by Roddy Doyle
It was that sort of day.
—We’d better get goin’, I suppose, said Bimbo.
—Fair enough, said Jimmy Sr.
He was raring to go.
—Red alert, he shouted.—Red alert.
They came charging out of the pub, the two of them. Jimmy Sr let go of a roar.
—Yeow!!
His T-shirt was wringing. Fuck it though, he was floating.
Bimbo got the back door open and hopped in; really hopped now; it was fuckin’ gas.
Jimmy Sr stopped.
—Listen, he said.
They could hear loads of cars honking. And there were people out on the streets, they could hear them as well.
He climbed into the van. Bimbo was fighting his apron.
It was getting dark. They had two big torch lights, the ones well-prepared drivers always had in case they had to change a tyre at night. Jimmy Sr turned them on.
—OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLE. They’re grand now, aren’t they?
—Terrific, said Bimbo.
Bimbo had already rigged up the Kozengas canisters to the fryer and the hotplate. The canisters were outside, at the back beside the steps, cos there was no room for them inside. That made Jimmy Sr a bit nervous; he didn’t like it. Kids were bound to start messing with them, disconnect them, or worse, start cutting the tubes and before you knew it Jimmy Sr, the van and half of Barrytown would be blown to shite. Still, there was no room for them in here. He had a quick look outside; there was no one at them.
—OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLÉ—
Jimmy Sr got the box of matches and took one out. He didn’t like this either. He stuck the match into the hollow tube of a biro. He got down on his hunkers in front of the hotplate. He lit the match, turned on the gas, pressed in the knob and held the biro to the jet in under the hotplate. He heard the gas go whoosh and he got his hand to fuck out from under there. He’d never get used to doing that. The smell; fuck it, he’d singed his hair again.
—I fuckin’ hate tha’, he said.
He got the deep fat fryer going as well, but he didn’t need the biro this time. He threw a slab of lard onto the hotplate and topped up the cooking oil in the fryer; everything under control.
—WE ARE GREEN - WE ARE WHI’E
WE ARE FUCKIN’ DYNAMI’E
LA LA LA LA - LA LA LA—LA—May as well open the hatch, wha’, he said.
—Righto, said Bimbo.
It was the moment they’d been waiting for but they pretended it wasn’t. Bimbo was dipping the bits of fish into the deep fat for a few seconds to make the batter stay on them, a trick they’d picked up the last time they’d gone to a chipper; it made a lot of sense. You could pile them up and it didn’t get messy and you could have the fish ready to fling back into the fryer whenever anyone ordered one. That was what Bimbo was doing when Jimmy Sr unfastened the hatch and pushed it back and got the steel poles in under it to hold it up and made sure that they were secure. Jimmy Sr concentrated on what he was doing. He didn’t want to look too soon, to see how many were outside waiting.
There was no one.
They said nothing; they just kept doing their work. Jimmy Sr didn’t have much to do. He spread the melted lard all over the hotplate. He was using one of the wallpaper scrapers they’d left over after cleaning the van. There was a hole in the corner of the plate where the fat dripped down through, onto the cans of drinks and the Mars Bars and Twixes.
—Oh shite, said Jimmy Sr when he saw what was happening.
He looked around for something, and took the cup off the top of Bimbo’s flask and put it under the hole, balanced on top of the cans. It worked. Jimmy Sr scraped some of the lard over to the hole and got down to check that it all dripped into the cup. It did. That was good.
He stood up; still no one outside. He couldn’t hear honking horns any more. It was like a fuckin’ ghost-town out there.
Still though, it was early days yet.
—Go easy on the fish there, Bimbo, he said.—We don’t want to be stuck with a load of it at the end of the nigh’.
It was beginning to look like they’d be stuck with a lot more than just a couple of dozen cod. Still though—
—OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLÉ—
Getting the fish to stay inside the batter was easier said than done. Bimbo’d just scooped out a smashing piece of batter, lovely and crispy; but it was empty. He was rooting around in the oil for the fish.
A couple of people, kids mostly, walked by and gawked in, and kept walking, the fuckin’ eejits.
Jimmy Sr checked the fryer. It was ready and waiting. The chips were in the basket. He picked it up and shook it; just right. He got a burger and threw it on the hotplate, just to be doing something. The noise it made at the beginning was a bit like something screaming. He pressed it down hard with the fish slice, and it screamed again; it wasn’t a scream really, more a watery crackle.
He turned to keep an eye on the hatch and caught Bimbo helping himself to a Mars Bar.
—Jesus Christ, Bimbo; could yeh not wait till we’ve sold somethin’!
The head on Bimbo, snared rapid.
—I was a bit hungry—
—Haven’t yeh half Ireland’s fuckin’ fish quota over there with yeh?
He was joking but suddenly he was annoyed.
—I didn’t want to touch them, said Bimbo.—In case—
—No one else fuckin’ wants them, said Jimmy Sr.
He was thinking of something good, something nice to say when - Jaysis! - there was a young fella at the hatch. He could see the top of his head.
He jumped over to him.
—Yes, son?
—A choc-ice, said the young fella.
Sharon climbed into the van in time to hear her da.
—Wha‘’—Fuck off ou’ o’ tha’ or I’ll—
Sharon started laughing.
—Do yeh not sell choc-ices? said the young fella.
Bimbo looked out at him. The poor little lad was only about ten.
Jimmy Sr leaned out and pointed.
—What’s tha’? he asked the young fella.
He was pointing at the sign.
—A big burger, said the young fella.
—That’s righ‘, said Jimmy Sr.—Wha’ does it tell yeh?
—Bimbo’s Burgers, the young fella read.—Today’s chips today.
—That’s righ‘, said Jimmy Sr.—It doesn’t say annythin’ abou’ choc-ices, does it?
—No.
—No, it doesn’t, sure it doesn’t. So, fuck off.
Jimmy Sr went back to his burger. It was stuck to the hotplate.
—Shite on it!
Bimbo took over at the hatch.
—We’ve no fridge, he explained to the little young fella.
—Yeh can get choc-ices an’ stuff in other chippers, Mister, the young fella told him.
—Yeah, said Bimbo; he was whispering—but we’ve no fridge, yeh see. We’ve no electricity.
He looked around at Jimmy Sr. He was trying to get some lard in under the burger so it would slide off the plate.
—Here, he said to the young fella.
He handed him down the rest of his Mars Bar, then shooed him off.
—Thanks very much, Mister.
—Shhhh!
Jimmy Sr’s neck was going to snap; that was how it felt. There were still little bits of the burger soldered to the hotplate; the scraper kept sliding over them, the useless fuckin’ thing! he’d get them off if it fuckin’ killed him!
—Yeaahh!
Sharon and Bimbo kept well away from him. That wasn’t easy in a space as big as two wardrobes. You couldn’t go anywhere without someone getting out of your way first. Bimbo handed two milk bottles over Jimmy Sr’s head to Sharon.
—We need more water, love, he told her.
Sharon was lost.
—Pop over the road an’ she’ll fill them for yeh, Bimbo told her.—Rita Fleming; Missis Fleming. D’yeh know which house she’s in?
—Yeah.
She didn’t do anything yet though. She thought she’d been told to go over to the Flemings with two milk bottles and ask Missis Fleming to fill them for her, but she wasn’t sure.
—I asked her earlier, said Bimbo.—There’s no problem. So long as it’s not too late.
—Can I not just run home—
—Do wha’ you’re told, said Jimmy Sr.
—Who rattled your cage? said Sharon.
—Customers! said Bimbo.—Quick, love; off yeh go.
He said it just when Jimmy Sr got the last lump of burger off the hotplate; his timing couldn’t have been better.
—Great stuff, said Jimmy Sr.
Sharon looked out the back door, and there was a gang of women coming towards the van, getting their money out of their handbags.
—There’s loads of them, she said, and she ran across the road to Flemings.
Jimmy Sr got the basket of chips - he’d been waiting all night to do this—and dropped it into the oil, and nearly fuckin’ blinded himself.
—Ahhh!!!—Jaysis!!—Me fuckin’—
He thought he was blinded. Little spits of fat stung all his face; he kept his eyes clamped shut.
—Are yeh alrigh’?
Bimbo didn’t sound all that worried.
—Me eyes, said Jimmy Sr.
—Oh, that’s shockin’, said Bimbo.—Here, he said. —Wash them.
He handed Jimmy Sr one of the milk bottles.
—Jesus, said Jimmy Sr.
He poured a small amount of the water into his palm and gave his face a wipe. That was better. The stinging was gone. It was no joke though; he’d have to be careful. He didn’t want to end up like the Phantom of the fuckin’ Opera.
He was ready. He lifted the basket and shook it, and carefully dropped it back in; he wasn’t sure why but he’d seen it being done all his life; to check if the chips were done, he supposed.
—Nearly ready over here, he told Bimbo.—Action stations, wha’.
Sharon was back with the milk bottles, full.
—Good girl, said Jimmy Sr.—Yeh missed me accident.
—They’re takin’ their time, said Sharon.
She was talking about the women outside, who were still approaching the van very slowly.
—Oul’ ones are always like tha’, said Jimmy Sr.—Yeh’d swear it was fur coats they were buyin’.
—What’ll I do now? Sharon asked.
—Help Bimbo with the orders, said Jimmy Sr.—I’d say. We’ll have to play it by ear.
She nearly pushed him up onto the hotplate getting her apron on, but he said nothing.
—How’re yis all? Bimbo said out the hatch, and Jimmy Sr went over to have a look at the oul’ ones himself.
There was a big crowd of them alright, a good few quid’s worth, if they ever made their fuckin’ minds up. He could tell; they were coming home from bingo. They were real diehards. Imagine: going to bingo on the night Ireland were playing their first ever World Cup match, and against England as well.
—Wha’ are yis havin’, girls? said Jimmy Sr.
No joy; they were still making their minds up. Jimmy Sr got back to his post. The chips were done. He gave the basket a good fuckin’ shake, and another one for good measure, and emptied the chips into the tray. He’d another basket ready with more chips and he lowered that into the fryer, but he stood well back this time. The going was getting very hot though.
The women were up at the counter now.
—A fresh cod, Sharon called back to him.
—Yahoo! said Jimmy Sr, and he slipped the cod into the fryer. Jesus, the noise; like having your ear up to a jet engine.
—Another one.
—A smoked, said Bimbo.
They were in business now alright.
Another five cods, three smoked ones, a spice-burger and an ordinary burger; now they were working.
—Chips just, said Sharon.
—Comin’ up.
He got the scoop in under the chips and got a grand big load into the bag, filled it right up. Good, big chips they were, and a lovely colour, most of them; one or two of them were a bit white and shiny looking.
—There yeh go.
He held them out for Sharon, and she dropped them.
—Not to worry, he said.
He filled another bag.
Bimbo was still taking orders.
—Three spice-burgers, two smoked cod—
Jimmy Sr sang.
—AN’ A PAR-TRIDGE IN A PEAR TREE.
The fryer was getting very full now. Some of the yokes at the top were hardly in the cooking oil at all. He skidded on the chips Sharon had dropped and nearly went on his arse. He kicked them out the back door but some of them were stuck to the floor. The fuckin’ heat, the sweat was running off him. There was too much for one man here.
—Gis a hand here, Sharon.
Sharon left Bimbo at the counter.
—Righ‘, Bimbo, shout ou’ those orders again till we get them sorted ou’.
He heard Bimbo.
—Wha’ was it you ordered, love?
—I told yeh, said some oul’ wagon.—A cod an’ a small chips.
—Got yeh, Jimmy Sr called back.—Hope she fuckin’ chokes on them, he said to Sharon.
Sharon was managing the chips and Jimmy was taking the other stuff out of the fryer. He had one of those tongs yokes but you had to be careful with it cos if you held the fish too tight it fell apart on you and if you didn’t it dived back into the fryer and you had to jump back quick or suffer the fuckin’ consequences. But he thought he had the knack of it. He dropped the cod into a small greaseproof bag and Sharon took it and put it into the big brown bag, along with the chips. They worked well together, Sharon and Jimmy Sr. They didn’t bump into each other. It was like they were two parts of the same machine.
The only problem now was Bimbo. He was good with the oul’ ones and he handled the salt and vinegar like a professional, but he couldn’t count for fuck.
—A cod an’ a small—’. Eh,—that’s, eh—
—One sixty-five, Sharon called back to him.
—Good girl, said Jimmy Sr.
They were nearly through with the oul’ ones; there were no more orders coming in. It was coming up to closing time though and then there’d be murder, with a bit of luck.
—One eighty, Sharon called.
She was sharp, that girl. She didn’t even have to think first.
He couldn’t make up his mind if the last spice-burger was done yet. He blew on it and poked it with a finger; it left a mark.
—Grand.
He dropped it into its bag and gave it to Sharon.
—I’ll give poor Bimbo a hand, he said.
Most of the women were still out there but away from the counter, up against the carpark wall eating their stuff. There were only a few left at the counter.
—Wha’ was yours? he asked one of them.
—A chips an’ a spicey burger.
She was tiny. He nearly had to climb out over the counter to see her.
—Large or small? said Jimmy Sr.
—Large, she said.
—An’ why not, said Jimmy Sr.
This was good crack. Sharon handed him the bag.
—The works?
—Oh yes.
He did the salt first, shook the bag to make sure it went well in. He looked at the women. They were real bingo heads alright; all the same, like a gang of twenty sisters.
—That’s enough, said the little woman.
He showed her the vinegar bottle.
—Say when, he said.
She had a nice enough face, he could see now.
—There y’are now, he said, and he held the bag for her to collect.
—Thanks v’ much. How much is tha’?
—Eh—
—One twenty-five, said Sharon.
—One twenty-five, said Jimmy Sr.
He waited while she put tenpences and twentypences up on the counter.
�
��Sorry—
—No no, said Jimmy Sr.—Take your time.
—I want to get rid of my change.
—Well, yeh came to the righ’ place, love.
There was a nice breeze coming in. Jimmy Sr held his arms out a bit, but nothing too obvious.
Bimbo was nearly having a row with the last of the women.
—D’you take butter vouchers? she asked him.
—No, he said.—God, no.
—They take them in the newsagents, she told him.
You couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She’d probably held back till the end so the other women wouldn’t hear her. Still though, they weren’t running a charity.
—Only money, Bimbo told her.
—Or American Express, said Jimmy Sr, and he gave Bimbo a nudge.—We’ll give yeh a shout when we start sellin’ butter, he told the woman, for a joke. She didn’t laugh though, and he felt like a prick. His face was hot and getting hotter. Still, if she could afford to go to bingo then she could afford to pay for her supper.
That was it. They’d all been served, and they were all stuffing their faces, beginning to move away. Jimmy Sr, Bimbo and Sharon watched them.
—Tha’ was grand, said Bimbo.—Wasn’t it?
—Money for jam, said Jimmy Sr.
They looked around. The place was in bits already.
—I’ll do more batter, said Bimbo.
—Good man, said Jimmy Sr.—But make it a bit stronger, will yeh. It keeps comin’ off the fish.
Sharon got down and started wiping the mushed-up chips off the floor. One of the bingo women came back.
—Yes, Missis? said Jimmy Sr.
—D’yeh sell sweets? she asked him.
She was one of those culchie-looking women, roundy and red.
—Mars or Twix just, Jimmy Sr told her.
—A Twix.
—Comin’ up, said Jimmy Sr.
He got the Twix out from under the hotplate and wiped the grease off it with his apron.
—There y‘are, he said.—Best before April ’92. You’ve loads o’ time, wha’.
She laughed, and then Jimmy Sr saw it.
—Oh good shite.
It was a stampede, that was what it was, coming out of the Hikers.
—Yeh’d better be quick with tha’ batter, he said to Bimbo.
—Why’s tha’? said Bimbo, and he looked out.
—Oh, mother o’ God.
Sharon looked.
—Jesus, she said.—I’m scarleh.
Jimmy Sr gave the woman her threepence change.