by Roddy Doyle
—Yeh’d want to get out o’ the way there, he told her. —You’ll be fuckin’ trampled on.
The woman did a legger.
There was an almighty crowd coming out, pouring out of the place, still going Ole ole ole ole. It was mostly the younger ones. There was suddenly a couple of hundred people in the carpark, and then one of them saw the van.
—Yeow!!
They stopped Oléing and looked at the van.
—Charge!
—Oh my fuck—, said Jimmy Sr.—Red alert; red alert.
It was like Pearl fuckin’ Harbor. Jimmy Sr had half said —Form a queue there, when they hit the van.
—Oh, mother o’ shite!
It hopped; they lifted it up off the road. One of the bars holding up the hatch skipped and Jimmy Sr just caught it before it fell and skulled someone outside.
—A cod an’ a large!
—Curry chips, Mister.
—Howyeh, Sharon!
—OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLE
—I was first!
—Are yis Irish or Italians or wha’?
—Yeow, Sharon!
—Sharon; here! We’re first, righ’.
—Give us a C!!
Bimbo was covered in batter. Sharon was trying to get the spilt fat off her shoes.
—Give us a H!!
It was madness out there; pande-fuckin’-monium.
—Give us an I!!
There was a young one being crushed against the van. Her neck was digging into the counter.
Bimbo joined Jimmy Sr at the hatch.
—Back now! he roared.—Push back there! There’s people bein’ crushed up here!
—Fuck them!
Jimmy Sr pointed at the young fella who’d said that.
—You’re barred!
They cheered, but they quietened after that.
—Give us a P!
The young one was rubbing her neck but she was alright. Jimmy Sr served her first.
—Wha’ d’yeh want?
—Give us an S!
Jimmy Sr looked out over the crowd.
—Will somebody shut tha’ fuckin’ eejit up! he roared.
—Yeow!!
They cheered and clapped, and Jimmy Sr started to enjoy himself. He lifted his arms and acknowledged the applause —Thank you, thank you—and then got back to business.
—Wha’ was tha’? he asked the young one.
—Curry chips, she said, raising her eyes to heaven.
—No curry chips, Jimmy Sr told her.
—Why not?
—Cos we’re not fuckin’ Chinese, said Jimmy Sr.—This is an Irish Chipper.
—That’s stupih, said the young one.
—Next!
—Hang on, hang on! A large single an’—an’—
—Hurry—
—A spice-burger.
—A large an’ a spice, Sharon, please!! Jimmy Sr roared over his shoulder.—Next.—You with the haircut there; wha’ d’yeh want?
—World peace.
—You’re barred. Next!
Sharon had a complaint.
—I can’t do it all on me fuckin’ own!
—Hold the fort there, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr, and he went to back to give Sharon a hand.
It was like that for over an hour after that. They got into a flow; Bimbo would shout back the order and Jimmy Sr and Sharon would pack it, and Bimbo would repeat the order out loud and Sharon would tell him how much it cost, and that way they started flying. The heat though; they were sorry now they’d got Victor, Bimbo’s brother, to block up the window. They had to go the door now and again, Jimmy Sr and Sharon—Bimbo was alright; he had the hatch—and get some proper air. That was how Jimmy Sr caught a kid trying to disconnect the gas. Such a kick he sent at him, he was blessed that it had missed because he’d have killed the poor little fucker.
When the going got rough up at the hatch one of them would go up and help Bimbo, and when it got rough back at HQ one of them would come back from the hatch: they took turns. The only thing was the heat: Jimmy Sr’s throat was dry and he didn’t have time for a can of 7-Up. Anyway, there wasn’t enough room to drink it comfortably; he’d have got an elbow in the neck. Jimmy Sr took off his apron, then his T-shirt, and put the apron back on.
—You should do this, Sharon, look.
—Ha ha.
He checked to make sure that his knickers were well into his trousers and then he was back to work, throwing the burgers onto the hotplate like there was no tomorrow. It didn’t work though, taking the T-shirt off, not really; it just gave the flying fat more places to hit.
They’d serve two people and get them out of the way and three more would come out of the pub. It was a killer. Still though, this was what they’d wanted. There was money being made.
—Here! a young fella outside shouted.—These chips are raw!
—Yeh never said yeh wanted them cooked! said Jimmy Sr, and he dashed back to turn the burgers.
He was enjoying himself; the three of them were.
The older lads came out later, Bertie and Paddy and them, and it was more relaxed, a good laugh. It was nearly one o’clock. Jimmy Sr had lost weight, he could tell. He put his hand down the back of his trousers and there was much more room than usual, even with no shirt or vest in there. It was like working in a sauna. He liked the idea of losing a few pounds. He’d say nothing yet to Veronica about it, not for a few days. He’d do a twirl in front of her and see if she noticed.
The place was a mess, and getting dangerous. Sharon had fallen and Bimbo had scorched two of his fingers. It served him right for trying to pick up the burger with his hand cos Jimmy Sr was using the fish slice.
—Night nigh’, compadres.
—Good luck, Bertie.
There was no one left. Jimmy Sr closed the hatch. He could see another gang coming up the road and he didn’t want to have to start all over again. Anyway, they’d hardly anything left. There were a few chips in the bottom of the bin but they were a bit brown looking. Most of the water was on the floor. It could stay there. They were too shagged to do any cleaning. They made room for themselves on the ledges and shelves and sat up or leaned against them.
—Fuck me, said Jimmy Sr.
—Look at me shoes, said Sharon.
—Buy a new pair.
—Wha’ with?
—This, said Bimbo.
He held up a handful of notes, then put them back in the box. He showed them the rest of the cash in the box. He had to squash it down to keep it from falling out; not just green notes either, brown ones as well, and even a couple of blueys.
—Fair enough, wha’.
Someone hit the hatch a wallop.
They ignored it, and stayed quiet.
It felt good, being finished, knackered. They were too tired to grin. Jimmy Sr’s ears were buzzing with the tiredness. He got a can from under the hotplate and it slipped out of his hands because of the grease; the flask cup had flowed over.
—Ah Jaysis—
He held the can with his apron, opened it and took a slug: it was horrible and warm.
—Ah—shi’e—
Bimbo got a can and held it up to make a toast.
—Today’s chips today, he said.
Jimmy Sr nudged a chip on the floor with his shoe.
—Absolutely, he said.
It had been some day.
At the end of the week - next Friday - he was going to put money on the table in front of Veronica, and say nothing.
They went home.
—Look it.
Sharon showed Jimmy Sr, Veronica and Darren the spots on her left cheek all the way up to her eye, clusters of them in little patches. She’d just found them, up in the bathroom. Her left side was much redder than the right, horrible and raw looking; she couldn’t understand it. She wanted to cry; she could feel them getting itchy.
—My God, said Veronica, and went to get a closer look.
Darren was a bit embarrassed.
Jimmy Sr leaned o
ut from his chair to see.
—Gis a look, he said.
—It’s some sort of a rash, said Veronica,—or - I don’t know.
—That’s gas, said Jimmy Sr.—I’ve them as well; look.
He showed them the right side of his face.
—I shaved over them, he said.—But yeh should be able to still see them.
He rubbed his cheek.
—They’re still there alrigh’.
Veronica was confused but Sharon was beginning to understand.
—D‘yeh know wha’ it is? said Jimmy Sr.—It’s the hotplate; the fat splashin’ up from the hot plate.
He mimed turning a burger.
-I was on the righ’ an’ you were on the left, he told Sharon.
He grinned.
—Poor Bimbo must be in tatters, he said.—Cos he was in the middle.
Darren laughed.
By the time Ireland played Egypt, the Sunday after, they’d added sausages to the menu and Jimmy Sr was putting less lard on the hotplate.
Business was hopping.
On Friday they pitched their tent outside the Hikers earlier, at five o’clock, and stuck up posters - Jessica’s work —all over the van: £I Specials—Chips + Anything—5 to 7.30pm. It worked; the Pound Specials went down a bomb. Women coming out of Crazy Prices with the night’s dinner read the posters and stopped and said to themselves Fuck the dinner; you could see it in their faces. They either bought the chips and anything immediately or went home and sent one of the kids out to get them.
It was Maggie’s idea.
—Twelve Poun’ Specials, Mister, said one little young one, and that was the record.
By seven, when they were having a rest, Jimmy Sr and Bimbo were talking seriously about getting an engine; then there’d be no stopping them. They’d have to get some sort of a flue put in as well. Even with the hatch and the door open, the fumes were gathering up in the back of the van. You noticed it when you went down there to get more chips from the bin; you came back crying. And the smell off your clothes; no amount of washing could get rid of it.
—It’s an occupational hazard, Jimmy Sr told Veronica.
Spots, singed hair and smelly threads; Veronica said that he looked like something out of Holocaust.
—Ha fuckin’ ha, said Jimmy Sr.
—A large an’ a dunphy.
—Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.
He looked down at the customer, a young fella about young Jimmy’s age, with his pals.
—Large an’ a dunphy, he said again.
He was grinning.
—What’s a dunphy? Jimmy Sr wanted to know.
—A sausage, said the young fella.
—Sausage, large, Jimmy Sr called over his shoulder to Bimbo.
He looked back at the young fella.
—Are yeh goin’ to explain this to me? he asked.
—Sausages look like pricks, righ’?
—Okay; fair enough.
—An’ Eamon Dunphy’s a prick as well, said the young fella.
By Thursday of the second week, the night of the Holland game, the word Sausage had disappeared out of Barrytown. People were asking for a dunphy an’ chips, please, or an eamon, a spice burger an’ a small single. Some of them didn’t even bother eating them; they just bought them for a laugh. Young fellas stood in front of the big screen in the Hikers and waved Jimmy and Bimbo’s sausages in batter instead of big inflated bananas.
—This is where the real World Cup starts, said Paddy, when they’d settled down again after the final whistle.
—He’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr.—For once.
Ireland were through to the knock-out stages.
Jimmy Sr took another deep breath.
—Fuckin’ great, isn’t it?
They all agreed.
—After all these years, wha’, he said.
—COME ON WITHOU’
COME ON WITHIN
YOU’VE NOT SEEN NOTHIN’ LIKE THE MIGHTY QUINN—
Bertie summed up the campaign so far.
—We beat England one-all, we lost to Egypt nil-all, an’ we drew with the Dutch. That’s not bad, is it?
—OOH AH—
PAUL MCGRATH—
SAY OOH AH PAUL MCGRATH—
Jimmy Sr stood up.
—Yeh righ’, Bimbo?
The van was outside waiting for them.
It was hard leaving the pub after all that, the match and the excitement: but they did, Bimbo and Jimmy Sr. You had to admire them for it, Jimmy Sr thought anyway.
The day after the Holland game Maggie brought home T-SHIRTS she’d got made for them in town. They had Niall Quinn’s head on the front with His Mammy Fed Him On Bimbo’s Burgers under it. They were smashing but after two washes Niall Quinn’s head had disappeared and the T-SHIRTS didn’t make sense any more.
It was great having the few bob in the pocket again. They didn’t just count the night’s takings and divide it in two. They were more organised than that; it was a business. There was stock to be bought, the engine to save for. Maggie kept the books. They paid themselves a wage and if business was really good they got a bonus as well, an incentive, the same way footballers got paid extra if they won. Jimmy Sr took home a hundred and sixty quid the first week. He had his dole as well. He bought himself a new shirt—Veronica’d been giving him grief about the smell off his clothes - a nice one with grey stripes running down it. He’d read in one of Sharon’s magazines that stripes like that made you look thinner but that wasn’t why he bought it; he just liked it. He handed most of the money over to Veronica.
—You’re not to waste it all on food now, d‘yeh hear, he said.—You’re to buy somethin’ for yourself.
—Yes, master, said Veronica.
The country had gone soccer mad. Oul’ ones were explaining offside to each other; the young one at the check-out in the cash-and-carry told Jimmy Sr that Romania hadn’t a hope cos Lacatus was suspended because he was on two yellow cards. It was great. There were flags hanging out of nearly every window in Barrytown. It was great for business as well. There were no proper dinners being made at all. Half the mammies in Barrytown were watching the afternoon matches, and after the extra-time and the penalty shoot-outs there was no time left to make the dinner before the next match. The whole place was living on chips.
—Fuck me, said Jimmy Sr.—If Kelly an’ Roche do well in the Tour de France we’ll be able to retire by the end o’ July.
He’d brought home two hundred and forty quid the second week.
They were going to get a video.
—Back to normal then, said Jimmy Sr.—Wha’.
—Yep, said Veronica.
She was going to say something else, something nice, but Germany got a penalty against Czechoslovakia and she wanted to see Lothar Matthaeus taking it; he was her favourite, him and Berti, the Italian. Jimmy Sr liked Schillaci; he reminded him of Leslie, the same eyes.
—Ah, good Jesus, said Jimmy Sr.
He got up off the floor. His trousers were wringing, his back was killing him. He’d been going at the floor with sudsy water and a nailbrush for the last half hour and the floor still looked the wrong colour.
—We’re fightin’ a losin’ battle here, I think, he said to Bimbo.
Bimbo was attacking the gobs of grease on the wall around the hotplate and the fryer. He was making progress but it was like the grease spots were riding each other and breeding, they were all over the wall. Bimbo took a breather. The thing about it was, even if you cleaned all day —and that was what they did for the first week or so—it would be back to dirty normal by the end of the night.
—Look it, said Jimmy Sr.—Tha’ grease there—
He pointed at the grease above the fryer.
—It’s fresh cos it only got there last nigh‘, cos it was clean there when we started last nigh’. D’yeh follow?
—Yeah, said Bimbo.
—So, said Jimmy Sr.—It’s doing’ no harm. It’s fresh. It’s grand for another couple o’ days
. Then it’ll be gettin’ bad an’ we’d want to get rid of it cos it’d be a health hazard then, but it’s fuckin’ harmless now.
Bimbo didn’t disagree with him.
—All we have to worry abou’ every day before we start is the floor, said Jimmy Sr.—Cos we’ll go slidin’ an’ split ourselves if it’s not clean, but that’s all.
Bimbo just wanted to check on one thing first. He opened the hatch and then got out of the van and went round to the hatch and looked in, to see if he could see the dirt from out there. He couldn’t.
—Okay, he said.—I’m with yeh.
Bimbo couldn’t watch, but Jimmy Sr could, no problem; he loved it. Nil-all after extra time, a penalty shoot-out.
—Pennos, said Paddy when they saw the ref blowing the final whistle.
—Fuckin’ hell.
—Packie’ll save at least one, wait’ll yeh see.
—He let in nine against Aberdeen a couple o’ weeks ago, remember.
—This is different.
—How is it?
—Fuck off.
It got very quiet. Jimmy Sr’s heart was hopping, but he never took his eyes off the screen, except when the young one behind him screamed. She did it after the Romanians got the first penalty. Women had been screaming all through the match but this one stood out because when the ball just got past Packie’s fingers there were a couple of hundred groans and only the one scream.
Bertie turned round to the young one.
—Are yeh like tha’ in the scratcher? he said.
The whole pub erupted, just when Kevin Sheedy was placing the ball on the spot, like he’d scored it already. There was no way he’d miss it after that.
He buried it.
—YEOWWW!!
—One-all, one-all; fuckin’ hell.
Houghton, Townsend, Tony Cascarino.
Four-all.
—Someone’s after faintin’ over there.
—Fuck’m.
They watched Packie setting himself up in his goal for the fifth time.
—Go on, Packie!
—ONE PACKIE BONNER—
—Shut up; wait.
—He has rosary beads in his bag, yeh know, said some wanker.
—They’ll be round his fuckin’ neck if he misses this one, said Jimmy Sr.