by John Mayer
Big O took his time and leaned back into his bentwood chair. His steely blue eyes sent no immediate message one way or the other; but then Tucker didn’t expect that they would. Not from a professional man like O. It was a full ten seconds before O spoke:
‘Well, he obviously can’t stand the fuckin’ sight of fenians. That’s a given. No offence Tuck.’
Tucker was quick to reply with a wave of his crossed hands: ‘Of course, O. None taken.’
‘But you’re no’ here for me to tell ye’ somethin’ any teenager knows. You’re here aboot the whole Calton. As far as that’s concerned, Ah can honestly say that we haven’t heard anythin’ wee man. Look, you can guess that we’re no’ keen on this idea of knockin’ down big bits o’ old Glasgow any more than you. So if there was somethin’ … as ye’ say … in particular … we’d probably know about it. But then again, we live in very different times from when we were young, so you never know.’
After slipping the photo back into his pocket, Tucker offered his hand which was warmly taken. Both men raised their own versions of a wry smile as though this might be the last time they would ever meet. It fell to Tucker to do the honours:
‘Thanks, O. But if ye’ do hear anythin’ …’
As honestly as any brother to another, Big O winked one eye: ‘Of course, Tuck. Please tell Big Joe I was askin’ for him. Is his mother still alive? That plague thing was a right bastard.’
‘Aye, Jean made it, but Bella McLane didnae. That really hit Brogan quite hard.’
It was with a genuine shudder at the very idea of your old mother being taken by some plague that descends from only God knows where, that Big O leaned forward and lowered his voice: ‘Well you give them both ma’ best, eh?’
‘I will that, O. An’ tell yer boys I’m sorry I didnae have time for a drink.’
Their moment of eye contact combined with that warm grip was a bridge of peace across the decades behind the two of them and even generations before them. No more words of parting were needed as Tucker slipped past the three men he knew would be armed. As he pulled on the front door, Tucker felt an old sense of pride that the Maryhill boys had afforded him the courtesy of a one-on-one with his opposite number.
Outside, the freezing drizzle was being blown on the wind causing Tucker to shiver and pull up his collar. Eventually, from the back of a taxi, Tucker watched as the Crown Bar disappeared into the misty distance. About a mile and a half down the road, as he got out, he sighed at the sight of a faded old sign he thought he might never see again; which read Great Northern Railway Inn.
Around this worn down red sandstone building, there were only a few old abandoned engineering workshops and a café with a handwritten menu taped to the inside of the window which had long since faded to the point of obscurity. Hanging from the handle of the Railway Inn’s front door was a thick rusty chain which served no purpose as Peggy’s place never closed.
Pushing open the door, to his left Tucker was a little surprised to see a bright coal fire blazing in the grate of what had once been a well-heeled guests’ reading room. Then he remembered the abandoned hill of shale coal just quarter of a mile away and nodded to himself. Only two shafts of light fell through the thick dusty wooden shutters which looked like they hadn’t been opened in many a long year. Tucker immediately recognised the system. On two sofas and six sumptuous club chairs, the girls were busy looking at iPhones and painting each other’s nails. Sitting open-legged in only a see-through red negligee, the girl nearest the door was next. She was so taken by surprise at Tucker standing in the doorway that she coughed the vodka in her mouth back into the bottle.
Before the girl could get up, Tucker heard his name being called:
‘Tucker Queen. I don’t believe it! My wee Tuck. Hello my darlin’. Come in! Come in.’
The sound of that sweet soft voice took Tucker back nearly thirty years; to the brothel up the rusty iron ladder behind the Calton Bar. After the big raid in the summer of 1995, Peggy had briefly taken over the place, but back then she was too fond of the needle and spoon to make a proper go of the business. Hardly anybody knew her real name. She’d been nick-named Peggy ever since down the lane between Tommy Sorkin’s Bakery and the Calton Bar she started raising only one leg to let the boys in. It had started as Peg Leg, but quickly grew affectionately into Peggy.
Now very fat with huge roly-poly tits and still wearing a black leather mini-skirt, Peggy didn’t approach but rather stood with her arms outstretched and a welcoming smile on her face as wide as Glasgow’s Kingston Bridge.
Tucker took his time in shuffling up close. Putting his arms around one of her three waists, Tucker laid his head on her voluptuous chest and said in a whisper as quiet as a church mouse:
‘Hello, ma darlin’. My God it’s good to see you.’
At least seven girls’ heads and shoulders were now reaching round to look into the hallway at this stranger who obviously, within these walls, could have anything he asked for: on the House.
Several silent seconds followed as, with eyes tight shut, Tucker and Peggy just held each other. At last, Tucker took a deep breath and kissed her softly on the cheek while Peggy waved the girls away. Leading him by the hand through to her quarters at the back, their hand-in-hand link sent feelings of long ago surging into their blood. When Peggy took off his coat, offered a seat on a nice new sofa next to a blazing fire and poured fresh tea, both felt that it wouldn’t be mentioned. There was no need to mention it. Just a few years older than him, Peggy had been more like a big sister to Tucker. So when he’d come to her with a few pounds in his hand for his first time, it was Peggy who’d suggested that they don’t; rather that he should find a nice girl to love and get a house in the Calton with her. That had never happened and both knew exactly why not.
Raising his tea cup, Tucker opened: ‘You don’t look too surprised to see me. There was a look on your face like you might even have been expectin’ me.’
Peggy looked askance at him and even wagged her finger: ‘Shame on you Tuck. Ye’ must be slippin’. Ye’ didn’t think when the guys in the Crown Bar saw you get into a taxi and head this way that they wouldn’t let me know? I must say, though, I was surprised to hear that Tucker Queen was on his way to see me. Very surprised. Anyway, my darlin’, what brings you here on this shitey cold day?’
Laying down his cup and saucer, Tucker stood and went to his coat. Laying down the photo, he tapped it twice and let his eyes ask his question. Picking up the photo, Peggy lifted her glasses from her chest and leaned back:
‘Well, I’m pretty sure I know who he is, but I’m guessing you already know that much. William … Rams somethin’ …Ramson? No. William Randal. That’s right. He’s a big Orange Lodge man.’
‘Right. I do know that much. But what I really want to know is …’
Peggy blurted out a gust of breath: ‘No! Don’t be daft Tuck, he’s never been here. We don’t get his type. Well, a few, but no’ him.’
‘Actually, none of us know this guy. We’ve wracked our brains, but he’s a complete blank to us. But you always … you know … Och, how would McLane put it? Oh aye, You always had wider horizons than us. So what I was gonna ask was, if there’s anythin’ at all you can remember about him. You know, even from years ago.’
Peggy narrowed her eyes and leaned forward: ‘What’s up, Tuck?’
Wrapping his hands around his tea cup, Tucker had no hesitation in letting her in to the core of the matter: ‘Well, for years you lived in the same tenement building as McLane and Big Joe. Now we happen to know, that very same building has been what you might call ‘singled out’ from the rest of the Calton. We … I mean McLane’
Before Tucker could get another word out, Peggy gushed: ‘Oh Tucker. How is he? Did he send you to me? I thought it would’ve been Big Joe. But was it Brogan?’
‘It was Brogan, aye. And he’s fine. Baron McLane of Calton QC he is now for God’s sake. He sends his best.’
At the sound of his name, P
eggy seemed to melt into her sofa and a single tear rolled down her cheek: ‘Oh, Tuck. Oh dear God. You tell him Ah said Hello and a send him a big kiss. Baron McLane, for Christ’s sake. Whatever will he be next?’
‘Aye, I’ll do that. But erm …’
Making no attempt to hide wiping her tear, Peggy looked again at the photo:
‘Oh aye. Let me think. My God, I’m goin’ back now. No. I’m fairly sure I never serviced him. Fairly sure. I remember though, just after I moved here, people … punters, I mean, were talkin’ about this guy in Glasgow City Council that was takin’ over everythin’. A right cold fish, they said. Look, dae ye’ mind if I show this to the girls? One of them night’ve done a homer on him.’
Leaning forward and putting his fingertips on the photo, Tucker apologised: ‘Sorry. This has to stay between us. So please, don’t even mention him to the girls. OK?’
Peggy gave him a look that told Tucker that he really must be slipping. And with that Tucker softly laid his cup and saucer on the low table between them:
‘Oh Tuck, no. You’re not goin’ already, surely? Can ye’ not stay a wee bit longer?’
At hearing those words, said in such sincerity, Tucker clenched his teeth and blinked his eyes a dozen times. Leading him down the corridor by the hand, at the front door Peggy turned and cupped her fat hands around both of his cheeks. Now so close that they felt each other breathing, Peggy kissed Tucker gently on the lips. Long and lingering, both expected it would be their last. Pulling away as softly as the last of the ebb tide leaving the sand, Peggy said with all the love and affection of the Madonna herself:
‘We did the right thing, Tuck. It wouldn’t have worked : you and me. Ah’m just a lost cause and you’re a really decent guy. If I hear anythin’ or maybe remember somethin’ about that thing, I’ll let you know.’
Nodding even though he disagreed, Tucker held Peggy by both hands, kissed her again and whispered:
‘Bye, Maria. Keep well.’
Walking away along an empty street with his collar up and his hands deep in his pockets, Tucker didn’t look back for fear that she’d see his tears flow hard and long. Splashing through the puddles in the pavement holes, he must’ve gotten about half a mile when he flagged down a taxi. Dripping wet from his hair to this shoes, the driver couldn’t have told that until a few moments ago his fare had been sobbing his heart out:
‘Where to pal?’
Wiping his face and hair with both hands, Tucker managed, with only a slight quiver in his voice, to say:
‘The Calton Bar.’
~~~o~~~
Chapter 47
Old Mrs Heaney had gone into a very nice care home near Paisley and her daughter had taken the kids to live near her. Gerry Jackson had taken compensation for his accident in the docks and, to everyone’s amazement, had gone to live with a woman he’d only ever met on the internet, in her two room apartment in sunny Spain. His wife, God Bless Her, had died a very long time ago in childbirth. Their only son had done well in the Navy College, got married and now lived in Malta, so he didn’t want the house. Even Tucker’s auntie Nessie, at aged 72 had at last decided she could live with her widowed sister by the seaside down in Cornwall. And so it was, one by one, that already nearly a hundred had packed a few old things - many of them older than themselves - and left the Calton promising that they’d be back every few weeks to see everyone.
However, plenty remained and they were the hale and hearty, fighting kind. Those who’d made hot tea and bacon sandwiches for the Calton Residents' Association meetings. They’d helped Arab keep an eye out for Glasgow City Council work trucks carrying men who were measuring the width of streets, pinpointing the exact location of the main water valves and the proximity of electricity cables to the Primary School.
Arab had been surprised when a group of teenage volunteers approached him with the offer to put up the flags and streamers across the street in front of the Calton Bar. Only when he came to deliver the lights that would keep the dancing going well into the wee hours did he see the boys’ plan. Faking problems of being too heavy and the need for special skills on the ground, they were able to get the three girls up ladders where the view up their skirts would provide welcome memories later on.
Lenny had called in his two favourite part-time barmaids who’d done a sterling job of making every glass sparkle. Knowing exactly what would be ordered most, while Lenny cleaned out every tube in the cellar, on snow white cloths they’d laid out the whisky glasses in a row parallel to the beer jugs. Next door in the bakery, that morning big Tommy Sorkin had taken a special delivery of Anderson’s best freshly cut steak. He’d cubed it all and had it sizzling in pots for the last three hours with lashings of onions, gravy, sea salt and ground black pepper. Now exhausted from baking a dozen trays of pies on his own, he was whistling an old pipe tune and wiping his hands on his apron when he stopped to reflect that only once since his father’s day had this old bakery topped 1200 steak pies in one day.
After the initial euphoria, it was Big Joe Mularkey himself who’d decided that McLane shouldn’t be told; though Joanne and Ababuo had to know to get him there. He’d only give them the same old qualifications: ‘Oh, it’s a long way from over yet.’ ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.’ ‘Oh, we’ll have to see how the joint consultations go.’ All that lawyer stuff. The fact was that he’d come out of court in Parliament House and immediately reported that nothing would happen for about a year. Six months at the very least. On hearing the news, Big Joe had punched the air and had only to tell Lenny for the whole bar to go into uproar and for the word to spread around the Calton like wildfire under a starry sky. As far as Big Joe was concerned, tonight McLane could enjoy himself and try to forget his day job of writhing about in that nest of vipers called Parliament House.
Only when McLane needed to get home to Edinburgh for something the following day did Joanne drive the Range Rover. Ababuo was, as ever, absorbed in her phone in the back, occasionally giggling at some teenage message and turning her screen so that it didn’t reflect in the window behind her. The best exit for Big Joe’s club was the next one; so when Joanne slipped off the motorway early, in the interests of marital harmony and a good dinner in the club, McLane let it go. Before leaving home, McLane had told Ababuo apologetically that she could go dancing down in the club for half an hour: but because she was still only fifteen, she had to stay close to the VIP Area. He’d laid his hand on her shoulder and reassured her that she wasn’t to worry about drunks or having any problems whatsoever; because Arab would have his eye on her at all times. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that her casual acceptance of this strict condition was just her way of keeping a straight face.
Now passing those solid old tenement houses, while Joanne and Ababuo rattled on about something unknown to him, as they entered the Calton, he started to count the darkened windows. Here and there, until recently, in these houses there lived people he’d seen every day while going to school and often helped upstairs with heavy washing. Passing old Pat Maloney’s first floor house, a wry smile crept across McLane’s face as he remembered how, a very long time ago, he’d catch Pat’s falling piece of wrapped paper containing a few coins and the name of a horse for delivery to The Duke. Always there were an extra few pennies for himself. Every time he heard on the phone of another one leaving, it felt like a death.
With his spies in cars all the way from the exit through the city, Tucker knew precisely where McLane’s car was down to fifty yards. But he waited before giving Arab the signal. Only when Joanne momentarily flashed her headlights did he give the sign of five spread fingers for Arab to count down to the ‘Switch On’.
As they approached the Calton Bar, to McLane the street seemed ominously quiet. He was just about to tell Joanne to pull over when the lights went on and dozens poured out of the Calton Bar and hundreds more from every tenement opening around it. With the Range Rover going at a crawl through the crowd and with Joanne and Ababuo laughing their head
s off, McLane could hardly hold back the tears. Dipping his head and pretending to shield his eyes with his open hands, he fooled no-one. When Joanne switched off the engine and they got out, it was Jean Mularkey who pushed through the crowd and got to him first. Gripping his face with both hands, she kissed him on the right cheek:
‘That one’s frae Bella.’
From just an inch away, looking into those eyes which she saw open before even his mother, Jean couldn’t see Baron McLane of Calton. She saw only the baby boy who was delivered half a yard and a few minutes apart from where she delivered her Joseph. Kissing him on the left cheek, she lingered and held him around the neck:
‘And that one’s from me. Dear, dear, wee Brogan. You’ve saved us. You’ve saved us all.’
Before McLane could get a word out he was being dragged into the Calton Bar where Big Joe held up his right hand: exactly as he’d done after the Trial of D C Campbell when in front of many of the men in the bar tonight, they’d become blood brothers. The crossed scars on his own right hand had faded much more than Joe’s; to the point where McLane had started to suspect that Joe actually re-cut his quite regularly. Slapping his hand into Big Joe’s, with their free arms the two men crushed each other. When at last they separated, Box and Bow struck up the music and Lenny’s girls’ hands started to fly. The lights strung across the street outside merging with the lights inside the Calton Bar gave the space a look of having grown ten times over.
After about twenty minutes of watching to see if Ababuo was either being chatted up by some boy or drinking the wine Lenny had put out for the women, after a sign from Joanne that all was well, McLane gave up and started to relax.
All night, as the dancing in the street flowed in and out of the bar and big Tommy’s steak pies had dwindled to a dozen, more and more there rose in the air a sense that only those fanatical about Scottish football fully appreciate. When every player’s form has been discussed, the team tactics analysed, re-constructed and analysed again until threadbare and the points have all been counted, there sometimes arises a feeling that, with just a few games left in the season, the Bhoys in Green and White hoops are at their rightful place at the top of the League and are unassailable.
