What you laughing at?
What?
Fat Stanley grinned whilst in the middle of munching a sandwich, a sliver of lettuce at the corner of his mouth.
Just thinking about something, replied Oanny. He gestured at the sandwich. No kidding ye but that’s what Ellen should be doing I mean a lot of cunts dont fancy a bowl of fucking soup but give them a sandwich and a cup of tea and that . . . He shrugged.
I agree with you Oanny.
Plus you’re killing two birds with one stone, you’re cutting out the fucking riff-raff. That’s what fucking draws them, the soup, they think it’s the Salvation Army! Songs of fucking Praise they’ll be giving us next!
Fat Stanley and Victor both grinned.
Victor stuck the last portion of his sandwich into his mouth and he munched it with his mouth shut, glancing about the room, and when he finished it he wiped his lips.
Still hungry? asked Oanny.
Who me – naw.
The lassie’d give us another couple of sandwiches.
I’m no bothered.
Oanny nodded. What about yourself Stanley?
Fat Stanley shrugged. I’m no bothered either.
Mm. Ah well. Oanny sipped at his tea, half of his sandwich still remaining on the plate. He took out his cigarettes and gave one to Victor, offered one to Fat Stanley who moved to take one, then hesitated.
Eh, d’you mind? he asked.
Course no, fuck sake here, help yourself . . . Oanny screwed his face up to avoid getting smoke in his eyes while getting his cigarette alight. Tell you something, he said, Rollo’s place is getting really bad. I mind the time if you cleaned the fucking school you were talking about a monkey, and that was on a bad night.
Somebody else won as well but, apart from Alec, said Victor.
Still and all, two hundred quid, it’s not much. Oanny nodded in the direction of the private members’ room. And I’ll tell yous something else, he said, half the cunts ben in that casino, they’ll no even know there’s a game of poker going on! And that’s the way they want it, the house. Because poker’s like chemmy, it’s a punters’ game. That’s how you dont see a chemmy table in here cause they dont fucking allow it that’s how.
No percentage, muttered Victor.
No enough of one, aye. Oanny nodded after a moment.
Fat Stanley yawned. Well . . . he said, think I’ll go and have a looksee. Eh Victor?
Aye.
What about yourself Oanny?
Nah. Did Alec take that Record with him?
Aye.
Tch. Oanny shook his head but added: Maybe get a loan of one off somebody. Here, he said. And he withdrew the small wad and handed it to Victor who nodded slightly, sticking it into his trouser pocket.
*
Oanny had not seen the pair enter. He glanced around the lounge. Nobody else was sitting down. Fat Stanley said, They’re wanting to shut up shop.
Are they?
It’s a case of hint hint.
Ah well. Oanny yawned and lifted his cigarettes and matches from the table.
That roulette! Fat Stanley grinned. No kidding ye Oanny it’s hell of a fast so it is. You could lose a fortune.
Dont tell me yous fell for it!
It was blackjack I played, said Victor.
Just as deadly. It’s no like fucking pontoons you know!
Victor frowned.
Oanny was opening the cigarette packet and shaking his head. He glanced at Victor as he started getting to his feet. You might know but a lot of cunts dont. They turn a blackjack and think they can take the fucking bank! I mind one time in Newcastle . . .
I know the difference.
Oanny gazed at him.
We were winning a few bob at the beginning, said Fat Stanley. Hey but see these Chinese! No kidding ye Oanny punting in scores so they were. Some of them must’ve been losing a bloody fortune!
Mugs! Oanny sniffed noisily. Fucking house games!
Victor cleared his throat, and he moved in the direction of the exit. Fat Stanley followed, pausing now and again to stay within a stride of Oanny. Before they arrived within earshot of the doormen Oanny tapped Fat Stanley on the side of the arm. Hey big yin, he whispered, did somebody actually say they were going to shut? I mean direct, did somebody actually tell you?
Aye.
Aw.
One of the younger doormen stood by the glass door with Victor. When he saw the other two approach he unlocked it and held it open for them.
Raining? said Oanny.
Aye, replied the doorman.
Were yous busy?
Eh, no bad.
Oanny nodded. Is this you finished for the night then?
Aye.
You’ll no be sorry!
The doorman nodded. Fat Stanley and Victor were out on the pavement. The other two doormen were standing by the table with the signing-in book.
Oanny sniffed, rubbed his hands together. Aye, he said.
After a moment the doorman said, Goodnight.
The key was turned in the lock behind him. Oanny continued onto the pavement; he muttered, Bloody cold eh!
Fat Stanley nodded. He had his bunnet on now and the collar of his coat was upturned. Victor had his shoulders hunched and he shivered. Fucking freezing! he grunted and then he shuddered and spat out onto the street.
Oanny stood for a moment. He shrugged his shoulders a few times and kept his feet moving on the spot. Finally he gave a loud shiver, slapped his hands together and crossed to the opposite pavement, the other pair following. He stepped into a shop doorway and tried the doorhandle. Shut! he said.
Fat Stanley smiled briefly. He and Victor huddled in out the rain.
Oanny brought out the cigarettes, gave one to himself and Victor, one as an afterthought to Fat Stanley. Might as well take it, he added, it’s the last!
Fat Stanley shrugged.
Just then the door of The Edwardian was unlocked, and the sound of cheery voices. A group of young men and women, dressed in ordinary clothes: employees – probably they had lockers to keep their evening wear in. Umbrellas were raised then they all headed along towards the high-rise car park. The door was locked behind them.
Wonder when it’ll finish! said Fat Stanley.
Oanny waited a short time before answering. D’you mean the poker?
I was just wondering.
Oanny nodded.
Maybe we should’ve asked one of the guys on the door.
Oanny shrugged. They’ll no know. It’s poker Stanley, it finishes when it finishes – it’s no like the club; big James and them I mean you’re talking about dough, it could go on for hours!
That right?
Aye, fuck. Course. Oanny sniffed and he said, See when they told yous they were shutting, could yous no’ve asked if we could wait on a wee bit?
Aye . . . Fat Stanley nodded. Right enough . . .
They wouldnt’ve let us, muttered Victor.
Only one way of finding out.
Well you should’ve fucking asked then!
I’m no blaming you, said Oanny.
Aye I fucking know you’re no! Hh! Victor shook his head and cleared his throat, spat onto the pavement.
Touchy bastard, grunted Oanny.
What d’you mean touchy bastard? Victor glared at him. Then he strolled to the edge of the pavement and looked for a moment at the sky. The rain had eased a little. He glared back at Oanny and shook his head again.
What’s up with you? asked Oanny.
Victor spat into the gutter.
What’s up with that cunt? said Oanny to Fat Stanley and he dragged deeply on the cigarette and blew the smoke harshly out the corner of his mouth.
Victor was staring at him. Oanny returned the stare. Then Victor said, You’re an old man.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Victor shook his head.
Eh? What’s that fucking supposed to mean, I’m an old man?
Ah! Victor turned away from him.
Eh
? said Oanny to Fat Stanley.
Never bother, muttered Fat Stanley.
I dont even know what he’s fucking talking about!
Never bother.
Aye but I dont even know what he’s fucking talking about Stanley, know what I mean!
Fat Stanley shrugged slightly. Victor was exhaling smoke, gazing in the direction away from the car park. For some minutes neither of the three spoke. Eventually Victor returned into the doorway, taking up a position close to the front.
Minutes after they had finished the cigarettes the glass door opened again, and the two younger doormen appeared and they could be heard quite distinctly, saying cheerio to somebody else – the oldest doorman probably. Then one of them noticed Oanny, Fat Stanley and Victor and he whispered something and the other one looked over. The pair continued along towards the car park and one of them laughed.
No point asking them anything! muttered Oanny. He stared after them. You wonder how they ever get a fucking job like that dont you . . .
The three of them continued sheltering in the doorway. It was Fat Stanley who broke the silence. He said: Is that the rain off?
Oanny made no answer.
Still fucking drizzling, muttered Victor.
What time does that café in the Central Station open?
Soon. How?
Aw nothing. I was just wondering . . . Fat Stanley shrugged.
You any money?
Nah – couple of coppers just.
Victor nodded.
Enough for a tea, I suppose. Fat Stanley glanced at him: You skint?
Aye.
Fat Stanley glanced at Oanny but Oanny was gazing off out the doorway and seemed not to notice. And he said to Victor, Naw I was just wondering about maybe taking a wee walk or something, just to pass the time, stretch the legs and that . . . ?
Victor nodded very slightly.
Then Oanny moved suddenly. I’m away, he said.
What?
I’m away home.
How d’you mean?
Ach! Oanny shook his head. This is fucking murder! He sidled past Fat Stanley, out onto the pavement. Yous two waiting on?
Victor looked at him.
Are yous?
How what’re you doing? asked Fat Stanley.
I told you, I’m going home. It’s a long hike and I might as well start now.
Aye but Oanny I mean . . .
Oanny shrugged. What’s the fucking difference, he said. Either we win or we get fucking beat. Wait here and we’ll wait forever.
Aye but what about Alec and that?
Oanny shook his head and he walked off, away from the direction of the car park, his shoulders hunched up and rounded. The other two watched him go, their heads poking out from the doorway.
This man for fuck sake
This man for fuck sake it was terrible seeing him walk down the edge of the pavement. If he’d wanted litter we would’ve given him it. The trouble is we didn’t know it at the time. So all we could do was watch his progress and infer. And even under normal circumstances this is never satisfactory: it has to be readily understood the types of difficulty we laboured under. Then that rolling manoeuvre he performed while nearing the points of reference. It all looked to be going so fucking straightforward. How can you blame us? You can’t, you can’t fucking blame us.
Half an hour before he died
About half an hour before he died Mr Millar woke up, aware that he might start seeing things from out the different shapes in the bedroom, especially all these clothes hanging on the pegs on the door, their suddenly being transformed into ghastly kinds of bodies, perhaps hovering in mid air. It was not a good feeling; and having reflected on it for quite a few minutes he began dragging himself up onto his elbows to peer about the place. And his wrists felt really strange, as if they were bloodless or something, bereft of blood maybe, no blood at all to course through the veins. For a wee while he became convinced he was losing his sanity altogether, but no, it was not that, not that precisely; what it was, he saw another possibility, and it was to do with crossing the edge into a sort of madness he had to describe as ‘proper’ – a proper madness. And as soon as he recognized the distinction he began to feel better, definitely. Then came the crashing of a big lorry, articulated by the sound of it. Yes, it always had been a liability this, living right on top of such a busy bloody road. He was resting on his elbows still, considering all of it, how it had been so noisy, at all hours of the day and night. Terrible. He felt like shouting on the wife to come ben so’s he could tell her about it, about how he felt about it, but he was feeling far too tired and he had to lie back down.
In with the doctor
By one of those all-time flukes I landed head of the queue at the doctor’s surgery. Somebody nudged me on the elbow eventually and pointed to the wee green light above the door. I laid down the magazine and walked across. The doctor opened it and said, You first this morning?
Yes sir, I says.
Yes sir! It was really incredible I could have said such a thing; I dont think I’ve called anybody sir in years. But the doctor took it in his stride, as if it was normal procedure; he ushered me inside, waiting to shut the door behind me. Then he walked side by side with me, leaving me at the patient’s chair while he continued on round the desk to sit on his own one. He was quite a worried looking wee guy and it occurred to me he probably liked the drink too much. His face scarlet and his hair was prematurely white. He had on a white dustcoat, the kind hospital orderlies usually wear, but underneath it he was wearing an expensive three-piece suit. He sat watching me and frowned.
What’s up? I says.
Aw nothing, nothing at all. Fancy a coffee?
Aye, ta, that’d be great. I sniffed and looked at the carpet while he rose to fill an electric kettle across at the sink. When he noticed me glance over he nodded. Aye, he says, this job, it’s worse than you think. He grinned suddenly, he reached to plug in the kettle, then returned to the chair. I was reading that yin of Kafka’s last night, ‘The Country Doctor’ – you read it?
Eh aye, I says.
Gives me the fucking willies . . . He shook his head: What about yourself?
Well, naw, no really.
It doesnt bother you!
Eh, no really.
He smiled. In this job you sometimes fall into the trap of thinking everybody’s a doctor.
Pardon?
Naw, he says, you start talking to folk as if they’re doctors.
Aw aye.
He frowned and turned to gaze at the electric kettle, he began muttering unintelligibly. Then he says, Probably I stuck in too much water and jammed the fucking thing! He shook his head and sighed loudly but it sounded a wee bit false. He got up off his seat and went to the window, he raised it and put his head out, and he whistled: Whsshhle whhssht!
The next thing the young lassie who works in the snackbar appeared. Her name was Brenda and she was roundabout 18, 19. Blonde-haired, but sometimes a bit sharp-tongued for my liking. He says to her, A piece on sausage hen, and a cup of coffee. Then he glanced at me: What about yourself?
Naw, no thanks.
He shrugged. Hey I hope it’s ready the now Brenda!
Aye it’s ready the now! she says.
Ah you’re a lifesaver, a lifesaver!
So they tell me, she says.
He left the window ajar while she was away. The snackbar was parked permanently in the waste ground next to the surgery and it wasnt long till she reappeared. When she gives him the stuff she says, You can hand me the money in later on.
Aye alright.
I could hardly believe my ears. And I was thinking to myself, Aye ya bastard! if you werent a doctor! Frankly, I was beginning to get annoyed. Here he was having a teabreak and ben the room a pile of folk was sitting there waiting. And then another thing started annoying me as well. How come he was taking me into his confidence like this? At best it seemed as if he was making a hell of a lot of assumptions about me, and I didnt like it very
much.
The kettle started boiling. He says to me: You sure you dont fancy a coffee?
Positive. Look eh I’m in cause of my back . . .
He nodded; he sniffed, then he took a bite of his piece. What is it sore? he says.
Sore? I says, It’s fucking killing me!
Hh! He continued chewing the food, gazing at me occasionally; he was waiting for me to say something else. I shrugged: I think maybe it’s caused by the damp.
He nodded. His attention wandered to the window then he sat to the front and glanced upwards and sideways, and indicated a framed certificate hanging on the wall. I was a mature student at Uni, he says. And he fingered the lapels of his dust-coat. I came late to this . . . I started only about three years ago. He shook his head and sighed. Ah Christ, it has to be said; to a fairly big extent you’ve got to describe this as a young man’s job.
Mmm.
Aye, he says, truly, a young man’s job.
Well, right enough, it needs a lot of training.
Naw but it’s no just that. He grimaced at me and stared at his piece; he bit a mouthful and chewed, then drank a mouthful of coffee. He sighed again and he says: You married?
Eh, yes and no.
Separated?
I shrugged.
Ah – same as myself, I’m divorced. Hh! He smiled: Up at Uni I got involved with this lassie and she found out, the missis. Bang – out the door. More or less dumped the fucking suitcase out in the middle of the street man fucking terrible. Never seen her since! No even at all these family kind of business things. It’s funny, when I dont go to one she does and when I do go to one she doesnt. And we never get in touch beforehand. It’s a kind of telepathy or some fucking thing! He grinned at me: This auld uncle of mine, having a laugh with me, he says he never knows whether he’s coming or going, is he going to see me or is he going to see her! Makes him dizzy he says!
Greyhound for Breakfast Page 11
