Children of Albion Rovers

by Laura Hird

Scruples, said the driver, handing him a box.

  The Commendatore picked up another rank of figures. One of the figures had a skirt. He painted yellow bands on the figures’ hats and set the group apart from the rest. He put his brush in a jar of turps and rested his chin on his hands, looked at the separate group of three.

  One potato, two potato, three potato, four. She loves me not, he said.

  John’s mum sat in her chair, gripping the wooden armrests. The record was stuck in a groove in Ol’ Man River. Sick of tryin’, it played, sick of tryin’, sick of tryin’. John’s mum looked for an hour at the piece of wallpaper that was peeling off at the right hand side of the mantelpiece. Suddenly, without warning, she began looking at the cracked tile on the fireplace.

  John devoured a black pudding roll. He picked a card.

  Come on then, said Dek, shaking the dice.

  Mouth full, said John, reading the card to himself.

  Come on!

  I’m not sure about this one.

  Come on, said Tania, we’ve already had the one about skiving.

  We’re not skiving, said John, we’re in a meeting.

  For God’s sake, said Dek. He snatched the card off John and read it out. One of your best friends has got very bad breath. Would you tell them?

  Tricky, said John.

  No, it’s easy, said Tania. Of course you’d tell them. No bother. Folk’ve got to be told so’s they can sort themselves out.

  Dek? said John.

  Oh … I don’t know really. Aye, I suppose, I’d tell them.

  I wouldn’t, said John. And neither would you, absolutely no way.

  I would! said Dek.

  We’ll settle this outside, said John. Tania, do us a favour and stay here.

  OK, said Tania. Once Dek and John were outside the cafe she started reading the cards that hadn’t been turned up yet.

  Outside John said to Dek: You are a liar.

  Look, I’ll tell her sometime, OK, said Dek.

  Every time she opens her mouth it’s like a hot day in the elephant house, and you sit there and let her think she’s fine!

  She’s not that bad.

  Not that bad? It smells like something’s died in there. The nearest thing she’s ever had to a toothbrush in her mouth is the dry bits from a caramel wafer.

  You tell her then, said Dek.

  You’re the one who fancies her, said John.

  Oh, Christ, said Dek. If it wasn’t for the halitosis she’d be my dream woman. What if I put Listerine in her Bacardi instead of lemonade.

  Just do like you said and tell her, said John. Buy her a selection box of toothpaste and a fancy brush.

  I don’t know, said Dek.

  How can she turn you down? said John. You’re a single man with a steady job, a nice council flat, a drink problem and £5,000 worth of debt. She’s bound to go for you. Women like a man with big ideas about credit.

  A Fiat Panda was parking on double yellow lines. Tania and Dek watched with their arms folded while it approached the kerb, approached, reversed, inched back, inched forward, mounted the pavement and stopped. The driver got out and walked off down the road with a couple of empty carrier bags. Tania and Dek stopped him with a hand on each shoulder.

  Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning, said Dek.

  Yellow lines in the street, driver he will greet, said Tania.

  The man shook his head and smiled. He walked over to the car and tapped the windscreen. Disabled sticker, he said.

  Oh right, said Dek. What’s wrong with you?

  Nothing. It’s my wife, she’s disabled. She’s at home.

  So you’re not disabled?

  No. But I’ve got the sticker. There’s no problem, is there?

  Normally there would be, said Dek. But we’re able to bend the rules to help people. He put his hand on the man’s shoulder, drew back his foot and booted him on the right knee. The man collapsed, screaming.

  That’s OK now, sir, said Dek.

  John marched alone down Leith Walk, booking all the blue cars. He took his break at noon. He went to a library and changed his crickets tape for one called Sounds of the Great Rift Valley. He bought his mum’s doughnut and a cold bridie. He sat down on a bench and took out his book.

  A car parked on the double yellow line a few yards away. A woman got out with a measuring tape, some chalk and a camera. She made measurements and drew crosses on the pavement.

  John ate his bridie and watched. The woman took pictures of the crosses.

  Is this street theatre? said John.

  No, said the woman.

  I like the fire eaters and the jugglers, and the ones that pretend balloons are heavy.

  Should you not be away wheelclamping invalid cars or something? said the woman.

  I’m on my break, said John. Piece in our time. Do you want a bit of my bridie?

  No.

  It’s very tasty. Or I could read to you: It is the Night of the World, and still long till it be Day: we wander amid the glimmer of smoking ruins, and the Sun and the Stars of Heaven are as blotted out for a season.

  That’s Thomas Carlyle, said the woman.

  John shouted Yes! and stood up.

  I’m from the council, said the woman, coming over.

  So am I!

  I’m Gillian, from monuments. We’re taking pictures of this place before they cover it with the community drama and merchant banking complex.

  You should put up a plaque to the unknown warden. That’s me, John, the unknown warden.

  Gillian stepped back, put her feet together and described an area of the pavement with her hands. It was here, she said, that Carlyle saved himself from despair. He’d become a man with an emptiness where his spirit used to be. He’d lost faith in God, and belief in the Devil. He’d lost faith in love. He saw no rewards in heaven or punishments in hell. His sense of right and wrong seemed like rubbish left behind by illusions of God. It seemed that people just lived afraid of pain, and wanting pleasure. He could imagine people finding a reason for living in their work, but he had no work to show for his time on earth. He was 28 years old. Something inside him was angry but it didn’t seem to have anything to do with the boredom of the universe he was stuck in. He hardly noticed other people, they were like parts in a machine to him. The world was the machine, and it didn’t do him the favour of wanting him to suffer. No, because it ground him down automatically. He would have killed himself, but there was a small bit of religious teaching stuck in his brain, and anyway, he couldn’t be bothered. And all the while he felt frightened. He didn’t know what he was afraid of. Until he came here, to Leith Walk, and one moment he didn’t know and the next moment he knew. He was frightened of death, nothing more or less, because in the end that was all there was to be afraid of. And when he knew it, he looked at death, and he said: Come on, then. I’ll meet you and I’ll take you on. He stood here, a man still young, miserable with the grey world and his being lost in it, and he reached out over forty years ahead and shouted at death that he could see it hiding there and it might as well come out because he could look at it and still live on as a free man until the final reckoning came. And he felt so strong and angry after that, burning up with hatred for death, and so he was alive.

  John was quiet for a bit. Then he said: Let’s call our first child Leith.

  My surname’s Walker.

  Well, mine’s Keith.

  Come on, finish your bridie and go back to work.

  John got up and stood closer to Gillian. Your hair’s just like the adverts, he said. It smells like turkish delight.

  Tania was in the Commendatore’s office. He’d put up a folding screen in one corner.

  I’m supposed to be meeting someone, she said.

  This won’t take long, said the Commandatore. I’ve designed a new uniform for the wardens. I’d like you to try it on. It’s behind that screen. Just to give you extra reassurance I’ll put this blindfold on while you’re changing.

  Do I get so
me kind of bonus for this? said Tania.

  Probably, said the Commendatore, tying on the blindfold. I can’t see a thing now. This is made out of one of my old uniforms. Have you found it all right? Are you getting changed?

  Yeah, said Tania.

  You know, Thomas Carlyle would’ve liked your legs and your ankle boots, said John. He would’ve loved your red suit. He wouldn’t have been able to stop himself sighing when he thought how good it would be to place his hands on your waist and kiss your neck.

  Aah! said the Commendatore, taking off the blindfold. It looks wonderful. Here, look in the mirror.

  Oh, said Tania.

  What do you think?

  You know those dreams you have? When you forget to put any clothes on and you go to work and you fall into a bath of golden syrup and when you get out people are throwing little strips of Argos catalogue at you and they stick to your body and everybody starts pointing at you and shouting Breakfast! Breakfast! I think it’s worse than that.

  The trouble is you just don’t understand it. Look. These tassels at the back of the cap conceal a zip. I open the zip, put in my hand, and hey presto – a green eyeshade which fits onto the peak of the cap for bright sunshine. No more unsightly sunglasses.

  He would’ve loved to look into your eyes, said John, removing his sunglasses and putting them in his pocket. He looked into Gillian’s eyes. She blinked. He would’ve loved to feel your lips against his own.

  They kissed.

  Your time’s up! shouted John, running over to her car and pulling out his ticket pad.

  You complete bastard! yelled Gillian.

  Rules are rules, said John, scribbling as fast as he could.

  Don’t think you won’t suffer for this, said Gillian. She made a run at him and pulled his hat off.

  Tss, said John. He stuck the parking ticket under the wiper.

  Jane Carlyle would’ve loved to see this hat go, said Gillian, taking out a lighter and setting fire to the cap. It flared up and she dropped it on the pavement.

  See that? said John. No health and safey measures at all. What if I’d been struck by lightning? I’d be dead meat.

  You are dead meat.

  I’m going now, said John, and walked away.

  The shoulder-tabs are based on a Soviet design, said the Commendatore. They’re not practical, but they help give the uniform a more imposing look. Then you’ve got your waistbelt, with water-bottle, smog mask, quick release ticket pad holder, A to Z and spare shoelaces.

  It feels hot and heavy, said Tania.

  Does it? said the Commendatore. Here, sit down. Do you want a drink? I’ve got some rum.

  Thanks, said Tania.

  Dek looked at the clock behind the bar. It said 1.15. He drank down the half pint that was left in his glass in a oner and ordered another, with a whisky chaser.

  Terrible to be stood up, he said.

  What time were you supposed to meet her? said the barman.

  Five past. Tell you what, make it a double. I’ve given her ten whole minutes. Well into the excess period.

  No waiting on weekdays except for loading or unloading, said the barman.

  Dek pointed the finger at him. Right, he said. Listen. Leave the warden jokes to the wardens. That’s my lass we’re talking about. He took the fresh pint of heavy and three-quarters drained it.

  Tania sipped rum. She sat with her legs crossed in the Commendatore’s chair, brushing pretend fluff off the ski pants-style black trousers with yellow piping he had designed. The Commendatore sat on the edge of the desk with his arms folded, looking down at her. He reached out a hand and began fiddling with one of her shoulder tabs. Tania cleared her throat and looked in the opposite direction.

  You’re the most beautiful of the traffic wardens under my command, said the Commendatore. Call me romantic if you like, call me oldfashioned, but when I see you sitting there so sweet and lovely, only one thing comes into my mind: Sex.

  Tania coughed.

  Let’s do it now, said the Commendatore, standing up and taking hold of both her shoulders. Let’s take off our clothes here and now and have sex. Come on.

  No, said Tania.

  Why not? said the Commendatore. He found a tiny pocket on one of her sleeves, opened a Velcro tab and pulled out a packet. Look! he said. The traffic warden of tomorrow will be Aids-conscious and free from unwanted pregnancies.

  No, said Tania, getting up and going over to the door. I don’t want to have sex with you.

  Why not?

  Because you’re thirty years older than me, I don’t like you and you’re very, very ugly.

  The clock behind the bar said 1.30. Dek was drinking them as fast as the barman could pull them. He had beer on his shoes, on his trousers, on his jacket, on his hair, up his nose and on the small of his back. Tania came into the bar.

  My God, said the barman. It’s the provisional wing of the Salvation Army.

  Dek swivelled on his stool and blinked at Tania through the beer in his eyes. He raised his arm and pointed it at her as best he could, swinging it about 45 degrees in all directions. Your time’s up! he shouted. No feeding the meter. He fell off the stool and writhed at the bottom of it. Tania went over and hauled him to his feet.

  How did he get like this? said Tania to the barman. I was only twenty-five minutes late.

  Thirsty.

  Did you have to help him with it so much?

  Just taking orders.

  Get us a taxi, then.

  From his window on the third floor the Commendatore watched Tania helping Dek into a taxi. She was having problems with the special belt he had designed. Dek had got somehow caught up in it. They struggled for a while at the edge of the pavement, Dek tugging at his coat, Tania trying to push him into the cab. After a while the driver got out to help. In the end Tania unfastened the belt and dropped it in the road. They got into the taxi and drove off.

  The Commendatore went to the cupboard where he kept the model wardens. He took out the strip of three with one figure with a skirt. With a pair of nail scissors he snipped the strip in three. He picked up the two male figures in turn and cut off their heads and their legs, then put them in his mouth and chewed them. Still chewing, he laid the female figure down in an ashtray, lit a match and set fire to it. The painted plastic burned well. In a few seconds it was a sizzling yellow maggot. Soon after that it was a black stain on the ashtray. The Commendatore spat the chewed-up figures into the ashtray. He left the office and went home.

  John got home just before six. He went to see his mum. Sick of tryin’, sick of tryin’, sick of tryin’, said the record player. John lifted the record off the turntable and put it in its sleeve.

  You see, I know you can move, he said. This record is on every day when I come back. How come you always put on the one with the scratch, instead of the new one I got? Here’s your doughnut. Yes, you can eat well enough, can’t you. I don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to see you’ve been getting up to go to the toilet. And that’s a good thing, I’m not saying it’s not. But just supposing you left that chair once when I was actually here, in the house, me, myself, your son. I met a girl today. The same sex as you in fact, except she chooses to walk and talk. If we had a phone I’d probably call her tonight, if I had her number. My name’s on the ticket I gave her. She could find the number of my work and get in touch. We could go out if you got better. No need, anyway, she could just come round, and she could talk to you like I’m doing now, talk and talk and talk and talk and talk, and it wouldn’t make any difference, because you never say anything or do anything, you just sit there. And cry sometimes. Oh, not now, not this time. Don’t cry again. How can your face get so wet so quickly? I’ll get your tea.

  John wiped his mum’s face and went and cooked fish fingers under the grill. He served them with tomato sauce and peas and mashed potato. He cut up the fish fingers on his mum’s plate and put them on a tray with a mug of juice and his mum’s prescribed drugs. He took the food up to her and ate it
with her while they watched Reporting Scotland and Channel Four News. He left the TV on and went down to do the washing up. He went to his room and put the Great Rift Valley tape on. He looked at the cover notes. Baboons to kick off with. John fell asleep.

  Outside the games shop a driver unrolled the back of a delivery truck. Traffic wardens arrived.

  Remember us? said John.

  Yes. The driver took a box out of the truck. Go, he said.

  Go?

  Go!

  OK, OK, keep your shirt on, said Dek, taking the box.

  Go, read John from the instruction book, is an ancient Chinese game of pure mental skill. Its rules are simpler than chess but the tactics are so much more complicated that as yet no computer has been programmed to play successfully. To succeed at Go requires an agile mind, a clear head and a patient soul. There is no clear ending to a game of Go. Play ends when both players agree they have nothing to gain by continuing.

  Let’s see that, said Dek, taking the book from John. He wiped his hands free of bacon fat with a napkin, made the book lie open flat with his fist and put on a pair of reading glasses. Tania took the board out of the box. It was a hinged block of wood with a plain grid marked on it. She moved the salt cellar and brown sauce bottle to make room for it on the table and opened it out. The only other things in the box were the counters: porcelain discs, one set matt black, the other set glazed white.

  Dek looked up from the book and picked a black disc. Stones, he said, looking at it over the top of his glasses and turning it in his fingers. They call them stones. I think I can handle this.

  John was drying his mum’s hair with a towel. Christ, Mum, you’re going bald, he said. He rubbed like he was sanding a plank. He bent down and looked in her face. Only joking, he said. Wee grin? No, OK.