by Ian Todd
“Next!” Calypso bawled in that West Indian accent ae his.
“Whit did he get?” Elvis asked Jack, blinking, as the wife beater’s missus, wae the white dressing patch oan tap ae her heid, ran forward intae the erms ae that man ae hers.
“Fifteen quid fine,” he replied, as the happy couple sailed past tae the double doors behind them jist as Joshua Crankie arrived, oot ae nowhere, and grabbed a seat at the briefs’ table.
“So, who have we got here then, Mr Fish?”
Aw eyes in the room zoomed in oan the tall, unkempt blind beggar, who’d been led, under escort, clutching his white cane, through the custody door, his chipped tin cup hinging fae a piece ae string tied roond his waist oan the ootside ae his auld, filthy Gabardine coat.
“This, your honour, is none other than the notorious William Campbell, of pickpocket notoriety fame.”
“Objection, your honour. My disabled client has no previous criminal convictions, other than being accused of running off with a loaf of bread when he was ten years old, for which his parents were fined two shillings. I think the procurator fiscal has been watching too much Perry Mason TV shows, when he should have been getting out and about more,” Joshua Crankie said, as some in the public bench sniggered and chortled.
“Keep to the point, Mr Fish,” The JP admonished.
“Fifty-four year old, William Campbell, commonly known as Blind Bill is charg…”
“Objection, your honour. I’ve known Mr Campbell for ten years and have never heard him being called that, apart from in a recent scurrilous newspaper article that is being challenged through the courts,” The Brief objected.
“Will you please get to the point, Mr Fish,” Calypso growled, glaring at the procurator fiscal.
“Mr Campbell has been charged with vagrancy, your honour, after being arrested for begging in the street.”
“How does your client plead, Mr Crankie?”
“Not guilty.”
“When confronted and asked to provide a home address by two police sergeants at the side entrance to Queen Street Station, Blind Bi…er, William Campbell, claimed he had no fix abode, your honour,” The Procurator Fiscal claimed, smirking across at Crankie.
“Can I request that the procurator names the two sergeants?” The Brief demanded.
“I don’t see why that has anything to do wit…”
“Your honour?” The Brief asked, looking towards the bench. “Whilst I accept that the two sergeants may be too busy to attend the court on such a minor charge, in the interests of justice, surely my client is entitled to confront his accusers?”
“The names, Mr Fish?”
“Er, Sergeants McGovern and Priestly, your honour.”
“Now, why would two police sergeants, based up in Possilpark, concern themselves with my client going about his lawful business down in the city centre?” The Brief wondered oot loudly.
“Police within the city are not bound by geographic boundaries, despite what people might think, your honour,” The Procurator Fiscal reminded Calypso.
“What’s your point, Mr Crankie?”
“My point is that since a scurrilous article recently appeared in The Evening Citizen, Glasgow Corporation Housing Department has initiated an eviction order through this very court. In the deposition provided in support of the eviction order, the Corporation’s legal officers have provided a copy of a tenancy agreement dating back to January 1965, when my client signed for a set of keys for a flat at number three Rooney Street, Maryhill, Glasgow. How the police sergeants can claim that my client is of no fixed abode is a total mystery to me, your honour, and I look forward to asking that very question to them in person.”
“Case dismissed,” Calypso announced.
“But…” The Procurator stuttered.
Blind Bill Campbell shook hauns wae his brief efter being led oot ae the dock, as Elvis and Jack Hawks turned and looked at wan another.
Chapter Fourteen
“The Hungry Eye!” Issie declared, looking aboot defiantly, before everywan hid sat doon.
Sharon smiled, looking across at Ann.
“That’s five fags ye owe me, Jackson,” Sharon reminded her.
The baith ae them hid a bet between them that it wid be Issie that declared first.
“The Hungry Eye?” Betty scoffed, wearing her best ‘Hiv Ah jist heard right?’ expression oan that coupon ae hers, as everywan laughed.
“Oh, trust you, Betty, ya jealous cow, ye. There’s always wan,” Issie harrumphed, sitting back oan her chair, folding they erms ae hers across her chest as everywan lit up a fag.
“Look, Ah’m sorry, Issie, bit Ah’m sitting here wae a vision ae aw these wee, beady, hungry eyes looking in the through the windae ae the hall at everywan getting tore right intae aw oor amazing grub, so Ah am.”
“Right, well, let’s hear your beezer then…and it better be good efter that wee stage performance.”
“Right, before Ah spit it oot, ye’ve goat tae open yer minds and imagination…at least, the wans that hiv goat any, that is,” Betty warned them, scowling across at Issie, before focussing oan everywan else roond the table.
“Oh God, here we go…death by bloody boredom,” Ann growled, tae mair laughter.
“So, is that yours, Ann? Death By Boredom…whit’s that goat tae dae wae grub, then?” Sharon chided her, winking at the others.
“It’s bloody better than Hungry Eyes, so it is.”
“Why no The Squinty Eye then? That sounds a lot better than hivving a poor wee trembling, hungry wean ogling at ye through the manky windae pane.”
“Hoi, wid ye aw bloody-well excuse me? Ah wis in full flight here, so Ah wis,” Betty glared at them. “Right, where wis Ah? Oh, aye. Ah remember noo. Ah wis attempting tae get thickos tae find some ae that imagination that the rest ae us take fur granted, before Ah declared, so Ah wis,” she growled, as everywan cackled amongst themsels again. “Naw, seriously, it won’t work if youse cannae use yer imagination.”
“Hurry up!”
“Right, here goes,” Betty warned them, clearing her throat. “Harmony Heaven…if it’s a wedding or…Heaven Harmony if it’s a funeral, or whichever the paying customers prefer,” Betty announced, lighted fag stalled in mid-air, awaiting the applause and adulation.
Silence.
“Right, youse basturts ur at it, so youse ur,” Betty scowled, taking a deep drag, as everywan burst oot laughing. “Dae ye no think that it’s goat a certain ring tae it then?” Betty asked hopefully.
“Aye, followed by a wee nod tae the hangman tae pull the lever ae the trap-door,” Issie said drily, as everywan buckled up.
“See youse, ya basturts!” Betty screeched through her laughter.
“Oh my God, Ah think Ah’ve jist went and pished they sodden knickers ae mine, so Ah hiv,” Soiled Sally wept, wiping her eyes wae the bottom ae her pinny. “Right, o’er tae yersel, Ann…beat that classic, if ye kin.”
“Ah wis thinking mair alang the same lines ae Issie’s theme, so Ah wis. Like, how aboot The Exploding Taste Bud Company?”
“Wae a free tin ae Alka-Seltzer tossed in fur anywan o’er the age ninety who cannae tap dance,” Betty drawled, before anywan could react.
“Youse ur bloody killing me, so youse ur,” Sharon laughed.
“Ah happen tae think that it shouts oot, er, sophistication, so it dis…like, go anywhere, anytime,” Ann hit back wae.
“Aye, that wid certainly go doon well at the funerals, especially fur the wans that drapped doon deid in the street where they stood, bit whit aboot the weddings?” Issie asked, setting everywan aff again.
“Whit advert is that fae again?”
“Cinzano ala Bianco,” Ann admitted, putting oan whit she thought wis a sophisticated Sophia Loren, Atalian accent, as everywan started singing the words and humming the tune. “Did youse aw know that ye could only see that advert in the pictures and no oan the telly?” Ann asked them.
“Fucking hell, Ah knew Ah shouldnae hiv left scho
ol at fourteen. Christ, Ah could’ve turned oot jist like you if only Ah’d stayed oan another year, Ann,” Betty said. “Right, oan ye go, Sally, hen. Spit it oot…and Ah don’t mean literally.”
“Fresh Bouquet.”
“Next!” Ann shouted tae mair laughter.
“Bouquets…as in flowers, Sally?” Sharon asked.
“Er, aye, Ah think so.”
“Ye think so?”
“Aye, it jist jumped in tae ma heid and widnae leave.”
“That bouquet widnae be dandelions by any chance, wid it, Sally?” Betty asked her.
“Dandelions?”
“Aye, commonly known in the toon as Pish The Beds.”
“Nah, fur some reason, Ah couldnae get the whiff ae White Ivory Flake soap powder oot ae ma heid, so Ah couldnae.”
“Ah hope none ae youse think these ur gaun tae a vote,” Sharon warned them.
“Well, that aw depends oan whit you’ve managed tae come up wae noo, disn’t it, Sharon?” Ann reminded her.
“Aye, c’mone, Sharon. This better be good.”
“Ach…”
“Never you mind aw that ‘ach’ shite. We’ll be the judge ae that, won’t we girls?” Issie asked tae nods fae through the blue haze.
“The Springburn Larder.”
Silence.
“Well, at least youse didnae laugh or slag me aff.”
“Aye, well, don’t haud yer breath jist yet, hen,” Betty warned her.
“The Springburn Larder…it’s goat that certain kind ae home-made-piece-and-cheese ring tae it. Y’know, like that Hovis advert.”
“Aye, bit ye widnae be thanked fur it nooadays.”
“Whit?” Betty wanted tae know, passing across her penny book ae matches tae Issie.
“Serving broon breid up tae people, so ye won’t,” Soiled Sally said, gieing her hairy right ermpit a good scratch wae the wheel ae her gas lighter.
“Whit’s wrang wae The Toonheid Larder then?” Issie wanted tae know.”
“Because it’s aw bloody-well knocked doon, that’s why.”
“So?”
“So we’ve aw moved oan and ur living happily ever efter up here in sunny Springburn, where aw us wummin ur peachy personified and the men ur still, well-fed, lazy basturts, so they ur.”
“Aye, Ah suppose.”
“So, whit dae youse think then?” Soiled Sally turned and asked everywan.
“Well, if the only other choices ur a poor wee beady-eyed wean peering through a manky windae wae a bouquet ae Pish-The-Beds in wan haun trying tae sing in harmony wae a bottle ae Martini in the other, then Ah suppose The Springburn Larder it is,” Betty sighed, as everywan reached fur a celebratory tipped fag fae the packets in front ae them.
“And oan that happy note, we’ve goat three weddings, two ae which ur the seventy-five pence per heid expensive wans and another funeral this Wednesday at the standard funeral price ae twenty five, so we hiv,” Sharon announced tae the astonished smiles roond the table.
Chapter Fifteen
Collette stared intently at her neck in the mirror fur the umpteenth time. She reached up and stretched her heid tae the side, as if she wis lifting something doon aff ae a shelf, keeping they eyes ae hers oan her shirt collar. Satisfied that she couldnae detect the healing scars, she went through tae her wee scullery and picked up the mug ae tea and carried it through tae the living room, ignoring her hauf finished resignation letter sitting oan the coffee table. She sat oan the edge ae the settee, staring intae space as she took a sip. Her embarrassment at whit she’d done hid started tae kick in big-style noo. She wondered how many people in the station knew?”
“Look, nowan’s interested in whit’s gaun oan wae anywan else up there, let alone whit you’ve been up tae. Christ, people probably hivnae even noticed that ye’re no even there,” he’d soothed, trying tae be supportive.
The Inspector hid probably goat it right first time. Who the hell wid notice if somewan like her jist disappeared, she thought, feeling sorry fur hersel, as Sandy Denny’s wistful voice filled her living room fae the radiogram in the living room doonstairs, underneath her feet, asking ‘Who Knows Where The Time Goes’ while aw the birds wur leaving across the evening sky before the winter set in.
“That’s oor song, so it is,” she said gently tae Mr Hopkins, her ginger tom, who’d arrived oan the scene, rubbing his body against her leg, in anticipation ae getting that lug ae his scratched before she disappeared oot the door. She opened her shoulder bag, which wis sitting oan the coffee table, tae make sure she hid everything. It widnae hiv been the first time she’d locked hersel oot ae the flat. She lifted oot her keys, catching the wee bit ae paper that hid been stuck tae the side ae wan ae them, before it landed oan the cat’s heid. She looked doon at it. She tried tae remember whit the telephone number written oan the paper wis, and then she remembered. The casualty nurse hid gied her it a few days efter she’d been admitted tae The Royal. At the reminder, she automatically put her fingers up tae jist under her right ear, gently tracing the still tender rope-burn that ran doon under her shirt collar wae the tips ae her fingers.
“Will ye put in a complaint?”
“Eh?”
“Against the inspector?”
“Ye clearly don’t know much aboot the inner workings ae Glesga polis, Senga. Even if Ah did, nothing wid happen. It’s like the Mafia doon in Central, so it is.”
“Look, hen, ye’ll probably think that it’s none ae ma business, bit there ur people, good people, who kin help support ye through this,” the nurse hid advised. “Ye don’t hiv tae go through this oan yer lonesome, so ye don’t.”
“Ye don’t understaun.”
“Aye, well, that’s as maybe.”
“It’s too complicated.”
“Oh, Ah don’t doubt that fur wan minute,” Senga Jackson hid said soothingly, efter Collette hid buried her heid intae the nurse’s shoulder, bubbling again.
“Ah’m sorry,” she’d sniffed, gratefully accepting the tissue and blowing her nose.
“Ah’ve been hivving an affair…wae ma inspector. He’s jist telt me he loves me, bit that there’s an awful lot gaun oan in his life. Ah know fine well that he’s only saying that. Why else wid he want tae pass me oan tae a pal ae his…another inspector, who’s based oot in Yoker?”
“Ah thought aw youse polis get shifted aboot? Christ, hauf the time Ah cannae keep up wae the different faces that troop in tae casualty wae injured prisoners.”
“Aye…and this hisnae been the first time either.”
“Ah’m sorry?”
“Ah never cottoned oan tae it…until he telt me that Ah wis tae be shifted, that is. It dawned oan me whit wis happening...whit wis happening again. His pal…another married inspector. He’s always oan the blower tae him. His name’s Jings Johnston.”
“Collette, Ah’m no quite sure whit it is ye’re saying?”
“It must’ve been aboot a year or so efter me and another WPC wur picked tae work in the street sex squad oot ae Central. It aw started oot as a bit ae a joke. A key part ae oor job wis tae get oorsels decked oot, up tae the nines, looking really tarty. In fact, us lassies used tae try and outdo each other oan who could look the sluttiest. Aw the guys in the station wur aw o’er us efter that, fae the pavement pounders tae the sergeants and inspectors, and started asking us oot oan dates. The married wans wur the worst offenders, aw trying tae grope oor arses oan the way past them tae start oor shift. At first it wis funny and then efter a while, it started tae become a right pain in the arse…the sleaziness and aw that. The fact that maist ae them wur married didnae put them aff. Oot oan the street, up aroond the lanes ae Blythswood Square, it wis a different story aw thegither. Up there, ye expected that kind ae behaviour, so ye did. Efter aw, we wur oot there as live bait, tae attract aw the ‘Johns’ who’d be queuing up wae their tongues hinging oot tae get aff wae us…at a price, of course.”
