‘Fuck.’
And Ronnie leans forward and sets his head against the tiny table which is only his and his breath mounts and heaves and struggles and sweat lifts on him and then trickles, crawls at the backs of his legs, makes insect-shivery moves down his spine and his neck locks and his face hurts and he’s making these huff huff huff noises that bastard strangers will notice and ponder and it seems like someone is slapping his chest and won’t stop and it seems like someone is threatening murder and it seems like his mother is there in the kitchen, curled on the floor in the kitchen, curled years ago on the floor in the kitchen and shaking, shaking, shaking and that bastard, that fucker she’s married to is gone but Ronnie knows where he’s been and Ronnie knows what he wants to do to him – what he wants – and Ronnie lies down and he holds her and he doesn’t say a thing, not a letter, he only does what he always does which is to keep his arms around her until all the terrible stuff has passed from her and into him.
Long gone. Huff. Huff. Long gone.
The filthy fucker. Huff. Huff.
Huff. Huff.
We have nice times, we try to. Loungers. Flowers. Sun.
The walls are peeling in at him and the floor is turning nasty – it’s making him sick.
Long gone.
And Ronnie sweats and concentrates on not throwing up and showing himself as a fool for everybody. He keeps his head down. He breathes.
He hopes the woman comes and finds him. He would help her if she did. He’d like that. I would. I always would.
THE WAY I BREATHED
Anna Stewart
Artwork by Fani Parali
THE WAY I BREATHED
Anna Stewart
I pushed the door and wind blew in my face, blowing my hat aff my heed. I crouched doon tae pick it up, but the hat blew alang the street and I ran tae catch it. I dusted it aff and held it on my heed til the wind died doon. I stood fir a minute catching my breath. I crossed the road at the bank, ootside sat a young lad begging fir money, I looked in my pockets and tried to gie him something but he said, ‘Naw, naw, yir awright pal, naw, naw.’
I passed a building I remembered wis part o the university and in the distance I saw the roof o the mosque. There wis a patch o grass across the street, the council musto planted aw those different roses fir men like me, men like me who were on a stroll and wanted something nice tae look at. There were benches there too and a fine view o the river and the rail-and-road bridge, I could see all the way tae Fife. There was a student on one o the benches, sketching. I sat for a minute and hoped she might draw me, but she wis looking the other way. So I turned and watched a bit o plastic instead. It’d been covering a window but had come loose and wis blowing aboot in the wind. Then I heard this man wi a white beard pointing oot local architecture to some auld ladies. I knew aboot architecture, I had white hair. Why not a white beard? I set aff again and passed twa men wi young bodies, but auld faces. They were smoking and walking, looking at the groond and in a hurry. I should follow them to find oot whar they’re going, they might be ghosts, they looked like ghosts. There wis excitement in my legs again. But then I remembered they might turn on uz like sometimes happens, I know that sometimes happens. The street was covered in clumps o moss that had fallen aff the roofs wi the rain. I stood on them and felt slippy, I was slidy, I might fall. And if I fell who knows what would happen, I was likely tae break bones. I crossed the road so I could walk under scaffolding. A man walked by uz wi a wheelbarrow and radio noise came blasting fae a giant hole in the wall. There were men in there and they were working. Why had I never done that kind o work when I was young? I’d a body wasted. I could’ve built a wall couldn’t I? But then I remembered I was slow, even back then. No, my life had been best as it was, nae point raking ower auld groond. Across the street wis a door wi wooden panels painted wi pictures o moustached men, a sleeping fella and a standing ane. Blue and white tiles o turbans, covered wi jewels. A big face made up o wee faces. My legs were tired. I passed a pub, then turned back and pushed the door, I was thirsty, I needed a drink, I deserved a drink. I deserved a bloody good drink. There was no one else in the pub, just me and the barman. He reminded me o someone I used to know . . . a familiar face. But time moves on and faces are easy forgot. Everything is easy forgot, in the end.
What?
No, nothing, nothing, I just put one foot in front of the other, me. I just keep walking, nae point turning back.
What time is it? There isnae a clock in the damned place, does naebody hae a clock any mair, what’s happened tae aw the clocks? Does it matter, do I need tae ken the time? Is it teatime?
I looked aboot the place; red walls wi a cream roof, three TVs, framed photos o players fae both fitbaw teams:
Jocky Scott
Alan Gilzean
Ian Phillips
Jim Skele
Gordon Smith
Ally Donaldson.
It was comradely, I felt happy. I asked the barman fir a pint o 80 and he asked what I’d been up to, I said, ‘Nothing much, I’m just on the lookout.’
He laughed and handed uz my ale, then went on a computer behind the bar. I looked at a photo on the wall o men kissing cheeks and photographers in caps, underneath it said, ‘Scotland’s Billy Bremner and Jimmy Johnstone celebrate victory over the old enemy, England.’ And above the bar was a mirror wi an etching o a bridge.
‘Oh,’ I said to the barman, ‘this must be the Taybrig Bar.’
‘Yup.’
‘Churchill used to drink here when he was an MP, you know.’
‘Up the road.’
I looked at the barman, the barman looked up fae his computer, he pointed a thumb oot the door and for a minute I thought he was asking uz to leave.
‘Up the road,’ he said. ‘Churchill used to drink in Mennies, up the road.’
‘Oh did he? I thought it wis here. I’ll need to hae a look in that establishment.’
I thought, then, that the barman rolled his eyes. Wis there something wrong wi the way I presented myself? I looked in the bridge mirror, aye I was old, but dishevelled? No! I looked awright. I stood up and headed fir the bog. In the corridor ootside the Men’s there’s a black-and-white photo o the Tay Bridge, must be a theme. It smells o piss this corridor. The photograph’s long, folded and unfolded in twa lines, making three parts. It’s o five boys playing in the harbour, climbing the wall that leads to the foot o the bridge; five wee boys, in black and white.
The sink in the Men’s wis green wi soap fae a leaky dispenser. I unzipped my fly and stood ower the urinal waiting fir something tae happen. I wis afraid coz I remembered how it sometimes burned. And then it came, that burning again. That made uz stop and drips o piss trailed aff and hit my shoes. My bladder wis still full. I shook and tried again, I needed tae relax, just relax . . . the barman banged the door.
‘Oh sorry, Jimmy, just came in tae check that sink.’
‘Aye fine.’
I zipped my troosers, there wis a pain in my bladder fae holding the rest in. The barman let the door bang again, it rattled roond my feet, my legs, my chest.
I should try again now he’s gone, but there wis the burning, so I decided tae wait. I washed my hands, there wis nae mair soap in the dispenser, it was aw ower the sink, whatever he’d done he’d no fixed it.
I went back oot and there were twa new fowk sitting at the bar. They couldnae have known each other coz they were talking aboot the weather. One o them said it was mild for winter, the other said the last time it had been a mild winter like this he’d seen it snow in spring. They both agreed that the weather was aw back tae front and had gone tae the dogs since their day. Ane of them said, ‘And now, here they are blaming it aw on the global warning, and yi ken, they might be right, it’s no as cald as it used tae be, I could practically have gone oot in my vest the-day.’
I sat next tae them at the bar, patted the 80-shilling tap and the barman poured uz another. I ordered a wee dram to put in it and sat and supped, and listened to the oth
er men talking. Some o the time I nodded in agreement and they looked ower and nodded back, then mair and mair o the conversation wis directed at me.
The twa men started tae talk aboot the fitbaw, I hadnae focused on a full game fir a long time and I couldnae tell yi any o these new players’ names. I agreed wi the men they were paid too much, but I’d nae idea how much they’d been paid.
The thing wis, I couldnae remember who I used to support, the orange anes or the blue anes, I remember something aboot blue, but . . . aye I liked them both, I musto liked them both, that’s why.
I ordered another pint o 80 and a nip. Yi hae tae watch if yiv a shaky hand when yi pour the nip ower yir 80, yi hae tae be very careful pouring it in.
Efter a while the conversation dried up and we focused on the fitbaw, there’s only so much men can say tae ane another. There wis music playing fae another TV in the corner wi a woman singing and dancing, it wis aw aboot hips, it’s a funny kindo sang tae sing; hips,
hips,
hips,
I remember hips, someone’s hips, when? When was it?
In a bed,
a bedroom . . . skin,
waist,
breast,
arm.
Blonde hair sitting bonny in a hollowed oot space between a shoulder and a neck; a clean neck. A smell o soft.
Aye yi were bonny.
Why do women smell like that, different fae men? How do they get tae be that way, a cushion fir aw the weight o days that seem never ending, ach but they go in so quick.
What could I smell? Oh aye, piss, piss on my shoes, that was it.
I finished my drink and stood up.
‘S’that you away, Jimmy?’
‘Aye.’
I headed oot the door, up the Perth Road in the same direction.
Och, the hips wouldo been my wife. I did hae a wife yi ken . . . she’s no here, is that awright? I hope nothing bad happened. Am I allowed tae speak aboot her? I covered my mouth just in case.
She wisnae fae Dundee, I remember that, she’d a funny accent. Or was that my mother? It doesnae matter any mair. Had I seen my mother’s hips? I must’ve at one time.
There wis a wee lass as well, I’ve been meaning tae find.
I came to Mennies, I cannie mind why I caw it that, something aboot a wifey, there’s a woman involved in that story. I sat on a stool at the bar. The young lad behind smiled.
That young lad, he knows me, yi ken that.
Then this auld fella patted my back and said, ‘Awright Jimmy, how’ve yi been keeping?’
‘Aye fine, fine and yirsel?’
I wis being polite, yiv got tae remember tae be polite. The auld fella got uz a drink, he knew I’d like a pint o 80. I do like a pint o 80, it warms my insides, I like the feeling o creamy bubbles and the sharp watery stuff efter, twa wee layers o goodness fir my mouth tae dwell on.
The auld fella telt uz aw aboot his bad chest, he said he’d likely be going soon what wi his cough, but I didnae ken whar. I supped my pint, pulling thick bubbles past my lips, then the quick stuff slipped across my tongue and doon my throat.
Can I taste it any mair?
Can I taste it like I used to?
I wish that auld fella would shut up, he does nothing but jabber on, it’s hard tae keep up.
I’m wantin tae drink my pint in peace.
I dinnae even ken him, what’s he on aboot? Och he’s tried tae phone his doctors aboot a cough, but every time they said the appointments were full and he should ring at eight in the morning, but he said when he tried tae ring at eight, the phone wis ay engaged.
I’ve got things tae do though, I cannie sit roond here aw day listening tae this.
I order a nip and let the auld fella pay for it, he seemed happy enough wi that. He started talking aboot his pension and how he couldnae survive on what they’d gien him and how he’d worked aw his life; real work, no like the layaboots these days, and what did he get back fir it, how do they repay him? I shake my heed, coz I dinnae ken. I dinnae ken mysel how I live and it isnae in my mind whar I live, but I’ll walk and I’ll find it, aye I’ll walk and I’ll find it.
Just one mair pint, and then I’ll go.
The auld fella bought uz another pint o 80, but I didnae acknowledge it, his buying me a pint, I just started drinking. He didnae seem tae care and there wis something charming in that, the way he didnae make a fuss o his kindness. I started feeling sorry fir him, coz I kent he wis wanting a drinking buddy and I kent he’d get taken a loan o fae some o the buggers that come in here, once I’d gone.
After I’d finished my 80, I said cheerio.
‘S’that you away then is it?’
I said, aye.
‘Off to make yir tea then is it?’
And I said, aye, again.
‘Awright then, Jimmy, see yi the-morn,’ he says, and I gave him a nod and headed fir the door.
I ken a shortcut up Hawkhill way, so I came oot the side door and turned back on mysel. It’s quite a steep wee brae up that shortcut, but I took it slow and managed it aw the same. Then I saw the Campbeltown ower the main road. The cars were busy, it musto been teatime, so I waited fir the green man but when I reached the other side I stumbled and fell back against the wall o the pub. I tried tae get up but I couldnae, and I started greeting; I wis mair angry than anything else, coz I couldnae get up. Then I wis shouting and I got some funny looks fae fowk in cars. A young lad fae inside the pub came oot and saw uz.
‘Yi awright, Jimmy? What yi doing doon there? What yi shouting aboot? Come on in here, I’ll help yi up.’
The lad grabbed under ma oxters and pulled uz up, I fell back and bumped against the wall but he kept a hud o uz and said, ‘It’s awright, I’ve still got yi. C’mon in here and get a seat, what yi greetin aboot?’
The lad took uz by the arm intae the pub and sat uz doon at a table wi other men.
Look at the state o him.
‘Ach come here and sit yirsel doon, Jimmy, Eddie, get the man a dram tae settle his nerves.’
‘S’that you been oot wandering, Jimmy, getting the exercise is it?’
‘Aye he’s walked too far yi can see it.’
‘Look at his hands, he’s shaking.’
‘What’s he greetin aboot?’
‘Jimmy, yi awright pal?’
I picked up my glass and drank, hoping the men wernae talking tae me.
The woman behind the bar brought ower a plate o food and said, ‘Here yi are, Jimmy, get some o that doon yi and yi’ll feel right as rain.’
I did feel better efter a few mouthfuls I have to admit, and I wis grateful to the bar woman. She wis hefty and had streaky short hair, I wanted tae sit her on my knee, I patted her thigh when she went past and she patted ma heed in return. I felt fine here, fir the time being.
I listened tae the men’s banter and the wimen chirruping and laughing coz they were trying tae join in, even though they couldnae coz they’d nae good jokes like the men. I managed tae make it tae the loo and hae a slash in peace, the burning had eased off. That’s why I like a pint, it helps yi relax.
The mair yi think, the mair it hurts. But as the night wore on I started getting itchy feet, so I stood up, and put my coat on.
‘Aye, off he goes,’ ane o the men said. ‘See him doon the road, Davey, eh?’
I waved my hand, and walked oot the door.
I thought aboot walking right alang the Perth Road, right through the city, oot intae the country as far as the road would go. I’d done that before. That walk, the sun wis still up even though it wis night-time; gein athin a yella glow. I’d wandered that far, the pavements disappeared. I wis too close to the cars on the motorway, so I crossed a metal barrier and walked in the long grass, dodgin bits o tissue and auld nappies and shite bags. The grass seemed too bright, like it wisnae real, the wind blew in ma face and the cars made giant sounds that floated past uz; I was alive, I was still alive!
But I didnae like that feeling fir some reason.
I ca
nnie mind when that wis? It couldnae o been lang ago, coz I’ve got them grass stains on ma boots. Nae point doing that again though, coz there are very few refreshments the further yi get alang the motorway, apart fae hotels, but the prices in those places are oot o the question. No, I never drink in hotels. Plus, yi dinnae ken wi these teuchter buggers, they ay end up being wee Tories that dinnae put their hand in their pocket. Nah, I like it alang the Perth Road fir the drink.
I was standing ootside the Campbeltown, wondering which way tae turn, when the young lad wha helped uz afore came oot.
‘I’ll get yi up the road, Jimmy, I’m awa hame.’
I walked wi him, coz it made nae odds tae me.
The young lad was quiet, but every now and then he would ask if I was awright and I’d nod. We reached a tenement block and the young lad said, ‘Here wi are, Jimmy.’
We headed intae the stairwell, he walked uz tae a red door and I saw my name on the brass plate: Mr J. Corrigan.
Funny, seeing yir name like that efter forgetting what it wis, makes yi feel yiv been living someone else’s life.
But that wis fine, I wis glad I wis hame.
I fiddled in my pockets and found keys. The young lad helped uz open the door then said, Night, Jim! And he headed up the stairwell, he musto lived upstairs.
When I got in the flat, I held ontae the wall aw the way doon the lobby, coz I wis feeling dizzy. Oh aye this is my place, coz here’s aw ma things. I went in the kitchen and filled the kettle wi water and lit the stove. I waited till the steam blew across the ceiling and the water bubbled, rattling the metal o the cooker top, then a whistle blew and I kent it wis time.
I put my tea on a wee tray that had a cushion underneath, and I made up a plate o shortie biscuits I found in a tin, some had chocolate on top and some were just in shapes that I like, like the thistle. Aye I like the thistle, it minds me o something.
I went in the living room and sat the tray on my lap. This is comfy, this high-backed chair wis a good buy, I cannie mind when I got this but it must be new, it’s half-decent this. And it looks ontae the TV and the windee. Aye I can see aw the goings on fae here. I look aboot the room. Aye here are aw my things, an ashtray o stubbed oot fags, that jigsaw I keep meaning tae finish, a standing lamp wi a pink shade that has tassels hanging doon, some o them are unravelling; that’s mine. There’s my wooden cabinet wi glass shelves and inside is that brass horse wi carriage whar I keep bits and bobs, the odd match, an elastic band, a pin fir if I need it; there’s books too, an encyclopaedia, 1001 beers o the world, a holiday brochure fir Majorca fae 1992 and a book called Golfing Legends.
A Short Affair Page 10
