Glue

by Irvine Welsh

  Duncan Ewart smiled gravely. — For trying to keep Wullie Birrell on the job on a Friday afternoon with the boys all itching tae down tools. A great piece of management. I’ve put it right for ye, I’ve just told him to go, he added smugly.

  A pellet of hate exploded in Abercrombie’s chest, spreading to the extremities of his fingers and toes. He began to flush and shake. He couldn’t help it. That bastard Ewart: who the fuck did he think he was? — Ah run this fuckin shop floor! You bloody well mind that!

  Duncan grinned in the face of Abercrombie’s outburst. — Sorry, Tam, the cavalry’s on its way.

  Abercrombie wilted at that moment, not at Duncan’s words but at the sight of a stonyfaced Catter appearing behind him, as if on cue. Worse still, he came into the small box with Convenor Bobby Affleck. Affleck was a squat bull of a man who had a bearing of intimidating ferocity when even mildly irritated. But now, Abercrombie could instantly tell, the Convenor was in a state of incandescent rage.

  Duncan smiled at Abercrombie and winked at Affleck before leaving and closing the door behind them. The thin plywood door proved little barrier to the sound of Affleck’s fury.

  Miraculously, every lathe and drill machine on the shop floor was switched off, one by one, replaced by the sound of laughter, which spilled like a rush of spring colouring across the painted grey concrete factory floor.

  Billy Birrell

  Two Royal Pests

  Duncan Ewart had his young son, Carl, dancing on top of the sideboard to a Count Basie record. Elvis had been pretty much worn out that weekend and Duncan had a good drink in him, having just got back from Fife where Killie and Dunfermline had shared the points. He and his son were now the same height, and the boy was mimicking him dancing. Maria came into the front room and joined them. She picked the lively kid off the sideboard and whisked him across the floor while singing, — Real royal blood comes in real small amounts, I got two royal pests, I got Carl, I got Duncan . . .

  The boy had the Ewart straw-blonde hair. Duncan wondered whether or not Carl would get stuck with his own factory nickname, ‘The Milky Bar Kid’, when he started school. Duncan hoped, as Maria lowered the boy to the floor, that neither of them would need glasses. Feeling Maria’s arms sliding round his waist, Duncan turned and they shared an embrace and a long kiss. Carl didn’t know what to do, and feeling left out, he grabbed at their legs.

  The doorbell went and Maria headed out to answer it as Duncan took the opportunity to put on Elvis once more, this time In the Ghetto.

  Maria saw a slightly startled-looking, square-jawed man on the step. He was a stranger to her and he was clutching a bottle of whisky and a picture, which seemed to be drawn by a child. He was obviously a bit drunk and elated, though a little self-conscious. — Eh excuse me Mrs, eh, Ewart, eh, is your man in? he asked.

  — Aye . . . hold on the now, Maria said, calling Duncan who quickly ushered Wullie Birrell in, introducing him to Maria as a friend from work.

  Wullie Birrell was gratified but a bit embarrassed at Duncan’s familiarity. — Mr Ewart, eh, Johnny Dawson gied me your address . . . jist popped roond tae say thanks for everything the other day, Wullie coughed nervously. — Ah heard Abercrombie was a laughing stock.

  Duncan smiled, though in truth, he’d been feeling a bit guilty at his part in Abercrombie’s humiliation. The man deserved to be taken down a peg, and aye, Duncan had wanted to gloat. Then he saw the pain on Abercrombie’s face as he walked across the car park at finishing time. Tam Abercrombie was normally last to leave but that tea-time he couldn’t get out the door quick enough. One thing Duncan’s father had told him was to try not to be too quick in passing judgment on others, even your enemies. You never knew what kind of shite they had going on in their own lives. There was something about Abercrombie, something crushed, and by something a lot bigger than that day’s events.

  But fuck him, Wullie Birrell’s wife was having a baby. Who the fuck was Abercrombie to say he couldn’t be with the woman? — Nae mair than he deserves, Wullie, Duncan grinned waspishly, — and it’s Duncan, for christ sake. Aye, the queer felly wisnae too pleased, but let’s no mention his name in this hoose. But how’s the missus? Any news? he asked, looking Wullie up and down and knowing the answer.

  — A wee boy. Seven and a half pounds. It’s our second wee laddie. Came oot kickin and screamin, and eh’s never stoaped since, Wullie explained with a nervous grin. — No like the first yin. He’s quiet. Ages wi this yin here, he remarked, smiling at Carl, who was examining this stranger, though staying close to his mother. — Ye got any mair?

  Duncan laughed loudly and Maria rolled her eyes. — This one’s mair than enough, Duncan told him, then dropped his voice. — We were gaunny pack it aw in before he came along, get two tickets tae America, hire a car and drive across it. See New York, New Orleans, Memphis, Nashville, Vegas, the lot. Then we had our wee accident here, he rubbed Carl’s milky-white head of hair.

  — Stop callin um that Duncan, he’ll grow up feeling unwanted, Maria whispered.

  Duncan regarded his son. — Naw, we couldnae take back wur mad wee March Hare, could we, pal?

  — Pit on Elvis, Dad, Carl urged.

  Duncan basked in the boy’s promptings. — Great idea son, but ah’ll just get a few beers and some glesses and we’ll wet the bairn’s heid. Export okay, Wullie?

  — Aye, fine, Duncan, and get some wee yins for the whisky here naw.

  — Sounds fine tae me, Duncan nodded, heading for the kitchen, winking at Maria as Carl followed him.

  Wullie half-apologetically passed Maria the picture he was holding. It was a child’s balloon and matchstick painting of a family. Maria held it up to the light and studied the accompanying words.

  It was a story

  a new baby by William Birrell age five saughton primary school told to Wendy hines aged eleven and written out by Bobby Sharp aged eight.

  my name is William but i git cald Billy my dads Billy two an we will hav a new baby. i like football an Hibs ar the best tim dad take me to see them but no the new baby cos of it been in a kot still play sin johnsin mum has a fire an her nom is Sandra Birrell fat cos of baby.

  i live in a big hoos with a windo i hav a gurlfrend call Sally she is age sivin in a big clas mister colins next dor is old

  — It’s great, Maria said to him.

  — Thir brilliant at that school. They git aw the different ages tae help the teachers help the wee yins, Wullie explained.

  — That’s good, cause oor yin’s gaun at the end ay the summer, Maria told him. — Your eldest, eh must be a bright kid, she cooed.

  Pride and drink conspired to lend Wullie’s face a healthy flush. — Eh hud it done for me comin back fae the hoaspital. Aye, ah think Billy’s gaunny be the brainy one, and this new yin, Robert wir callin him, he’ll be the fighter. Aye, eh came oot kickin n screamin, tore the wife bad . . . Wullie said, then blushed in Maria’s presence, — eh sorry . . . ah mean . . .

  Maria just laughed heartily, waving him away as Duncan returned with the drinks on a Youngers tray he’d taken one drunken night from the Tartan Club.

  Billy Birrell had started the school last year. Wullie was proud of his son, though he had to constantly watch him with matches. The laddie seemed obsessed with fire, lighting them in the garden, on the wasteground, anywhere he could, and he’d almost set the house ablaze one night.

  — It’s good that he likes fire though Wullie, Duncan said, the drink taking effect, topping up what he’d already had, — Apollo, the god o’ fire is also the god o’ light.

  — Good, cause thir’d’ve been light awright if they curtains had gone up . . .

  — It’s that revolutionary impulse though, Wullie, sometimes you’ve goat tae destroy it aw, just burn the bloody lot doon, before ye can start again, Duncan laughed as he poured more whisky.

  — Nonsense, Maria scoffed, looking grimly at the large measure Duncan had poured, splashing lemonade into the glass to dilute the spirit.

  Du
ncan passed another tumbler over to Wullie. — Ah’m jist sayin . . . the sun’s aboot fire, but it’s aboot light and healing as well.

  Maria was having none of it. — Wullie’d need healin awright if eh woke up wi third-degree burns, she told him.

  Wullie was feeling guilty that he was being unintentionally a bit hard on his son, in front of people he hardly knew. — Eh’s a good wee felly but, ah mean ye try tae teach thum right fae wrong . . . he slurred, himself now feeling the drink and the tiredness.

  — It’s a difficult world now, no like the yin we grew up in, Duncan said. Ye never know what tae teach them. Ah mean, there’s the basic stuff like back up yir mates, never cross a picket line . . .

  — Nivir hit a lassie, Wullie nodded.

  — Definitely, Duncan agreed sternly, as Maria looked at him with a you-just-try-it-pal expression, — Nivir shop anybody tae the polis . . .

  — . . . neither friend nor foe, Wullie added.

  — That’s what ah think ah’ll dae, replace the ten commandments wi ma ain ten commandments. They’d be better for kids thin that Spock, or any ay thaim. Buy a record every week, that’d be one o’ mine . . . ye cannae go a week withoot a good tune tae look forward tae . . .

  — If you want tae give yir sons some kind ay code tae live by, what about try not tae line the pockets of the brewers and the bookies too much, Maria laughed.

  — Some things are a lot harder than others, Duncan ventured to Wullie, who nodded sagely.

  They sat up most of the night drinking, reminiscing about where they’d come from before the slum-clearance flats. They all agreed that they were the best thing that had happened to the working classes. Maria was a Tollcross girl, while Wullie and his wife came from Leith via the West Granton prefabs. They’d been offered Muirhouse but they went for this cause it was nearer Sandra’s mother who had been ill and who lived in Chesser.

  — We’re across in the aulder part ay the scheme but, Wullie said semi-apologetically, it isnae as smart as this.

  Duncan tried not to feel superior, but that was the consensus in the area: the newer flats were the best deal. The Ewarts, like other families in the area, enjoyed their airy flat. All their neighbours commented on the underfloor heating, where you could heat up the whole flat with just a click of the switch. Maria’s dad had recently died of TB from Tollcross’s damp tenements; now all that was a thing of the past. Duncan loved those big warm tiles under the carpet. You put your feet under that fireside rug and it was sheer luxury.

  Then as winter set in and the first bills came through the post, the central-heating systems in the scheme clicked off; synchronised to such a degree it was almost like they were operated by one master switch.

  Andrew Galloway

  The Man of the House

  It wis when it wis one ay the best times whin ah’m kneelin oan the flair n ah hud the Beano oan one ay the big chairs soas that naebody could bother me n ah’ve got a chocolate biscuit n a glass ay milk oan the wee stool n muh Dad’s sittin in the other chair, readin ehs paper n muh Ma’s making the tea n muh Ma, she’s the best cook in the world cos she can make the best chips n muh Dad’s the best dad in the world cos he could batter anybody n he was once gaunny batter Paul McCartney cause muh Ma likes him and he was gaunny marry Ma but Dad mairried her first n if eh hudnae ah’d’ve been in the Beatles.

  Sheena’s in her cot . . . makin a noise, her face aw rid. Cry cry cry . . . that’s her n she’s sometimes always greetin, jist like Christmas, ma Dad sais, no like me cause ah’m big, ah’m at the school now!

  Ah wis in the war.

  Terry gret at the school oan the first day ah nivir gret but Terry did, gre-tin-fae-haced Teh-ray . . . sittin oan the platform whaire Miss Munro hus her desk and eh gret n gret.

  Miss Munro hud him oan her knee and that was lucky for Terry. Ah’m gaunny marry Miss Munro because she smells nice and is kind n ah pit ma airm roond Terry cause eh’s ma pal n ah telt um tae try n be a big boy n Terry wis feart that ehs ma widnae come back but ah kent mines would cause she said we’d go for a cone at Mr Whippy’s.

  Auntie May-ray had a canary . . .

  Paul McCartney’s gittin battered! Eh’s gittin battered right up by me n ma Dad! Bang! Phow!

  Miss Munro said that it’s awright Terry, yuv goat Andrew here. Ah wis bein big.

  Up the leg ay her drawers . . .

  Batter ehs heid in. If ah goat ma temper up ah could batter aw the Beatles.

  Dennis the Menace ma Dad calls me cos ah want a dug like his one bit my Ma sais no till Sheena gits bigger cause some dugs eat babies. That must be why their breath is very bad, because babies smell of pee and sick. Dugs should eat vegetables and chips and good beefburgers, not the cheap ones.

  It widnae come doon till the month ay June . . .

  Ah ate ma biscuit, ate it aw cos it was one of the good ones that taste of wheat with the chocolate nice and thick. The cheap ones never taste so good. Thir wis a knock at the door. Ma Dad went n goat it. Then when eh came back in, two men came with him cos they were policemen n one looked bad, the other one wis nice cos eh smiled at me, patted ma heid. Ma Dad’s sayin that eh had tae go, eh had tae go n help the policemen, but eh’d be back soon.

  Paul McCartney and ma can’t make a baby because there’s Sheena now and she’s in her cot.

  She sat on the gas and burnt her arse . . .

  Muh Ma’s greetin, but Dad says it’s awright. Eh says tae me, — Ah’ve got tae go n help these policemen. You look after yir Ma now n dae as yir telt. Mind, you’re the man ay the hoose.

  and that wis the end ay her drawers . . .

  When eh went away, ma Ma sat ays oan her knee and held me n ah could hear her greetin, but ah didnae greet cos ah wis a big boy and ah nivir gret! Ah wis a bit sad at first cause ah hud ma comic and it was meant tae be the best time, jist after school, before tea bit ah didnae greet cause ah knew that muh Dad would be comin back soon, once he’d helped the policemen put the bad men away n eh’d help them batter the bad men n ah’d help him cos ah’d batter Paul McCartney if he tried to be my Ma’s boyfriend n even if muh Dad wis away a long time, it didnae bother me, because it meant that ah wid be the man ay the hoose.

  Windows ’80

  It seemed like the entire tenement building hissed and shook as the whistling drafts of cold air shot through, leaving it crying, creaking and leaking, as if it were a lobster thrust into a boiling pot. Those high-pressure blasts of dirty chilled wind from the gales outside gatecrashed relentlessly; via the cracks in the window frames and under the sills, through the vents and the spaces between the floorboards.

  Then suddenly, with a contemptuous, twisting whip, and dragging a clutter of cans and rubbish in their wake, the winds deigned to change direction, offering Sandra some respite. As the fibres of her body and soul seemed about to relax, drunks materialised in the streets outside, spilling into the soundless void, filling it with their screams and chants. The wind and rain were now dead, so they could come home. But those vendors of misery always seemed to stop outside her door, and there was one particularly persistent guy who had inadvertently taught her every verse and chorus of Hearts Glorious Hearts over the last few months.

  It never used to bother her, all this noise. Now she was the only one, Sandra Birrell, a mother, a wife, living here in this place, who didn’t sleep at night. The boys slept like logs; sometimes she’d go through to check on them, to marvel at their peace, and how they were growing up.

  Billy would be away soon, she just knew it. Even at sixteen, he’d have his own place within a couple of years. He looked so like her husband in his youth, even if his hair was closer to her blonde. Billy was tough and private, he had his own life and guarded it closely. She knew there were girls hanging around, but she found his lack of expression hard to deal with, even when she marvelled at his unsolicited kindnesses, not just to her, but to relatives and neighbours. You would see him, in a garden over in the pensioners’ war houses, cutting the grass, refusing point-blank,
with a stern shake of his close-cropped head, to take any money in return. Then there was her Robert: he was a rangy wee colt, but growing fast. A dreamer, without Billy’s busy sense of purpose, but also unwilling to share the secrets in his head. When he left, what would be there for her and her man Wullie, slumbering deeply next to her? Then what would she be? Would after them be like before them? Would she be like Sandra Lockhart again?

  It seemed crazy, but what had happened to Sandra Lockhart? The pretty blonde who was good at school, who’d gone to Leith Academy when the rest of her family, the Lockharts of Tennent Street, had all went to D.K. — David Kilpatrick’s, or ‘Daft Kids’ as the locals cruelly called it. Sandra was the youngest of the clan, the one child from that parish-booted band of wideos who seemed to be going places. Vivacious, bubbly and spoiled, she had always seemed a bit too big for those boots, continually appearing to look down on everybody in the tenemented streets of the old port her family came from. Everybody, except one, and he lay next to her.

  The drunks had gone now, their voices tailing off into the night, but only to herald the return of the flagellating winds. Another ferocious blast and the window bellied in like Rolf Harris’s wobble-board, briefly teasing her with the possible drama of fracture, the one event that would surely waken her dozing husband beside her and force him to act, to do something. Anything. Just to show her that they were in this together.

  Sandra looked at him, sleeping as soundly as the boys next door. He was fleshier now and his hair was thinning, but he hadn’t let himself go like some, and he still suggested Rock Hudson in Written on the Wind, the first proper film she’d seen as a girl. She tried to think about how she looked, and she felt her flab and cellulite, the touch of her hands on her body bringing both comfort and revulsion. She doubted if she put people in mind of Dorothy Malone any more. That was what they had called her then, ‘The Hollywood Blonde’.