by Roddy Doyle
They lit fires under the van; they robbed the bars that held up the hatch; they cut through the gas tubes; they took the bricks from under the wheels.
Jimmy Sr was looking out the hatch, watching the houses go by, when he remembered that the houses shouldn’t have been going anywhere. The fuckin’ van was moving! It was before they got the engine. Himself and Bimbo baled out the back door but Sharon wouldn’t jump. The van didn’t crash into anything, and it wasn’t much of a hill. It just stopped. The Living Dead had taken the bricks from behind the wheels, that was what had happened. It was funny now but it was far from fuckin’ funny at the time.
Jimmy Sr knew them, that was the worst thing about it. The last time he’d walked across O‘Connell Bridge he’d seen this knacker kid, a tiny little young fella, crouched in against the granite all by himself, with a plastic bag up to his face. He was sniffing glue. It was terrible—how could his parents let him do that? - but at least he didn’t know him. It was like when he heard that Veronica’s brother’s wife’s sister’s baby had been found dead in the cot when they got up one morning; it was terrible sad, but he didn’t know the people so it was like any baby dying, just sad. But he knew the names of all these kids, most of them. Larry O’Rourke’s young lad, for instance; Laurence, he was one of them. It depressed him, so it did. Thank God Leslie was out of it, working away somewhere.
The ordinary kids around, the more normal ones, they were always messing around the van as well. But at least you could get a good laugh out of them, even if they got on your wick. One of them - Jimmy Sr didn’t know him, but he liked him - told Bimbo to give him a fiver or he’d pretend to get sick at the hatch every time someone came near the van. And he did it. There was a woman coming towards them, looking like she was making her mind up, and your man bent over and made the noises, and he had something in his mouth and he let it drop onto the road, scrunched-up crisps or something. And that made the woman’s mind up for her. Jimmy Sr went after him with one of the bars from the hatch but he wasn’t interested in catching him. The ordinary bowsies robbed the bars from the hatch, and messed with the gas and rocked the van as well, but it was different. When they legged it they could hardly run cos they were laughing so much. Jimmy Sr and Bimbo nearly liked it. These kids fancied Sharon as well so they came to look in at her. It would have been good for business, only they never had any fuckin’ money. Sometimes, Fridays especially, they were drunk. He didn’t like that. They were falling around the place, pushing each other onto the road. They were too young. They got the cider and cans from an off-licence two stops away on the DART; Darren told him that. Jimmy Sr was going to phone the guards, to report the off-licence, but he never got round to it.
One night the kids went too far. They started throwing stones at the van; throwing them hard. Bimbo, Jimmy Sr and Sharon got an almighty fright when they heard the first bash, until they guessed what was happening. They were flinging the stones at the hot plate side. When he saw the dints the stones were making, fuckin’ big lumps like boils, Jimmy Sr nearly went through the roof. That was real damage they were doing. He grabbed one of the hatch bars and let an almighty yell out of him when he jumped out the back door. They weren’t going to throw any stones at him, he knew that; it was only the noise they were enjoying. So he knew he wasn’t exactly jumping to his death, but he still felt good when he landed, turned at them and saw the fear hop into their faces. Then he went for them. They legged it, and he kept after them. A kick up the hole would teach these guys a lesson. They weren’t like the Living Dead. There were five of them and when they turned and went up the verge onto the Green there were more of them, a mixed gang, young fellas and young ones, little lads sticking to their big brothers. Jimmy Sr wasn’t angry any more. He’d keep going to the middle of the Green, maybe catch one of the little lads or a girlfriend and take them hostage. He was closing in on one tiny kid who was trying to keep his tracksuit bottoms up. Jimmy Sr could hear the panic in the little lad’s breath. He’d just enough breath left himself to catch him, and then he’d call it a day.
Then he saw them.
He stopped and nearly fell over.
The twins. He barely saw Linda but it was definitely Tracy, nearly diving into the lane behind the clinic. Grabbing a young fella’s jumper to stay up. Then she was gone, but he’d seen enough.
The treacherous little bitches. Wait till he told Sharon.
He turned back to the van. He found the bar where he’d dropped it.
His own daughters, sending young fellas to throw stones at their da. With their new haircuts that he’d fuckin’ paid for last Saturday.
He’d scalp the little wagons.
—You’ve no proof, said Linda.
—I seen yeh, said Jimmy Sr, again.
—You’ve no witnesses.
—I fuckin’ seen yeh.
—Well, it wasn’t me annyway, said Tracy.
—Or me, said Linda.
—It was youse, said Jimmy Sr.—An’ if I hear anny more lies an’ guff ou’ o’ yis I’ll take those fuckin’ haircuts back off yis. And another thing. If yis go away before yis have this place cleaned properly - properly now, righ’ - I’ll ground yis.
He climbed out of the van.
—The floors an’ the walls, righ’. An’ if yis do a good job I might let yis off from doin’ the ceilin’.
He looked in at them.
—An’ that’ll fuckin’ teach yis for hangin’ around with gangsters.
Linda crossed her arms and stared back at him.
—I didn’t spend a fortune on your hair, said Jimmy Sr, —so yis could get picked up by snot-nosed little corner boys.
He loved watching the twins when they were annoyed; they were gas.
—Next time yis are lookin’ for young fellas go down to the snobby houses an’ get off with some nice respectable lads, righ’.
—Will yeh listen to him, he heard Linda saying to Tracy.
—He hasn’t a clue, said Tracy.
—Righ’, said Jimmy Sr.—Off yis go. The sooner yeh start the sooner yis’ll be finished. Mind yeh don’t get your flares dirty now.
—They’re not flares, righ’! They’re baggies.
He closed the door on them.
They’d do a lousy job, he knew that. It served them right though; it would give them something to think about, that and the hiding Sharon had given them last night. Veronica had had to go into the room to break up the fight.
He listened at the door. He held the handle. He couldn’t hear anything. He opened it quickly.
Linda was wiping the walls, kind of. Tracy was pushing a cloth over the floor with her foot.
—Do it properly!
—I am!
—PROPERLY!
—Jesus; there’s no need to shout, yeh know.
—I’ll fuckin’—
—Can we get the radio? said Linda.
—No!
—Ah, Jesus—
Jimmy Sr shut the door.
The weather stayed poxy well into July. But it was alright; the Dollymount patch was a long-term investment, Maggie explained. They took it easier; they only brought the van out at night, except on Fridays at teatime for the £1 Specials. They had time for the odd round of pitch ‘n’ putt, and their game hadn’t suffered too much because of the lack of practice. Jimmy Sr always won.
They stuck close to Barrytown but they kept an eye on the newspapers to see if there was anything worth going further for. Maggie scoured the Independent in the mornings and the Herald later to see if there were any big concerts coming up, or football matches. They were going to get the van as close as they could to Croke Park for the Leinster Final between Dublin and Meath. They’d have to be there before the start because all the Meath lads coming up from the country wouldn’t have had their dinners. So they had that Sunday afternoon pencilled in; Maggie’d done out a chart. The Horse Show was coming up as well but they weren’t going to bother with that; the horsey crowd didn’t eat chips.
—The
y eat fuckin’ caviar an’ tha’ sort o’ shite, said Jimmy Sr.
—An’ grouse an’ pheasant, said Bimbo.
—Exactly, said Jimmy Sr.—Yeh’d be all fuckin’ day tryin’ to get the batter to stay on a pheasant.
There were some big concerts coming up as well.
—Darren tells me they’re called gigs, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo and Maggie.
Maggie held her biro over the chart.
—What abou’ this one on Saturday? she said.
—Who is it again? said Bimbo.
—The The, said Maggie.
—Is tha’ their name? said Bimbo. The The, only?
—That’s wha’ it says here, said Maggie.
She had the Herald open on the kitchen table.
—Well?
—Darren says they’re very good, said Jimmy Sr.—He says they’re important.
—Will there be many there?
—He doesn’t know. He thinks so, but he’s not sure.
—Well—
—I think we should give it a bash, said Jimmy Sr.
—Yeah,but—
Maggie took over from Bimbo.
—You’ll be lettin’ down your regulars.
—There is tha’ to consider, said Bimbo.—Yeah.
—Wha’ d’yeh mean? said Jimmy Sr.
—It’s on on Saturday nigh’, said Maggie.—We always do very well outside the Hikers on Saturday nights.
What did she mean, We? She’d never been as much as inside the van in her—
—I see wha’ yeh mean, said Jimmy Sr.—There could be thousands at this gig though.
—It’s a bit risky but, said Bimbo.—Isn’t it?
—Well, said Maggie.—It’s up to yourselves—
Jimmy Sr didn’t want a row; and, anyway, they were probably right. They decided just to do midweek gigs and to concentrate on the closing-time market at the weekends.
—There’s a festival in Thurles, said Maggie.
—It can stay there, said Jimmy Sr.
He’d fight this one; there was no way he was going all the way down to Tipperary just to sell a few chips. But it was alright; Bimbo nearly fell over when Maggie mentioned Thurles.
—Ah, no, said Bimbo.
—Just a thought, said Maggie.
—We’ll stick to Dublin, said Bimbo.—Will we, Jimmy?
—Def’ny.
Jimmy Sr felt good after that. He’d been starting to think that Bimbo and Maggie rehearsed these meetings.
Sharon had started going with a chap called Barry, a nice enough fella—some kind of an insurance man; she’d already broken it off twice and him once, but they were back together and madly in love, judging by the size of the love bites Jimmy Sr’d seen on Barry’s neck the last time he’d called around. So Sharon wasn’t keen on working nights any more. They tried a few nights without her, just the two of them, but it was a killer. So Jimmy Sr said he’d recruit Darren—before Maggie came up with some bright idea. Darren already had his job in the Hikers but he was only getting two nights a week out of that, so Jimmy Sr reckoned he’d jump at the chance of making a few extra shillings. But—
—I’m a vegetarian, Darren told him.
—Wha’!?
Darren shrugged.
—You as well? said Jimmy Sr.—Jaysis.—Hang on but—
He’d been watching Darren eating his dinners and his teas since he was a baby.
—Since when?
—Oh—Tuesday.
—Ah, now here—
—I’d been thinkin’ about it for a long time and I just made up me, eh—
—Okay, said Jimmy Sr.—Okay.
He raised his hands.
—Good luck to yeh.—Do vegetarians eat fish?
—Yeah; some do.
—Do you?
—Yeah.
—That’s grand so, said Jimmy Sr.—You can just do the fish an’ meself an’ Bimbo’ll handle the rest. How’s tha’?
Darren was a broke vegetarian.
—Okay, he said.—Eh—okay.
—Sound, said Jimmy Sr.
They shook on it. That was great. It would be terrific having Darren working beside him, fuckin’ marvellous.
—Wha’ abou’ burgers? said Jimmy Sr.
Darren didn’t look happy.
—There’s fuck all meat in them, Jimmy Sr assured him.
—No.
—Fair enough, said Jimmy Sr.
He liked the way Darren had said no.
—I was just chancin’ me arm, he said.—How’s Miranda?
—Okay, said Darren.
—Good, said Jimmy Sr.—She’s a lovely-lookin’ girl.
Darren wanted to escape but what his da had said there needed some sort of an answer.
—Thanks, he said.—Yeah; she’s fine. Someone ran over her dog a few weeks ago, and she was a bit—, but she’s alrigh’ now.
—Where was tha’? said Jimmy Sr.
—Howth.
—A Jack Russell?
—Eh, yeah. How did yeh know?
—I didn’t, Jimmy Sr told him.—It’s just, nearly all the dogs yeh see dead on the road seem to be Jack Russells. Did yeh ever notice tha’ yourself?
—No.
—Keep an eye ou’ for them an’ yeh’ll see what I mean.
The weather picked up. There were a few good, sunny days on the trot and suddenly everyone was going around looking scalded.
—Thunderbirds are go, said Jimmy Sr.
They got to Dollymount at half-three. Sharon was with them. There was a Mister Whippy on their spot. Bimbo had a photocopy of the Corporation permit in his back pocket. Jimmy Sr took it and went up to have it out with Mister Whippy. He got in the queue, with Sharon. Bimbo stayed with the van. The kid in front of Jimmy Sr ran off with his two 99s to get back to the beach before they melted, and Jimmy Sr was next.
—Yeah? said Mister Whippy. Jimmy Sr looked up at him.
—What d’yeh want? said Mister Whippy.
—Justice, said Jimmy Sr.
He held out the permit and waved it.
—Have a decco at tha’, he said.
Mister Whippy, a spotty young lad, looked scared.
—What is it? said the young fella.
—Can yeh not read? said Jimmy Sr.
—It’s a permit, said Sharon.
—That’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr.—My glamorous assistant, Sharon, is quite correct there.
Young Mister Whippy was still lost but he was braver as well.
—So wha’? he said.
—So fuck off, said Jimmy Sr.
He took back the permit.
—It’s ours, he said.—We paid for this patch here, where you are. We did, you didn’t. You’ve no righ’ to be here, so hop it; go on.
Mister Whippy couldn’t decide what to do.
—Go on, said Jimmy Sr.—Yeh can go over to the other side o’ the roundabout.
—No one’ll see me there.
—We’ll tell them you’re there, said Jimmy Sr.—Won’t we?
—Yeah, said Sharon.
—An’ anyway, said Jimmy Sr.—Yeh can play your music an’ they’ll hear yeh.
Mister Whippy still didn’t look too sure.
—Listen, said Jimmy Sr.—Shift now or we’ll fuckin’ ram yeh.
He stepped back from the van and shouted.
—Rev her up there, Bimbo!
Bimbo turned the key and then Mister Whippy got behind the wheel and did the same thing, and moved away around to the far side of the roundabout, away from the dunes.
—Seeyeh, said Sharon and she waved.
Bimbo brought the van up to them.
Mister Whippy turned on The Teddy Bears’ Picnic.
—They’re playin’ our song, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo.
For about a week the weather stayed that way, grand and hot, no sign of a cloud. They came down to Dollier at half-three or so and stayed till half-six and went home with a clatter of new pound coins jingling away in their money box. It was easy enough going; di
dn’t get hectic till after five. Sharon went over to the beach and got some sun and Jimmy Sr and Bimbo hung around the van and watched the world go by. Then coming up to teatime they’d climb into the van and stoke up the furnace. Then the crowds came up over the dunes and the smell hit them, and no one can resist the smell of chips.
The only bad thing was having to stare down at all those peeling faces staring up at you outside the van. Noses, arms, foreheads; it was fuckin’ revolting. Red raw young ones with shivery legs would take their bags of stuff and give you their money, turn around to get away from the van and they’d be white on the other side. Sharon wasn’t like that; she’d more sense. She did herself front and back and the sides as well, even.
—Like a well-cooked burger, Jimmy Sr told her.
—Jesus!
—It’s a compliment, it’s a compliment.
—Thanks!
The only other bad thing about the beach business was the sand. It got into everything. Even with no wind to blow it they’d find a layer of it on the hatch counter, on the shelves, grains of it floating on top of the cooking oil before they lit the burner; everywhere. Jimmy Sr did a burger for himself and when he bit into it, before his teeth met, he could feel the sand in the bundle. He chewed very carefully. When they got the van back to Bimbo’s they had to get damp cloths and go over everything with them, to pick up the sand, but they never got all of it. Jimmy Sr always had a shower before he went out again to do the closing-time business and there was enough sand up his hole and in his ears to build a block of flats. He couldn’t understand it because he never went down to the beach, except once or twice to see if there was anything worth looking at; and there never was, hardly ever. He’d keep his eyes on the ground till he got to the beach and then he’d look around him, hoping, and all he ever saw was scorched gobshites getting more scorched. And white lines where bra straps got in the way of the sun. Dollier definitely wasn’t like the resort in some island in Greece or somewhere he’d seen in a blue video Bertie’d lent him a few years ago; my Jaysis, the women in that place!; walking around with fuck all on, not a bother on them. Climbing out of the pool so that their tits were squeezed together; bending over so he could see the water dripping off their gee hairs. There were no women like that in Dollymount. It was mostly mammies with their kids. Still though, they were good for business. There was nothing like a screaming kid to get a ma to open her purse. He couldn’t see the brassers in that video going mad for chips; and, anyway, they’d probably have wanted them for nothing.
