Tammas had screeched back his chair on the floor and he coughed loudly, blew his nose on the napkin. He looked at Rab.
Rab was staring at the plateful of food he still had in front of himself, then he was gripping the edge of the table with both his hands, steadying himself a moment, before pushing himself upwards. The bill, he was saying, I need to get the bill. Fresh air man, fucking . . . better get it quick, fresh air and that man . . . He fumbled some £1 notes from his trouser pocket and he put them on the table. He turned sideways and he peered across at the party of folk at the three tables.
You alright? Tammas frowned.
Naw I’m fucking – all wrong man. The head, spinning like fuck so it is. Hurry up and . . . Rab pointed at the money; he walked off at once, his hands at his sides, as though he was wiping his palms on his trousers. Some of the other customers in the restaurant were watching him. A waiter signalled to the man at the cashier’s desk but Tammas called: It’s okay. And he strode over to settle the bill.
Down on the pavement he found Rab supporting himself against the wall of the tenement building. You alright? he said.
Rab grunted in reply and he stuck his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders, pushing himself away from the wall. You’ll no fucking let us down now man . . .
What?
You’ll no fucking let us down. Tammas, you’ll no fucking let us down . . . Rab stood facing him, shoulders still hunched and his hands still inside his pockets.
Course I’ll no fucking let you down.
I’m talking about best man, letting us down. We’re fucking finshed if you do man, telling ye, that’ll be that. Rab shook his head and he started walking away.
What’re you yapping about? Tammas went after him. And when he caught up to him Rab put his arm out as though to ward him off. Tammas chuckled: What is that you going to start fucking boxing or what!
Rab kept his arm raised. I’ve known you for years man but we’re fucking finished, finished; and I’m no kidding ye.
Hey come on! Nobody’s letting you down.
I know you too fucking well man. Rab had started walking again and he almost bumped straight into a middle aged couple who had to stop and go sideways. Rab seemed not to notice. He was saying, I dont give a fuck about things like Blackpool but this is different, this is fucking different, it’s no a fucking holiday Tammas it’s no a fucking holiday.
Christ sake Rab.
I could get other cunts to do the job but I want you.
Christ Rab . . . Tammas was shaking his head. Then he stepped forwards and grabbed him by the hand. I’m just fucking, I mean, just glad you asked me and that Christ it’s an honour, it’s a fucking honour man. I’ll no let you down either Christ I mean I wish you hadnt fucking said that Rab, you shouldnt’ve said that.
Naw Tammas I’ve got all sorts of mates; you know that, the team and the fucking work man I’ve got all sorts – it’s no that but, I mean, Christ.
Tammas nodded. I know. I know Rab. I know that.
Aye well.
I’m just fucking – it’s an honour.
They shook hands.
Honest.
Rab nodded.
Tammas let go his hand. He turned and cleared his throat, spat into the gutter, took out his cigarettes and lighted one, chipping the match out into the street. He glanced at Rab: Dont worry about it.
I’m no . . . Rab shrugged. It doesnt matter. As they continued walking he said, You dont have to come to the Stag Night cause there’ll be plenty there anyway – the guys from the team and that; you dont have to bother man.
Naw but I want to come.
Aye but you dont have to, that’s all I’m saying.
I want to but.
Rab nodded. After several moments silence he said, And we’ll have the dress suits to get on the morning as well man that’s another thing.
Aye, no bother.
•••
The meter-bowl contained one 10 pence coin and he replaced it on the mantelpiece, going from there to another bowl on top of the display cabinet; it too was empty. He looked along the window sill and other parts of the room and then he went into the kitchen and searched there, but he found nothing. He returned to the living room and lifted the cup of coffee from the arm of the settee. On the floor, in the ashtray, were the dowps of four cigarettes. He picked one out. He straightened it, smoothing the tip and the fraction of unsmoked tobacco. His matches were on the floor. He struck one, angling his head to avoid the flame of the burning match; and he had it alight in two puffs. Another two puffs and it was finished. He straightened the other three, positioning them along the rim of the ashtray, swallowed down the remainder of the coffee and got up onto his feet, and he walked into the lobby. He stood at the door of Margaret and Robert’s bedroom; he clicked it open, moved his head to peer inside. The curtains were still closed but it was fairly bright, this room obtaining the sun for a good part of each morning. The bed was unmade. When he entered he kept the door open wide. On the dressing table a tidy assortment of articles belonging to Margaret, one a box with a cluttered pile of beads and necklaces; hanging from the top of one of the wardrobe doors a folded shirt and a striped tie, and other clothes over the back of the only chair in the room. Between the chair and the bed were a radio and cassette recorder plus a couple of paperback books and magazines. Tammas continued to stand not far from the door and then he went back out again, closing it behind himself, returning ben the living room. He smoked the largest of the three dowps. About quarter of an hour later he collected his good suit from the bedroom and folded it into a plastic bag.
•••
McCann had laid his dominoes face down on the board and he glanced at Tammas and indicated Auld Roper, tapping the side of his head with his right forefinger.
The elderly man was rising from his seat with the help of his walking stick and he began moving in the direction of the lavatory, looking back and waving the stick as a mock threat.
Tammas started shuffling the pieces but McCann said, Dont bother.
Tammas shrugged, he lifted his cigarette packet, took two and handed one to him; he struck the match. McCann exhaled, saying: You think about what I was saying?
Eh.
I’m no rushing you.
Naw it’s just . . . Tammas looked at him. I dont know man. I’m no sure.
Naw . . . McCann nodded, he stared towards the television. It’s a thought but.
Aye.
That guy I was telling you about, he says it’s a certainty.
Tammas nodded, raised his pint glass and he swirled about the small drop of beer at the bottom. What about Peterhead? he said. Have you heard anything more?
Naw no really – except they’ll be taking on all sorts. Different contractors involved; it’s a really big fucking job.
I think I’d be interested and that if eh . . .
But no the other thing?
Naw, I’m no saying that.
Are you worried about it?
What?
McCann nodded. You dont have to be. Kenny, he’s alright, he knows the game.
Tammas looked at him and then at his pint glass, swirling the liquid about. He dragged on his cigarette, nipped the burning tobacco into the ashtray and wedged the remainder behind his right ear.
Be more than a grand there he says. McCann raised his eyebrows, sipped at his beer, observing Tammas over the rim of the glass.
Tammas shrugged.
Think about it anyhow, added McCann, then he sat back on his chair.
Auld Roper had returned with a glass of sherry which he set on the table at his place while exchanging greetings with two elderly guys sitting nearby.
We no best to get up there quick? asked Tammas.
Maybe.
Auld Roper glanced at them as he sat down: What yous talking about?
Peterhead.
Aw aye. The old man nodded, he sipped at his sherry.
I’m saying to Tammas they’ll be starting to clear the
site soon.
Auld Roper frowned at him: Then yous better get up there quick then! Jesus Christ McCann, once they stick these notices into the job centres the cunts’ll be coming from all over the shop! Telling ye son yous better no fucking hang about.
No sweat auld yin, no for a wee while yet.
Roper shook his head and he said to Tammas: Peterhead’s nothing nowadays. Fucking Lapland they’d go to if the money was there.
Tammas smiled.
I’m no fucking kidding ye son.
Well it’s him . . . Tammas pointed at McCann: I’m just waiting for him to say the word!
He’ll no say the word, no him.
McCann grimaced.
He’ll no leave Glasgow.
Dont be so fucking daft, I’ve been out of Glasgow dozens of times.
Aye have you! Roper sipped at his sherry again, took out a cigarette and fiddled with his matchbox. After a few moments he glanced at Tammas: What about that mate of yours in New Zealand son you ever hear anything?
Naw.
No even a Christmas card?
Naw, nothing.
He was a good boy that.
Donnie, aye, he was good . . . McCann nodded, inhaled on his cigarette and he glanced around the pub interior.
He didnt want to go, said Tammas.
Auld Roper frowned: If he didnt want to go he wouldnt’ve fucking went.
Tammas shrugged.
I mean nobody fucking forced him son.
The rest of his family were all going.
Roper shook his head and added: What’s that got to do with it?
Aw give us peace, muttered McCann. You never fucking stop.
Naw but if he didnt want to go he would’ve stayed, that’s all I’m saying. Deep down he wanted to go, to have an adventure or some fucking thing.
Adventure my arse. It’s just like Tammas says, the boy’s family went and he went with them.
Ach! Auld Roper lifted his sherry and drank a mouthful, sat back on his seat and struck a match, lighted his cigarette and puffed a cloud of smoke over the table. Shuffle the doms, he muttered.
Fuck the doms.
Aye fuck you too.
There was a moment’s silence. It was followed by Tammas swirling the beer about in the bottom of his pint glass and tilting his head backwards to swallow it down in a gulp. I’m off, he said, I’ve got a message to go.
Mind what I was saying! called McCann.
Tammas nodded.
•••
There was a rolled newspaper on the floor nearby the leg of the table. Yesterday’s Daily Record. He settled back on the ledge with it, but the light was too dim now that the snooker had finished. A game was still in progress a couple of tables away but other tables were also empty as the daytime players went home. It was about 5.30 pm. In an hour the hall would again be full. He continued to squint at the racing page, at the racing results of the day before yesterday, trying to see the tote returns. But soon he gave it up. He closed the newspaper, stuck it into the back pocket of his jeans and strolled round to the nearest game. It was terrible. Two absolute beginners by the looks of it. He brought out the Record again but put it away immediately.
At the top of the stairs he remained in the entrance lobby, staring out over the street. The traffic was still busy; a great many pedestrians hurrying along. Rain drizzled but there did not seem to be much of a wind. He zipped up his jerkin and stepped out onto the pavement.
In shop windows the SALE signs were still pasted up although most of the bargains had gone. There was a sports shop. Tammas stopped to look in. Then a hand clapped him on the shoulder. It was Deefy. Heh young yin, he said, how’s it going?
Ah no bad.
Doing alright?
Aye, okay.
That’s the game son.
What about yourself?
Deefy nodded. Then he shrugged: Aye, no bad, got a wee turn this afternoon.
Great.
Aye, a few quid.
Smashing.
I was thinking of going to the dogs. Deefy turned his head, sniffing; he touched the brim of his hat.
The dogs?
Blantyre.
Blantyre?
Deefy nodded. You fancy it like son? I mean tagging along.
Eh . . .
It’s no a bad wee gaff. Flapper. Deefy sniffed again and he looked off in the direction of Central Station. Makes a change from Ashfield.
Naw it’s just I’m skint Deefy. Tammas held his hands palms up.
Ah. Deefy nodded. That’s what I’m saying; I got a wee turn this afternoon. You can tag along if you like. Get a bus down Anderson Cross. Fancy it?
Well . . . Tammas shrugged and nodded, grinning.
We’ll grab a pint first. Come on . . . He led the way into a pub down Hope Street and ordered himself a whisky and a half of heavy, a pint for Tammas. He passed out the cigarettes.
They had to wait quarter of an hour for a bus. When they arrived in Blantyre they headed straight into the first chip shop and Deefy ordered fish suppers, which they ate while walking to the track. And later, just before the betting began on the first race, he gave two £5 notes to Tammas, putting them straight into his hand, tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger.
Tammas said, What’s this?
Deefy shook his head; he held up the evening’s programme, indicating the form figures. No that it’ll do me any fucking good, he said. Last time I was here they gambled a fucking dog from 6’s to evens in the space of about ten fucking seconds and I shoved my tank on the bastard. Stuck up 2nd! You wouldnt fucking believe it son!
I’ll owe you it, replied Tammas.
Another time I’m standing here and there’s this fucking favourite and the vet’s there checking the girths and all that and out comes an announcement: Favourite’s withdrawn, favourite’s withdrawn! And d’you know how? Deefy was shaking his head: Cause the owners couldnt get a fucking punt on the bastard! I’m no kidding ye son; they were there to put their fucking money down but some cunt must’ve blew the whistle and the bookies were no giving more than 3’s on. 3 to 1 on. So what do they fucking do? They turn round and withdraw it! I’m no kidding ye! Warned them off the track right enough – told them no to show their faces ever again.
Hh. Tammas nodded.
Some place! Deefy clapped his hands together, the programme tucked beneath his left elbow, moving his shoulders back and forwards, stamping from foot to foot. Bloody cold, he muttered.
Tammas backed the favourite in the first race and it won. He backed the next two winners also and by the time the betting began on the fourth he had £70. But Deefy had yet to back a winner. Then on the fourth they found they had backed the same runner. Their spectating position was as near plumb to the finishing post as they could manage and they watched the dog win in a photo. My last tenner on it! shouted Deefy. You sure it’s won?
Tammas laughed. Easy. Short head. No danger!
That’s what I thought myself.
When they approached the cluster of bookies they heard one of them calling odds on the outcome of the photograph. There was no dispute about the winner but the bookie was laying 6/4 a short head; 5/2 a neck; 8/1 a half length. Since he was not taking any bets on the winning margin being a head, the bookie was obviously convinced that a head WAS the winning margin. Tammas stared at the price for a moment. Then he cried: Christ sake! and he grabbed the money out of his jeans’ pocket and passed £20 to Deefy shouting: Get it on man! And then rushed up to the bookie: To twenty quid the short head!
The bookie took his money and wiped out the 6/4 immediately. Tammas turned, smiling. Deefy was still standing where he had been previously. Quick! called Tammas.
What?
Quick!
I’m no sure son.
Christ sake!
Deefy was holding the £20 in his hand. There was a rumbling on the loudspeaker and then the winner and placings were announced. The dog had won by a short head. Deefy returned Tammas the £20.
T
ammas muttered, Christ sake Deefy.
Deefy shrugged. He sniffed, took the cigarette from his mouth and dropped a mouthful of spit on the ground. He nodded towards the bookie he had placed his bet with and walked to receive his return. Tammas followed him, collecting his winnings from both bookies. When they met up Deefy said: You staying for the next?
How, are you?
Deefy shrugged. Back to Glasgow I think eh?
It’s your decision.
Outside the ground Tammas hailed a taxi. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Tammas had bought a packet of cigarettes and he offered one to Deefy and also passed one through to the driver. And then he added: Look eh . . . And he started checking the wad of notes he had. More than £140. He counted £70 and handed it straightaway to Deefy.
Deefy thrust it back to him.
Aw naw Deefy please. Tammas shook his head, holding it to him: You’ve got to take it man honest.
Naw. I dont. Deefy held his hand raised, warding off the bundle of notes.
Please.
It’s your fucking money son no mine.
I was out the game but, till you showed up I mean . . . fuck sake Deefy. Half the dough, come on, that’s fair.
Deefy sniffed.
Christ sake I mean I’ve never even been to their fucking track man and I’ve backed four out of four. Plus the photo! Tammas shook his head and he grinned.
Deefy hesitated. Okay then. Halfers . . . He put his hand into his own pocket and brought out £28, gave Tammas £14 and accepted the £70 in exchange.
Let us know when you’re going back!
Hh. Deefy frowned. I’ll no be going fucking back. Fucking pitch!
How what’s up?
Naw son I mean I’m no getting at you or fuck all but tell me this: how can a man lay 6/4 when it’s a short head?
Tammas looked at him.
He cant be a bookie son, no a real yin. I mean there isnt any bookie in the whole fucking world would lay that kind of bet.
Ach away man that’s daft. Anyhow, it’s a flapping gaff.
A flapping gaff! I know it’s a flapping gaff. So what but? They’re supposed to be wideys these cunts. That makes it even fucking worse so it does.
Tammas shrugged.
Naw I mean . . . Deefy sniffed and he turned slightly, to gaze out the window. I wouldnt go back there again. No me.
A Chancer Page 23
