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.