The Van

by Roddy Doyle

  Jimmy Sr stopped him.

  —know wha’ you’re going to say, Bimbo. And I agree with yeh. They are as good lookin’. But they’re not like those brassers back there, sure they’re not?

  —No, said Bimbo.—Not really.

  —Thank God, wha‘, said Jimmy Sr.—Can yeh imagine lettin’ any o’ them floozies rear your kids?

  —God, said Bimbo.

  Jimmy Sr sat up straight.

  —But, let’s face it, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr.—They’re rides, aren’t they?

  —Ah, I don’t—

  —Go on, yeh cunt. Admit it.

  They laughed. That was good, Jimmy Sr thought. They weren’t on their way home yet.

  —That’s the thing though, said Jimmy Sr, back serious. —Veronica an’ Maggie. We’re lucky fuckin’ men. But they’re wives. Am I makin’ sense?

  —Yeah.

  —Those ones back there aren’t. They might be married an’ tha’ but—they’re more women than wives, eh—Fuck it, that’s the only way I can say it.

  —I know wha’ yeh mean, said Bimbo.

  Jimmy Sr felt so good, like he’d got something huge off his chest.

  —Will I see if they’ll give us another? he said.

  —What abou’—?

  —We’ll get a taxi. Will I have a bash?

  —Okay, said Bimbo.—Yeh’d better make it a short though, Jim. I’m full o’ drink.

  Jimmy Sr picked on the younger barman and managed to get two Jamesons out of him, and that made him feel even better.

  —How’s tha’?

  —Fair play to yeh, said Bimbo.—Good man.

  It was hard getting back down onto the stool, there were so many people around them, but Jimmy Sr did it without pushing anyone too hard. He was dying to get going again with Bimbo.

  —Women like tha’—

  He waited to see if Bimbo was following him.

  —Women like your women go for money, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo.—They’ll wet themselves abou’ any ugly fucker or spastic just as long as they’re rich.

  —I don’t know, said Bimbo.

  —It’s true, said Jimmy Sr.—Look at your woman, Jackie Onassis. You’re not goin’ to tell me tha’ she loved your man, Aristotle, are yeh?

  —She might’ve.

  —Me arse. Sure, she had a contract an’ all drawn up before they got married, guaranteeing her millions o’ dollars; millions.

  —Tha’ doesn’t mean tha’—

  —An’ Grace Kelly.

  —Princess Grace?

  —She only married Prince what’s his fuckin’ name cos he was a prince. An’ Princess Diana as well.

  —Wha’—

  —She only married fuckin’ Big Ears for the same reason.

  —I always thought there was somethin’ a bit odd about that’ match alrigh’.

  —I’m tellin’ yeh, Bimbo, said Jimmy Sr.—There are some women would do annythin’ for money. The women back there in tha’ place would annyway.

  —You could never respect a woman like tha’, said Bimbo.

  —No, Jimmy Sr agreed.—But yeh could ride the arse off her.

  They roared.

  —It’s grand, said Jimmy Sr before they’d really finished laughing.—When yeh think abou’it. If you’ve money, that is.

  —Yeah, said Bimbo.—I suppose. If you’re interested in tha’ sort o’ thing.

  —Who wouldn’t be? said Jimmy Sr.

  Bimbo didn’t say anything, and that was good enough for Jimmy Sr. He had Bimbo thinking with his bollix.

  The pub was beginning to empty. Jimmy Sr looked at his watch; it wasn’t near midnight yet. It was good in a way, because now he could ask Bimbo the question.

  —What’ll we do now?

  Bimbo looked around, like he was waking up.

  —Wha’ d’yeh mean?

  —Where’!! we go? said Jimmy Sr.

  Bimbo looked at his watch.

  —I suppose we’d better head—

  —We can’t go fuckin’ home, said Jimmy Sr.—Not yet. Jaysis; it’s our fuckin’ big night ou’.

  Bimbo was game, Jimmy Sr could tell, but lost. He let him speak first.

  —Where can we go? said Bimbo.

  —Somewhere where we can get a drink, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Ah yeah, said Bimbo.—’Course.

  Jimmy Sr spoke through a yawn.

  —We—we could try Leeson Street, I suppose; I don’t know.—Wha’ d’yeh think? It might be a laugh, wha’.

  Jimmy Sr’s heart was loafing his breast plate.

  So was Bimbo’s.

  —Would yeh get a pint there? he said.

  —Yeh would, yeah, said Jimmy Sr.—No problem.

  They were on their way.

  —Hang on though, said Jimmy Sr out of nowhere. —Wha’ colour socks are yeh wearin’?

  They stopped. Bimbo looked down. He hoisted up a trouser leg.

  —Eh—blue, it looks like—

  —Thank God for tha’, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Why?

  —They don’t let yeh in if you’re wearin’ white socks, he told Bimbo.—The bouncers don’t. They’ve been told not to.

  -Why’s tha’?

  —Don’t know. Young Jimmy warned me about it. Wankers an’ trouble-makers wear white socks.

  —Wouldn’t yeh think they’d cop on an’ wear another colour? said Bimbo.

  —Who?

  —The wankers.

  —True, said Jimmy Sr.—Stilt, that’s wha’ makes them wankers, I suppose.

  —Yeah. Wha’ colour are yeh wearin’ yourself?

  Jimmy didn’t have to look.

  —Not white anyway, he said.

  They dashed to get into the gang of men going down the basement stairs. They were all pissed and loud, a few drinks away from being sick; business men, they looked like, about the same age as Jimmy Sr and Bimbo. The door opened; the ones in front said something to the bouncer; they all laughed, including Jimmy Sr, and they sailed in, no problem. It cost nothing, just like young Jimmy’d said.

  —Thanks very much, Bimbo said when he was going past the bouncer.

  —Shut up, for fuck sake! Jimmy Sr whispered.—Good bouncers can smell fear, he told Bimbo.—They’re like dogs.

  —I only said Thanks to him, said Bimbo.

  —Ah, forget it, said Jimmy Sr.—Forget it.

  They were in now anyway.

  —Will we hand in our jackets? said Bimbo.

  —No, said Jimmy Sr. ’

  A suit without a jacket was just a pair of trousers; his jacket was staying on.

  The wallpaper was that hairy, velvety stuff. This was a good sign, Jimmy Sr decided. There was something about it, something a bit dirty. He could feel the music in the floorboards even before he turned into the dance and bar place. This was the business. He looked to see if Bimbo thought that as well, and caught him gawking into the women’s jacks. Two women were standing at the door, one of them holding it open.

  —Jesus Christ, Bimbo, d‘yeh want to get us fucked ou’ before we’re even in?

  —Wha’?

  —Come on.

  They were a right pair of bints, your women at the jacks door. Women like that didn’t need to piss; they just went in to do their make-up.

  The bar was three-sided; the barmen were done up in red waistcoats and dickie-bows, the poor fuckin’ saps. It was hot. The dance-floor was over beyond the bar, not nearly as big as Jimmy Sr had imagined. The stools at the bar were all taken. Jimmy Sr led the way around the other side, nearer the dance-floor. There were tables further in, past the dance-floor; the mirrors made it hard to say how far the room went back. The only one dancing was a little daisy jumping around like her fanny was itchy. Every couple of seconds, when you thought you were going to get a goo at her knickers, she pulled down her skirt at the sides. She was very young.

  —Are yeh havin’ a pint or wha’? Jimmy Sr asked Bimbo.

  Bimbo was looking at the young one dancing.

  —Is there somethin�
�� wrong with her? said Bimbo.

  Good Jesus, there was the poor young one trying to make every man watching her come in their kaks and Bimbo wanted to know if there was something wrong with her!

  —A pint? said Jimmy Sr.

  —Not here, said Bimbo.

  Jimmy Sr agreed with him; a pint of stout in this place would leave them pebble-dashing the jacks for the rest of the weekend.

  —Budweiser, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Grand.

  He had to shout over the music.

  There were two women at the bar, not too young and just good looking enough. Jimmy Sr got in between their stools.

  —Sorry, girls.

  He lassoed a barman on his way past.

  —Two pints o’ Budweiser, when you’re ready!

  —Wine bar only.

  The barman looked like he’d said this before.

  —Wha’?

  —No beer or spirits. We’ve a wine licence only.

  —Are yeh serious?

  The barman didn’t say anything; he just nodded, and went further down the bar.

  —Good shite, said Jimmy Sr.

  For a second he was lost. Bimbo was at his shoulder.

  —Will he not serve yeh? he asked.

  —He’ll serve me alrigh’, said Jimmy Sr.—Only he’s fuck all that I want.

  One of the women laughed. Jimmy Sr turned to her and grinned; it was that kind of laugh.

  He was away here.

  —Try the wine, said the woman.

  Jimmy Sr stepped back a bit to let Bimbo stand beside him.

  —Wha’ would yeh recommend? he asked her.

  —What’s wrong? Bimbo asked him, right into his ear.

  —Nothinv, said Jimmy Sr.

  He tried to use his eyes to point out the women to him but it wasn’t easy.

  —The house red’s very nice, the woman told Jimmy Sr.

  —Is tha’ righ’? said Jimmy Sr.—Are yis drinkin’ it yourselves?

  —We are, yes, she said.—Aren’t we, Anne Marie?

  —Yeah, said her friend.

  —That’s grand so, said Jimmy Sr.—We’ll have a drop o’ tha’.

  Jimmy Sr stepped back a bit more to include the friend, the one called Anne Marie, and he had a quick look at Bimbo to see if he’d copped on, and he had. He was gawking at Anne Marie.

  —I’m Jimmy, by the way, he told the girls.—An’ this is Bim—

  He couldn’t remember Bimbo’s real name.

  —Brendan, said Bimbo.

  That was it.

  —Brendan, said Jimmy Sr.

  —Hello, Brendan, said the woman.—Well, my name’s Dawn. And this is Anne Marie.

  —Howyis, said Jimmy Sr.

  He spoke to Anne Marie.

  —Two names, wha’. Is one not good enough for yeh?

  She didn’t get it. He smiled to let her know he was only messing and turned back to Dawn.

  —Better order the oul’ vino, he said.—The house somethin’, didn’t yeh say?

  He got in closer to Dawn - great fuckin’ name, that - and gave Bimbo loads of room to manoeuvre for himself.

  —The house red, said Dawn.

  —Grand, said Jimmy Sr.—An’ it’s the business, is it?

  —It’s quite nice, said Dawn.—I think myself anyway. And it’s quite reasonably priced.

  —Never mind the price, said Jimmy Sr.—Let me an’ Bim—Brendan worry abou’ the price. Here!

  He’d captured a barman.

  —A bottle o’ house red wine, like a good man.

  This was great. There weren’t bad-looking birds at all. Nicely done up; just the right side of brassy. Somewhere in their thirties. Dawn had the fine set of lungs on her, and her arse fitted nicely on the stool; there was nothing flowing over the sides. Her eyelashes were huge, but they looked real enough. He could see the dark roots in her hair; another couple of months and she’d look like a skunk. But she’d get her hair done again long before that happened. She took care of herself. She’d do grand.

  There was something about Anne Marie as well though.

  Bimbo edged in closer, but he wouldn’t look at her for too long. He leaned on the bar.

  The barman had come back with the wine.

  —Just park it there, son, Jimmy Sr told the barman.

  Anne Marie was fatter than Dawn; not fat though, no way. If he’d been standing right at the bar he’d have been able to see right up to her arse the way her legs were crossed. She was smoking one of those thin cigars. Her expression; it was like she didn’t give a shite about anything. He was sure she went like a fuckin’ sewing machine, certain of it.

  —He wants to know do you want to taste it first, Dawn told Jimmy Sr.

  —Fuckin’ sure I do, said Jimmy Sr.—Pardon the French, Dawn.

  He leaned past her, brushed against her - she didn’t move back - and picked up the glass. There was only half a mouthful in it. He put his nose to the glass, and sniffed.

  —Ah, yes, he said.

  Dawn laughed.

  —Very ginnick, said Jimmy Sr.

  He took a sip, leaned back and gargled. Even Anne Marie laughed. He swallowed.

  —A-one, he said.

  He gave the barman the thumbs up.

  —Pour away, compadre, he said.—How much is tha’?

  —Twenty-three pounds, sir.

  —Wha’?

  He hadn’t heard him.

  —Twenty-three pounds.

  —Grand—

  My fuckin’ Jesus—!

  He handed over a twenty and a fiver. Thank Christ, his hand wasn’t shaking.

  —There yeh go, he said.—Keep the change.

  —Thank you very much, sir.

  —No problem.

  If he didn’t get his hole after forking out twenty-five snots for a poxy bottle of wine he’d He looked at Bimbo; he looked like he’d got a wallop off a stun-gun. Jimmy Sr grinned and smiled at him, and winked. Bimbo smiled back. Dawn was pouring the drink. Jimmy Sr would have to go to the jacks in a bit to see how much money he’d left. It was a long walk home to Barrytown.

  —Cheers, Jimmy.

  Dawn was holding her glass up, waiting for the others to join in.

  —Yes, indeed, said Jimmy Sr.

  He picked up his glass. He had to shout over the music.

  —Cheers, eh—Dawn.

  He laughed, and so did she.

  They all clinked their glasses.

  —Cheers, Brendan, said Jimmy Sr.

  Bimbo looked to see who he was talking to, then remembered.

  —Oh, thanks very much.

  Twenty-five fuckin’ quid. He could probably have got a wank in a massage parlour for that, and the fuckin’ bottle was nearly empty already. He’d have to buy another one in a minute. He put his hand against the bar, across Dawn’s back, just barely touching it. She stayed put. Anne Marie helped herself to another glass. She had the look of a dipso about her alright; another year and she’d be in rag order. The music was shite.

  —Great sounds, said Dawn.

  —Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.—Brilliant.

  He nodded his head as he spoke cos it was very loud; the thump-thump-thump crap that young Jimmy used to play when he lived at home. She had to put her mouth up near his ear.

  —Wha’? he said.

  It was fuckin’ ridiculous.

  —Are the two of you out on the town for the night? she asked.

  She was asking him were they married, Jimmy Sr reckoned.

  —Ah no, he said.—No.—Not really. This is nothin’ special.

  She nodded.

  Maybe she didn’t care. He put his hand in his pocket to adjust his gooter - the way she kept putting her mouth up to his ear -. Bimbo was chatting away to Anne Marie. Fair play to him. He’d thought that Bimbo might be a liability. But no, they were nodding and yapping away; he was doing his bit. Anne Marie had her glass leaning on her bottom lip. When Dawn turned to get her glass off the bar Jimmy Sr got his hand in under his gooter and yanked it in
to an upright position - and Anne Marie was looking at him. He pretended he’d spilt some wine on his trousers and he was inspecting them to see if there was a stain.

  —What’s wrong?

  Dawn was looking at him now.

  —Ah, nothin’.

  He looked: Anne Marie was back looking at Bimbo, and the bulge was going. No harm.—He hoped it wasn’t the drink. He was feeling a bit pissed now alright; that wine on top of all the pints.

  Dawn got to his ear.

  —What do you do, Jimmy?

  —When I’m not here, d’yeh mean?

  She laughed, and leaned back against his arm and stayed there.

  —Self-employed, he told her.—Me an’ Bren.

  —Ver-y good.

  —Caterin’.

  —Good.

  He could feel the heat coming off Dawn, he was right up against her. And there wasn’t a bit of sweat on her. He wondered how she did it.

  —It’s great bein’ your own boss, said Jimmy Sr.

  —I’d say you’re a tough boss to work for, Jimmy.

  —No, said Jimmy Sr.—Not really now. I’m reasonable enough.

  Dawn nodded.

  —I don’t take shite from annyone, Jimmy Sr told her—But once that’s established—yeh know.

  The DJ was taking a breather, thank fuck. He’d put on a tape, but the noise wasn’t half as bad. They could have a chat altogether now, and Jimmy Sr could keep an eye on Bimbo.

  —Here!

  —Yes, sir? said the barman.

  —Another bottle o’ house red wine, said Jimmy Sr. —How’s it goin’? he asked Bimbo and Anne Marie.

  —There y’are, said Bimbo.

  Anne Marie was staring at Jimmy Sr, right into his face. He pretended she wasn’t. Bimbo was grinning, like he always did when he’d more than ten pints inside in him, and swaying a bit, but not dangerously. The suit made him look less pissed than he was.

  Jimmy Sr looked again. Your woman, Anne Marie, was still looking at him.

  Then she spoke.

  —Your complexions are very good, she said. —Considering.

  —Considering what, Anne Marie? said Dawn.

  —Where they work.

  Bimbo! The fuckin’ eejit!

  —Where do they work? said Dawn.

  —In a van, said Anne Marie.

  He’d fuckin’ kill him. Grinning away there!

  He stayed close up to Dawn—just to remember how it felt.

  —Here’s the wine, said Bimbo.—My twist. Twenty-three quid, isn’t that it?

  —They have a chipper van, said Anne Marie.