‘Mister Sprinkle’ eased his way on to the wooden bridge which linked Clontarf to the Bull Island.

“It’s another scorcher. Perfect for lots of lolly, if you know what I mean,” grinned Brennie.

It wasn’t quite noon on Tuesday yet the temperatures were already in the mid-20s as the ice-cream van, bedecked in light blue and dark blue, bobbed past the entrance to the Royal Dublin golf club.

Alongside Brennie, Vinny Fitzpatrick was feeling giddy. He'd always longed to sell ice creams by the seashore, hear the tinkle of music, see the faces of expectation as salty hands reached out for a creamy cone.

Today, in return for a nifty-50 from Brennie, and as much ice-cream as he wanted, he would be their dream-maker. Brennie regularly leased a Mister Sprinkle van from the Finglas-based firm of the same name, which supplied the van in ‘ready to go’ mode, complete with ice cream mix, cones, flakes, syrups and boxes of coloured sprinkles.

There was also a float in coinage and a full tank of diesel. Mister Sprinkle wasn’t a cheap date but when the weather was decent and the business steady, there was dosh to be had.

Brennie was usually a one-man operation, popping up at Portmarnock, Malahide, Donabate and even Loughshinny of a weekend. Today, he was on home ground at 'Dollyer', still the most popular beach for Northsiders.

As Brennie nursed Mister Sprinkle down the rutty track towards the dunes, he pressed a button on the dash-board. “Time to alert the natives,” he grinned.

The tinkly tune was familiar to Vinny, as the theme for Z Cars was also the match day anthem at Goodison Park, familiar to Everton lovers, of whom Dublin had many.

“This pitch’ll do fine,” said Brennie as he braked on the bone-hard sand.

The golden strand was pancake flat and dotted with screaming kids, while parents plonked down in shady nooks. Nearby, a crew of strapping youths played rounders, armed with a hurl and sliotar.

“The tide is turning. As the beach gets smaller, it brings everyone closer to us. Conditions are ideal. Right Vinny, it’s time for your crash-course in pulling cones.”

It was trickier than Vinny imagined as the cream dribbled down his pudgy fingers, which he licked clean. Sticking in the choccie flake, and squirting on the syrups and sprinklers, also required a dextrous touch, while Vinny noted the various charges; €1 for a baby cone, €1.50 for a baby ‘99’, €1.70 for large cone and €2 for a large ‘99’.

There was also a fridge containing orange lollies at €1 a pop.

A sauna

“Right, let’s rumble,” said Brennie, flinging open the windows on either side of the van. Vinny found the work gruelling for he was on his feet the whole time and the inside of the van was akin to a sauna.

As rivers of sweat ran down his hairy back, Vinny envied Brennie in his shorts and open short-sleeved shirt.

At one point, a freckly girl arrived. She was 12 or 13, and cloaked in sun block. “I’d like a baby 99 please,” she said, handing over her €1.50. As Vinny did the needful, the girl asked. “Why are they called 99s? My Dad says all genuine ice cream sellers should know.”

Vinny gave Brennie a tap on the back and passed on the question. Brennie shrugged.

“Haven’t got a Scooby Doo. Ask her politely to move on as she’s holding up the queue.”

The girl took the hint but Vinny observed how she ran her eye over the van, before heading off.

The curious incident was forgotten as the ice cream, along with Vinny’s sweat, flowed relentlessly and the burly busman had heard the Angelus chime in St Gabriel’s when Brennie finally called time. “Let’s get out of this furnace and grab some air,” he said.

As the two pals sat on the shaded side of Mister Sprinkle, each slurping an ice lolly, Vinny glanced down the beach, towards the busier section, closer to St Anne’s golf links.

Maybe it was the heat, but he could see two shiny objects, seemingly floating above the sand, coming their way. They could be cars, or something slightly bigger. “What’s that Brennie?” he said.

Best pleased

Instantly, Brennie jumped to his feet. “Feck it, we’re rumbled. C’mon.”

In his haste, Brennie stalled the engine and by the time Mister Sprinkle coughed into action, he had company from Mister Softee and Mister Freeze, whose stern-faced drivers were not best pleased.

The two vans flanked Mister Sprinkle and cut off his Royal Dublin escape route, forcing Brennie to head north down the beach.

"What's going on?" shouted Vinny, above the Z Cars music.

Brennie shrugged.

“Some suit in the council decided to issue licenses to sell ice creams. I didn’t get around to applying this year and these two jokers aren’t best pleased.”

Vinny’s jaw dropped.

“You mean we’re trespassing on their patch, which they’ve paid for. Wouldn’t you be brassed off too?’

By now Mister Softee had sped past and cut off the St Anne’s exit. With Mister Freeze up Mister Sprinkle’s tail, Brennie yanked hard to his right, towards the sea, almost capsizing as he did.

“Yee-hah,” he shouted, eyes wild. Alas, the joy was short-lived as a few seconds later, Mister Sprinkle became bogged down in soft sand, spluttered noisily, and ground to a halt.

Mister Sprinkle was unable to go forwards or backwards, and the tide was coming in at pace. Behind them, on firm terrain, Mister Softee and Mister Freeze had pulled up.

A girl alighted from Mister Softee whom Vinny recognised as ‘Miss 99’ from earlier. The game, he knew, was up.