The Van

There really was a huge crowd out. It was a bit like Gandhi’s funeral in the film, except noisier. It was more like the Tour de France, the neighbours at the side of the road clapping and whooping, the cynical bastards.

— Hey Jimmy, are yeh pushin’ it or ridin’ it!?

And they all laughed, the eejits, like sheep.

— Yeow, Jimmy!

— Hey, look it! Mister Rabbitte’s wearin’ stripy kaks!

God, he wanted to kill someone when he heard that. Veronica was right; he should never have tucked his shirt inside his underpants; she’d been saying it for years. He tried to stand up straighter when he was pushing to make the underpants go back down in behind his trousers but he was probably too late, and he couldn’t put a hand behind and shove them back down; that would only have been giving in to them.

— Here, lads, look at the skidmarks!

Some people would laugh at anything. A kid had his ghetto blaster on full blast; it was like a jaysis circus. Only a couple of gates left and they’d be at Bimbo’s gate and it would be over. The worst part but, was earlier, going past the Hikers, not only because he’d have loved a pint but because loads of the lads came out with their pints and sat on the wall laughing and slagging them. Larry O‘Rourke was offering 3/1 that Jimmy Sr would die before they got to Bimbo’s. Ha fuckin’ ha. By Jaysis, the next bank holiday that fucker got up with the band and started doing his Elvis impressions Jimmy Sr would let him know who he really sounded like; Christy fuckin’ Brown.

— Come on, three to one Jimmy snuffs it. Anny takers?

— That’s a fuckin’ big pram he’s pushin’, isn’t it?

Jimmy Sr looked up to see who’d said that and it was Bertie.

He couldn’t believe it. He’d only enough breath in him to say one thing back at them.

— Fuck yis.

He got a bit more air in.

— Yis cunts.

They were there. Just one last big push up onto the path and into Bimbo’s drive and it was over.

Jimmy Sr couldn’t stand up straight for a while, his back was killing him. The sweat was worse though. He was wringing. His shoes squelched, his shirt was stuck to him, his arse was wet. He sat down on the grass. The twins wanted money for helping.

— Get lost, he managed to say.

— Ah, that’s not fair—

— Fuck off!

Jimmy Sr got the sweat out of his eyes and looked at Bimbo and Maggie looking at the van. Not a bother on Bimbo, of course; he didn’t even look dirty. He had his arm around Maggie’s shoulders and the two of them were gawking at the van like it was their first fuckin’ grandchild. Bimbo was anyway; Maggie didn’t look as delighted. You couldn’t blame her. If her first grandchild was in the same state as the van she’d want to smother it, and nobody would object. Then they looked at each other and started laughing and then they looked at the van and stopped laughing, and then they started again. It was nice really, seeing them like that.

Then Bimbo noticed Jimmy Sr on the grass.

About fuckin’ time.

— Tha’ was great gas, wasn’t it? he said.

— Eh — yeah. Yeah.

— D‘yeh know wha’ I think? said Bimbo then.

And he waited for Jimmy Sr to give him the green light.

— Wha’? said Jimmy Sr.

— It doesn’t look nearly as bad here, away from that other place.

He was talking through his arse, of course, but Jimmy Sr gave him the answer he was dying for.

— You’re righ’, yeh know, he said.

— The more I look at it, said Bimbo, — the more I think we’re after gettin’ a bargain; d’yeh know tha’.

Ah, thought Jimmy Sr, God love him.

— Yeh might be righ’ there, he said.

— This sounds stupid now, said Bimbo.

Maggie had come over now as well.

— But I think that it’s a godsend tha’ there’s no engine in it. We got it for nothin’.

— Umm, said Maggie.

They’d got it for eight hundred quid. Maggie’d put her foot down at seven hundred and fifty until Bertie’d introduced her to the owner with one of his motherless children, the youngest, in his arms.

— Poor Jimmy looks like he could do with a drink, Maggie told Bimbo.

— He’s not the only one, said Bimbo. — Wait now till I do somethin’ first.

He went through to the back of the house and came back with two bricks and put them behind the back wheels.

— There now, he said. — She’s rightly anchored.

He tapped one of the bricks with his foot and it didn’t budge.

— Tha’ should hold it annyway, he said.

He was pleased with his work.

— I’ll put a chain on the gate later, he told Maggie. — To make sure tha’ no young fellas decide to rob it durin’ the nigh’.

— Good thinkin’ tha’, said Jimmy Sr.

There actually were a few young fellas in Barrytown that nearly would have robbed even as worthless a pile of shite as poor Bimbo’s van, just for the crack. They’d’ve robbed themselves if there was no one else, some of the little bastards around here.

Jimmy Sr was feeling normal again.

— Could yeh manage a pint, Jim? Bimbo asked him.

— It’s abou’ the only thing I could manage, said Jimmy Sr.

— Come on so, said Bimbo. — Wha’ abou’ yourself, Maggie?

— No, said Maggie. — Thirtysomething’s on in a minute.

— She never misses it, Bimbo told Jimmy Sr when they were going to the gate. — She won’t video it either. She has to watch it live.

That was when they found the window. Bimbo’s kids were inside in the van exploring and Wayne put his foot through it. Bimbo got them all out and checked Wayne’s foot. It was grand, no cuts or anything. Then he told the kids to stay out of the van cos it was dangerous until they got all the grease off the floor and, to the two youngest, that it was full of spiders that bit you and then he pretended to lock the door with one of his house keys.

He was good with the kids; they’d all listened to him.

— Now, he said when he’d done it.

He patted the door and wiped his hand on his trousers and they went up to the Hikers.

Jimmy Sr needed bubbles. Darren was working in the bar, collecting the glasses and that, and he recommended Budweiser. Jimmy Sr was looking suspiciously at the glass. He lifted it and took a sip, then a bigger one and then a much bigger one.

— It’s not tha’ bad, he said.

The seat was nice and cold against his back.

Bimbo was very giddy, looking around him all the time, shifting, waving at every wanker that walked in.

— Settle down, will yeh, said Jimmy Sr.

— Wha’?

— You’re like a performin’ flea there, Jimmy Sr told him. — You’re makin’ me fuckin’ nervous.

— Sorry, said Bimbo. — It’s just—. Ah, yeh know.

He lifted his pint.

— Well, Jim, cheers, he said for the third time.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

— Will yeh have another one? Bimbo asked him.

— There’s no—

— Go on.

— Fair enough, said Jimmy Sr. — Thanks very much; there’s no need. — Make it Guinness but, will yeh.

— Good man, said Bimbo. — Darren! Two pints o’ Guinness, like a good man, please.

— Poor Darren’ll be doin’ his Leavin’ durin’ the World Cup, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo. — Isn’t tha’ shockin’?

— Ah that’s shockin’, said Bimbo.

— Fuckin’ terrible, said Jimmy Sr.

And Darren arrived with the pints and Jimmy Sr let him take the rest of the Budweiser.

— It’s like drinkin’ fuckin’ Andrews, he sort of apologised to Bimbo.

— Not to worry, said Bimbo.

He gave Darren a big tip when he was going.

— I was thinkin’, said Bimbo. — We’ll have to have the van ready in time for the World Cup.

Jimmy Sr didn’t like the sound of that. We’ll.

He said nothing.

— The pubs’ll be jammered, said Bimbo.

He still said nothing.

— An’ there’ll be no cookin’ done, said Bimbo. — ’Specially if Ireland do well.

— They will, said Jimmy Sr. — Don’t worry.

— It’s a great opportunity, said Bimbo. — Everyone’ll be watchin’ the telly for the whole month.

— So will I, said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeah, said Bimbo. — It should be smashin’.

They drank. It was good to be back on the Guinness. They’d have a chat now about the World Cup. Jimmy Sr felt good now. He sang softly.

— OLÉ—OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ—Did yeh hear tha’ song yet, Bimbo?

— Which; the Ireland one?

— The official one, yeah.

— Ah, I did, yeah, said Bimbo.

— Isn’t it brilliant? said Jimmy Sr.

— Terrific.

Jimmy Sr tried to do Jack Charlton.

— Put them uunder presheh.

— D’yeh want to be me partner, Jim? said Bimbo.

— Wha’s tha’?

He’d heard Bimbo alright but he was confused.

— Would yeh think abou’ becomin’ me partner? said Bimbo.

He looked serious in a way that only Bimbo could look; deadly serious.

— We’d make a great team, said Bimbo. — I was talkin’ to Maggie about it.

— Jaysis—, said Jimmy Sr. — Eh, thanks very much, Bimbo. I don’t know—

— Will yeh think about it annyway? said Bimbo.

— I will, Jimmy Sr assured him. — I will. — Thanks.

— No, said Bimbo. — You’d be doin’ me a favour.

— Oh, I know tha’, said Jimmy Sr.

They laughed, and that gave Jimmy Sr a chance to wipe his eyes. He said it again.

— Thanks very much.

He took a big breath.

— Fuckin’ hell, he said then. — What a day.

Wait till Veronica heard.

— McDonalds can go an’ fuck themselves, he said to Bimbo. — Isn’t tha’ righ’?

Bimbo laughed, delighted.

— That’s righ’.

They laughed again.

— Bimbo’s Burgers, said Jimmy Sr. — How does tha’ sound?

Bimbo clapped his hands.

— I knew it! he said.

He held his hand out, and Jimmy Sr took it and didn’t let go of it for ages.

Then he dropped Bimbo’s hand.

— Hang on though, he said.

He looked very worried.

— Do I have to help you clean it?

He watched Bimbo deciding if he was joking or not and then the two of them roared and shook hands again.

Veronica was lying beside him, nearly asleep, God love her; she’d been studying all night for her exams. She’d told him how to make chips and it seemed easy enough.

These were good chips, the ones he was eating now. They always were in the summer. There’d be a terrible smell of vinegar in the bedroom in the morning though.

He’d bought a sausage-in-batter tonight as well. He held it up to the light coming in where the curtain stopped short of the wall, to get a decent look at it. He looked down at Veronica.

— Veronica? he whispered.

He didn’t want to talk to her unless she was awake anyway.

— Mmmm? said Veronica.

— Are yeh awake?

— What?

— Only if you’re awake.

— Go on, said Veronica.

— How do they make these? said Jimmy Sr.

He brought the sausage down to the pillow so she could see it properly.

Veronica snorted, kind of.

— I don’t know, she said. — I don’t think they make them. I think they just find them.

She found his knee and gave it a squeeze.

There was only a month to go to the start of the World Cup so, as Bimbo said, they had it all to do. It wasn’t even a full month, a bit less than four weeks.

They walked around the van again.

— Righ‘, said Bimbo. — We’ll never get it cleaned up by just lookin’ at it.

So he went through the house to the back and got his hose and rigged it up to the tap in the kitchen and brought the hose out to the front through the hall.

— Wha’ colour is it annyway? Jimmy Sr asked.

— White! said Bimbo.

— How d’yeh know?

— All chipper vans are whi’e, said Bimbo. — Stand back there, Jimmy.

He roared into the hall.

— Righ’! Turn her on.

Someone inside turned on the cold tap and Bimbo pointed the hose at the side of the van. The water came out in two gushes and then in a steady stream and Bimbo went up close so the water would drum against the wall of the van. It made an impressive sound, and brought some of the neighbours out to watch. Bimbo sprayed right across; he put his thumb to the nozzle and aimed at one spot and held the jet of water at it for ages — but he might as well have been pissing at it for all the good it did.

— Okay! Turn her off! — Turn her off!!

He sounded annoyed.

The water slowed down and stopped altogether.

— Will yeh switch it on to the hot tap!? Bimbo yelled.

Maggie answered.

— I used up all the hot doin’ the clothes.

— Ah, God almighty, Bimbo said quietly.

He let the hose drop. They studied the side of the van.

The dirt was still there, solid as ever, only shinier now because of the water. It looked even worse that way, almost healthy and alive.

— How did it get greasy on the fuckin’ outside? Jimmy Sr asked.

— God knows, said Bimbo.

— Yeh could understand the inside, said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeah, said Bimbo. — Yeah.

— What’ll we do now? Jimmy Sr wanted to know.

Bimbo scraped a clot of grease off with his fingernail.

— It does come off, he said.

Jimmy Sr did the same.

— Yeah, he said. — Fuckin’hell though, Bimbo. It’s goin’ to take fuckin’ years.

— Not at all, said Bimbo.

They got paint scrapers, five of them, from Barney’s Hardware and attacked the van with them, and then they started getting somewhere. Once you got the blade in under the grease and the dirt it came away easily enough. It was a little bit disgusting alright but at least they could see that it was working, the grease was coming off, and that made up for it. But the feel of it was horrible, and the smell; it was hard to describe, fuckin’ terrible though. Jimmy Sr could smell it on his hands even after putting some of Veronica’s Oil of Ulay all over them. And his clothes; he’d have roasted himself if he’d sat too close to the fire after a day’s work. Veronica said she’d never seen dirt like it; she said it the first four days he came home, but she didn’t say it like she was annoyed, more like she was fascinated.

They concentrated on the outside. They were both too scared to look carefully inside, but they didn’t say anything. They just did their work. They scraped all day and when they started sliding because of the grease on the ground they stopped and hosed the path and went at it with the yard brush. Bimbo got sawdust from the butchers and sprinkled it on top of the grease and that way they didn’t have to interrupt the work too often. It was manky work though, messy and slow. But Maggie said it wouldn’t go on for ever and she was right; it just felt that way. He’d get up at eight and go down to Bimbo’s and look at the bit he’d done the day before and it was like he’d never touched it; it was still filthy and shiny. But, then again, he’d be scraping away, breathing through his mouth, listening to the radio or chatting with Bimbo, and he’d see that there was no more grease to scrape off in this part; he’d reached the end, there was just white paint, a small island of it.

He felt brilliant the first time that happened and he didn’t stop working till eight o’clock.

They were getting there.

There was more than just the cleaning of the van, of course. They had to become chefs before the end of the month, which was no fuckin’ joke. The first time he made chips, at home, he put far too much oil into the pan and nearly set fire to the fuckin’ kitchen when he lowered the chips into it. It frightened the shite out of him. But Veronica was a good teacher, very patient; she even let him make the dinner one night, which was very decent of her. He made a bit of a bollix of it — burnt fuck out of the burgers; it was like eating little hubcaps — but no one complained. She showed him how to peel spuds without peeling the skin off your hands as well, how to always peel out, away from your body, so you didn’t stab yourself.

He cut his wrist the first time he did it; not cut it exactly, more scraped, but it was very fuckin’ sore all the same. He nearly went out the window when Veronica put Dettol on it but they laughed later in bed, imagining trying to kill yourself with a potato peeler scraping away till you hit an artery, and then start on the other wrist, quick before you fainted. They hadn’t laughed together like that in ages. She’d a good sense of humour, Veronica had. The only time she got annoyed was when he peeled all the potatoes in the house, practising. He didn’t blame her but, like he told her, they were running out of time. Another thing she showed him that he’d never known before; you put the chips you didn’t want to use immediately in water to keep them fresh and the right colour.

— God, he said. — The simple things are the most ingenious, aren’t they?

He caught Sharon grinning at him when he was practising his peeling.

— Fuck off, you, he said.

And he brought the bucket and the spuds up to the bedroom so he could do his practice in peace. Later on, Sharon asked him if she could work in the van some nights, when it was on the road. And he said Yeah.

It would do her good.

— She’d be a good worker, said Jimmy Sr.

He wanted to clout Bimbo, the way he was looking at him, like he’d farted at mass during the Offertory; that sort of look.

— I know tha’, said Bimbo. — I never said different, Jimmy, now.

— Well then—?

— Staff appointments should be a joint decision, Jimmy. Between the two of us.

— It’s only Sharon, for fuck sake.

— Still, though—

He was right really. But—

— D‘yeh want me to sack her, is tha’ it? Before she’s even started.

— Ah, Jimmy—

— Ah, me arse.

But Bimbo was right, Jimmy Sr could see that. He just hated losing.

— I’ll tell her we don’t want her, Jimmy Sr told Bimbo, like he was giving in to him.

— Not at all, said Bimbo. — No way.

— Wha’ then? said Jimmy Sr. — I’m fuckin’ lost.

— Just, in future we’ll make these decisions together, said Bimbo. — Is tha’ alrigh’?

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — No problem. Sorry abou’—

— Ah no, said Bimbo. — No. No.

They got back to work and didn’t say anything to each other for a good while.

The roof wasn’t as bad as the sides but it was very tricky. There was no grease up there but that didn’t mean that you couldn’t fall off. Bimbo did fall off but he landed on the grass, so it wasn’t too bad; there was no real damage done. Still, the noise he made when he hit the ground was terrifying, like a huge thump. Jimmy Sr was on his hands and knees up there, afraid to budge. Maggie felt Bimbo hitting the ground from where she was in the house and she came out and got him up on his feet and gave out shite to him once she knew that he wasn’t dying on her. Poor oul’ Bimbo was a bit shook after it, so they called it a day. The only problem was getting down off the fuckin’ roof. Jimmy Sr’s leg couldn’t find the ladder and he was shaking like fuck, but he got down eventually and he took Bimbo off for a pint. They took a look back at the van when they got out to the path, just to see what it looked like from a distance, and it didn’t look too bad at all; it wasn’t as white as it could’ve been, like new teeth, but it was definitely white.

They went on a reconnaissance mission. That was what Bimbo called it, but he was only messing. They went to a chipper; not the one they normally used cos the crowd in there were a snotty bunch of fuckers and Jimmy Sr hadn’t got on well with them since Leslie threw a dead cat over the counter into the deep fat fryer. That was years ago, long before Leslie went to England, and they still held it against him. Actually, it was gas when it happened. Jimmy Sr and the lads had gone in after closing time and the old fella, the one the kids called the Fat Leper, told Jimmy Sr what Les had done with the cat and Bertie changed his order from a batter burger to a smoked cod. — Just to be on the safe side, compadres, he said. Jaysis, they howled. And the Fat Leper barred the lot of them. And Bertie offered to buy the cat if that would make him feel any better, as long as he didn’t expect him to eat it as well. Anyway, the barring order only lasted one night — they were cute fuckers, the Italians; you don’t make your fortune by barring your best customers — but they still glared at Jimmy Sr. The Fat Leper didn’t; he’d died last year, but the rest of them did. Even the ones that had been in Italy when it had happened.

So they went to a different chipper, one in Coolock. It was kind of exciting going in; stupid really, but Jimmy Sr couldn’t help thinking that he was a bit of a thrill seeker. Bimbo went ahead of him. It was empty except for them.

— So far so good, said Bimbo.

There were two young fellas behind the counter, one of them opening the bags they put the chips into, putting a line of them on top of the counter, at the ready. Good thinking, thought Jimmy Sr, and he made a mental note of it. The other one was leaning against the back wall, scratching his hole. There were more of them inside, behind the yellow and red and blue plastic strips they always put over doorways in chippers but there was only the two lads on duty.

— Howyeh, lads, said Bimbo.

— Yeah? said the hole scratcher.

— Two singles, said Bimbo. — Like a good man, please.

— Large or small?

Bimbo looked at Jimmy Sr.

— A large’ll do me, Jimmy Sr told him.

— Two large, said Bimbo.

They stood there at the low part of the counter, where they put the vinegar on the chips and took the money. They leaned over and tried to see the lads in action, but the chips were already done so all they did was bag them.

— That all? said the other one.

— Yeah, said Bimbo, — thanks. We’re just after the dinner.

Jimmy Sr nudged him.

— Wha’?

— Go on, said Jimmy Sr. — Ask him.

It would be too late in a minute.

— Eh, lads—? said Bimbo.

They looked at him.

Jimmy Sr had to nudge Bimbo again; he was fuckin’ useless.

— Where d‘yis get your chips? Bimbo asked them. — Eh, if yeh don’t mind me askin’ now.

— In the ground, said the hole scratcher, the smartarsed little prick, and the two of them laughed.

Jimmy Sr had to drag Bimbo away from the counter.

— Come on.

— Wha’ abou’ the chips? said Bimbo.

— Fuck them, said Jimmy Sr.

He pushed Bimbo out the door. The two behind the counter were annoyed now because they’d two singles wrapped and ready and no home for them. Jimmy Sr gave them the fingers.

— Go back to your own country, he said. — Fuck the EEC.

He felt a lot better after that. He went back to give them more.

— An’ bring Tony Cascarino with yis, he said. — He’s fuckin’ useless annyway.

And he left the door open, so one of them would have to come around and close it cos it was quite chilly out.

Bimbo told Maggie what had happened and she kind of took over that department.

— Joint decisions, me bollix said Jimmy Sr, but he didn’t mind; he just said it to make Bimbo feel guilty, because he deserved it.

Maggie was brilliant. She got them a cash-and-carry card, no problem to her. Fellas Jimmy Sr knew would have killed their mothers for one of those cards, to get at the cheap drink, but Maggie went off one afternoon and came back with one. She’d a great business head on her.

— A revelation, said Bertie.

— Ah yeah, said Jimmy Sr. — Hats off to her.

Bimbo was chuffed.

She found out about permits and licences and that, stuff that Jimmy Sr couldn‘t’ve been bothered looking into, and Bimbo wouldn’t’ve been able to. She said she’d organise the stock, and all they’d have to worry about was getting the van in order, and then manning it. She said she’d look after the whole legal side of the operation. It was a load off their minds, both Jimmy Sr and Bimbo agreed on that.

— I didn’t even know yeh needed a fuckin’ licence, Jimmy Sr admitted.

— Oh God, yeah, said Bimbo. — Yeh need a licence for nearly everythin’, so yeh do.

Jimmy Sr supposed that it was only right; if you needed a licence for a dog or a telly it was only proper that you had to have one for a chipper van as well.

— It’s not so much the van, said Bimbo. — It’s more what yeh do in it, if yeh get me.

The outside of the van was looking well now. Bimbo’s brother, Victor, was a panel beater and he was going to do a job on the dints, the worst ones anyway. There were a few bald patches but a lick of paint would make them hard to find. The neighbours still stopped and looked at them working, but they’d stopped slagging them.

— We’ve got it looking smashin’, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr rubbed his fingers down the side, and there was no track left after it. He wouldn’t have been able to do that last week; his finger would’ve got stuck.

— Now for the inside, said Bimbo.

— Oh fuck, said Jimmy Sr.

They all got together in Bimbo and Maggie’s kitchen. Veronica came with Jimmy Sr so there was the four of them, and Maggie’s mother. It was nice.

— Now, said Maggie. — What I thought we’d do tonight was finalise the menu.

— Wha’ menu? said Bimbo.

— Yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

He was worried; he didn’t want to be a fuckin’ waiter.

Bimbo nearly whispered over the table to Maggie.

— It’s only a van.

Veronica started laughing, and Maggie did as well.

Jimmy Sr wasn’t sure what was happening, but he couldn’t help thinking that he was being hijacked, himself and Bimbo.

— The menu, lads, said Maggie — a bit sarcastically, Jimmy Sr thought — is the list of things that the customer chooses from.

— Like on the wall behind the counter? said Jimmy Sr.

— Exactly, said Maggie.

Jimmy Sr nodded, like he’d known that all along; he was just checking.

They got down to business. Maggie had stuff already done in under the grill, like on a cookery programme on the telly. She divided a burger in five and they each had a little bit. Jimmy Sr thought that this was a bit mean, until he tasted it.

— Jesus!

Enough said; they all agreed with him. Maggie had a list; she even had one of those clipboard things. She put a line through the first name.

— Wha’ are they called an’ annyway? Jimmy Sr asked Maggie.

— Splendid Burgers, said Maggie.

— My God, said Veronica.

They tasted five more. Maggie’s mother was still only on the second one when the rest of them had finished.

— Would annyone like a glass o’ water? said Bimbo.

— Please, said Veronica.

— Yeah, me too, said Jimmy Sr. — I thought the third one was the nicest.

— I don’t know if nicest is the word, said Veronica, — but—

— What abou’ you, Bimbo? Jimmy Sr asked.

— Yeah. I think so, he said. — Not the last one annyway; the fifth one.

— Fuck, no.

Maggie’s mother caught up with them.

— What do you think, Mammy? Maggie asked her.

— Very nice, she said.

— Which but? said Jimmy Sr.

— Oh, she said. — Is it a quiz?

And Veronica kicked Jimmy Sr’s leg before he could say anything back.

— Will we go for the Champion Burger so? said Maggie.

— Is tha’ the third one? said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeah.

— Def’ny then, said Jimmy Sr. — They were bigger as well.

— That’s only because o’ the way I cut it, said Maggie. — I gave you the biggest bit.

— Still though, said Jimmy Sr. — I thought it was head an’ shoulders above the others.

— Champion? said Maggie. — Goin’ once — twice — Champion, it is.

Jimmy Sr was delighted; he’d won. He knocked back his water and got up to get more.

— What’s next? said Bimbo.

— Spice-burgers, said Maggie.

Herself and Veronica started laughing again.

They were all feeling a bit queasy by the time they’d finished — very fuckin’ queasy actually — but it was great crack all the same. Fresh cod-in-batter, small bricks of the stuff, was next, followed closely by smoked cod-in-batter.

— It’s not really smoked cod at all, yeh know, Maggie told them. — It’s black mullet.

Veronica took her bit out of her mouth when she heard that but Jimmy Sr thought it was grand. His philosophy was that he didn’t give a shite what it was so long as it tasted alright, and he made that point to the rest of them. Bimbo didn’t agree with him.

— I don’t think yeh should sell somethin’ if it’s really somethin’ else, he said.

— Fair enough, said Jimmy Sr. — Put Black mullet-in-batter up on the, eh, menu an’ see how many yeh sell.

— Maybe if we can’t get real smoked cod we shouldn’t sell it at all.

— Yes, said Veronica.

— People like smoked cod! said Jimmy Sr. — I love a bit o’ smoked cod.

— But it isn’t really smoked cod.

— So wha’?

Veronica wanted to say something.

— Does it have to be all these processed things? she asked. — Could you not get your fish in Howth and prepare it yourselves.

— Too dear, I’m afraid, said Maggie.

She consulted her clipboard.

— An’ anyway, said Jimmy Sr. — As well as tha’, how would we smoke the cod an’ tha’? We don’t know how. We’re not — fuckin’ Amazon tribesmen or somethin’.

He took another hunk of the mullet and chewed fuck out of it.

— Well, I think it’s fuckin’ lovely, he said.

And bloody Veronica started laughing again.

Maggie was gas once she had a few scoops inside in her. She made her mother try out two different types of ketchup.

They watched her putting a little fingerload of the second ketchup onto her tongue.

— Now, Mammy, said Maggie. — Was tha’ one any less disgustin’ than the last one?

— Oh yes, she said. — Definitely.

They’d polished off the few cans that Bimbo had hidden under the stairs (—I‘d’ve sworn tha’ there was more in there), so they went for a few pints before closing time, to get rid of the taste of all the gunge and shite they’d been experimenting with all night.

Maggie’s mother stayed at home.

— I think the last spice-burger must’ve floored her a bit, said Bimbo.

— Ah yeah; God love her, said Jimmy Sr.

Veronica burst her hole laughing when he said that. She was really enjoying herself. Jimmy Sr held her hand for a bit when they were going up the road.

They were both nervous going in. The World Cup was only two and a bit weeks away now. They climbed in and stood there, sweating already before they’d done anything. They breathed through their mouths, air that hadn’t been used in months; it smelt a bit like old runners, but far worse than that.

— No rust, said Bimbo, after a fair while.

— Everythin’ else though, said Jimmy Sr.

— How’ll we manage it? said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr had an idea; he’d had it since he’d started sweating.

— A couple o’ kids would be better in here than us, he said. — Much more effective.

Bimbo didn’t look too keen.

— We’d just get them to take off the first layer, Jimmy Sr explained. — An’ then we can do the rest ourselves easily. We won’t be gettin’ in each other’s way.

It was Saturday; no school.

— I’ll get Wayne up, said Bimbo.

— Good man, said Jimmy Sr. — Bribe him.

— I’ll have to, said Bimbo. — Wayne loves his bed.

Wayne grew up that day; he earned his first day’s wages. God, he was great. Early on, only a little while after he’d started, he got out of the van and got sick, and climbed back in again, not a bother on him. He didn’t even want a glass of water when Bimbo said he’d get one for him. Bimbo got another of his young fellas, Glenn, when he came home from his football and that made two of them inside and Bimbo and Jimmy Sr outside handing buckets of hot water into them. It was a lovely day, the sun was powerful and a nice breeze as well. Wayne was small and Glenn was tiny.

— Made for this kind o’ work, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo agreed with him.

— They’re good in school as well though, Jimmy, he said. — Glenn is tops in his class.

— Yeh can see that alrigh’, said Jimmy Sr. — He’s a man’s head on him.

He looked in at them again.

— D‘yeh know wha’? he said. — If they’d been around a hundred years ago they‘d’ve spent all their time up fuckin’ chimneys.

Bimbo looked in as well; he couldn’t help laughing, but he was beaming, delighted with himself.

— Now now, lads, he said.

They were throwing water at each other.

— D‘yeh know what I was thinkin’? said Jimmy Sr.

They were sitting on the grass, keeping an eye on the lads.

— Wha’?

— We should have a big paintin’ there beside the hatch, said Jimmy Sr. — An’ another one to match it on the other side.

— What sort of a paintin’? said Bimbo.

— I don’t know, said Jimmy Sr. — A burger or somethin‘, an’ a few chips beside. Like an ad. Not a painting paintin’ like the Mona Lisa or annythin’. A sign.

Glenn slid out of the van headfirst but he was going fast enough to miss the path and land on the grass. He laughed and got up to do it again. Bimbo grabbed him by the kaks; he was only wearing his runners and his underpants.

— No messin’ now, Glenn.

But they were sliding around like Torvill and Dean in there, not on purpose; they couldn’t help it. Then Bimbo had a brainwave. He got sheets of sandpaper — he had loads of them, of course — and tied them to the soles of their runners, and it worked.

He kept looking in at them and their feet.

— Take it easy, Bimbo, will yeh, said Jimmy Sr. — You’re not after inventin’ fuckin’ electricity.

— You’re only jealous, Bimbo told him.

— Fuck off, will yeh.

By the end of the day the two lads were shagged but they’d done a great job. Maggie gave out shite; she said she’d never be able to get the rings off the bath. She’d soaked the two of them till their skin was wrinkly and they still looked grey.

— Take a look at wha’ they did though, said Bimbo.

Maggie looked into the van. And she had to admit it; they’d done a great job.

They climbed into the van.

— They did a smashin’ job, didn’t they? said Bimbo.

It was Monday morning, bright and early.

It was still manky, there was still a very funny smell — it was worse now that the van was much cleaner; more out of place — but it looked a hell of a lot better than it had two days ago.

The door was at the back of the van. The driver and passenger seats were separate; you had to get out and walk round to the back to get into the van bit. There was a step up to the door. When you came in the hatch was on your right. It was wide enough for two using their arms and elbows, with a good wide counter, although you’d have to lean out a bit to get the money. The door of the hatch was like the emergency exit at the back of a double-decker bus, but without the glass. You pushed it out and up. The hotplate and the deep fat fryer were behind the hatch, on the other side of the van. There was a small window above them, without the glass since Wayne had put his foot through it. There was a sink at the back and not a lot else; a few shelves and ledges. The sink was behind where the passenger seat was.

— What’s the sink for? Jimmy Sr wanted to know.

— For washin’ stuff, o’ course, said Bimbo.

— But there’s no fuckin’ water, said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeh’d have to have a sink, said Bimbo.

— But there’s no fuckin’ water, Jimmy Sr said again.

— Well, it’s there for somethin‘, said Bimbo. — We’ll figure it ou’.—We’ll go at it from the top down.

— Righto, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo was on the left wall and Jimmy Sr on the right, the one with the hatch in it. He’d skip over the hatch and finish before Bimbo and give out shite to him for being a slowcoach, for the laugh.

— Just a squirt gets the dirt, said Bimbo when they were starting.

It was a doddle compared to what they’d had to do outside.

— How much did yeh give the lads? Jimmy Sr asked Bimbo.

— Nothin’ yet, said Bimbo. — Sure, they asked me could they do it again there yesterday. They had a great time, so they did.

They laughed.

— They’ll learn, said Jimmy Sr. — Let’s get a bit o’ light in here, wha’.

He figured out how to open the hatch.

— Now.

He pushed it out, and it fell off and Jimmy Sr nearly fell out after it. It made an almighty clatter when it hit the ground. Bimbo nearly fell off his perch. He dropped his Jif into the deep fat fryer.

— God, me heart, he said.

Jimmy Sr was swinging off the counter. His legs found the floor and he felt safer.

— Fuck your heart, said Jimmy Sr. — I nearly had a shite in me fuckin’ trousers. Come here, swap sides.

— No way!

They weren’t happy with the look of the deep fat fryer. But they’d done their best with it.

— Still though, said Bimbo. — It might be dangerous.

— Not at all, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s just wear an’ tear, that’s all.

They were in Bimbo’s kitchen having their elevenses.

— The hotplate looks very well now, said Bimbo.

— It does alrigh’, Jimmy Sr agreed. — Yeh’d ride your missis on it it’s so clean.

— Shhh! said Bimbo.

Glenn was coming through with tins of pineapple rings.

— It’s the man from Delmonte, said Jimmy Sr. — Good man, Glenn.

— These’re the heaviest, Glenn told him.

— No problem to yeh, said Jimmy Sr.

Glenn ran out into the garden so he could get to the shed before he had to drop the tray of pineapple rings. They heard the clatter of tins hitting the path.

— He didn’t make it, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo lifted himself up to look out the window.

— No, he said. — He did.

They’d two freezers out in Bimbo’s shed — Bertie’d got them for them; grand big freezers, nearly new — and all the stuff went into them; the blocks of cod, the blocks of lard, the burgers, anything that would go bad.

The kids were bringing cartons of Twixes and Mars Bars out to Maggie now.

— I have them counted, she warned them.

Jessica went to the kitchen door and yelled out.

— There’s nothin’ left!

— Come here, said Maggie.

In a few seconds the kids came charging through with two Twixes and two Mars Bars apiece.

Bimbo made a grab at Glenn.

— Give us a Twix.

Glenn got away from him and into the hall, bursting his little shite laughing. Maggie shut the kitchen door. She threw a burger onto the table. It bounced; it was rock solid.

— What d‘you think of tha’? she said.

— It’s a bit hard, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr picked it up. It was the whole thing, the bun and all.

— What’s the idea? he said.

— There’s onion an’ sauce an’ a slice o’ gherkin already in there, she said. — And you can get them with cheese as well.

She sat down.

— All yeh have to do is throw it in the microwave, she said.

— That’s very good, said Bimbo.

— We don’t have a microwave, said Jimmy Sr.

— Can’t yis get—? said Maggie.

— We’ve no electricity, said Bimbo.

They looked at one another.

— Oh Christ—, said Jimmy Sr.

— Now, said Jimmy Sr. — Look at this now; there’s nothin’ to it. Anny fuckin’ eejit could do it.

They were in the Rabbitte kitchen.

He had the mixing bowl on the table in front of him. He poured water from a milk bottle into the bowl.

— Water, he said.

He sprinkled some flour from a packet in on top of the water, then got a bit braver and poured half the packet in.

— An’ flour, he said. — Yeh with me so far?

— Water an’ flour, said Bimbo.

— Good man.

He picked up the whisk.

— This is the hard part, he said. — The hard work. I’m doin’ it by hand, he explained, — cos that’s the way we’ll have to do in the van.

He attacked the mixture with the whisk, holding the bowl to him the way Veronica’d shown him.

— I’m tellin’ yeh, he said. — It gets yeh sweatin’.

He stopped and looked.

— It’s blendin’ well there, d’yeh see? he said. — We need a bit more water though, to get rid o’ the lumps.

Bimbo went to the sink and filled the milk bottle.

— Nearly there, said Jimmy Sr.

He poured in some more water, and prodded the lumps with the whisk and then his fingers.

— There’s somethin’ else supposed to go into it but I can’t remember what it is.

He started whisking again.

— Doesn’t matter though, he said. — This’ll be grand.

He stopped and showed Bimbo the result.

— There, he said. — Batter. Not bad, wha’.

It looked right.

— Is tha’ all there is to it? said Bimbo.

— That’s it, said Jimmy Sr. — Except for the thing I’m after forgettin’. Let’s see if it works now.

He’d already put an open can of pineapple rings on the table.

— Remind me to replace this one, will yeh, he said. — Veronica’ll go spare if she goes to get it on Sunday and it’s not there. — Let’s see now—

He took a ring out and let it down onto a sheet of kitchen roll.

— Yeh dry it first; that’s important.

He dabbed the top of the ring with the edge of the roll.

— Tha’ should do it.

He held up the ring and picked the bits of fluff off it.

— It’s only the paper, he said. — Harmless.

— Yeah.

— Righ’; fingers crossed.

He lowered the pineapple ring into the batter, and let it sink in completely. He got a fork and searched for the ring, and found it.

— Our father who art in heaven — Fuckin’ brilliant! Look it; completely covered.

— That’s great, said Bimbo.

— An’ all yeh do then is drop it into the fryer. — That’s great now; the batter’s just righ’. If it was too watery it wouldn‘t’ve stuck an’ if it was too thick the hole in the ring would’ve disappeared. But that’s just righ’ now. Perfect.

— We’ll cut them up into different sizes, said Jimmy Sr. — People prefer tha’.

That was what they were doing now, peeling the spuds and cutting them up and throwing them all into a big plastic bin full of water; out in the shed.

— When we’ve the money, said Jimmy Sr, — maybe we should get a chip machine like Maggie was talkin’ abou’ and just cut up a few o’ the spuds by hand an’ mix them in so people’ll think they’re all done tha’ way.

— Yeah, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr looked into the bucket and gave it a kick to flatten out the chips.

— There’s enough in there now, I’d say, he said.

— Good.

They took a handle each and carried the bin through the house out to the van. They’d a job getting it up the step, and in; the water made it very heavy and it was slopping over the sides. They were all set; tonight was the night. Everything in the van was gleaming; nearly everything. They’d had to buy some new equipment, some of the trays and the basket for the deep fat fryer. Bimbo bought it; Jimmy Sr hadn’t a bean to his name. They put the bin under the sink. That was the best place for it, because it got in the way anywhere else and the sink was fuck all use to them.

— We should just pull it ou’ altogether, said Jimmy Sr.

— Ah no, said Bimbo. — Not now annyway.

The thing got on Jimmy Sr’s wick, a sink with no water; it was about as useful as an arse with no hole. He let it go though. They’d other things to do today.

— Will we put the rest of the stuff in? said Bimbo.

— We might as well, said Jimmy Sr.

They didn’t want to leave anything in the van for too long. Some of the stuff from the freezers would go soft or even bad if they took it out too early. The timing was vital.

— The difference between a satisfied customer and a corpse, Jimmy Sr’d said.

They’d laughed, but it wasn’t funny.

They got out, and stopped to look at the burger on the side of the van again. It was a huge big burger, a bunburger with BIMBO’S BURGERS above it and TODAY’S CHIPS TODAY under it.

The bottom bit was Maggie’s idea.

— I still don’t like tha’ ketchup, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s too like fuckin’ blood. It’ll put people off.

— Ah no, said Bimbo. — It’s nice an’ bright.

Maggie’s brother’s kid, Sandra, had done it; she went to some painting college or something.

— The bit o’ meat stickin’ ou’ as well, said Jimmy Sr.

He pointed to it.

— It’s like a fuckin’ tongue hangin’ ou’.

— Well, to be honest with yeh, Jimmy, said Bimbo. — I’ve never seen a tongue made o’ mince.

— It’s the same colour as—

— Look it, said Bimbo. — She put all those little black speckles on it to make it look like mince.

He went over and touched them, showing them to Jimmy Sr.

— They just make it look like it’s gone off, said Jimmy Sr.

— It was your bloody idea in the first place, said Bimbo.

— D‘yeh want to know why I don’t like it? said Jimmy Sr. — An’ annyway, I do like it. It’s just the colours I don’t like. D’yeh want to know why?

— Why then?

— Cos the young one tha’ done it is a vegetarian, that’s why.

He had him now. Sandra’d told him that, when he was talking to her while she was painting; a lovely-looking girl, she was, but a bit snotty; a good laugh though.

Bimbo looked lost.

— Sabotage, yeh dope, said Jimmy Sr.

— Wha’?

— Sabotage, said Jimmy Sr. — Animal rights.

— Wha’ d’yeh mean?

— Is it not fuckin’ obvious?

— Eh — no.

— A vegetarian, righ‘, paints a picture of a burger an’ wha’ does she do? — She paints it horrible colours to put people off buyin’ anny.

— Sandra?

— They’re all the same, said Jimmy Sr. — Fanatics, for fuck sake. Sure, they’re puttin’ bombs under people’s cars over in England, just cos they experiment with animals.

— Hang on now, said Bimbo. — We’re not experimentin’ with animals.

— No, said Jimmy Sr. — But we’re slappin’ them up on the hot plate an’ fryin‘ fuck ou’ o’ them. An’ then gettin’ people to eat them.

Bimbo gave this some thought. He looked at the burger.

— Ah, I don’t think so, he said.

— Please yourself, said Jimmy Sr. — It’s your fuckin’ money. Come on or we’ll be late.

They put the cartons of Twixes and Mars Bars in under the hot plate, and the cans of Coke and ₇-Up. They put piles of spice-burgers on the shelf over the fryer. They had the flour and a line of milk bottles full of water for the batter, at the ready on the shelf beside the sink; they’d had to go scouting for real glass bottles. They’d a box for the money. Bimbo put the big red Kandee sauce bottle and the salt and vinegar on the counter. They had ten packs of Bundies. Maggie’d got them in Crazy Prices. Jimmy Sr opened a pack and took one out.

— These are the nicest part o’ the burger, he said. — Aren’t they?

— They’re lovely alrigh’, said Bimbo, and he took one as well. — We’d better not eat all of the supplies though.

— An army marches on its stomach, Jimmy Sr told him.

There was a ream of small bags on a piece of string, for the chips, and Jimmy Sr hung that on a hook beside the fryer, and put a pile of big brown bags on the counter. Bimbo folded up their aprons nice and squarely and put them on the counter beside the brown bags.

— It’s not a fuckin’ pinnie, Jimmy Sr’d said when Veronica caught him trying his one on up in the bedroom. — It’s an apron, righ’.

Maggie’d got the aprons, World Cup ones. It was good thinking, and a lot better than those ones with recipes printed on them or something. These just had Italia 90 on them, and the cup.

— It’s not a cup but, said Bimbo. — It’s a statue. I never noticed that before.

— Look it, said Jimmy Sr. — Which sounds better; World Cup or World Statue?

— I get yeh, said Bimbo.

They kept the fish in the freezer till the last minute. If you didn’t dip the cod in the batter when it was still like a piece of chipboard you ended up with a fuckin’ awful mush that floated on the top of the cooking oil. They piled the rectangles of cod and black mullet onto the aluminium trays.

— Yeh’d nearly need gloves for this, said Jimmy Sr. — These things are fuckin’ freezin’.

He walloped a piece of cod against the side of the freezer and examined it: there wasn’t a mark on it.

— That’s a good piece o’ fish, tha’, he said. — It won’t let yeh down.

The trays were cold, but not that heavy. Still, they rushed through the house so they could put them down in the van and blow on their hands.

— Beep beep, said Bimbo, to get Maggie’s mother out of his way as he barrelled through the kitchen, trying to carry his tray without having to use too firm a grip. He rested it against his chest and his shirt was getting wet.

Maggie followed them out.

— Good luck now, she said.

Jimmy Sr climbed up into the driver’s seat. The van was hitched up to the back of Bimbo’s jalopy with a bit of rope, in the driveway and halfway out onto the path. Bimbo had wrapped an old cardigan around his bumper, for a buffer. He’d wanted to use Wayne, with one foot on each bumper, but Maggie wouldn’t let him. Bimbo got in and started the car. Maggie put her head down to him, he rolled down the window and she gave him a kiss.

— Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr, softly. — Come on, come on.

They were off.

Bimbo’d only gone a couple of feet and he had to stop cos there were two cars passing. The van rolled into the back of him, but only gently. Then they were out on the road, heading up to the Hikers. A couple of kids ran beside him, and one of them kicked the van. They disappeared; Jimmy Sr knew they were scutting on the back, the fuckers.

There was an awkward bit coming up, a bit of a dip just before they got onto the main road, Barrytown Road. If there was traffic coming Bimbo would have to stop for it and Jimmy Sr would go into him; it couldn’t be helped. That was what happened, except it was worse. There was nothing coming so Bimbo kept going out across the main road turning to the right but this fuckin’ eejit on a motor bike came out of nowhere from behind a parked van and Bimbo had to brake and Jimmy Sr couldn’t brake, of course, so he went into Bimbo, and he heard stuff falling off the shelves behind him.

— Fuck it!

He listened.

Nothing else fell. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad.

Bimbo got going again and they made it to the Hikers without anything else happening. He started stopping about fifty yards before the Hikers, so that when he stopped he’d nearly stopped already anyway, going so slow that the van didn’t bump into him at all this time.

Jimmy Sr listened to hear if there was anything rolling around inside in the back. He couldn’t hear anything.

Bimbo got the bricks out from the back seat of the car and put them behind the wheels of the van. Jimmy Sr opened the door at the back.

— Ah, Christ.

Water fell onto his shoes, not much of it; most of it was at the back, on the floor, along with some of the spice-burgers and the fish. The bin hadn’t turned over but there was an awful lot of water there, too much to call a puddle. The spice-burgers were the worst; the water had made them soggy and they were falling apart; they’d have to throw them out. The fish, though, weren’t too bad.

They got the cartons up off the floor before the water could get at them. There was no other damage.

Still though, it was depressing.

Jimmy Sr leaned over and poked one of the fish with a finger. It was still good and hard.

— We need a mop, said Bimbo.

— We need a fuckin’ engine, said Jimmy Sr. — Come on. We’ll clean it up an’ go in an’ watch the match.

They cleaned up the mess, shoved all the bits of spice-burger and the water and the rest out onto the road with a bit of cardboard, and dried the floor with a tea-towel. Jimmy Sr gave the fish a good wash with some of the water from the milk bottles. He threw out the really dirty ones; where the dirt had got into the fish.

— There now, said Bimbo when they’d finished. — It wasn’t as bad as it looked.

— Come on, said Jimmy Sr. — Or all the good places’ll be taken.

— Sheedy gets it back — and Sheedy shooTS!

The place went fuckin’ mad!

Ireland had got the equaliser. Jimmy Sr grabbed Bimbo and nearly broke him in half with the hug he gave him. Bertie was up on one of the tables thumping his chest. Even Paddy, the crankiest fucker ever invented, was jumping up and down and shaking his arse like a Brazilian. All sorts of glasses toppled off the tables but no one gave a fuck. Ireland had scored against England and there was nothing more important than that, not even your pint.

— Who scored it!? Who scored it?

— Don’t know. It doesn’t fuckin’ matter!

They all settled down to see the action replay but they still couldn’t make out who’d scored it, because they all went wild again when the ball hit the back of the net from one, two, three different angles, and looking at poor oul’ Shilton trying to get at it, it was a fuckin’ panic.

Word came through from the front.

— Sheedy.

— Sheedy got it.

— Kevin Sheedy.

— WHO PUT THE BALL IN THE ENGLISH NET — SHEEDY—

SHEEDY—

God, it was great; fuckin’ brilliant. And the rest of the match was agony. Every time an Irishman got the ball they all cheered and they groaned and laughed whenever one of the English got it; not that they got it that often; Ireland were all over them.

— Your man, Waddle’s a righ’ stick, isn’t he?

— Ah, he’s like a headless fuckin’ chicken.

A throw-in for Ireland.

— MICK — MICK — MICK — MICK — MICK—

They all cheered when they saw Mick McCarthy coming up to take it. And there was Paddy Mick-Mick-Micking out of him and only an hour ago he’d been calling Mick McCarthy a fuckin’ liability.

— OLE — OLE OLE OLÉ—

— OLÉ

— OLÉ—

There was ten minutes left.

— Ah Jaysis, me heart!

— No problem, compadre.

Jimmy Sr was about ten yards away from where he’d started when Sheedy’d scored. He didn’t know how that had happened. He tried to get back to his pint.

—‘Xcuse me. — Sorry there; — thanks. — ’Xcuse me. — Get ou’ o’ me way, yeh fat cunt.

His pint was gone, on the floor, or maybe some bollix had robbed it. He looked over at the bar. He’d never get near it; it was jammered. Anyway, Leo the barman was ignoring all orders; he was looking at the big screen and praying; he was, praying.

— Look it, Jimmy Sr pointed him out to Bimbo.

He had his hands joined the way kids did, palm against palm, like on the cover of a prayer book, and his lips were moving. When everyone else cheered Leo just kept on praying.

— How much is there left?

— Five, I think.

— Fuck.

He looked around him. There were a lot of young ones in the pub. They hadn’t been paying much attention to the match earlier but they were now. There was one of them, over near the bar; she was in a white T-shirt that you could see her bra through it and—

There was a big groan. Jimmy Sr got back to the match.

— What’s happenin’?

— They have it.

Gascoigne got past two of the Irish lads and gave it to someone at the edge of the box and he fired — Jimmy Sr grabbed Bimbo’s arm — but it went miles over the bar.

They cheered.

— Useless.

— How much left now?

— Two.

— Take your time, Packie!

— ONE PACKIE BONNER

THERE’S ONLY ONE PACKIE BONNER—

— Up them steps, Packie!

— Ah, he’s a great fuckin’ goalkeeper.

— ONE PACKIE BOHHHH-NER -

— He’s very religious, yeh know. He always has rosary beads in his kit bag.

— He should strangle fuckin’ Lineker with them, said Jimmy Sr, and he got a good laugh. — How much now, Bimbo?

Before Bimbo answered the Olivetti yoke came up on the screen and answered his question; they were into time added on.

They cheered.

— Come on, lads; go for another one!

— Ah, Morris; you’re fuckin’ useless.

— Fuck up, you. He’s brilliant.

— ONE GISTY MORRIS

THERE’S ONLY ONE GISTY MORRIS—

— Blow the fuckin’ whistle, yeh cunt yeh!

They laughed.

Jesus, the heat. You had to gasp to get a lungful; that and the excitement. He couldn’t watch; it was killing him.

— OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLE—

Jimmy Sr was looking over at the young one again when he got smothered by the lads. They went up — the ref had blown the whistle — and he stayed down. But he grabbed a hold of Bimbo and hung on. Everyone was jumping up and down, even Leo blessing himself. The tricolours were up in the air. He wished he had one. He’d get one for the rest of the matches.

Bertie was back up on the table doing his Norwegian commentator bit.

— Maggie Thatcher! — Winston Churchill!—

— WHO PUT THE BALL IN THE ENGLISH NET — SHEEDY — SHEEDY—

— Queen Elizabeth! — Lawrence of Arabia! — Elton John! Yis can all go an’ fuck yourselves!

They cheered.

Jimmy Sr was bursting; not for a piss, with love. He hugged Bimbo. He hugged Bertie. He hugged Paddy. He even hugged Larry O’Rourke. He loved everyone. There was Sharon. He got over to her and hugged her, and then all her friends.

— Isn’t it brilliant, Daddy?

— Ah, it’s fuckin’ brilliant; brilliant.

— I love your aftershave, Mister Rabbitte.

— OLÉ—OLÉ OLE OLÉ—

— Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr when he got back to Bimbo.

— An’ we only fuckin’ drew. Wha’ would happen if we’d won?

Bimbo laughed.

Everyone in the place sang. Jimmy Sr hated the song but it didn’t matter.

— GIVE IT A LASH JACK

GIVE IT A LASH JACK

NEVER NEVER NEVER SAY NO

IRELIN’—IRELIN’—REPUB-ILIC OF IRELIN’

REV IT UP AN’ HERE WE GO—

— It’s a great song, isn’t it? said Bimbo.

— Ah, yeah, said Jimmy Sr.

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. Jimm^y 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.

— 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 out 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.

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 just 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?

— Easy. 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?

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.

— They 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; didn’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.

It was busy, getting dark; the Living Dead were out there somewhere. Bimbo had had to dash home for a shite, so Jimmy Sr was by himself at the hatch, taking the orders. And he’d three burgers doing on the hotplate and he asked Darren to turn them for him, and he wouldn’t do it.

— I’m not askin’ yeh to eat them, said Jimmy Sr, trying not to sound too snotty in front of the customers. — I only want yeh to turn them fuckin’ over.

Darren said nothing, and he didn’t do anything either.

— Darren? said Jimmy Sr.

But Darren just started filling the bags with chips.

— Fuck yeh, said Jimmy Sr and he got back to the hotplate and picked the fish slice up off the floor.

The burgers were welded to the plate; they were part of the plate.

— Look wha’ you’re after doin’, said Jimmy Sr.

Darren said nothing.

One of the punters outside spoke up.

— If that’s my burger you’re messin’ with there I’m not takin’ it, he told Jimmy Sr.

Jimmy Sr had had enough.

— Righ‘, he said. — Fuck off then. An’ get your burger somewhere else. — Annyone else want to complain?

But Bimbo came back and took over at the hatch. And with Bimbo blocking the view Jimmy Sr was able to get the burgers off the hot plate and into their bundies without doing too much damage to them. He dipped them into the deep fat fryer to make them juicy and then trapped them in the bundies before they dripped or fell apart.

— There, he said. — No help to you.

Darren said nothing.

Dunphies were out of the question as well as far as Darren was concerned and they had to go into the deep fat fryer with the fish, so Darren would stand back and get out of Jimmy Sr or Bimbo’s way while they fished out the dunphies. It was stupid. Still but, they had to respect Darren’s beliefs. Jimmy Sr told that to Maggie after Bimbo had told her about Darren and his vegetarianism.

— At least he has the courage of his convictions, he said.

He wasn’t really sure what that meant but it shut Maggie up. Not that she’d been giving out or anything; she’d just thought it was funny that someone called Rabbitte was a vegetarian. Jimmy Sr couldn’t see anything particularly funny about that.

Where Darren was way out of line, way out — just the once — was when he objected to the dunphies going into the same cooking oil as the fish.

— Wha’!?

— Part of the meat is left in the oil.

— So?

— It gets into the fish.

— It does in its hole. Nothin’ would get through tha’ batter. Bimbo made it.

Darren laughed but he kept going on all night about contaminating the oil and he put a face on him every time Jimmy Sr leaned over and dropped a dunphy into the fryer; he got on Jimmy Sr’s wick.

No one had ordered a dunphy; he just did it to annoy Darren; he deserved it.

—’Xcuse me, Darren, till I drop this into the holy of holies.

He blessed the dunphy as it sank down and bobbed up again between two pieces of cod.

— Make sure they don’t touch there, said Jimmy Sr. — We don’t want any bits o’ cod gettin’ into the dunphy an’ poisonin’ someone.

Darren had one last bash at explaining osmosis to Jimmy Sr. He was halfway through it when Jimmy Sr turned on him.

— Spare me the fuckin’ lecture, righ’, an’ just do your fuckin’ job.

He flicked a dunphy into the fryer so that it would send some oil flying in Darren’s direction. Darren got some of it on his arms. He said nothing but he went outside.

Jimmy Sr’s ears hummed while he waited for Darren to come back. He prayed for him to come back but he wouldn’t go to the door to look out; he wouldn’t even look at it.

He felt Darren going past him, on his way back to the fryer.

— Sorry, he said.

He looked at Darren: he looked fine.

— Okay? said Jimmy Sr.

— Yeah.

— Grand;—sorry.

They were all set to move out. It was the hottest day yet, Jimmy Sr reckoned. All they were waiting for now was Sharon.

— What’s she at? said Jimmy Sr. — Jesus tonigh’.

She had Gina with her, in the buggy.

— Mammy can’t mind her, she said before Jimmy Sr could ask her. — An’ the twins won’t.

— Yeh can’t bring the baby—

— Give us a hand, said Sharon.

She went round and opened the back door. She climbed in.

— Jesus!

The heat hit her.

Jimmy Sr picked up the buggy with Gina still in it and passed it in to Sharon.

— It’s fuckin’ dangerous—, he said.

— We’ll be grand, said Sharon. — Won’t we, Gina?

Gina was looking around. She liked what she saw. She tried to free herself. Sharon sat up on the hatch counter and held the buggy close to her, between her legs.

— I don’t know—, said Jimmy Sr.

He shut the door.

Bimbo went very carefully. An oul’ one on crutches could have gone faster.

— It’ll be fuckin’ dark by the time we get there, said Jimmy Sr.

— I don’t want to be responsible for an injury, Bimbo told him. — ’Specially to a baby.

But they got there. Jimmy Sr got Gina to sit on a shelf and gave her a Twix to keep her quiet for a bit and Sharon folded the buggy and put it in on top of the driver’s seat. It wasn’t too bad that way. Bimbo showed Gina how to make batter and he got her down off the shelf and let her dip a slab of cod into it. That was a mistake because now she had to dip everything into it, including herself. But it was nice having her in the van there; it was kind of exciting, as if they were performing for her. Bimbo put her back up on the shelf out of harm’s way, and Jimmy Sr gave her the other half of the Twix.

But she nearly fell into the deep fat fryer. She’d crawled nearer to it and she was leaning over to look at the bubbles and the smoke when Jimmy Sr saw her, roared and caught her. He didn’t really catch her, cos she wasn’t falling, but he told Sharon he did. The poor little thing was wringing with the sweat, so Jimmy Sr put her on the hatch counter to dry. She knocked the salt and pepper and a load of bags out onto the path. A load of young ones saw her and came over to look at her and say hello and wave at her but they didn’t buy anything, of course.

— Get us the salt an’ pepper there, will yeh, love, Jimmy Sr asked a young one.

— Get it yourself, she said.

They all walked off, laughing.

— Hope yeh got skin cancer! Jimmy Sr roared after them.

— Jesus, Daddy!

— Bitches.

— Bitis! said Gina after them.

— Good girl yourself, said Jimmy Sr.

They couldn’t keep her on the counter because she’d get in the way and she was bound to fall out so what Jimmy Sr did was, he went into the dunes and found a plank. He brought it back to the van and gave it a good wipe and used up most of a milk bottle of water to clean it. It was long enough to go over the top of the chip bin and that made a seat for Gina, in the corner, away from danger. She complained a bit; the plank was wet. Bimbo put a cloth under her.

Serving was easier here than at closing time cos there wasn’t a mad rush of people. It was good, a gradual, steady flow of customers. Jimmy Sr liked it. It was a good way to start the working day.

— Have yeh anny spicey burgers, Mister?

— They’re on the menu, said Jimmy Sr, but not in a snotty way.

— Oh yeah, said the young fella. — How much are they?

Jimmy Sr pointed at the price on the board.

— There; look it.

— Oh yeah.

The kid was a bit simple, he could tell; the way his mouth hung open.

— D’yeh want chips as well? he asked him.

— Yeah.

— Have yeh the money on yeh?

— Me ma’s comin’, said the kid.

— Fair enough, said Jimmy Sr. — Will she want annythin’ herself, would yeh say?

— Wha’?

— Will she be long?

— She’s comin’.

— Okay, said Jimmy Sr.

Poor little sap; he’d give him the order even if his ma didn’t come. He turned to get a spice-burger.

— Wha’ the fuck—

— What’?

— Yeh can’t fuckin’ do tha’ in here!

Sharon was changing Gina’s nappy.

Jesus; if a health inspector or a guard was passing and looked in and saw the baby’s little arse pointing out at him they’d be rightly fucked. Or Mister Whippy over the other side of the roundabout; if he saw what Sharon was doing he’d race down to Raheny station and report them, and he’d play the Teddy Bears’ Picnic all the fuckin’ way.

Jimmy Sr slammed down the hatch.

— Back in a minute, he told the kid waiting outside.

— Quick! he said. — Hurry up. An’ mind nothin’ drops into the chips.

Sharon giggled. Bimbo was battering away. It wasn’t dark exactly; you could see everything. It was quite nice really.

— Are yeh finished? said Jimmy Sr.

— Nearly.

Sharon put the old nappy into a plastic bag and put that bag into her proper bag.

— Pity the poor fucker tha’ robs your handbag, said Jimmy Sr.

They laughed, and Jimmy Sr opened the hatch. The kid was still there.

— Still here, said Jimmy Sr.

— Me ma’s comin’, said the kid.

— She’s a lucky woman, said Jimmy Sr.

— Daddy!

Jimmy Sr slid the spice-burger into the cooking oil.

— Now.

He put a few chips into a bag, nice big ones, and handed them out to the kid.

— Have them while you’re waitin’, he said.

— A one an’ one there, please.

Jimmy Sr looked to see who’d said that. It was a man about his own age, wearing a Hawaii 5–0 shirt and a Bobby Charlton haircut. Bimbo sank the cod into the fryer.

— Grand day again, said Jimmy Sr to the man.

— We’re spoilt, said the man.

— What’s the water like today? said Jimmy Sr.

— Shockin’, said the man. — Filthy dirty, it is. Yeh wouldn’t make your worst enemy swim in it.

— Yes, I would, Jimmy Sr told him. — Won’t be a minute here.

— No hurry.

Sharon handed out the spice-burger and chips to the young fella. He didn’t take them.

— Me ma’s comin’, he said.

— You’re alrigh’, said Jimmy Sr. — Go on. She can pay us when she comes; go on.

Gina started singing.

— OLÉ—OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ—

They all joined in.

Jimmy Sr got the cod out the fryer, shook the drops off it and put it in its bag and put that into the brown bag; a grand big piece of fish it was too. Sharon gave him the bag of chips and he slid that in alongside the cod.

— OLÉ—OLÉ OLÉ OLÉ—The works? he asked the man.

He held the salt over the bag.

— Fire away, said the man.

— Righto, said Jimmy Sr. — Say when.

The man took the bag. He handed two of the new pound coins to Jimmy Sr but stopped just short of Jimmy’s reach.

— Me ma’s comin’, he said.

They laughed and he gave the money to Jimmy Sr. Jimmy Sr gave him his change and that was that.

— Good luck now, said Jimmy Sr. — Enjoy your meal.

— Cheerio, said the man.

Jimmy Sr watched him trying to wheel his bike and eat his chips at the same time. There was a woman outside now, trying to get her shower of kids to make up their minds what they wanted.

— Milkshake! said one of them.

They were all over her; it was hard to be sure how many kids she had with her; about six, and another on the way, now that Jimmy Sr looked at her properly.

— It isn’t McDonald’s, she told the milkshake kid.

— Wha’ is it? said the kid.

— It’s a lurry! said his sister, and she gave him a smack in the mouth, and legged it.

— Look at this, Jimmy Sr said to Sharon.

— Six singles, said the woman when she made it to the counter. — No; seven. Me as well.

— I don’t want chips, said one of the boys.

— Well, you’re gettin’ them! said the woman. — And anyway, you, you’re not even one o’ mine so yeh should be grateful.

The woman looked at Sharon.

— I only own three o’ them, she said.

That was all.

She looked as if she could lie down under the van and go fast asleep, and maybe not wake up again.

— Never again, she said.

— They’re lovely, said Sharon.

— They’re bastards, said the woman. — Every fuckin’ one o’ them.

She looked as if she felt better after getting that off her chest, and she straightened up. She patted her stomach.

— This’ll be the last, she said. — He can stick it in a milk bottle after tha’, so he can.

Sharon was shocked. She’d never seen the woman before.

There was a scream; the littlest lad was having a bucket of crabs and stones and water poured down his togs. The woman patted her stomach again.

— With a bit o’ luck this one’ll be deaf an’ dumb.

She didn’t smile: she meant it.

— Righ’! Jimmy Sr yelled. — Line up for your chipses!

— Me!!

— Your mammy first! said Jimmy Sr. — Get back.

— She’s always first!

— Get back!

— Not fair—

— Into line, said Jimmy Sr. — Or I’ll dump your chips into the sand.

He held a bag of chips up, ready to throw it.

— A straight line. — Salt an’ vinegar, love?

— Loads.

That was when Bobby Charlton came back. He threw his bike against the wall of the van.

— Come here—!!

Jimmy Sr dropped the salt.

— Mother o’ fuck!

The woman yelped.

— Come here! the man said again.

But the bike slid onto the ground and he tried to pick it up but his leg got on the wrong side of the crossbar, and he’d only one hand to work with because the other one was still holding the chips. He gave up trying to lift the bike and stepped over it, and nearly tripped. He leaned against the van.

He’d given Jimmy Sr time to get his act together.

— What’s your problem? said Jimmy Sr.

— I’ll tell yeh—

— I’m dealin’ with a customer here, Jimmy Sr told him. — You’ll have to wait your turn.

The man was right up at the hatch now, like he was going to climb in.

— I’ll tell yeh wha’ my problem is—, the man started again.

— There’s a queue, said the woman.

— There won’t be when I’m finished here, said the man.

Jimmy Sr, Sharon and Bimbo were at the hatch. Jimmy Sr handed the singles down to the woman and she handed them on to the kids.

— Excuse me! said the man.

— Calm down, said Bimbo. — Calm down.

— Sap, said Sharon, but not loud.

— Three eighty-five, Sharon told the woman when she looked up.

— Be careful eatin’ them, the man told the woman.

That sounded bad.

— Oh Christ, said Bimbo.

He looked back at the fryer.

— Righ’, said Jimmy Sr, when Sharon had given the woman her change. — What’s your problem?

He’d been thinking about it; he hadn’t a clue what was going to happen. He stared down at the man.

— It’s your problem, said the man.

— Wha’ is?

— This.

He held up the bag in his hand, far enough away not to be grabbed.

Jimmy Sr leaned out to see.

— The chips?

— No!

— The fish?

The man looked very upset.

— Fish! he said.

— It’s fresh, Bimbo assured him. — It was grand an’ hard comin’ out o’ the—

— Fresh! the man screamed.

Jimmy Sr had to say it again.

— What’s your problem?

— Will yeh look it.

But he still wouldn’t bring his hand in any closer to the hatch.

— I can’t fuckin’ see it, said Jimmy Sr. — Wha’ever—

Maybe it was maggots.

— I bit into it—, said the man.

— That’s wha’ you were supposed to do, said Jimmy Sr.

This chap was some tulip.

— Wha’ did yeh think yeh were supposed to do with it; ride it?

Now the man did come closer; he banged into the van.

— Oh Jesus, said Sharon.

She got back and went beside Gina.

The man’s mouth was open crooked. He really looked like a looper now. They could see into the bag.

— It’s not fish—, said Bimbo.

— Oh fuck—. What is it?

Hang on though—

— It’s white, said Jimmy Sr.

— It’s a nappy! the man told him.

— Wha’!—Fuck off, would yeh.

— He’s righ‘, Jimmy, said Bimbo. — It’s a Pamper; folded up. My God, that’s shockin’.

— Shut up! Jimmy Sr hissed at him.

— I must have put it in the batter—

— Shut up!

— What is it? said Sharon.

The man wasn’t angry-looking now; he looked like he needed comfort.

— Is it a used one? Jimmy Sr asked him, and he crossed his fingers.

— No!

— Ah well, said Jimmy Sr. — That’s alrigh’ then.

— That’s how, said Bimbo. — It’d look like a piece o’ cod, folded up like. Ah, that’s gas.

— Sorry abou’ tha’, said Jimmy Sr to the man. — We’ll give yeh your money back, an’ a can o’ Coke; how’s tha’ sound? Were the chips alrigh’?

The man wasn’t won over. He folded the bag into a neater package and put it under his arm.

— I’m goin’ to the guards with this, he said.

— Ah, there’s no need—

— This is the evidence, the man interrupted Bimbo.

He checked to see that the bag was still under his arm.

— You’ll be hearin’ more about this, he told them. — Don’t you worry. I’ll never recover from a shock like this.

— A tenner, said Jimmy Sr. — Will tha’ do yeh?

— What’s your name? he asked Jimmy Sr.

— I don’t have to tell you tha’, said Jimmy Sr.

— I don’t care, said the man. — I’ve the evidence here.

— Twenty, said Jimmy Sr. — Final offer; go on.

— I’ve the evidence.

— Shove the fuckin’ evidence. We know nothin’ about it.

— You’re not goin’ to bribe me, said the man.

— It’s the suppliers yeh should be reportin‘, said Jimmy Sr, — not us. We know nothin’ abou’ nappies.

Gina started singing again. Sharon put her hand over Gina’s mouth, but the man wasn’t listening. He was looking at the sign on the side of the van.

— Which one of yis is Bimbo? he said.

— Ask me arse, said Jimmy Sr.

He pulled Bimbo over to him.

— Get ou’ an’ start the van.

— But—

— Fuckin’ do it!

Bimbo went to the back door.

— Go round the other way, Jimmy Sr told him.

He remembered something.

— The gas!

Bimbo lifted the gas canister and pushed it into the van. He closed his eyes when it scraped on the floor. Jimmy Sr distracted the man.

— It must be terrible bein’ baldy with the sun like this, he said. — Is it?

Bimbo got to the driver’s door, around the other side of the van, without the man seeing him. He got the buggy off the seat.

— I’m rememberin’ all this, the man told Jimmy Sr.

— Good man, said Jimmy Sr.

He took away the hatch bars when he heard the engine starting.

— See yeh now, Baldy Conscience, he said. — Keep in touch.

And he dropped the hatch door. The salt and the vinegar fell onto the path. He shut the back door.

— Go on, go on!

The van lurched; Jimmy Sr fell forward, and grabbed a shelf. It skipped again, and then they got going.

Jimmy Sr steadied himself. He leaned against the hatch counter.

— My Jaysis—

— He’ll get the registration, said Sharon.

— No, he won’t, said Jimmy Sr.

— Why not?

— We don’t have one. It’s in the shed in Bimbo’s. We never stuck it back on. Just as well, wha’.

— He might be followin’ us, said Sharon.

She had a point.

Jimmy Sr opened the back door. They were still on the causeway road, and there was your man coming after them, pedalling like fuck.

— I’ll get this bollix, said Jimmy Sr.

He looked back, around the van. He stepped over to the hotplate and got a can of Coke from under it. They went over a pothole or something when he was bending over. The hotplate and the fryer were still turned on.

— Jesus; I nearly fuckin’ fried myself.

He got to the canister and switched it off.

He weighed the Coke in his hand, then wiped the grease off it on his shirt.

— You’ll kill him, said Sharon.

She was probably right. They were heavy things when they were full. He grabbed a few pieces of cod. They were still hard enough.

Bimbo turned left instead of right at the top of the causeway road.

— What’s he fuckin’ doin’?

— It’s so your man can’t follow us home, said Sharon.

— Fair enough.

He opened the back door again and the man was still after them, but further back; his legs didn’t have it. Jimmy threw a piece of cod anyway, skimmed it, to see how far he could get it. He watched it bounce off the road, well short of the man.

— There’s more evidence for yeh!

He shut the door.

Bimbo brought them to Clontarf, then up the Lawrence’s Road, onto the Howth Road. He went up Collins’ Avenue at Killester, and to the Malahide Road.

Jimmy Sr looked out again, and saw Cadbury’s in Coolock.

— We’ll end up in fuckin’ Galway, he said.

He threw Gina up and caught her, and again, but not too high because he’d already hit her head off the roof, and he was only doing it now to make her forget about it.

They got home. Jimmy Sr and Sharon were melting when they got out the back. Jimmy Sr had to stand in front of the open fridge door.

— We’ll steer clear o’ Dollier for a while, he said.

— Yeah, said Bimbo.

Bimbo was angry.

— It would never’ve happened if she’d—

— Shut up, said Jimmy Sr.

Maggie had a great head for ideas; Jimmy Sr had to say that for her. She got flyers printed and sent Wayne and Glenn and Jessica all around putting them into houses. Linda and Tracy did them as well, until Darren caught them sticking hundreds of the flyers into the letter-box outside the Gem.

BIMBO’S BURGERS TODAY’S CHIPS TODAY Wedding Anniversary? Birthday? Or Just Lazy? Treat Yourself And Let Us Cook Your Dinner For You Ring ₃₇₄6₉₃ and Ask for Maggie

That was what they said, on nice blue paper.

— Four-course meals? said Jimmy Sr when she was telling them about it. — How’ll we fuckin’manage tha’?

— Easy, said Maggie.

She’d stick the melon into the fridge in the afternoon so it would be still nice and cold when Bimbo and Jimmy Sr delivered it. They’d use a flask if it was soup; just pour it into the bowls and get it into the houses and onto the tables while there was still steam coming up off it. The main course was no bother because that was what they made all the time anyway.

— What abou’ the sweet but? said Jimmy Sr. — The ice-cream’ ll be water by the time they’ve got through their main stuff.

He wasn’t against the idea; he just saw problems with it.

— Well, said Maggie. — You could keep chunks of ice-cream in a flask as well—

— Wha’; with the soup?

— There’s bound to be a mix-up, said Bimbo. — Somewhere along the line.

What they decided on was, one of them would do a legger back to Bimbo’s while the customers were laying into the main course and get the ice-cream out of the fridge and hoof it back. That was Darren’s job. He didn’t mind; he got an almighty slagging from the lads when they saw him running across the Green with a bowl of jelly and ice-cream in each hand but it was better than having to go into the house and serving the customers, like a bleedin’ waiter. That was Bimbo’s job.

Jimmy Sr shook the flask over the bowl and the last bits of potato slid out and dropped into the soup.

— There now—

There was nothing like a few big chunks of vegetable to make packet soup look like the real thing.

— That’s great lookin’ soup, said Jimmy Sr. — Wha’.

— Lovely, said Bimbo.

— It’s wasted on those fuckers.

— Ah now, said Bimbo.

They were feeding the O’Rourkes tonight, Larry and Mona; their twenty-third wedding anniversary.

— We should make them cough up before we hand over the grub, said Jimmy Sr. — Fuckin’ Larry wouldn’t give yeh the steam off his piss if you were dyin’ o’ dehydration.

He took two small pieces of parsley from the bag Maggie’d given him, aimed and dropped one onto the soup in each bowl.

— Nice touch, tha’, he said.

Bimbo got into his jacket.

— How’s the back, Darren? he asked.

Darren rubbed down Bimbo’s back, getting rid of the creases.

Bimbo put the tea-towel over his arm.

The jacket Maggie’d got Bimbo was the stupidest thing Jimmy Sr’d ever seen. He felt humiliated just looking at Bimbo in it. It was white, with goldy buttons, and the sleeves were too long. But it didn’t bother Bimbo; he thought he was Lord fuckin’ Muck in it — the man in charge.

— Away we go so, said Bimbo.

He checked his watch again.

— Yeah, he said. — They were told to have the table set for half-seven.

He picked up the bowls, using the cuffs to mind his fingers.

— Ring the bell for me, Darren.

— Okay.

— Good lad. Bring the candles as well, will yeh.

— Ah fuck—

— Go on, Darren, said Jimmy Sr. — You’re alrigh’; they’re vegetarian candles.

— Humour, said Darren.

Bimbo climbed carefully out of the van.

— Get back quick with the main order, Jimmy Sr said after them.

— Will do.

The chips were a definite so Jimmy Sr lowered the basket into the fryer. Larry and Mona wouldn’t be long getting rid of the soup. Mind you, they mightn’t know what it was. They put water on their cornflakes in that house; so everyone said, anyway.

Bimbo and Darren were back.

— How’d it go?

— It was embarrassin’, said Darren.

— How was it? Jimmy Sr asked him.

— He started singin’.

— He’s always singin’.

Bimbo took over.

— The minute he saw the candles he started singing to Mona. Tha’ one, I Can’t Help Fallin’ In Love With You.

— Wha? — WISE MEN SAY — ONLY FOO-ILS RUSH IN — Tha’ one?

— Yeah.

— Jaysis. He’s gettin’ worse. Did they like the soup?

— Stop it, said Bimbo. — Their spoons were clackin’ off the bowls. He was singin’ an’ drinkin’ at the same time.

— They didn’t think much o’ the parsley though, Darren told his da.

— Now there’s a surprise, said Jimmy Sr.

— He said if he’d wanted weeds in his dinner he‘d’ve gone ou’ the back an’ got some of his own.

— Tha’ sort o’ thing is wasted on shite-bags like them, said Jimmy Sr.

Back to business.

— What’s the main course?

— Smoked cod for Larry an’ the same for Mona, said Bimbo. — An’ they both want a few pineapple fritters as well.

— And onion rings, Darren reminded him.

— Oh, that’s righ’. Mona said she’d go a couple of onion rings as well.

— Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr. — They’ll keep her up all night if Larry doesn’t.

He dropped the orders into the fryer, except the pineapples; they only took a few seconds or they’d turn to mush.

— Do they want wine? said Jimmy Sr when he’d everything else in order.

— Yeah, said Darren.

— Black or blue?

— Blue.

Jimmy Sr ducked in under the hot plate and got out a bottle of Blue Nun.

— Do the business with tha’, he said to Darren, and he held the bottle out to him.

— I’d better get back for their sweets, said Darren.

Jimmy Sr turned to Bimbo.

— There, he said. — Suck the cork ou’ o’ tha’.

Bimbo got working on the bottle with the corkscrew and Jimmy Sr put the two plates on the hatch counter and made a hill of chips on each of them.

— There’ll be no complaints abou’ the quantity annyway, wha’, said Jimmy Sr. — Give someone more than they think they’re entitled to and yeh have a friend for life.

— Cos they know we give value for money, said Bimbo.

— Cos they think we’re fuckin’ saps, said Jimmy Sr.

— The cork’s after breakin’ on me, said Bimbo.

— Shove it into the bottle.

The plates were full now, too full. Jimmy Sr took some of the chips off and pushed the fish further in, under the chips.

— There, he said. — Can yeh manage?

— No problem, said Bimbo. — I’ll have to come back for the wine.

— I’ll bring it as far as the door for yeh, said Jimmy Sr.

— Good man; thanks.

Jimmy Sr knew that Bimbo thought he meant O’Rourke’s front door but he was only going to go to the van door, for the laugh.

Bimbo wasn’t impressed when he got back.

— Very funny, he said.

— Ah, cop on, said Jimmy Sr.

They said nothing for a bit. Then—

— They’re havin’ a row inside, Bimbo told Jimmy Sr.

— Fuckin’ great, said Jimmy Sr. — What abou’?

— Couldn’t tell yeh, said Bimbo. — I just gave them their dinners an’ got ou’.

— Ah, you’re fuckin’ useless.

He handed the Blue Nun to Bimbo.

— Go back an’ find ou’ wha’ they’re rowin’ abou’.

— Who d‘yeh think you’re orderin’ around—?

Darren was back with the jelly and ice-cream.

— Hey, Darren; go in an’ see what Larry an’ Mona are rowin’ abou’.

— Go in yourself.

— Jesus, said Jimmy Sr. — What a staff; such a pair o’ fuckin’ wasters I’m lumbered with.

He turned to Bimbo and he was glaring at Jimmy Sr; he didn’t have time to change his face. It surprised Jimmy Sr.

Eh — are they in the front room or the kitchen or wha’?

— The kitchen, said Bimbo, back to normal.

— Fuck. We could’ve crept up under the window — Larry O’Rourke came charging out of the house, trying to get into his jacket. He didn’t slam the door.

— How was the cod, Larry? Jimmy Sr asked him.

— Fuck the fuckin’ cod, said Larry.

He headed down the road, in a Hikers direction.

— Your jelly an’ ice-cream, Larry!

— Fuck the jelly an’ the fuckin’ ice-cream, they heard.

He turned back to them.

— She can fuckin’ eat them! Her mouth’s fuckin’ big enough!

— Will yeh look who’s talkin‘! Bimbo said to Jimmy Sr and Darren. — Who’s goin’ to pay for the dinners?

— Eh — I suppose—

Bimbo looked down the road, then at the house.

— It was Mona phoned Maggie.

— Righ’, said Jimmy Sr.

He went up the path, and into the house, with the wine.

Bimbo and Darren waited for him.

Jimmy Sr came back out.

— She wants her jelly.

Darren handed him a bowl.

— Better give her the both o’ them, said Jimmy Sr. — She’s payin’ for them.

— Is she? said Bimbo.

— Fuckin’ sure she is.

He went back into the house. Darren and Bimbo got the gas canister back into the van and wiped the shelves. Bimbo mixed some more batter for later that night and Darren fished some loose bits of batter out of the oil in the fryer.

— Maybe she’s seducin’ him, said Darren.

— Ah no.

They were shutting the back door when Jimmy Sr came out.

— Wha’ kept yeh?

— I was havin’ a glass o’ wine with Mona.

— Is she alrigh’?

— She’s grand; not a bother on her.

He waved two tenners at them.

— How’s tha‘, he said. — An’ this as well.

He held out a pound coin for Bimbo.

— Your tip, he said. — She says thanks very much. Go on; take it. — D‘yis know wha’ the row was abou’? said Jimmy Sr when they were all in the van, heading home.

— Wha’?

— His pigeons shitein’ on her washin’, said Jimmy Sr.

— Ah, is that all?

— She’s not a bad-lookin’ bird, Mona, said Jimmy Sr. — If she tidied herself up a bit. Sure she’s not?

Bimbo and Darren didn’t say anything. Jimmy Sr wished he’d kept his stupid mouth shut. Darren was blushing beside him; he could nearly feel the heat off him, and he was blushing now himself was well. Bimbo had his mouth in a whistle but there was no noise coming out.

Although they never ran out of ways of flogging their chips and stuff, closing time outside the Hikers was still their bread and butter. Dollymount was grand on a good, sunny day but on a rainy day or even just a cloudy one there wasn’t a sinner down there to sell a chip to. And there were never going to be too many good, sunny days in an Irish summer; there was always rain coming at you from somewhere. But people coming out of the pub after a few jars didn’t give a shite what the weather was like, they just wanted their chips and maybe a bit of cod with a nice crispy batter on it. Anyway, rain was never that wet when you were half scuttered.

The dinners-for-two with candles and wine hardly paid for themselves. They did them for the crack more than anything else. Bimbo did them to please Maggie, because the idea had been her brainwave, and Jimmy Sr went along with Bimbo.

Only she was always having brainwaves. Sometimes Jimmy Sr felt like telling her to give her fuckin’ head a rest.

They came back from Dollier on a Monday late in July covered in sand and with damn all in the money box because there’d been showers on and off all afternoon, and she was there waiting for them, swinging off the front door, with her latest: breakfasts on the Malahide Road.

— You’re jokin’, said Jimmy Sr, once he knew what she was on about.

She wanted them to park the van at the crossroads in Coolock every morning and make rasher sandwiches for people driving to work.

— Wha’ time?

— Half-seven.

— Jaysis—!

— Eight then; it doesn’t matter. Durin’ the rush hour.

— Look it, said Jimmy Sr. — Maggie. If they’re in such a rush they’re not goin’ to be stoppin’ for a rasher sandwich. Or even a rasher an’ dunphy sandwich.

— There’s plenty of people would love a rasher sandwich on their way to work, said Maggie.

— I know tha‘, said Jimmy Sr. — But they’ll be goin’ by us on the bus or they’ll be at home in bed cos they’re on the dole.

Bimbo was staying a bit quiet, Jimmy Sr thought; very fuckin’ quiet.

— The only people who’d drive past that way, said Jimmy Sr, — is the yuppies. An’ they can make their own fuckin’ breakfasts as far as I’m concerned.

— You just don’t want to get up early, said Maggie.

Jimmy Sr ignored this; he wasn’t finished.

— Sure, Jaysis, he said. — No yuppie’d be caught dead eatin’ a rasher sandwich on his way to work. Think about it.

— You could give it a try, Maggie said to both of them, but especially Bimbo.

— Hang on, said Jimmy Sr.

He wasn’t dead yet; and he wasn’t getting up at half-six in the morning.

— How far is it from Malahide to town? he asked them. — Abou’?

— Five miles, said Bimbo.

— Abou’?

— Yeah.

Jimmy Sr looked to Maggie to give her a chance; she agreed with Bimbo.

— Five miles so, said Jimmy Sr. — A bit more maybe. It’s not very far, is it now? You’re not goin’ to get hungry travellin’ five miles only. Unless you’re goin’ on your hands an’ knees.

— The airport road then, said Maggie. — That’d be better. They’d be comin’ from much further on tha’ one. Drogheda, and Dundalk — and—

— Belfast, said Bimbo.

— That’s righ’, said Maggie. — Well—?

— I’m on, said Bimbo. — Jim?

He’d no choice.

— Okay. — Just promise us one thing, he said. — If it works, don’t make us go ou’ later an’ make their fuckin’ tea for them as well.

It didn’t work. Jimmy Sr made sure it didn’t.

— Come here, he said to Bimbo.

They were on the new airport road. It was seven o’clock.

— D‘you want to do this every mornin’?

— Wha’? said Bimbo.

— Don’t start, said Jimmy Sr. — Do yeh?

— Wha’?

— Want to get up before the fuckin’ seagulls every mornin’. Do yeh?

— No.

— Righ’; park over there then.

— Where?

— There.

— Under the bridge?

— Yeah.

They stayed there on the motorway, under the flyover, for an hour and a half. They opened the hatch and all; they didn’t cheat. They made three rasher sandwiches, and Jimmy Sr ate two of them and Bimbo ate the other one, and a Twix each as well. They shouldn’t have been there but the guards never came near them. They leaned out over the hatch and watched the cars and the trucks blemming past. Then they shut the hatch and went home.

— Not a word, Jimmy Sr warned Bimbo.

— No, said Bimbo. — No.

Jimmy Sr enjoyed getting back to the fort that morning. He let Bimbo do the talking.

— Where did yis park it? she asked him.

— Just there, in Whitehall, said Bimbo. — At the church; where yeh said.

— And no one stopped at all?

— That’s righ’, said Bimbo.

— No one even slowed down, said Jimmy Sr.

— Ah well—, said Maggie.

That was all; it was grand. Maggie wasn’t pushy or a Hitler or anything; she was just a bit too fuckin’ enthusiastic.

Bimbo and his kids ate nothing except rashers for two weeks after that, and Maggie brought Wayne and Glenn and Jessica and the other two kids into Stephen’s Green in town and they fed seventeen large sliced pans to the ducks.

Bimbo and Maggie were the ones in charge; Jimmy Sr couldn’t help thinking that sometimes. Not just Maggie; the both of them.

It wasn’t that they ordered him about or anything like that — they’d want to have fuckin’ tried. It was just, he was sure they talked about business in bed every night, and he wasn’t in bed with them. There was nothing wrong with that; it was only natural, he supposed. He’d have been the same if it’d been Veronica. But sometimes he felt that they’d their minds made up, they’d the day’s tactics all worked out, before he rang their bell.

He felt a bit left out; he couldn’t help it.

When Maggie’d announced the dinners for two with wine and candles Bimbo didn’t say anything but Jimmy Sr could tell that he knew about it already. He didn’t stand beside Maggie and nod like he’d heard it all before, but he didn’t ask her any questions either: he didn’t have to. He might even have come up with the candles bit himself. It was the type of romantic shite that Bimbo always fell for.

But, again, there was nothing wrong with it; it was a good idea. It wasn’t any less of an idea just cos he hadn’t thought of it himself, or because he hadn’t been around when Maggie’d thought of it. And anyway, even if he didn’t like it, there was nothing he could do about it. He could stay downstairs and watch the telly in Bimbo’s till they were finished riding each other or whatever the two of them did when they went to bed and then go up and get in between them and have a chat for a couple of hours, but he couldn’t see them agreeing to that.

There was another day; Jimmy Sr was going to play pitch and putt, against Sinbad McCabe. It was the Hon Sec’s Prize he was playing him in, and Sinbad McCabe was the Hon Sec himself, and Jimmy Sr hated the cunt. So he really wanted to win it, to beat the bollix in his own cup. He was getting a few sandwiches into him — not rasher ones, mind you — and a bowl of soup, and psyching himself up at the same time. There were two things Jimmy Sr hated about Sinbad McCabe, two main things: the way he always waited till the Hikers was full before he filled in the results on the fixtures board, like it was the Eurovision fuckin’ Song Contest he was in charge of, and the way you could see the mark of his underpants through his trousers. There were other things as well but they were the big two. Jimmy Sr was going to look at Sinbad’s underpants lines before he took a shot; it would help him concentrate. He wouldn’t talk to him either, not a word, and he’d stand right up behind him when Sinbad was putting, as close behind as he could get without actually climbing into his trousers. He was telling Veronica and Sharon this when Bimbo came in.

— What’s keepin’ yeh? said Bimbo.

— Are yeh comin’ to watch me? said Jimmy Sr.

He wasn’t sure he wanted Bimbo along with him for this one. Bimbo was too nice to everyone. He’d be chatting away to McCabe and all Jimmy Sr’s work would be wasted.

— Wha’? said Bimbo.

He’d come down to hurry Jimmy Sr up; they were bringing the van to Dollier. Maggie and himself had looked out the window, seen all the blue in the sky, and stocked up the van. Only Jimmy Sr hadn’t been with them, so he didn’t know anything about it. They just expected him to hop. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

It upset him. He still beat Sinbad McCabe though.

Another thing he’d thought about a few times, and he couldn’t make up his mind about it, if it was important or not: Bimbo had bought the van. Jimmy Sr’d been there beside him when he did it, but Bimbo’d paid for it. He hadn’t paid much for it; he didn’t think it mattered — he wasn’t sure. He didn’t feel guilty about it. Maybe he should have given Bimbo his half of the cost of the van. He had the money now. He was welcome to it. What would happen if he did that though? Probably nothing; he didn’t know. He’d think about it, maybe talk to Veronica about it. He didn’t want to do anything that would mess everything up. At the same time, he was no one’s skivvy. Partners was the word Bimbo’d used at the very start, in the Hikers the day they’d pushed the van to Bimbo’s. Maybe it was time to remind him of that. He didn’t want to hurt Bimbo’s feelings though, or even Maggie’s. He didn’t know.

He’d think about it.

It was great knowing there’d be money there when he put his hand in his pocket; not that he’d much time to spend it. He could go up to the Hikers whenever he wanted, if he wanted to. He sometimes got the paper in the mornings and brought it into the pub and had a quiet pint by himself but it always smelt of last night and polish and the smell that old hoovers left behind them. Except on Saturdays and Sundays; they were better.

He bought himself a suit, a grey one. Veronica liked it. She even came down to the Hikers with him the first Sunday he wore it. It wasn’t flashy, and he didn’t wear a tie although he’d bought one of them as well.

— Nice suit, compadre, Bertie said.

— Must have cost yeh a few bob, was what Paddy said, but you wouldn’t have minded him.

Bimbo didn’t say anything but he was wearing a new suit himself the next Sunday, so he must have been impressed, or Maggie’d been.

They were thinking of getting a car; they’d always had one before, or a van, but they’d always had something. Veronica was putting money away.

— We’ll have a decent Christmas this year annyway, wha’, he said when himself and Veronica were out having a walk alongside the seafront.

— Jimmy.

— Wha’?

— It’s August.

— Yeh know what I mean, he said, but they laughed.

They all went to the zoo. Darren and the twins wouldn’t come, but the rest of them did; Jimmy Sr and Veronica, Sharon and Gina, and Jimmy Jr and his mot, Aoife. They’d a great day. Gina didn’t give a fuck about the animals; she just wanted to go on the slide all day. Jimmy Sr and Jimmy Jr laughed their way around the place. Aoife laughed at nearly everything they said, but especially when Jimmy Sr said that the hippo smelt like Veronica’s mother used to, and Veronica agreed with him. She was a lovely girl, Aoife; lovely. They’d a picnic with them. Jimmy Jr slagged Jimmy Sr because he wouldn’t sit on the grass cos he’d his new suit on him.

They had a few drinks in the Park Lodge Hotel after the zoo. It was nice in there, after Jimmy Jr got them to turn the telly down. When they were thinking of going home Jimmy Sr ordered a taxi for them, and they went home that way, in style.

— Honk the horn, said Jimmy Sr when your man, the taxi driver, was stopping at their gate.

— Do not, said Veronica.

They all got out while Jimmy Sr settled up with the taxi fella; eight fuckin’ quid, but he said nothing, just handed it over to him. It was only money. He made sure he got the right change back off him though. Then he gave him fifty pence.

— There yeh go, said Jimmy Sr. — Buy yourself a hat.

Jimmy Jr wanted to give him half the taxi fare.

— Fuck off ou’ o’ tha’, said Jimmy Sr. — Put it back in your pocket.

— Are yeh sure?

—’Course I’m sure.

He spoke quieter now.

— I remember when I was skint an’ you helped me ou’; I remember tha’.

— Can I have it back? said Jimmy Jr.

They laughed up the hall, into the kitchen, and they wouldn’t tell the women what they were laughing about.

It was past midnight, and hectic — mad. They were sliding all over the place but they’d no time to wipe the floor. They were used to it by now, like sailors. Sharon was with them tonight and even she was sweating through her clothes.

— My Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr.

He was getting ready to say what he wanted to say. Himself and Bimbo were at the fryer and the hotplate trying to keep up with Sharon as she called the orders back to them. Bimbo was chasing an onion ring that kept ducking away from the tongs.

Jimmy Sr wiped his brow with his arm.

— D‘yeh know wha’? he said.

Here went.

He chuckled first so it would sound right, half a joke.

— This place should be called Bimbo and Jimmy’s Burgers, he said.

— No, said Bimbo, very — too fuckin’ quickly.

Jimmy Sr’s heart was pounding.

— It wouldn’t sound righ’, said Bimbo.

— Yeah, Jimmy Sr agreed with him. — You’re righ’.

— Too long, said Bimbo.

— Exactly, said Jimmy Sr. — I wasn’t serious—

— know tha’,—still—

— No, you’re righ’.

— You’ve been great pals for years, said Veronica.

Jimmy Sr nodded.

That was true. Still was.

He nodded again.

— You should try to make sure that it stays that way, said Veronica. — The two of you.

Jimmy Sr kind of laughed.

— Don’t worry, love, he said. — Anyway, it’s not Bimbo really — I don’t know. It’s her.

Veronica said nothing.

Darren got out of the way just in time. Jimmy Sr was carrying a brown bag that was already soggy; the arse was going to fall out of it. He’d got his timing wrong; he’d stuck the cod and the spice-burger into the bag but when he went to get the chips there were none left, so while he was putting a new batch into the fryer and waiting for them the cod had got out of the batter and was soaking the bottom of the bag. But he hadn’t time to change it. It was getting mad outside again, and it wasn’t even dark yet; small gangs of kids had a way of making it seem like they were big gangs of kids. There were only about six waiting to be served but they were all shouting at the same time, and pushing and changing their positions. It was another hot airless bastard of a night, worse than last night.

— Two cods, a spice, three large, Jimmy Sr checked with the young ones who’d ordered them.

— Yeah, she said, like she’d been waiting all day for them.

He slammed in the salt and vinegar and closed the bag.

— A single an’ a—

— Wait your turn! said Jimmy Sr.

He turned to Darren and Bimbo.

— One o’ yis get over here.

He turned back to the young one.

— There, he said, and he handed her the bag.

— I’m not takin’ tha’, she said.

— What’s your problem? said Jimmy Sr.

— The bag, said the young one. — It’ll burst before I get it home to me house.

Jimmy Sr couldn’t argue with her; she was right.

— Jesus wept!

He turned to get another bag and bumped into Bimbo. There was no damage done.

— Will yeh watch where you’re fuckin’ goin’!

— You watch where you’re goin’ yourself, said Bimbo.

— Where’s Darren gone?

— Over to Flemings for water.

— He’s no use to us over there, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo took over at the hatch.

— Yourself, he said, pointing at a kid.

— Single.

— Annythin’ else?

— No.

— One single, Bimbo shouted over his shoulder, into Jimmy Sr’s face. — Sorry.

Jimmy Sr handed out the new bag to the young one.

— There now, he said. — Let’s see your money.

The young one looked under the bag before she handed over the pound coins, five of them. The coins were warm.

— Your hands are sweaty, Jimmy Sr told her.

— So’s your bollix, said the young one, and she just stood there waiting for her change, not a bother on her. She was only about twelve. She stared up at him.

They were all laughing outside.

He took twenty-five pence out of the box. He thought that that was what he owed her, he wasn’t sure.

— There, he said.

—‘Bou’ time, she said, and she shoved back, to get through the crowd.

She was replaced by a young fella with a pony tail.

— Righ’, Geronimo, said Jimmy Sr.

— Me name’s not—

— Okay, said Jimmy Sr. — Wha’ d’yeh want?

— Curry chips.

— We don’t do them.

— Why don’t yis?

— Our chips are too good, son, Jimmy Sr told him.

— Wha’?

— We wouldn’t insult our chips by ruinin’ them with tha’ muck, said Jimmy Sr. — They only use curry sauce cos their potatoes are bad, to hide the real taste. Now there’s some inside information for yeah.

He was beginning to feel better. Bimbo went back to the hotplate and the fryer. It was about time he did a bit of real work, instead of just hiding in the corner with the fish.

— So, said Jimmy Sr. — Will ordin‘y chips do yeh, or wha’?

— Okay, said the young fella. — They’d better be good though.

Jimmy leaned back and took a chip from the rack.

— How’s tha’ look? he said, and he held up the chip.

They all cheered. There were more of them outside now, about twenty, all of them kids.

— Yeow! Yeh man, yeh!

— They’re not chips! a high-pitched young fella in the crowd shouted. — They’re potato mickies!

— Gis a bag o’ them! said the young fella with the pony tail.

— One single! Jimmy roared back at Bimbo.

Darren was back, with three full milk bottles.

— Wha’ kept yeh? said Bimbo.

— I had to negotiate, Darren told him.

Jimmy Sr chose his next customer.

— You with the head, he said.

— A large an’ a dunphy.

— Large an’ a dunphy! Jimmy Sr roared.

— She was watchin’ Jake and the Fat Cunt when I rang the bell, Darren told Bimbo.

— Oh oh, said Bimbo.

Missis Fleming had cut off their water supply before, when Jimmy Sr rang the bell during Coronation Street and then knocked on the front-room window when she hadn’t answered fast enough for him. They’d had to buy her a box of Terry’s Moonlight chocolates, and get Maggie to deliver them, before she’d given them the right of way again.

— A large, a smoked an’ a spice! Jimmy Sr roared. — An’ hurry up with the large an’ the dunphy!

Darren filled a bag with chips and fished a spice-burger out of the fryer.

— He said a dunphy, Bimbo told him.

— It’s not for him, said Darren. — It’s for Missis Fleming.

He jumped out the back.

— Where’s he gone now? said Jimmy Sr. — For fuck sake. We can’t let that oul’ bitch hold us to ransom. Two large, a bun an’ a dunphy — Stop pushin’ there; you’ll turn us over.

He turned back to Bimbo.

— Why can’t she just get a key cut for us, like I said to her? — Two 7-Ups with tha’ last one, righ’.

Bimbo was struggling; he could tell.

Good.

Jimmy Sr lobbed in the salt and vinegar, closed the brown bag and handed it out to a young fella.

— One, eh, eighty.

— An’ a Twix, said the young fella.

Jimmy Sr got the Twix and went back to the hatch and the young fella’d fucked off without paying. They were all laughing outside. Jimmy Sr had to laugh as well.

— Did yeh see tha’? he asked Bimbo.

— Wha’?

— Mister Rabbitte; here — !

— No skippin’ the queue just cos yeh know me name.

— Fuck yeh.

— You’re barred.

— He’s after barrin’ Anto, said another young fella. — He’ll get his da after yeh, Mister Rabbitte.

— He can get his ma after me if he likes, said Jimmy Sr.

They cheered.

— Mind you, said Jimmy Sr. — His da’s better lookin’.

— Haaaa!

They were having a great time.

— He’!! definitely get his da now.

— Let him, said Jimmy Sr. — I’ll let the air ou’ of his wheelchair.

He turned to see what was keeping Bimbo. Bimbo was holding a spice-burger over two bags; he didn’t know which was which.

— D’yeh want to swap? said Jimmy Sr.

— No! said Bimbo. — No.—Yeah.

Jimmy Sr spoke to his customers.

— I’ll have to leave yis now, I’m afraid, he told them. — We’re a bit understaffed in the kitchen.

— Bye bye, Mister Rabbitte.

— Good luck now, said Jimmy Sr.

He made room for Bimbo.

— There yeh go, he said. — Make sure yeh get their money off them before yeh hand over the goods.

He’d enjoyed that, and the bit of fresh air coming through the hatch had done him the power of good. He slapped on a burger, for himself; he deserved it.

— Batter burger, large, Coke! Bimbo roared.

— I hear yeh, said Jimmy Sr.

He didn’t know how anyone could eat those batter burgers; they were disgusting. You could leave one of them swimming around in the fryer for hours and the meat would still be that pink colour and you’d want a chisel to get through the batter. You were dicing with death eating one of those things. Still, they were big though, very good value. He lowered it very carefully into the fat. It was like launching a ship.

Darren was back again.

— Is she happy now? Jimmy Sr asked him.

— Yeah, said Darren. — Sort of.

— Piss on her chips the next time, said Jimmy Sr.

He passed a brown bag back to Bimbo.

— Batter burger, large.

— A Coke as well, Bimbo reminded him.

— That’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr.

He bent down and got a can from under the hotplate, making sure that his head didn’t go too close to it. He wiped the grease off the can with Darren’s T-shirt and handed it to Bimbo.

— From the back o’ the fridge, he said.

— Two five, Darren told Bimbo.

— Two pound an’ fivepence, Bimbo told the young fella at the hatch.

— I’ve on’y two pounds, said the young fella.

Jimmy Sr took the bag from Bimbo when he heard that. He opened it, got the batter burger out and took a huge bite out of it, and let the rest of it drop back into the bag. He shut the bag, and shoved the chunk of batter burger over to the side of his mouth.