The Barrytown Trilogy (48 page)

—Four pints over here, he roared at the young fella who
was going past them with a trayload of empty glasses. —I’d still have beaten yeh, he told Bimbo.

—But I won, said Bimbo.

—It’s tha’ baldy bollix, Gorbachev’s fault. The grass should’ve been cut there; he’s useless. There’s always dogshite in the bunkers as well.

—Annyone want a kettle jug? said Bertie.

—Free?

—No, said Bertie. —No, I’m afraid not. I can give it to yeh at a keen price though.

—How much? said Paddy.

—Fifteen quid, said Bertie. —Thirty-five in the shops. ——Two for twenty-five.

—How many have yeh? Jimmy Sr asked him.

—Ask no questions, compadre, said Bertie. —Not tha’ many. A small herd. Well?

—No, said Jimmy Sr.

He looked around to see if there was anyone listening or watching.

—No, Paddy said. —We don’t need one.

—No, Bimbo agreed.

—Fair enough, said Bertie. —No problem.

—Yeh wouldn’t have a chipper van to sell, I suppose, said Bimbo, —would yeh, Bertie?

—No, said Bertie, like Bimbo’d just asked him if he’d any bananas.

Jimmy Sr and Paddy stared at Bimbo.

—Just a thought, said Bimbo.

And he left it at that.

Bertie loved a challenge.

—Wha’ abou’ a Mister Whippy one? Bertie asked Bimbo. —I think I could get me hands on one o’ them.

—No, said Bimbo.

—You’ve your heart set on a chipper one?

—Yeah. ——Not really; just if yeh see one.

—Si, said Bertie. —I’ll see what I can do.

Jimmy Sr looked at Bimbo. But Bimbo was just looking the
way he always did, friendly and stupid looking, no glint in his eye or nothing.

* * *

—Bimbo’s talkin’ abou’ gettin’ himself a chipper van, he told Veronica.

—I knew he liked his food, said Veronica. —But I didn’t know he was that bad.

Jimmy Sr didn’t get it at first.

——Ah yeah; very good.

* * *

Jimmy Sr had no luck trying to get anything out of Bimbo.

—It was just an idea, that’s all.

That was about as much as he’d tell him.

They were in Jimmy Sr’s front room watching Blockbusters.

—If Bertie finds one will yeh buy it? Jimmy Sr asked him.

—B M——, said Bimbo.

The girls’ team on the telly got to the answer before Bimbo.

—Are yeh listenin’ to me? said Jimmy Sr.

—M T, said Bimbo.

—Mother Teresa, said Jimmy Sr.

—Let’s see; ——you’re righ’.

—’Course I’m righ’.

—They’ve won, look it. You’d’ve won if you’d o’ been on it, Jimmy.

—What’s the prize?

—A trip to somewhere.

—Would yeh take the van if Bertie found one for yeh? Jimmy Sr asked him again.

—Edinburgh; that’s where it’s to. That’s not all tha’ good, is it?

—Better than nowhere, said Jimmy Sr, defending the prize he could’ve won.

—That’s right, o’ course. They look happy enough with it annyway, don’t they?

Jimmy Sr looked at the two girls on the telly.

—Wouldn’t mind goin’ with them, he said.

* * *

The weather was glorious. All week the sun had been blazing away, none of the chill that you often got when it was sunny in May.

They were sitting on Jimmy Sr’s front step, Jimmy Sr and Bimbo, lapping up the sun. Bimbo had his eyes closed and his face shoved up to catch the sun, daring it to burn him.

—Lovely, he said.

—Fuckin’ sure, said Jimmy Sr. —You can really feel it, can’t yeh?

—God, yeah.

—Great drinkin’ weather, said Jimmy Sr.

Bimbo didn’t answer. He agreed with Jimmy Sr but he’d been talking with Maggie about them dipping into his redundancy money; they’d both been doing it, for clothes – Wayne had made his Confirmation two weeks ago – and Easter eggs and things that they’d always had. They’d taken all the kids to the pictures on Wayne’s Confirmation day and that had set them back nearly forty quid after popcorn and ice-creams, forty quid that they didn’t have, so it had come out of the lump sum. Maggie’d take a tenner out so they could have nice steak on a Sunday. And Bimbo’d been helping himself to the odd tenner so he could go up to the Hikers now and again. And the aluminium windows and the other bits and pieces. But it was stopping. This morning they’d had a meeting and they’d agreed that it had to stop or there’d be nothing left for when they really needed it. So the last treat they were giving themselves was three tickets for Cats, for himself and Maggie and her mother; they had them bought since last week, before the decision, so they were going to go ahead and go.

—Oh, here we go, said Jimmy Sr. —Look it.

Bimbo opened his eyes and looked at the ground till he got used to the light.

—Ah yes, said Jimmy Sr, nearly whispering.

There were three girls passing; girls about sixteen or seventeen. You could tell that they knew that Jimmy Sr and Bimbo were there. One of them looked in at them and away quickly. Bimbo felt sweaty suddenly and that annoyed him because it was Jimmy Sr that was really looking at them, not him.

—They’re only young ones, he said.

—There’s no harm, said Jimmy Sr.

He felt like a bollix now; he’d have to control himself – especially when the Child of fuckin’ Prague was sitting beside him.

—They’re goin’ home for their tea, said Bimbo.

Jimmy Sr saw him shiver when he said it.

—An’ to do their homework, said Bimbo.

—Those young ones aren’t in school annymore. They left —

—I know, said Bimbo. —Those particular girls aren’t goin’ to school annymore but —

—They work in tha’ sewin’ factory in Baldoyle, said Jimmy Sr.

—They’re still only young girls, said Bimbo. —Kids.

—Ah, rev up, said Jimmy Sr.

The sewing factory girls got a half day on Fridays. The first time Jimmy Sr’d looked at them on a Friday, from his bedroom window, he’d felt the blood rushing through his head, walloping off the sides, like he was watching a blue video and he was afraid that Veronica would come in and catch him. There was a gang of them – all of them seemed to be in denim mini-skirts – outside Sullivans. Derek and Ann Sullivan’s daughter, Zena, worked in the sewing factory. There was about six of them laughing and hugging themselves to keep out the cold; it was months ago and young ones like that never dressed properly for the weather. All of them had haircuts like your woman, Kylie Minogue. Jimmy Sr liked that. He thought curly hair was much better than straight. He’d looked at them for ages. He even dived back onto the bed when one of them was looking his way. He’d been afraid to go back and look out the window. But he did, and then
they went, their heels making a great sound; he’d always loved that sound – he always woke up when he heard it. He’d felt like a right cunt then, gawking out the window; like a fuckin’ pervert.

But he was only looking, day dreaming maybe. There was no harm in it, none at all. He wasn’t going to start chasing after them or following them or – he just liked looking at them, that was all.

They were coming back up the road. He could hear them, their heels. Bimbo’d been wrong; they weren’t going home to their mammies for their tea. He’d tell them that when they went by, the fuckin’ little altar boy.

They were two gates away now. He’d see them in a minute. He’d look the other way so Bimbo wouldn’t think anything. Not that he cared what Bimbo thought.

He’d see them now if he looked.

He’d say something to Bimbo, just to be talking to him when they went by.

—Will Palace beat United tomorrow, d’yeh —

—Compadres!

It was Bertie. He stayed at the gate and looked at the young ones’ arses when they’d gone by, not a bother on him; he didn’t give a shite who saw him.

—How’s Bertie? said Bimbo.

He wouldn’t give out to Bertie for looking at the young ones, of course; no way.

Bertie stayed at the gate. He was wearing an Italia 90 T-shirt. He held the collar and shook it to put some air between him and the cloth.

—Are yis busy, compadres?

—What’s it look like? said Jimmy Sr.

Bertie opened the gate and nodded at them to get up.

—Come on till I show yis somethin’.

* * *

It was filthy. He’d never seen anything like it. They walked around it. It was horrible to think that people had once eaten
chips and stuff out of this thing; it was a fuckin’ scandal. There was no way he was going to look inside it.

He looked at Bimbo but he couldn’t see his face. Bimbo was looking under the van now. For what, Jimmy Sr didn’t know; acting the expert. The last place Jimmy Sr would have wanted to stick his face was under that fuckin’ van; it would probably shite on top of you. It was like something out of a zoo gone stiff, the same colour and all.

It didn’t even have wheels. It was up on bricks.

Bimbo stood up straight.

Bertie came out from behind the van, rolling a wheel in front of him.

—The wheels are new, compadres, he told them. —There’s three more behind there, he said. —In perfect nick.

He let the tyre fall over on to the grass.

—Wha’ d’yeh think? he asked Bimbo.

—Which end does it shite out of? said Jimmy Sr.

Bertie got in between Bimbo and Jimmy Sr. Bimbo was still looking at the van, moving a bit to the left and to the right like he was studying a painting or something. Jimmy Sr went over so he could get a good look at Bimbo.

Bimbo looked excited and disappointed, like a light going on and off. Jimmy Sr looked at the van again.

Ah Jesus, the thing was in fuckin’ tatters. The man was fuckin’ mad to be even looking at it. He couldn’t let him do this.

—Maggie’ll have to see it, Bimbo said to Bertie.

Thank God for that, thought Jimmy Sr. It saved him the hassle of trying to stop Bimbo from making a fuckin’ eejit out of himself. Maggie’d box his ears for him when she saw what he was dragging her away from her work to see.

Bimbo’s face was still skipping up and down.

—I’ll get her, he said. —Hang on.

* * *

Jimmy Sr and Bertie waited in the garden while Bimbo went and got Maggie. The garden was in rag order, as bad as the
van. You could never really tell what state a house was in from the front. Jimmy Sr had walked past this house dozens of times – it was only a couple of corners away from his own – and he’d never noticed anything about it. He’d never noticed it at all really; it was just a house at the end of a terrace. It was only when you came round the back that you realised that there was a gang of savages living a couple of hundred yards away from you. It wasn’t just poverty.

—I don’t know how annyone can live like this, he said.

Bertie looked around.

—It’s not tha’ bad, he said. —A bit wild maybe.

—Wild! said Jimmy Sr.

He pointed at a used nappy on the path near the back door.

—Is tha’ wild, is it? That’s just fuckin’ disgustin’.

He looked around nearer to him – he was sitting on one of the wheels – as if he was searching for more nappies.

—They should be ashamed of themselves, he said.

—It’s not They, compadre, Bertie corrected him.

—Wha’ d’yeh mean?

—It used to be They but now it’s just He. ——She fucked off an’ left him. An’ the kids.

—Jaysis, said Jimmy Sr. —That’s rough. Why?

—Why wha’?

—Why’d she leave him?

——I don’t know, compadre, said Bertie after a bit. —He’s an ugly cunt but.

—Did you ever see her? Jimmy Sr asked him.

—No, said Bertie. —But the kids are all ugly as well.

—Ah well then, said Jimmy Sr.

He had his back to the van, on purpose, kind of a protest. He looked over his shoulder at it.

—You’ve some fuckin’ neck though, he told Bertie.

—Wha’? said Bertie.

—Tryin’ to get poor Bimbo to throw his money away on tha’ yoke, Jimmy Sr explained.

—I’m not trying to get Bimbo to throw his money away on
annythin’, said Bertie. —He asked me to look ou’ for a van for him an’ that’s what I did.

Jimmy Sr took his time answering Bertie. He had to be careful.

—How did yeh find it? he asked Bertie.

—I followed me nose, said Bertie.

They laughed.

Jimmy Sr knew now that Bertie wouldn’t push Bimbo into buying it. Anyway, Maggie would never let Bimbo buy it.

—It hasn’t been used in years, he said.

—No, Bertie corrected him. —No, it’s not tha’ long off the road. A year about only.

He looked at the van from end to end.

—She’s a good little buy, he said. —Solid, yeh know. Tha’ dirt’ll wash off no problem.

Jimmy Sr changed his mind; the cunt was going to make Bimbo buy it.

—There’s more than dirt wrong with tha’ fuckin’ thing, he told Bertie.

—Not at all, compadre, said Bertie, —I assure you.

—Assure me bollix, said Jimmy Sr.

—Hey! said Bertie.

He was pointing at Jimmy Sr. Jimmy Sr’d been afraid that this was going to happen. But sometimes you had to stand up and be counted.

—Hey, said Bertie again, not as loud now that he had Jimmy Sr looking at him. —Listen you, righ’. You ask anybody – anybody – that’s ever dealt with me if they’ve anny complaints to make abou’ their purchases an’ what’ll they tell yeh?

Jimmy Sr didn’t know if he was supposed to answer.

—No signor, they’ll say, said Bertie. —Quality, they’ll say, is Bertie Gillespie’s middle name. My friend Bimbo, he asks me to find him a chipper van an’ I find him a fuckin’ chipper van. It needs a wash an’ its armpits shaved, but so wha’? Don’t we all?

Jimmy Sr shrugged.

——I was only givin’ me opinion, he said.

—Jimmy, said Bertie. —You’ve bought things from me, righ’? Many products.

—That’s righ’, said Jimmy Sr.

—Did annythin’ I ever gave yeh stop workin’ on yeh?

—Never, Bertie, Jimmy Sr assured him. —Linda’s Walkman broke on her but tha’ was her own fault. She got into the bath with it.

—Well then, said Bertie. —If I say it’s a good van then it’s a good fuckin’ van. It’s the Rolls-Royce o’ fuckin’ chipper vans; si?

——Okay, said Jimmy Sr. —Sorry.

—No problem, said Bertie. —What’s keepin’ Bimbo annyway?