The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas

by David F. Ross

  ‘Jesus Christ, Des. Ah telt ye two o’clock! Been waiting here for half an’ hour.’

  ‘Sorry Franny. It wis Effie. Ah couldnae leave her the day. Old Aggie fae next door wis oot an’ ah couldnae get haud ae anybody else tae come for you.’ Des Brick was as agitated as Fat Franny Duncan but for opposing reasons.

  Des felt Fat Franny should’ve just got a taxi back to the Ponderosie. It wasn’t that far from the station. Fat Franny on the other hand felt it only fair that Des Brick pick them up, given the latitude Franny had extended him lately. Checkmate.

  The fifteen-minute drive to the north-west corner of the town was conducted in silence apart from the occasional ‘House!’ shouted out by Rose. When they arrived, Des commented on how much chirpier Franny’s mum seemed compared to the last time he’d seen her. Franny felt guilty about dragging Des away from his terminally ill wife at such a difficult time, but he couldn’t admit to it. He handed Des a package.

  ‘Got this for Effie,’ said Fat Franny.

  ‘Cheers. Ah’ll tell her ye were askin’ for her,’ said Des. He didn’t have the heart to tell Fat Franny that Effie could no longer chew food conventionally, far less eat brittle Margate rock. It was the thought that counted though.

  ‘Aye. Dae that,’ said Fat Franny, as he helped his old mum out the rear of Des Brick’s car. ‘When ye track the Painter doon, can ye tell him ah want tae see him?’

  ‘Aye. Ah will, boss.’

  Theresa Morgan opened her case. She tipped it up contemptuously. They had been away for a week but three-quarters of the contents had remained unworn. The ten new bikinis were a complete waste of money, as were the skimpy tops aimed at late-night Mediterranean beach clubs. She had spent the week in the jeans she had travelled in. It was originally a protest, but Fat Franny didn’t even cotton on. He just assumed that she was feeling the blustery winds that blew daily along the promenade, picking up speed as they rounded the Old Clock Tower. Had the weather been kinder, Theresa may have been able to tolerate the endless bingo halls, the Scenic Railway, the boredom of the Dreamland Amusement Park, and Fat Franny in a ‘Kiss Me Quick’ hat. But it rained. And it was cold. And ultimately, it was miserable. As her frustration reached its peak, Fat Franny admitted he only thought of Margate after hearing Chas & Dave extol its virtues the previous year. That, Theresa concluded, was the last straw.

  And now she was back home, or to be more accurate back at her mum’s home. In Onthank. A whiter shade of pale than she’d been before she left. She stared at the walls of what she’d recently thought would soon be her old bedroom. The same old posters of Adam Ant, Nick Heyward and Simon Le Bon smiled back at her. Once they had filled her with hope of a different life; now they seemed to be sneering in disdain.

  She slumped on the bed, clean and dirty clothes all around her, and cried.

  Nothing changes. Everything stays the same.

  33

  12th July 1983

  6.32 pm

  ‘Whit’s up wi’ you?’ asked Washer Wishart. His nephew Gerry Ghee had a face longer, and more twisted than the M74.

  ‘Allie’s pregnant,’ he said. ‘Again.’

  ‘Haw, congratulations, son!’ said Washer, extending his hand. ‘Ye’ll have a five-a-side team, then. Provided some cunt invents fitba for women, that is.’

  ‘Aye. Cheers.’ Gerry Ghee wore the look of a man who had won the pools and lost his memory of the coupon’s location, all on the same day.

  ‘Fuck sake, ye dinnae need tae be so overjoyed aboot it, though.’

  ‘Ach … ah’ve had the snip aboot a year ago. It wis as sore as fuck, an’ it’s aw been for nothin’.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Washer, ‘…ye kept that quiet.’

  ‘Ah had tae … in case anybody telt the wife, ken.’

  ‘Whit … ye didnae even agree it wi’ Alison first?’ said Washer, staggered at this. Gerry shook his head silently. He now looked like a man who’d just been informed that his appeal against an imminent death penalty had just been thrown out.

  ‘Well, sorry son, but ah’ve nae sympathy for ye. Ye need tae trust yer missus, in ma opinion.’

  ‘Washer, ah need a rise. Ah ken it’s no’ the best timin’…’

  ‘No’ the best timin’?’ Washer interrupted. ‘Son, It’s up there wi’ Michael Foot comin’ tae ask for a campaign donation!’

  Gerry didn’t know what to say. Four kids and another one on the way required a bit more financial stability than his uncle was apparently able to provide. His options were limited.

  ‘Aye, sorry. Had tae ask, Washer. Hope ye can understand,’ he said. ‘An’ obviously if anythin’ decent … or unusual comes up, gie’s a shout, eh?’

  ‘Why don’t ye sue the doctors for yer fucked-up procedure?’ said Washer, trying to be helpful. ‘Chase a couple ae ambulances?’

  ‘Cannae. They told me “nae shaggin’” until ma semen tests were clear. But, fuck me man … it wis’ takin’ months! An’ it wis ma thirtieth birthday … ah wis pished, blah blah fuckin’ blah.’ Gerry looked like he was going to cry.

  Washer suppressed a laugh. ‘How far oan is she?’

  ‘Five months,’ said Gerry.

  ‘Holy fuck, son.’ This time Washer did laugh.

  ‘For the first three ae them, she says she didnae even ken!’

  ‘Nae luck, pal.’ Washer got up. He was going to be late for meeting Frankie Fusi. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘They’ll help ye. They’re specialist lawyers.’ Washer handed Gerry a piece of paper he’d written on.

  ‘Aye. Cheers,’ said Gerry Ghee sarcastically, as his uncle walked away chuckling. ‘Messrs Sioux, Grabbit & Runne. Aye … big fuckin’ laugh!’

  Washer Wishart was on his way to the pub. It wouldn’t take him long to get there. You could see its front door from the upper front-facing bedroom of the manse. Many times in the past he was grateful for that proximity; that perverse feeling of community belonging; of being central to the way things worked. Now, though, it seemed like a curse. When a business – even one that traverses legality like a tightrope walker over a bear-pit – gets into trouble in a one-horse town, there’s no hiding it.

  He reached the front door of the Portland Arms. Three small children were sat outside, leaning against the wall. All three had a bottle of Coke and a packet of ready-salted crisps. They looked like they had accepted that they would be there for a while. Washer peered in through the casement windows. As he’d anticipated, the pub was full of his business comrades. The same ones who were now struggling with the twin impacts of a developing miners’ strike and the reduction of benefits washing their way down from the local laundry. It was a Tuesday night. He just wanted a quiet pint away from the questions and the suggestions. Washer spotted Frankie Fusi sitting in a corner. He walked along the street to the window closest to where Frankie was seated. Washer rapped lightly on it. Only Frankie noticed him. Washer motioned for him to come outside.

  Flat-pack Frank Fusi and Jimmy ‘Washer’ Wishart were both born in 1931. Frank – or Francesco – began his colourful life in the cloistered courtyards of Lucca and fled Italy with his family in 1933. Washer – or James Walter – was born in the very minister’s house where he still lived.

  Their thirty-year friendship was founded during eighteen months in the ludicrous humidity of the jungle villages surrounding Kuching, Borneo, where they were both performing their National Service. Both young men saw action; both returned with commendations for valour. In Washer’s case, his contained a special mention for saving the lives of two colleagues. One of them was Frankie Fusi.

  For a few months when they returned to Ayrshire in early 1951, the two twenty-year-olds were lauded by their small parish.

  ‘Fancy gaun for a walk, Franco?’ asked Washer.

  ‘A walk? Where tae?’

  ‘Jist roon aboot here, mate. Cannae be arsed wi’ the pub the night. C’mon, pal. A wee stroll doon the lane ae memories?’ said Washer.

  ‘Fuck it. Aye. Aw’right,’ said Frankie. ‘Bu
t you’re buyin’ the chips!’

  ‘Deal.’

  The two old friends wandered along to the Cross and turned right heading up the Kilmaurs Road towards the nearby village of Knockentiber. It was a beautiful evening.

  ‘So many changes, eh?’ Washer looked at the commemorative plaque. ‘Mind ae the time ma da wis tryin’ tae get you an’ me oan this badge?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Frankie. ‘You deserved it though. Ah didnae.’

  ‘Ach, pish!’ said Washer.

  They leaned on the old stone bridge looking down at the Carmel Water, lazily meandering under it. They walked on.

  ‘The place is only famous for the hospital, noo,’ said Washer.

  ‘Worse things tae be well known for though,’ said Frankie. ‘We could be livin’ in bloody Greenham Common, eh?’ Washer laughed.

  ‘Ah suppose, although there’s times when ye look aboot an’ think a nuclear bomb wid make some improvements roon here.’ He sighed. ‘Fuckin’ Thatcher! How the fuck did she get back in, eh? Are folk really that bastardin’ shallow?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Frankie. ‘She’s no’ daft mind. Engineers a war ower some pile ae rocks nae cunt’s even heard ae, jist tae take the heat aff aw the pish that she created back here! Ye have tae take yer hat aff tae that kind ae Hitler mind-fuck propaganda, eh?’

  They walked further up the hill and into the neighbouring village.

  ‘Remember the days when the train used tae come through here, Frankie?’

  ‘Aye, pal. Ah dae.’

  ‘There wis a wee station here anaw. It wis a lovely wee station. Floo’ers an’ seats oan the wee platform. An’ a lovely clock, tae. Then the fuckin’ thing shut. Ah protested aboot it at the time. No’ sure ah could even be arsed noo’.’

  ‘Aye. It’s aw away. That must be nearly twenty years ago mate,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Bet ye don’t remember takin’ they two lassies doon tae Irvine oan it. Doon tae the Ship Inn.’

  Frankie laughed. ‘Fuck sake, of course ah day. Mind ae the fish suppers? Cod the size ae … Squalo!’

  ‘Hey, mind the language. Ah don’t speak tally.’ They both laughed.

  ‘Might come in handy soon, fratello,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Whit ye talkin’ aboot?’

  Frankie looked down at his shoes. ‘Ah’m thinkin’ ae goin’ back, pal,’ he said.

  Washer was stunned. ‘Straight up?’

  ‘Been thinkin’ aboot it, aye,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Oh … right. When?’

  ‘Dunno. In a wee while, mate,’ said Frankie. ‘Fuck all here for me.’

  ‘Ah’m here for ye! Always have been,’ said Washer. The evening was turning out worse than he’d anticipated.

  ‘Ah know ye have, an’ ah’ll always be grateful for the way you an’ yer family took ma mam in when ah had tae go away.’

  ‘We’re brothers, Frankie … you an’ me. Nothin’ gets in the way ae that, ken?’

  ‘Times are gonnae get tougher, Washer, an’ muscle has a sell-by date, jist like every other kind ae meat.’

  ‘Frankie, it’s never been just aboot that wi’ us … you ken that!’

  ‘Aye. But ye don’t need me as an additional drain oan yer funds. An’ wi’ this strike rampin’ up, the pressure oan aw these punters is gonnae reach breakin’ point.’ Washer stopped at the bench seat overlooking Knockentiber Amateurs football pitch. They sat watching fifteen or so teenage kids kicking their ball around. Typically, a fat kid was in goal, but untypically, he was making a decent fist of the role. Washer took out his Golden Virginia tin and deftly made roll-ups for each of them.

  ‘Wish we were back that age again, eh?’ said Frankie.

  ‘Nae fuckin’ worries, eh? Kickin’ a ba’ an’ chasin’ the lassies. Life was fuckin’ simple, mate. Every bastart wis skint, but we aw seemed much happier. Whit the fuck happened?’

  ‘We jist aw got older, Washer. Older an’ less content. Everybody wants shit they cannae have. Thatcher calls it “dreams”, but it’s jist made everybody fuckin’ bone-idle dreamers.’ Frankie sighed and blew out a funnel of smoke. ‘Ah’ve just had enough, mate. Ae bloody Thatcher, an’ aw her fuckin’ dreamers. Ae the bastart weather.’

  ‘Look Frankie, ah ken it’s been tough this last year, but hing in there. Somethin’s comin’. Cannae tell ye the noo, but ye trust me, don’t ye?’ said Washer.

  ‘Always, mate … but ye dinnae need me draggin’ ye doon further.’

  ‘Whit ye talkin’ aboot?’ said Washer.

  ‘Ye’re payin’ me a retainer ye cannae afford. Ah’m no’ even earnin’ it, mate. Ah’m yer biggest overheid.’

  ‘Fuck that! Ah look after ma ain, Frankie. When this deal comes aff, nane ae us’ll need tae piss aboot in the lower leagues again.’

  ‘Ach, ah dunno, mate. Ah need a change ae scenery, ken?’ Frankie Fusi sounded like his mind was made up.

  Washer sucked the air in through his teeth then pursed his lips. He looked away into the distance. Frankie sensed that something significant was coming.

  ‘Ah’ve been workin’ oan a secret thing,’ said Washer. Ah’ve no’ been able tae let oan tae anybody, ken?’

  ‘Don’t tell us,’ said Frankie. ‘Yer the new James Bond?’ They both laughed.

  ‘Naw,’ said Washer. ‘Although ah could be. That cunt Moore’s aulder than me!’

  Another roll-up fashioned. More deep draws. ‘It’s a thing wi’ Don McAllister.’

  ‘Whit … the polis?’ said a surprised Frankie.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Are ye like … under cover, then?’ asked Frankie. ‘Should ah be pattin’ ye doon?’

  ‘Don’t talk pish! It’s no’ like that. It’s mair ae a … ah help him, he helps me type arrangement.’ It was obvious that Washer was being deliberately evasive.

  ‘Look, Washer, if ye cannae tell me, then dinnae. Ah understand. Ah’m gonnae be headin’ anyway … unless this is yer way ae tellin’ me ah’m a fuckin’ target!’ Frankie’s demeanour had changed. He never really suspected his close friend would have incriminated him for anything, but in the shifty, uncertain world they both inhabited, you could never be totally sure. Frankie Fusi looked directly into the eyes of his oldest and closest friend, and immediately he was ashamed for even entertaining the thought.

  ‘There’s no’ much ah care aboot, Frankie. There’s Molly, there’s the dug … and God fuckin’ help me, that eejit ae a boy … an’ there’s you!’ Washer laughed and put his arm around Frankie’s shoulder. ‘An’ no’ necessarily in that order, either.’ Washer stood up. ‘C’mon, lets get somethin’ aff that wee van, eh?’

  They walked over the road and joined the back of the queue. Steam billowing out of the tiny flue on its roof indicated that on this Tuesday night business was good.

  ‘Ye hear Crosshouse has been twinned wi’ Las Vegas?’ said Frankie. ‘Only two places oan Earth wher’ ye can pay for sex wi’ chips!’ Washer laughed.

  ‘Let’s get ours an’ get back an’ fuckin’ spend them then,’ he said.

  Washer Wishart and Frankie Fusi walked back down Kilmaurs Road into Crosshouse, the tiny village where they had lived, loved and – until very recently – prospered for almost all of their lives. On the way, Washer Wishart told his friend of the deal he, Fat Franny Duncan and Nobby Quinn had made with Don McAllister and Doc Martin a year ago in a Galston barn. He told him of the terms of that deal, of the significant risks, and of the potential rewards of a fully legitimate business in return. He told enough of the story to persuade Frankie Fusi of the benefits of sticking around. For the immediately foreseeable future, at least.

  Generally, Norma, things were fuckin’ great at this time. Ah wis wakin’ up wi’ a massive stauner every mornin’, an’ it wis because everythin’ wis sortin’ itself oot. Ah paid Hairy Doug for a new mixin’ desk, bunged Doc Martin a couple ae thou’ for re-decoratin’ an’ even persuaded Grant tae up the band’s weekly wage tae forty quid.

  The cunt wis pullin’ great songs oot hi
s fuckin’ arse, man. Ah’m thinkin’ Oor debut LPs gonnae be better than Parallel Lines!

  Turns oot he’d kept a book ae fuckin’ poetry fae when he wis fifteen. A load ae it wis absolute shite, tae be honest. Ah love you … dae you love me? O how happy we’ll always be … kinda pish, ken? Mind you ‘Club Tropicana, drinks are free…’ well, that’s no’ exactly Bob fuckin’ Dylan either, eh?

  Anyway, we’ve got a great fuckin’ set ae tunes, an’ for once, every cunt’s oan the same page aboot it. Ah pulled in a favour aff some gagdie Washer kent wi’ a camera, an he does us some new shots, an that … an’ we’ve got a contact at the wee studio doon near Glencairn Square, called Shabby Road.

  Wan fly in the ointment … but it wis turnin’ intae a fuckin’ big fly, ken? Wan the size ae a bastart jumbo jet, as it happens. Aw the money’s runnin’ oot. The band’s bank account wis emptyin’ quicker than the Buckfast aisle at Hogmanay … mainly the cash Grant put in it, ‘cos we’d no’ actually made anythin’ at that point. So, we agreed tae take it aw oot the bank. Ah ken that sounds mental but we jist didnae fuckin’ trust the bank, ken? Noo, nae cunt trusts a bank! Mibbe we were jist ahead ae the times.

  Ah decided tae tell Washer aboot it, expectin’ a kick in the stanes, or at least a three-day bollockin’ session … but naw, the auld tosser says he’d like tae help oot. He says he wants tae invest in the band, an’ that he’ll become oor ‘financial partner’!

  Ah’m fuckin’ gobsmacked at this, as ye can imagine. Cunt’s never expressed an interest before an’ noo he’s acting aw Richard Branson! Ah wis oan the mushrooms a bit back then, an’ the speed … oan tap ae the medicine for the schizo-gig … but ah still thought ah wis fuckin’ hallucinatin’!

  Fair play tae him though. Dosh appears, so ah start Biscuit Tin Records.