

  They put the cartons of Twixes and Mars Bars in under the hot plate, and the cans of Coke and 7-Up. They put piles of spice-burgers on the shelf over the fryer. They had the flour and a line of milk bottles full of water for the batter, at the ready on the shelf beside the sink; they’d had to go scouting for real glass bottles. They’d a box for the money. Bimbo put the big red Kandee sauce bottle and the salt and vinegar on the counter. They had ten packs of Bundies. Maggie’d got them in Crazy Prices. Jimmy Sr opened a pack and took one out.

  —These are the nicest part o’ the burger, he said. —Aren’t they?

  —They’re lovely alrigh’, said Bimbo, and he took one as well.—We’d better not eat all of the supplies though.

  —An army marches on its stomach, Jimmy Sr told him.

  There was a ream of small bags on a piece of string, for the chips, and Jimmy Sr hung that on a hook beside the fryer, and put a pile of big brown bags on the counter. Bimbo folded up their aprons nice and squarely and put them on the counter beside the brown bags.

  —It’s not a fuckin’ pinnie, Jimmy Sr’d said when Veronica caught him trying his one on up in the bedroom.—It’s an apron, righ’.

  Maggie’d got the aprons, World Cup ones. It was good thinking, and a lot better than those ones with recipes printed on them or something. These just had Italia 90 on them, and the cup.

  —It’s not a cup but, said Bimbo.—It’s a statue. I never noticed that before.

  —Look it, said Jimmy Sr.—Which sounds better; World Cup or World Statue?

  —I get yeh, said Bimbo.

  They kept the fish in the freezer till the last minute. If you didn’t dip the cod in the batter when it was still like a piece of chipboard you ended up with a fuck
in’ awful mush that floated on the top of the cooking oil. They piled the rectangles of cod and black mullet onto the aluminium trays.

  —Yeh’d nearly need gloves for this, said Jimmy Sr. —These things are fuckin’ freezin’.

  He walloped a piece of cod against the side of the freezer and examined it: there wasn’t a mark on it.

  —That’s a good piece o’ fish, tha’, he said.—It won’t let yeh down.

  The trays were cold, but not that heavy. Still, they rushed through the house so they could put them down in the van and blow on their hands.

  —Beep beep, said Bimbo, to get Maggie’s mother out of his way as he barrelled through the kitchen, trying to carry his tray without having to use too firm a grip. He rested it against his chest and his shirt was getting wet.

  Maggie followed them out.

  —Good luck now, she said.

  Jimmy Sr climbed up into the driver’s seat. The van was hitched up to the back of Bimbo’s jalopy with a bit of rope, in the driveway and halfway out onto the path. Bimbo had wrapped an old cardigan around his bumper, for a buffer. He’d wanted to use Wayne, with one foot on each bumper, but Maggie wouldn’t let him. Bimbo got in and started the car. Maggie put her head down to him, he rolled down the window and she gave him a kiss.

  —Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr, softly.—Come on, come on.

  They were off.

  Bimbo’d only gone a couple of feet and he had to stop cos there were two cars passing. The van rolled into the back of him, but only gently. Then they were out on the road, heading up to the Hikers. A couple of kids ran beside him, and one of them kicked the van. They disappeared; Jimmy Sr knew they were scutting on the back, the fuckers.

  There was an awkward bit coming up, a bit of a dip just before they got onto the main road, Barrytown Road. If there was traffic coming Bimbo would have to stop for it and Jimmy Sr would go into him; it couldn’t be helped. That was what happened, except it was worse. There was nothing coming so Bimbo kept going out across the main road turning to the right but this fuckin’ eejit on a motor bike came out of nowhere from behind a parked van and Bimbo had to brake and Jimmy Sr couldn’t brake, of course, so he went into Bimbo, and he heard stuff falling off the shelves behind him.

  —Fuck it!

  He listened.

  Nothing else fell. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad.

  Bimbo got going again and they made it to the Hikers without anything else happening. He started stopping about fifty yards before the Hikers, so that when he stopped he’d nearly stopped already anyway, going so slow that the van didn’t bump into him at all this time.

  Jimmy Sr listened to hear if there was anything rolling around inside in the back. He couldn’t hear anything.

  Bimbo got the bricks out from the back seat of the car and put them behind the wheels of the van. Jimmy Sr opened the door at the back.

  —Ah, Christ.

  Water fell onto his shoes, not much of it; most of it was at the back, on the floor, along with some of the spice-burgers and the fish. The bin hadn’t turned over but there was an awful lot of water there, too much to call a puddle. The spice-burgers were the worst; the water had made them soggy and they were falling apart; they’d have to throw them out. The fish, though, weren’t too bad.

  They got the cartons up off the floor before the water could get at them. There was no other damage.

  Still though, it was depressing.

  Jimmy Sr leaned over and poked one of the fish with a finger. It was still good and hard.

  —We need a mop, said Bimbo.

  —We need a fuckin’ engine, said Jimmy Sr.—Come on. We’ll clean it up an’ go in an’ watch the match.

  They cleaned up the mess, shoved all the bits of spice-burger and the water and the rest out onto the road with a bit of cardboard, and dried the floor with a tea-towel. Jimmy Sr gave the fish a good wash with some of the water from the milk bottles. He threw out the really dirty ones; where the dirt had got into the fish.

  —There now, said Bimbo when they’d finished.—It wasn’t as bad as it looked.

  —Come on, said Jimmy Sr.—Or all the good places’ll be taken.

  —Sheedy gets it back—and Sheedy shooTS!

  The place went fuckin’ mad!

  Ireland had got the equaliser. Jimmy Sr grabbed Bimbo and nearly broke him in half with the hug he gave him. Bertie was up on one of the tables thumping his chest. Even Paddy, the crankiest fucker ever invented, was jumping up and down and shaking his arse like a Brazilian. All sorts of glasses toppled off the tables but no one gave a fuck. Ireland had scored against England and there was nothing more important than that, not even your pint.

  —Who scored it!? Who scored it?

  —Don’t know. It doesn’t fuckin’ matter!

  They all settled down to see the action replay but they still couldn’t make out who’d scored it, because they all went wild again when the ball hit the back of the net from one, two, three different angles, and looking at poor oul’ Shilton trying to get at it, it was a fuckin’ panic.

  Word came through from the front.

  —Sheedy.

  —Sheedy got it.

  —Kevin Sheedy.

  —WHO PUT THE BALL IN THE ENGLISH NET—SHEEDY—

  SHEEDY—

  God, it was great; fuckin’ brilliant. And the rest of the match was agony. Every time an Irishman got the ball they all cheered and they groaned and laughed whenever one of the English got it; not that they got it that often; Ireland were all over them.

  —Your man, Waddle’s a righ’ stick, isn’t he?

  —Ah, he’s like a headless fuckin’ chicken.

  A throw-in for Ireland.

  —MICK—MICK—MICK—MICK—MICK—

  They all cheered when they saw Mick McCarthy coming up to take it. And there was Paddy Mick-Mick-Micking out of him and only an hour ago he’d been calling Mick McCarthy a fuckin’ liability.

  —OLE—OLE OLE OLÉ—

  —OLÉ

  —OLÉ—

  There was ten minutes left.

  —Ah Jaysis, me heart!

  —No problem, compadre.

  Jimmy Sr was about ten yards away from where he’d started when Sheedy’d scored. He didn’t know how that had happened. He tried to get back to his pint.

  —‘Xcuse me.—Sorry there; - thanks.—’Xcuse me.—Get ou’ o’ me way, yeh fat cunt.

  His pint was gone, on the floor, or maybe some bollix had robbed it. He looked over at the bar. He’d never get near it; it was jammered. Anyway, Leo the barman was ignoring all orders; he was looking at the big screen and praying; he was, praying.

  —Look it, Jimmy Sr pointed him out to Bimbo.

  He had his hands joined the way kids did, palm against palm, like on the cover of a prayer book, and his lips were moving. When everyone else cheered Leo just kept on praying.

  —How much is there left?

  —Five, I think.

  —Fuck.

  He looked around him. There were a lot of young ones in the pub. They hadn’t been paying much attention to the match earlier but they were now. There was one of them, over near the bar; she was in a white T-shirt that you could see her bra through it and—

  There was a big groan. Jimmy Sr got back to the match.

  —What’s happenin’?

  —They have it.

  Gascoigne got past two of the Irish lads and gave it to someone at the edge of the box and he fired—Jimmy Sr grabbed Bimbo’s arm - but it went miles over the bar.

  They cheered.

  —Useless.

  —How much left now?

  —Two.

  —Take your time, Packie!

  —ONE PACKIE BONNER

  THERE’S ONLY ONE PACKIE BONNER—

  —Up them steps, Packie!

  —Ah, he’s a great fuckin’ goalkeeper.

  —ONE PACKIE BOHHHH-NER -

  —He’s very religious, yeh know. He always has rosary beads in his kit bag.

  —He
should strangle fuckin’ Lineker with them, said Jimmy Sr, and he got a good laugh.—How much now, Bimbo?

  Before Bimbo answered the Olivetti yoke came up on the screen and answered his question; they were into time added on.

  They cheered.

  —Come on, lads; go for another one!

  —Ah, Morris; you’re fuckin’ useless.

  —Fuck up, you. He’s brilliant.

  —ONE GISTY MORRIS

  THERE’S ONLY ONE GISTY MORRIS—

  —Blow the fuckin’ whistle, yeh cunt yeh!

  They laughed.

  Jesus, the heat. You had to gasp to get a lungful; that and the excitement. He couldn’t watch; it was killing him.

  —OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLE—

  Jimmy Sr was looking over at the young one again when he got smothered by the lads. They went up—the ref had blown the whistle - and he stayed down. But he grabbed a hold of Bimbo and hung on. Everyone was jumping up and down, even Leo blessing himself. The tricolours were up in the air. He wished he had one. He’d get one for the rest of the matches.

  Bertie was back up on the table doing his Norwegian commentator bit.

  —Maggie Thatcher! - Winston Churchill!—

  —WHO PUT THE BALL IN THE ENGLISH NET—SHEEDY—SHEEDY—

  —Queen Elizabeth! - Lawrence of Arabia!—Elton John! Yis can all go an’ fuck yourselves!

  They cheered.

  Jimmy Sr was bursting; not for a piss, with love. He hugged Bimbo. He hugged Bertie. He hugged Paddy. He even hugged Larry O’Rourke. He loved everyone. There was Sharon. He got over to her and hugged her, and then all her friends.

  —Isn’t it brilliant, Daddy?

  —Ah, it’s fuckin’ brilliant; brilliant.

  —I love your aftershave, Mister Rabbitte.

  —OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLÉ—

  —Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr when he got back to Bimbo.

  —An’ we only fuckin’ drew. Wha’ would happen if we’d won?

  Bimbo laughed.

  Everyone in the place sang. Jimmy Sr hated the song but it didn’t matter.

  —GIVE IT A LASH JACK

  GIVE IT A LASH JACK

  NEVER NEVER NEVER SAY NO

  IRELIN’—IRELIN’—REPUB-ILIC OF IRELIN’

  REV IT UP AN’ HERE WE GO—

  —It’s a great song, isn’t it? said Bimbo.

  —Ah, yeah, said Jimmy Sr.