He returned to the toilet, shutting the kitchen door on the way. He turned on the tap of the wash-hand basin and washed his head in the ice-cold water. Much better. Much much better. He paused in the lobby and pulled on his old heavy boots leaving his trouser bottoms inside his socks. To battle! To battle with the bastards! Onward! The glorious struggle.
From the cool of the lobby into the now-warm kitchen. He gazed at the floor beneath the bed and then at his armchair and quickly he jumped onto the bed and lay across it with his head over the side looking under. They appeared to be playing hide-and-seek. He crawled to the corner where the action was in progress and peered down. He could make out their shapes in the shadows here quite easily. One now seemed to be crawling up the leg of the bed with its back against the wall for support. Jesus! Oh Jesus.
He sat up, cross-legged with his right hand ready to wield the Sporting Life. He waited patiently, staring down at the edge of the bed.
Bastards. Okay, come on then. Come on then you creepy little bastards. Me and this paper. Come on you bastards.
He sat there waiting. He thought he heard the crawler fall back but lacked the courage to look. Perhaps they had started crawling up the legs at the opposite side of the bed, the ones behind him? Jesus Christ! He could feel their presence. He felt them there right behind his back. Then suddenly he relaxed. His mouth gaped open as the tension and strain eased from his limbs and body. He breathed in and then out, swivelled his head around. Nothing! Nothing at all.
He looked down over the bed and saw a mouse go hurtling across the floor towards the cooker and the pantry. No grub there anyway! Ha ha ha you bastard, nothing there.
God. Oh God. A shape under the candlewick bedspread moved steadily in his direction. He stared glassy-eyed for about ten seconds then screamed. He flew off the bed, picked up the carry-out, cigarettes and matches and bolted into the lobby slamming the door behind him. He leaned against the wall gasping and spluttering saliva down his chin. The Sporting Life? Must have dropped it in the rush. He looked about the place then noticed the container of blue paraffin. He grabbed it up and smiled slyly. He opened the kitchen door gently and slowly sprinkled the paraffin over towards the floor at the bed then lit a match and carefully threw it. The carpet burst into flames.
‘Ha you little bastards!’ he screamed. ‘Ha ha now you bunch of bastards!’ Then he locked himself into the toilet.
The firemen found him there half an hour later after breaking the door in. He stood with one foot in the pan and the other balanced on the seat. He appeared to have been plunging each one in alternately and pulling the plug every so often. He punched his chest when they told him that everything in the kitchen was destroyed.
Sunday papers
Tommy had lain awake for almost ten minutes before the alarm finally shattered the early Sunday morning peace. He switched it off and jumped out of bed immediately, dressing in seconds. He opened the bedroom door, padded along the lobby into the kitchenette. A plate of cornflakes lay beside a bottle of milk and bowl of sugar from which he poured and sprinkled.
When he had finished eating the door creaked open and his mother blinked around it: ‘Are you up?’ she asked.
‘Aye mum. Had my cornflakes.’ He could not see her eyes.
‘Washed yet?’
‘Aye mum, it’s a smashing day outside.’
‘Well you better watch yourself. There’s an orange somewhere.’
‘Aye mum.’
‘It’s yes.’
He nodded and stood up, screeching the chair backwards.
‘Sshh . . .’ whispered his mother, ‘you’ll waken your dad.’
‘Sorry,’ whispered Tommy. ‘See you later mum.’
‘At eight?’
‘Don’t know,’ he said, stooping to pick up the canvas paper-bag.
‘John’s always in at eight for something to eat,’ said his mother.
‘Okay!’ He swung the bag onto his shoulder the way his brother did.
‘Don’t say okay,’ said his mother frowning a little, eyes open now, becoming accustomed to the morning light.
‘Sorry mum.’
‘Alright. You better go now. Cheerio!’
‘Cheerio!’ he called as she disappeared into the dark curtain-drawn bedroom.
Immediately her head reappeared around the door: ‘SHH!’
‘What’s going on,’ grunted a hoarse voice from the depth.
‘Sorry mum!’ Tommy could hear his father coughing as the bedroom door closed. He washed his face before quietly opening the outside door. He stepped out onto the landing and kicked over an empty milk-bottle but managed to snatch it up before the echo had died away. A dog barked somewhere. Hurrying downstairs not daring to whistle he jumped the last half flight of steps then halted, hardly breathing, wondering if he could have wakened the neighbours by the smack of his sandshoes on the solid concrete.
Out the close he clattered down the remaining steps to the pavement, not caring how much noise he made now that he was out in the open. Crossing the road he leaned against the spiked wooden fence looking far across the valley. So clear. He could see the Old Kilpatricks and that Old Camel’s Hump linking them with the Campsies. He whistled as loudly as he could with two fingers, laughing as the echoes pierced across the burn and over to Southdeen. He turned and waved the paper-bag round and round over his head; then he began trotting along the road, swinging it at every passing lamp-post. He kept forgetting the time and day. It was so bright. He felt so good.
At the top of Bellsyde Hill he slowed down and stared at the view. What hills away over there? The Renfrews maybe. Or it could still be the Old Kilpatricks? Rather than use the tarred pathway he ran downhill across the grass embankment. He had seen nobody since leaving the house more than ten minutes ago. A truck nearly killed him as he came dashing out onto Drumchapel Road from the blind-spot exit.
The truck jammed to a halt and the driver peered out the window. ‘Wee bastard!’ he roared. ‘You daft wee bastard!’
But Tommy never stopped running. He flew on down Garscadden Road and up through the goods’ entrance into Drumchapel Railway Station. The paper-hut stood by itself on the adjacent waste ground, parked beside it were a couple of cars. Half a dozen bicycles were propped against the wooden hut walls. He pushed open the door. The thick blue air made his eyes smart. The place was crowded. It seemed as if everybody was shouting, swearing and joking. Tommy joined at the end of the queue of boys waiting to receive their papers. The boy standing in front of him was a man with a beard. Tommy gazed at him. Behind the wide counter three men assisted by two youths were distributing the Sunday newspapers. The big man and the thin man were laughing uproariously at something the crew-cut man was saying. Some of the boys were also grinning and it was obviously very funny.
Each boy’s bag was being packed tight with newspapers and one large boy had so many that he needed two bags. When Tommy’s turn came he stepped forwards and cried: ‘Six run!’
‘Six run?’ repeated the crew-cut man gaping at him.
‘Aye!’
‘Where’s MacKenzie?’
‘He’s away camping. I’m his wee brother.’
‘What’s that?’ called the thin man.
‘Says he’s MacKenzie’s wee brother,’ said the crew-cut man over his shoulder.
‘Hell of a wee!’ frowned the big man.
‘What age are you kid?’ asked the crew-cut man.
‘Twelve and a half. I’ve been round with my brother before. Three times.’
‘Ach he’ll be okay,’ said the crew-cut man when the big man’s eyes widened.
‘MacKenzie be back next Sunday?’ asked the thin man.
‘Aye,’ replied Tommy. ‘He’s only away for a week. He’s down at Arran with the B.B.’
The thin man nodded to the other two.
‘Aye okay,’ agreed the big man.
‘Right then Wee MacKenzie, pass me your bag!’ The crew-cut man began packing in Post, Express and Mail; as he work
ed he called out to the two youths who collected other newspapers from the shelves which ran along the length of the wall behind them. When the bag was filled and all the newspapers in order the man bumped the bag down twice on the counter and told Tommy to listen. ‘Right son,’ he said, ‘they’re all in order.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Post, Express, Mail. That’s easy to remember eh? Then People, World, Pictorial, Reynolds and Empire. Okay?’
Tommy hesitated and the crew-cut man repeated it. Tommy nodded and he continued: ‘Telegraph, Observer and Times. You got that?’
‘Aye.’
‘Right kid, then off you go, and we close at two remember.’
‘At two?’
‘Aye, two. Remember!’
‘But John’s always home before eleven.’
‘Aye that’s John kid.’ The crew-cut man grinned. ‘Anyhow, take it away.’ He pushed the bag along the counter and Tommy walked after it. One of the youths held the strap out and he ducked his right arm and head through. The youth helped him to manoeuvre it to the edge of the counter and then he looked down at him rather worriedly.
‘Okay son?’ he asked.
Tommy nodded and straining he heaved it off from the counter. The bag of papers plummeted to the floor like a boulder, carrying him with it. Everybody in the hut roared with laughter as he lay there unable to extricate himself. Eventually the thin man cried, ‘Give him a hand!’
Three boys jumped forward. They freed him and hoisted the bag back up onto the counter. Tommy gazed at the men. After a moment the thin man said to the crew-cut man, ‘Well Jimmy, what do you think now?’
‘Ach the kid’ll be okay.’
‘Give him a weer run,’ suggested the big man, ‘that six is a big bastard. Somebody else can do it.’
‘No mister,’ said Tommy, ‘I can do it. I’ve helped my brother before.’
The crew-cut man nodded then smiled. ‘Right Wee MacKenzie. Put the strap over one shoulder just. The left’s the best. Don’t put your head under either, that’s how that happened. It’s a question of balance. Just the one shoulder now. Okay?’
Tommy nodded, pulled the strap on, and the crew-cut man pushed the bag to the edge of the counter. ‘Ready?’
‘Aye.’
‘Right you are kid, take it away.’
Tommy breathed in deeply and stepped away from the counter, bending almost horizontal beneath the weight. He struggled to the door, seeing only the way as far as his feet.
‘Open it!’ shouted the thin man.
As the door banged shut behind him he could hear the big man say: ‘Jesus Christ!’
Tommy reached the top of Garscadden Road and turned into Drumchapel Road by the white church. His chest felt tight under the burden and the strap cut right into his shoulder but he was not staggering so often now. It was getting on for 5.30 a.m. When he looked up he saw the blue bus standing at Dalsetter Terminus. About fifty yards from it he looked again, in time to see the driver climb up into the cabin. Tommy tried to run but his knees banged together. The engine revved. He half trotted in a kind of jerking motion. The bus seemed to roll up the small incline to the junction. Fifteen yards now and Tommy was moving faster on the downhill towards it. An oil-tanker passing caused the bus to stay a moment and Tommy went lunging forwards and grabbed at the pole on the rear platform. The bus turned into the main road and he swung aboard with his right foot on the very edge, managing to drag on his left, but he could not pull up the bag. The weight strained on his shoulder. It was pulling him backwards as the bus gathered speed. Nobody was downstairs. His chest felt tighter and his neck was getting really sore. The strap slipped, it slipped down, catching in the crook of his elbow. He clenched his teeth and hung onto the pole.
Then a cold hand clutched him.
‘PULL!’ screamed the old conductress.
He gasped with the effort. She wrenched him up onto the platform where he stood trembling, the paper-bag slumped between his legs, unable to speak.
‘Bloody wee fool!’ she cried. ‘Get inside before you fall off!’ She helped him and the bag up the step and he collapsed onto the long side-seat with the bag staying on the floor. ‘I don’t know what your mother’s thinking about!’ she said.
He got the money out of his trouser pocket and said politely, ‘Tuppny-half please.’
At the foot of Achamore Road he got down off the platform first and then got the paper-bag strap over his left shoulder again and he dragged it off. He heard the ding ding as the conductress rang the bell for the driver. On the steep climb up to Kilmuir Drive he started by resting every twenty or so yards but by the time he had reached halfway it was every eight to ten yards. Finally he stopped and staggered into the first close and he straightened up and the bag crashed to the concrete floor. He waited a moment but nobody came out to see what had happened. A lot of the papers had shifted inside the bag and he heaved it up and bumped it down a bit, trying to get them settled back, but they did not move. His body felt strange. He began doing a funny sort of walk about the close, as if he was in slow motion. He touched himself on the shoulder, his left arm hanging down. Then he walked to the foot of the stairs and sat on the second bottom one. He got up and picked out a Sunday Post but it stuck halfway it was so tightly wedged; when he tugged, the pages ripped. Eventually he manoeuvered it out and he read the football reports sitting on the step. Then he did the same with the Sunday Mail. A long time later he returned the Reynolds News and stood up, rubbing his ice-cold bottom.
He completed the first close in five minutes then dragged the bag along the pavement to the next. At the faraway flat on the top landing, as he pushed through the rolled up Post, Mail and World, the dog jumped up snapping and yelping and he jammed three fingers in the letter-flap. He sucked them walking downstairs. At the third close he left the newspapers sticking halfway out. At the fourth he dragged the bag on to a point between it and the fifth and he delivered both sets of papers at once. He was down to about two to three minutes a close now.
About three quarters of the way through the delivery he noticed the dairy had opened at the wee block of shops. Some of his customers had paid him at the same time as he was giving in the papers so he had enough for an individual fruit pie and a pint of milk. In the newsagents he bought a packet of five Capstan and a book of matches. After the snack and a smoke he raced around the rest of Kilmuir and finished the first part. He had twelve Sunday Mail extra and was short of eight Sunday Post plus he had different bits of the Observer and the Times.
On the long road home he had to hide up a close at one point when he saw Mrs Johnstone the Sunday school teacher passing by on her way to church. As soon as he got into the house he rushed into the bathroom. He brushed his teeth to get rid of the smell of smoke then he sat down to toast and egg. His father was still in bed. At about this time John would usually have finished the run completely and be in the process of cashing in down at the paper-hut. His mother did not make any comments about it. Shortly after eleven he made the return journey to Kilmuir Drive and began collecting the money. There were also some outstanding sums to collect which John had left notes on. One family owed nine weeks’ money. Tommy had delivered papers to them in error, against his brother’s instructions and they never answered the door when he rang and rang the bell. Other people were not in either. Some of them he managed to get in when he went back but by the end of it all he still had a few to collect. He got a bus back to Dalsetter Terminus. The conductor told him it was quarter past three.
He walked slowly up to the junction at the white church. He had money in three of his four jeans’ pockets. One of the ones at the front had a hole in it. In the other front one he had a pile of pennies and ha’pennies and threepenny bits; all his tips. In the two back pockets he was carrying the sixpences, shillings, two-bob bits and half crowns. He had the 10/- notes folded inside the Capstan packet which he held in his left hand. There were three fags and a dowp left in it.
The three men were alone in the hut. They were sitting up
on the counter smoking and drinking lemonade. The big man stood down. ‘You made it!’ he cried.
Tommy looked at him but did not reply.
‘Right,’ said the crew-cut man coming over with a wooden tray, ‘pour the cash on and we’ll get it counted.’
Both men stacked and quickly double-checked the money while the thin man marked up the pay-in chit for £7/5/4.
‘Much did you say?’ echoed the big man.
‘Seven pound five and four.’
‘Well he’s only got four and a half here!’
‘What?’
‘Four and a half.’
‘Christ sake!’
The crew-cut man shook his head. ‘No more money kid?’
‘No. Just my tips.’
‘Your tips!’
‘His tips,’ said the big man.
The thin man smiled. ‘Get them out,’ he said.
Tommy hesitated but then he lifted out all the change from his right front pocket, dumped it onto the counter. The crew-cut man counted it rapidly. ‘Twenty-two and seven,’ he said, ‘plus it’s a twenty-five bob run.’
The thin man nodded.
‘Seven and nine short,’ said the crew-cut man. He looked at Tommy. ‘You’re seven and nine short kid.’
Tommy frowned.
‘You still got money to collect?’
‘Aye.’
The crew-cut man nodded. ‘Good, you’ll get it through the week then eh?’
‘Aye.’ Tommy gazed across at the big man who had taken the wooden tray of money over to a desk. The thin man was also over there and writing into a large thick book.
‘Okay kid,’ said the crew-cut man, ‘that’s us locking up now . . .’ He lifted a key from a hook on the wall and came to the counter, vaulted across it, landing with a thump nearby the door. He opened the door, ushering Tommy out. ‘MacKenzie’ll be back new week eh?’
Greyhound for Breakfast Page 18
