by Ian Todd
Silence.
“Enter!” The Inspector shouted in response tae the wee chapping knock oan the other side ae the door, three agonising silent minutes efter he’d sat doon facing the braided polisman across fae him.
A troop ae bodies piled through the door and started taking up residence in the vacant seats oan either side ae him.
“Er, hello,” he’d mumbled tae a sergeant, who’d caught his eye as he wis sitting doon, bit who’d then ignored him, as he’d sat cursing himsel fur no getting in there wae the apology before the cavalry appeared oan the scene.
“Right then, youse lot. This is, er, Mr Elvis Presley, wan ae The Corporation’s sani men,” The Inspector said, looking at him, daring him tae contradict that job title ae his.
“Er, Ah wis jist wondering if this might be the time tae issue an apol…” Elvis started tae say, bit wis cut short.
“And Mr Presley here is gonnae tell us aboot how we’re aw gonnae work better thegither…his department and oors, that is. Bit, before we start, Ah think we should introduce oorsels so everywan is left in nae doubt who’s in charge ae whit,” The Inspector announced, nodding tae the sergeant oan his right, surprising Elvis that he clearly wisnae bothered aboot an apology, saving Elvis further humiliation.
“Ma name’s Sergeant James Smith, bit everywan aboot here calls me Skanky, so they dae. Ah’m the desk sergeant up here in Possil,” he said good-humouredly.
Elvis remembered him as being the wan that hid escorted him in tae the inspector’s office the last time he’d darkened the door ae the place and held open the door as he’d dashed back through it a few minutes later. He wis also the wan that hid cracked the filthy joke aboot the sad-looking, blonde WPC, who wis noo sitting opposite, looking glumly at him.
“Ah’m Detective Sergeant Shane Priestly, covering aw the detective work in the patch, like burglary, shoap-breaking, drug dealing, first point ae contact when there’s a rape, stabbing or murder before the specialist teams arrive oan the scene, etc.”
Wan ae the infamous Gruesome Twosome, Elvis telt himsel, failing tae stoap himsel fae shuddering, as he again wondered whit the hell wis gaun oan. His eyes turned tae the other mean-looking sergeant, who he assumed wis the other hauf ae The Gruesomes, the wan he’d clocked skelping the postman o’er the heid wae a baton, splitting it wide open, oot at the front desk.
“Ah’m Sergeant Dave McGovern, the visible face ae the pavement pounders oan the beat up here in Possil. Ma boys ur the public face ae the polis service. It’s up tae us tae make sure people know we’re oot there looking efter them and their property,” the sergeant scowled grimly, adding, “While the bad guys ur left in nae doubt as tae the consequences ae whit will happen tae them if we catch them disgracing themsels or the community.”
“And ma name’s WPC Colette James, and tae be quite honest, Ah’m no too sure why Ah’m here…oan account ae being aff oan the sick these past few weeks,” she added, scowling at The Inspector, as the sergeants gied each other knowing looks.
“Oh, right. Well, ma name’s Elvis Presley, and Ah’ve been the Senior Sanitation Officer fur the north ae the city since being appointed jist o’er four months ago. Ma job is tae ensure that the communities we serve go tae their bed, knowing fine well that they hivnae been poisoned by unscrupulous meat traders or café and restaurant outlets, and that aw other food providers adhere tae the strict hygiene regulations as prescribed by Parliament. In daeing that, aw public services, and the polis in particular, ur required tae join thegither tae ensure there’s nae mair typhoid outbreaks like the Fray Bentos corned beef wan that took place up in Aberdeen, back in 1964. Even though we kin close a restaurant or any premises in the business ae handling food immediately, and subsequently provide evidence oan a wide range ae civil and criminal cases, we don’t hiv the powers ae arrest. However, there is an expectation by Parliament that our colleagues in the polis will engage wae us and assist oor investigations, including the arresting ae those in the act ae breaking health and hygiene regulations, tae save people fae serious health risks.”
“Right, well, noo that everywan knows where everywan else stauns, ye wur saying, Mr Presley?” The Inspector said pleasantly.
“Eh?” Elvis asked, no sure if he’d heard right.
“Ye wur jist aboot tae say…”
“Oh, right, aye, sorry, Ah furgoat. So, as ye’ll aw be well aware, me and that wee dedicated team ae mine ur aw based doon in George Square. Telephone number 3318063. So, if any ae youse ur doon at the Sheriff Court at Lanarkshire Hoose, don’t be shy noo, we don’t bite,” he chortled, trying tae lighten up the scowling competition taking place in front ae him.
The Inspector’s eyes narrowed, at the same time as Skanky Smith’s smile grew wider and Elvis’s brain began tae scramble, wondering whit it wis he’d furgoatten.
“The apology?” The Inspector reminded him, clearly upset by the fact that he’d hid tae remind him, thus making the sincerity ae it questionable.
“Oh, er, right, of course…sir, sorry. Ah’ve been, er, asked, requested, oan behauf ae masel, at the behest ae Cooncillor Allan, tae, er, offer, er, apologise, sincerely, aye, in fact, er, fur any inconvenience Ah might’ve caused by ma presence, er, the last time Ah wis up here, sir,” he stuttered, as the three sergeants sat there looking at him wae puzzled frowns splashed across their coupons, while the WPC and The Inspector sat looking at him as if he’d suddenly sprung a set ae horns oot ae the side ae that greased doon napper ae his.
Well, whitever they thought, he thought he’d done awright, considering the audience. He furtively glanced at the confused expressions displayed in front ae him. It took him aw his inner strength no tae say ‘boo’ tae them, sitting there staring at him, no saying a word.
“Well, Ah’ve heard some shite speeches in ma time, so Ah hiv, bit that pathetic performance takes the bloody biscuit, so it dis…whitever else ye dae in life, son, don’t ever consider staunin up in front ae an audience as a public speaker as wan ae yer options,” The Inspector growled, as the WPC suddenly, withoot warning, stood up and stomped oot ae the room, taking the focus ae attention away fae him and oan tae the departing blonde’s tied-up bob oan the back ae her heid, as the sound ae the chaos emanating fae the front desk charged through the open door and assaulted their ears.
Chapter Nineteen
Sharon couldnae control the trembling in her haun. It wis shaking so badly that she toppled o’er wan ae her two-pence-piece pound columns and she hid tae start again.
“Christ!” she exclaimed again, sitting back in her chair, looking intently at the rows ae stacked coins, as chaos reigned across at the sinks.
“Naw, Betty, ya lying trollop, ye. You said you and Issie wid dae the drying while me and Sally here wid wash, is that no right, Sally, hen?” Ann howled indignantly.
“Damn well right she did,” Sally snorted, staunin back, swirling her dangling dishtowel in her left haun before letting fly wae it, connecting tae the first arse nearest tae her, which wis Betty’s, and sounding like a fire-cracker hid gone aff.
“Ouch! Ya shameless harlot, ye! That wis fucking sore, so it wis,” Betty yelped, as everywan, including Sharon, burst oot laughing.
“Christ, Ah’m sorry, Betty. Ah never realised Ah could dae that,” Sally hooted, daeing a repeat, only this time, cracking if aff ae Ann Jackson’s arse as she wis stretching up tae put a stack a plates oan tae the tap shelf.
“Sally, ya big galooting hussy, ye! That fucking hurt, so it did,” Ann screamed, clutching her arse, as Sally chased them aw, screaming and laughing, roond the table that Sharon wis sitting oan, coonting their tips.
“Unbelievable,” Sharon said tae hersel, as another few wee columns toppled o’er oan tae their sides at the commotion ae them aw running and screeching roond aboot her. “There must be something wrang.”
“Right, Ah’m bloody-well warning ye, Sally…if that bloody thing comes near me, Ah swear tae God, Ah’ll effing-well swing fur ye, so Ah will,” Issie warned her, staunin s
hielding everywan behind her, as they huddled intae the corner wae nae obvious escape route, as Sally, leering, moved slowly towards them, dishtowel at the ready.
“You and whose army?”
“Ah’m warning ye, Sally. Arrggghhh! Ya nasty whore, ye,” Issie howled, as a crack ae thunder resounded aff the walls, and a mass break-oot fae the corner occurred wae everywan suddenly running roond the opposite way than they hid before.
Sharon still sat, adding up the figures wae her pencil and pad.
“Wid youse aw quit it and get o’er here fur a minute!” Sharon shouted.
“It’s her. Tell her tae stoap it,” Ann shouted, laughing.
“Sally, put that dishtowel doon and get yer fanny o’er here…youse as well.”
“So, ur we rolling in it?” Issie asked, as everywan lifted their fags and matches oot ae their pinnies and began tae light up.
“Right, ye’re no gonnae believe this, so youse urnae, bit aye.”
“Aye, whit?”
“We’re bloody-well rolling in it.”
“Aye, bit whit dis that mean exactly, Sharon?” Betty asked, tenderly touching where the dishtowel hid flicked aff ae that arse ae hers, wincing and scowling across at Sally.
“It means, ladies, that we fed a hunner and sixty people in total at Jen Stirling’s wedding reception the night. That meant seventy five pence a heid, which totalled a hunner and eighteen quid, less the forty seven pounds that we paid oot oan buying the grub, which means we’ve made a grand profit ae seventy-wan pounds.
Silence.
“And that’s no aw. Ah’ve jist coonted twenty three pounds in coins fae the hats that wur passed roond later oan in the night, which brings us up tae ninety-four quid clear profit, so it dis.”
“Fucking hell.”
“We’ve made a hunner quid?”
“Ninety-four, Betty.”
“Aye, bit ye know whit Ah mean.”
“Christ, whit ur we gonnae dae wae that then, Sharon?” Ann Jackson asked, as aw eyes turned tae Sharon.
“Ur ye sure, Sharon?” Issie asked doubtfully, as they aw looked at the stacked coins.
“Well, unless ma coonting ability his gaun aw haywire wae aw that humping Ah wis getting last night, then aye,” Sharon replied, a twinkle in her eye, as everywan laughed.
“Christ, the last time Ah hid ma nookie, Ah think it wis the day a bird shat oan Her Majesty’s good hat doon oan George Square. Remember, Issie?” Betty sighed wistfully.
“Noo, why the hell wid Ah remember something as disgusting as that, eh?”
“Because, the same wee fluttering basturt shat oan your heid as well, if ma memory serves me well. That’s why.”
“Oh, aye, Ah remember noo. Ah’d jist taken aff ma rainmate as well,” Issie remembered, as everywan laughed.
“Wis that no the day the QE Wan wis launched?”
“Christ, Ah never knew you’d reached pensionable age, Betty,” Sharon said, striking a match, tae mair laughter.
“Talking ae ships. Remember that wee bow-legged Andy Tyson wan…used tae sell nylons roond the doors back in the Toonheid, two pair fur thruppence, back in the fifties?” Betty asked everywan, lighting up.
“The drunken sailor…the wan that you nearly ended up marrying efter he telt ye his dream wis tae open up a draper’s shoap wan day?”
“If ye must tell the world, aye, that wis him.”
“Ye never telt us aboot that wan, Betty. Ah kin remember the wee skinny runt. Talk the arse aff ae a donkey, so he could. Used tae wobble fae side tae side, pushing an auld pram up and doon McAslin Street. Did he no hiv a club fit in baith feet?” Ann piped up.
“Aye, something tae dae wae his arches,” Betty sniffed.
“Arches…wae a wobble that size? Christ, ye wid’ve thought he wis carrying an arch oan each shoulder, Betty, hen,” Issie said tae cackles.
“Wis it no his funeral that wis in The Evening Times despatches column last week?”
“Aye.”
“Despite managing tae get an express train through they legs ae his every time he clicked his heels, wis he no some sort ae a war hero?”
“That’s whit Ah wis jist aboot tae yell youse. He wis the wan that went doon wae the ship…the HMS Something or other.”
“It wis a bloody tugboat.”
“Anyway, before being rudely interrupted,” Betty scowled, glaring across at Issie, before continuing. “He’d been a coal fire shoveller during the war oan the tugboats. It wis oan the week he wis due tae get discharged that the boat…tug, took a leak doon oan the Anderston Quay when they wur taking oan a load ae coal. It must’ve been aroond aboot forty-six or seven. It wis definitely efter the war.”
“Anyway?”
“The water wis pishing in and everywan wis clambering tae abandon ship. Two boats further alang the quay wis a ship full ae sojers disembarking fae Canada tae the accompaniment ae a brass band playing God Save The King. Aw ae a sudden, a shout went up and everywan ran tae see whit wis happening and here’s Andy Tyson, staunin as straight as a dye, apart fae they legs ae his, taking the King’s salute, as the boat’s sinking. Everywan wis running aboot like madmen seemingly, trying tae find a lifebuoy tae sling doon tae him, bit nowan could find wan. People, including his ain captain, who wis first aff ae the boat, who ended up getting the sack efter the enquiry, wur shouting fur him tae jump o’er board, bit the future door-tae-door nylon salesman refused, even efter aw the band members rushed o’er tae see whit wis happening.”
“He didnae go doon wae the ship, did he?” Ann asked, concerned.
“Wee Andy? Naw. The boat hit the ground a few feet under the water, and there he wis, staunin there, still saluting the King, wae a puzzled frown oan his foreheid.”
“And the moral ae the tale, Betty?” Sharon asked her.
“Moral? There’s nae moral other than tae say that the wee obituary elsewhere in the paper claimed the wee bandy-legged basturt left o’er two hunner grand tae his wife, so he did, efter selling aw his draper’s shoaps when he retired early. The only sad part ae the tale is Ah could’ve been the rich lady ae the manor if Ah hidnae listened tae you, ya jealous cow, ye, Issie!” Betty harrumphed, as everywan laughed, reaching fur their fag packets.
“So, whit happens noo, Sharon? There’s obviously too much tae jist share oot amongst oorsels,” Ann asked, nodding at aw the scattered coinage.
“We kin take a fiver each the noo. That’ll gie us something tae go hame wae. Jen Stirling sent her daughter, Belinda, up ta ma door last night wae money in an envelope, cash-in-haun, so she did. We’ve goat seven confirmed weddings in the pipeline o’er the next three weeks, five ae which ur the tap-priced wans. There’s a fair chance there will be a funeral or two in between. Ah think Ah need tae talk tae somewan.”
“How aboot Harry Bertram, the hairdresser?” Ann suggested.
“Fuck, why did Ah no think ae that? Nice wan, Ann,” Sharon acknowledged.
“If anywan knows how tae manage money, Harry The Bouffant is yer man…or wummin.”
“It’s no the managing ae the money Ah’m worried aboot. Ah mean, ur we no supposed tae dae something when ye become a business…like open a bank account?”
“A bank account?” Issie asked in wonder. “Kin Ah go tae the bank wae ye, Sharon? Ah’ve always wanted tae know whit the inside ae wan looks like, so Ah hiv,” Issie asked shyly, glancing aboot.
“An auld aunty ae mine used tae work in wan as a cleaner, so she did. Says it wis full ae money,” Betty declared, as everywan smiled, looking at each other.
“Issie, ye kin be anywhere ye want tae be, hen…and that goes fur the rest ae youse tae,” Sharon telt them, looking at them aw. “This is oor business. We’re aw in this thegither, so we ur. It’s jist a pity poor Helen isnae here wae us.”
“So, ye’ll talk tae Harry the morra then?”
“First thing.”
“Good. Right, ya bunch ae hairy misfits. Youse ur oan the drying and me and Sally here ur in the sink wae the dishes, so we ur
,” Betty declared, staunin up, as everywan reach o’er and stubbed oot their fags in the ashtray.
Chapter Twenty
“Morning,” he said jovially tae the wee blonde WPC as he slipped intae the passenger seat.
“Where tae?” she asked tersely, starting up the engine and ignoring the greeting.
“How aboot sunny Springburn, tae start aff wae, eh?”
He wondered if it wis the Brut he’d splashed oan earlier.
“Is that Brut?” she demanded tae know, turning tae look at him, her face screwed up in disgust, before glancing in the side mirror oan her side ae the Mark Three Cortina, as the 1.6 litre engine shot the car across the line ae traffic and up in tae John Street.
“Uh-huh. Elvis wears nothing else…it’s his favourite, so it is. If it’s good enough fur the King, then it’s good enough fur a mere mortal like me.”
“Ah think somewan’s pulling yer leg.”
“Ha, ha, very funny. He’s getting a million a week tae play live in Las Vegas, so he is,” Elvis hit her wae, ignoring the cheek, as a gust ae wind blew a swirling cloud ae multi-coloured confetti across the windscreen, and she jist missed a photographer who’d stepped back oot oan tae the street tae take a photo ae the pregnant blushing bride and groom, ootside Martha Street registry office.
He wis fair impressed by the way she sat waiting tae turn right oan tae Cathedral Street at the tap ae the hill, using the clutch and the accelerator pedals, insteid ae the haunbrake. He wanted tae ask her a few questions aboot her technique, as the last time he’d tried that oan his auld Morris eleven hunner, he’d hid tae get his clutch and haunbrake cable replaced. Cost him a bloody fortune, so it hid.
“Car fifty-four, where ur ye?” he said, smiling, as the radio crackled in tae life, telling everywan that a burglary wis in progress across in Lyon Street in the Coocaddens.
