The Van

by Roddy Doyle

No one laughed. No one did anything.

  Packie dived to the left; he dived and he saved the fuckin’ thing.

  The screen disappeared as the whole pub jumped. All Jimmy Sr could see was backs and flags and dunphies. He looked for Bimbo, and got his arms around him. They watched the penno again in slow motion. The best part was the way Packie got up and jumped in the air. He seemed to stay in mid-air for ages. They cheered all over again.

  —Shhh! Shhh!

  —Shhh!

  —Shhh!

  Someone had to take the last penalty for Ireland.

  —Who’s tha’?

  —O’Leary.

  —O’Leary?

  Jimmy Sr hadn’t even known that O’Leary was playing. He must have come on when Jimmy Sr was in the jacks.

  —He’ll be grand, said someone.—He takes all of Arsenal’s pennos.

  —He does in his hole, said an Arsenal supporter.—He never took a penno in his life.

  —He’ll crack, said Paddy.—Wait’ll yeh see.

  Jimmy Sr nearly couldn’t watch, but he stuck it.

  —YEH—

  David O’Leary put it away like he was playing with his kids at the beach.

  —YESSS!

  Jimmy Sr looked carefully to make sure that he’d seen it right. The net was shaking, and O‘Leary was covered in Irishmen. He wanted to see it again though. Maybe they were all beating the shite out of O’Leary for missing. No, though; he’d scored. Ireland were through to the quarter-finals and Jimmy Sr started crying.

  He wasn’t the only one. Bertie was as well. They hugged. Bertie was putting on a few pounds. Jimmy Sr felt even better.

  —What a team, wha’. What a fuckin’—

  He couldn’t finish; a sob had caught up on him.

  —Si, said Bertie.

  They showed the penno again, in slow motion.

  —To the righ’; perfect.

  —Excellent conversion, said some gobshite.

  Where was Bimbo?

  There he was, bawling his eyes out. A big stupid lovely grin had split his face in half.

  —OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLÉ—

  OLÉ—

  OLÉ—

  Jimmy Sr took a run and a jump at Bimbo and Bimbo caught him.

  —ONE DAVE O’LEARY—

  —OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLE

  —THERE’S ONLY ONE DAVE O’LEARY—

  They stood there arm in arm and watched O’Leary’s penalty again, and again.

  —I’ll tell yeh one thing, said Larry O‘Rourke.—David O’Leary came of age today.

  Jimmy Sr loved everyone but that was the stupidest fuckin’ thing he’d ever heard in his life.

  —He’s thirty fuckin’ two! he said.—Came of age, me bollix.

  —ONE DAVE O’LEEEEARY—

  He hugged Bimbo again, and Bertie and Paddy, and he went over and hugged Sharon. She was crying as well and they both laughed. He hugged some of her friends. They all had their green gear on, ribbons and the works. He wanted to hug Sharon’s best friend, Jackie, but he couldn’t catch her. She was charging around the place, yelling Ole Ole Ole Ole, not singing any more because her throat was gone.

  There was Mickah Wallace, Jimmy Jr’s pal, standing by himself with his tricolour over his head, like an Irish Blessed Virgin. He let Jimmy Sr hug him.

  —I’ve waited twenty years for this, Mister Rabbitte, he told Jimmy Sr.

  He was crying as well.

  —Twenty fuckin’ years.

  He gulped back some snot.

  —The first record I ever got was Back Home, the English World Cup record, he said.—In 1970. D’yeh remember it?

  —I do, yeah.

  —I was only five. I didn’t buy it, mind, said Mickah.—I robbed it.—Tweh-twenty fuckin’ years.

  Jimmy Sr knew he was being told something important but he wasn’t sure what.

  —D’yeh still have it?

  —Wha’?

  —Back Home.

  —Not at all, said Mickah.—Jaysis. I sold it. I made a young fella buy it off o’ me.

  Jimmy Jr rescued Jimmy Sr.

  —Da.

  —Jimmy!

  —I didn’t see yeh.

  Jimmy Jr was in his Celtic away jersey, with a big spill down the front. He nodded at the jacks door.

  —It’s fuckin’ mad in there.

  They stood there.

  —CEAUSESCU WAS A WANKER

  CEAUSESCU WAS A WANKER

  LA LA LA LA

  LA LA LA - LA

  —Fuckin’ deadly, isn’t it?

  —Brilliant.—Brilliant.

  They started laughing, and grabbed each other and hugged till their arms hurt. They wiped their eyes and laughed and hugged again.

  —I love yeh, son, said Jimmy Sr when they were letting go.

  He could say it and no one could hear him, except young Jimmy, because of the singing and roaring and breaking glasses.

  —I think you’re fuckin’ great, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Ah fuck off, will yeh, said Jimmy Jr.—Packie saved the fuckin’ penalty, not me.

  But he liked what he’d heard, Jimmy Sr could tell that. He gave Jimmy Sr a dig in the stomach.

  —You’re not a bad oul’ cunt yourself, he said.

  Larry O’Rourke had got up onto a table.

  —WHEN BOYHOOD’S FIRE WAS IH-IN MY BLOOD—

  I DREAMT OF ANCIE-HENT FREEMEN—

  —Ah, somebody shoot tha’ fucker!

  Jimmy Sr nodded at Mickah. Jimmy Jr looked at him.

  —He’ll be alrigh’ in a bit, he said.—It’s a big moment for him, yeh know.

  Bimbo tapped Jimmy Sr’s shoulder.

  —We’d better go, he said.

  It was a pity.

  —Okay, said Jimmy Sr.—Duty calls, he said to Jimmy Jr.

  —How’s business?

  —Brilliant. Fuckin’ great.

  —That’s great.

  —Yeah; great, it is. McDonalds me arse. Seeyeh. —Good luck, Mickah.

  But Mickah didn’t answer. He stood to attention, the only man with plenty of room in the pub.

  —Seeyeh.

  —Good luck.

  —A NAAY-SHUN ONCE AGAIN—

  A NAAAY-SHUN ONCE AGAIN—

  Bimbo gave Jimmy Sr a piggy-back to the van. There were kids and mothers out on the streets, waving their flags and throwing their teddy bears up in the air. A car went by with three young lads up on the bonnet. They could hear car horns from miles away.

  It was the best day of Jimmy Sr’s life. The people he served that night got far more chips than they were entitled to. And they still made a small fortune, sold everything. They hadn’t even a Mars Bar left to sell. They closed up at ten, lovely and early, and had a few quiet pints; the singing had stopped. And then he went home and Veronica was in the kitchen and she did a fry for him, and he cried again when he was telling her about the pub and the match and meeting Jimmy Jr. And she called him an eejit. It was the best day of his life.

  And then they got beaten by the Italians and that was the end of that.

  They got in. Bimbo put in the key.

  The van had a new engine.

  —Here we go.

  It went first time.

  —Yeow!

  They went to Howth.

  —Maybe we should get music for it, said Jimmy Sr when they were going through Sutton. They’d stalled at the lights, but they were grand now, picking up a head of steam.

  —Like a Mister Whippy van.

  —Would tha’ not confuse people?

  —How d’yeh mean?

  —Well, said Bimbo.—They might run out of their houses lookin’ for ice-creams an’ all we’ll be able to give them is chips.

  Jimmy Sr thought about this.

  —Is there no chip music? he said.—Mind that oul’ bitch there. She’s goin’ to open the door there, look it.

  —What d’yeh mean? said Bimbo.

  He stopped Jimmy Sr from getting to the horn.

  —Yeh should’ve ju
st taken the door off its fuckin’ hinges an’ kept goin’, said Jimmy Sr.

  —The music, said Bimbo.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.—The Teddy Bears’ Picnic is the ice-cream song, righ’. Is there no chipper song?

  —No, said Bimbo.—I—No, I don’t think—

  —Your man, look it; don’t let him get past yeh!—Ah Jaysis.—I’m drivin’ back, righ’.

  They went through Howth village and up towards the Summit to see how the van would handle the hill. They turned back before they got to the top: they had to.

  —We won’t be goin’ up tha’ far ever, said Jimmy Sr.

  She was going a blinder downhill.

  —Not at all, Bimbo agreed with him.

  —No one eats chips up there, said Jimmy Sr.

  —That’s righ’, said Bimbo.

  They went over a dog outside the Abbey Tavern but they didn’t stop.

  —Don’t bother your arse, said Jimmy Sr when he saw Bimbo going for the brake.—We’ll send them a wreath. No one saw us.

  Bimbo said nothing till they got onto the Harbour Road. He looked behind - there was no rear view mirror, of course—but there was nothing to see except the back of the van.

  Then he spoke.

  —Wha’ kind of a dog was it?

  —Jack Russell.

  —Ah, God love it.

  And Jimmy Sr started laughing and he didn’t really stop till they got to the Green Dolphin in Raheny and they went in for a pint cos Bimbo was still shaking a bit.

  —Served it righ’ for havin’ a slash in the middle of the road, said Jimmy Sr.

  He paid for the pints.

  —Can I drive her the rest of the way? he asked.

  —Certainly yeh can, said Bimbo.

  —Thanks, said Jimmy Sr, although he didn’t really know why; the engine was his as much as Bimbo’s.—Good man.

  Maggie had bought them a space in Dollymount, near the beach, for the summer; she’d found out that you rented the patches from the Corporation and she’d gone in and done it. It was a brilliant idea, and a great patch; right up near the beach at the top of the causeway road, where the buses ended and started. It couldn’t have been better. There was a gap in the dunes there where on a good day thousands of people came through at the end of the day, sunburnt and gasping for chips and Cokes. Except there hadn’t been a good day yet.

  —The greenhouse effect, me bollix, said Jimmy Sr.

  There hadn’t even been a half decent day.

  They climbed up to the top of one of the dunes to have a decco and there wasn’t a sinner on the whole fuckin’ island, except for themselves and a couple of rich fat oul’ ones playing golf down the way, and a few learner drivers on the hard sand, and a couple of young fellas on their horses. It was fuckin’ useless. They got back into the van to make themselves something to eat and they were the only customers they had all day. It was money down the drain. Even in the van it was cold.

  —It’s early days yet, said Bimbo.—The weather’ll get better, wait’ll yeh see.

  He was only saying that cos Maggie’d organised the whole thing; Jimmy Sr could tell.

  —It’s the worst summer in livin’ memory, he said.

  —Who says it is? said Bimbo.

  —I do, said Jimmy Sr.—I’m fuckin’ freezin’.

  —It’s only July still, said Bimbo.—There’s still August an’ September left.

  One of the horse young fellas was at the hatch, on his piebald.

  —Anny rots, Mister? he said.

  —Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.

  —Anny rots.

  Jimmy Sr spoke to Bimbo.

  —What’s he fuckin’ on abou’?

  The young fella explained.

  —Rotten chips, he said.—For me horse.

  —Fuck off, said Jimmy Sr.—There’s nothin’ rotten in this establishment, Tonto.

  —I was only askin’, said the young fella.

  Jimmy Sr and Bimbo looked at his horse. It wasn’t a horse really, more a pony; a big dog.

  —How much was he? said Jimmy Sr.

  —A hundred, said the young fella.

  —Is that all?

  —You can have him for a hundred an’ fifty, the young fella told them.

  They laughed.

  The young fella patted the horse’s head.

  —You’d get your money back no problem, he said.—I’ll kill him for yis as well, if yis want.

  They laughed again.

  —Does he like Twixes? Jimmy Sr asked the young fella.

  —He does, yeah, said the young fella.—So do I.

  —There yeh go.

  He handed out two Twixes and the young fella got the horse in closer to the hatch so he could collect them.

  —He likes cans o’ Coke as well, he told them.

  —He can fuck off down to the shops then, said Jimmy Sr.

  The young fella’s mate went galloping past on his mule and the young fella got ready to go after him. He stuffed the Twixes into his pocket and geed up the horse the way they did in the pictures, even though he’d no spurs on him, no saddle either.

  —Does your bollix not be in bits ridin’ around like tha’? Jimmy Sr asked him.

  —Not really, said the young fella.—Yeh get used to it.

  —You might, said Jimmy Sr.—I wouldn’t.

  —Yheupp! went the young fella, and he was gone, down the causeway road; they watched him from the door of the van, his feet nearly scraping off the road.

  That was the high point of the day.

  —He was a nice enough young fella, said Bimbo.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

  That was easily their biggest problem though: young fellas. Jimmy Sr like kids, always had; Bimbo loved them as well but, Jaysis Christ, they were changing their minds, quickly. Everyone loved bold kids. They were cute. There was nothing funnier than hearing a three-year-old say Fuck. This shower weren’t cute though. They were cunts, right little cunts; dangerous as well.

  There was a gang of them that hung around the Hikers carpark, young fellas, from fourteen to maybe nineteen. Even in the rain, they stayed there. They just put their hoodies up. Some of them always had their hoodies up. They were all small and skinny looking but there was something frightening about them. The way they behaved, you could tell that they didn’t give a fuck about anything. When someone parked his car and went into the pub they went over to the car and started messing with it even before the chap had gone inside; they didn’t care if he saw them. Jimmy Sr once saw one of them pissing against the window of the off-licence, in broad daylight, not a bother on him. Sometimes they’d have a flagon or a can of lager out and they’d pass it around, drinking in front of people coming in and out of Crazy Prices, people that lived beside their parents. It was sad. When they walked around, like a herd migrating or something, they all tried to walk the same way, the hard men, like their kaks were too tight on them. But that was only natural, he supposed. The worst thing though was, they didn’t laugh. All kids went through a phase where they messed, they did things they weren’t supposed to; they smoked, they drank, they showed their arses to oul’ ones from the back window on the bus. But they did it for a laugh. That was the point of it. It was part of growing up, Jimmy Sr understood that; always had. He’d seen his own kids going through that. If you were lucky you never really grew out of it; a little bit of kid stayed inside you. These kids were different though; they didn’t do anything for a laugh. Not that Jimmy Sr could see anyway. They were like fuckin’ zombies. When Jimmy Sr saw them, especially when it was raining, he always thought the same thing: they’d be dead before they were twenty. Thank God, thank God, thank God none of his own kids was like that. Jimmy Jr, Sharon, Darren - he couldn’t have had better kids. Leslie—Leslie had been a bit like that, but—no.

  The Living Dead, Bertie called them.

  Himself and Vera had had problems for a while with their young lad, Trevor, but Bertie had sorted him out.

  —How?

  —Eas
y. I promised I’d get him a motorbike if he passed his Inter.

  —Is that all?

  —Si, said Bertie.—Gas, isn’t it? We were worried sick about him; Vera especially. He was - ah, he was gettin’ taller an’ he never washed himself, his hair, yeh know. He looked like a junkie, yeh know.

  Jimmy Sr nodded.

  —All he did all fuckin’ day was listen to tha’ heavy metal shite. Megadeath was one, an’ Anthrax. I speet on them. I told her not to be worryin’, an’ I tried to talk to him, yeh know—

  He raised his eyes.

  —Man to man. Me hole. I wasn’t tha’ worried meself, but he was too young to be like tha’; tha’ was all I thought.

  —So yeh promised him the motorbike.

  —Si. An’ now he wants to stay in school an’ do the Leavin’. First in the family. He’s like his da, said Bertie. —A mercenary bollix.

  They laughed.

  —He’ll go far, said Bimbo.

  —Fuckin’ sure he will, said Bertie.—No flies on our Trevor.

  —Leslie passed his Inter as well, said Jimmy Sr.

  —That’s righ’.

  —Two honours, said Jimmy Sr.—Not red ones either; real ones.

  Anyway, the Living Dead gave Jimmy Sr and Bimbo terrible trouble. It was like that film, Assault on Precinct 13, and the van was Precinct 13. It wasn’t as bad as that, but it was the same thing. Jimmy Sr and Bimbo could never really relax. The Living Dead would rock the van, three or four of them on each side. The oil poured out of the fryer, all the stuff was knocked to the floor, the cup for the grease under the hot plate went over and the grease got into the Mars Bars. It was hard to get out of the van when it was rocking like that, and it was fuckin’ terrifying as well. There wasn’t much weight in it at all; they could have toppled it easily enough. The second time they did it Jimmy Sr managed to catch one of them and he gave him a right hiding, up against the side of the van; clobbered every bit of him he could reach. He thought he was teaching him a lesson but when he stopped and let go of him the kid just spat at him. He just spat at him. And walked away, back to the rest of them. They didn’t care if they were caught. They didn’t say anything to him or shout back at him; they just stared out at him from under their hoodies. He wasn’t angry when he climbed back into the van. He was frightened; not that they’d do it again, not that - but that there was nothing he could do to stop them. And, Jesus, they were only kids. Why didn’t they laugh or call him a fat fucker or something?