The Barrytown Trilogy (53 page)

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 shoo
TS
!

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.

—
OLÉ——OLÉ OLÉ 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 OLÉ OLÉ
—

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 OLÉ 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. Jimmy 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 OLÉ OLÉ
. 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 OLÉ 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 on to 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 OLÉ 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.