by Pat Young
The man rolled over and pushed himself up onto his knees, ‘No, I’m not. Thanks to your stupid dog.’
‘Oh God. What did he do? Trip you up?’
‘Aye, he did, but then he seemed to think it was a great laugh and started jumping about, trying to lick my face.’
‘I’m so sorry. He’s an idiot. Can I help you?’
When she leaned down and offered her hand, he looked up, saying, ‘I’m okay.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Wait a minute, don’t I know you?’
‘We’re down here a lot. Maybe you’ve seen us before?’
‘Chance, eh?’
The dog cocked its head to one side.
‘Yes, called Chance because we rescued him from the dog home and gave him a second chance. Best thing we ever did. He’s a great dog, just a bit daft.’
As he listened, the man was rubbing his shoulder. Marty hoped he hadn’t broken anything. The last thing she needed right now was someone suing her for damages.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked again.
He nodded. ‘Yeah, fine. Are you sure we haven’t met before?’
Marty wondered if this was some kind of weird chat-up line, but decided it was better than being told she would be hearing from his lawyer. She smiled and said, ‘Do you say that to all the girls whose dogs trip you up?’
‘Are you Winker Watson’s wee sister?’
Marty burst out laughing. ‘Winker? It’s a long time since I heard him called that.’
‘I do know you. Wait, let me get your name.’ He stroked his hand across his jaw then said, ‘Margaret or Martha, something like that, wasn’t it?’
‘Close. It was Martine then, but nobody’s called me that since I went to university, including Winker.’
‘Didn’t you use to have ginger hair?’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’ Marty flicked her hair back off her face. ‘Toned down now, thank God.’
‘Wee Martine McLean.’ He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe it. ‘So what did you change your name to?’
‘Shortened it to Marty, nothing very glamorous, I’m afraid.’
He dusted dirt from the path off his hands and extended the right one towards her, ‘Joe Docherty.’
‘You’re joking. Joseph Docherty? My God, I had such a crush on you when I was fourteen, you wouldn’t believe it. Joseph Docherty. Now there’s a blast from the past. Incredible.’
‘Where’s big Winker these days? What’s he up to?’
‘Jim went to Australia about thirty years ago, got a great job in computers and never came back. We’ve been out a few times to visit. They have a wonderful life. City apartment, beach house. A bit different from this, eh?’ Marty pointed to the half-submerged shopping trolley rusting at the canal edge.
‘Aye, I guess so. And what about you, Marty? Did you go in for computers too?’
‘No, I was in education, for my sins.’
‘Was? You one of the lucky ones who got out early?’
Marty felt her mood shift and tried not to sound snappy. ‘I got out early, but I would never call myself one of the lucky ones.’
He rubbed at his shoulder and winced.
‘I’m so sorry. That stupid dog. I hope nothing’s broken. You should go to A and E and have it checked.’
‘No need, I promise you, it’s fine. I’ve seen enough sporting injuries in my time to know when something needs medical intervention.’
‘Are you a doctor?’
‘I wish. No, just a humble PE teacher.’
‘No need to be humble. I’ve worked with a lot of PE teachers and some of them have the best relationships with kids I’ve ever seen.’
‘You sound as if you know what you’re talking about.’
‘I should do. I was head-teacher of a big comprehensive.’
‘Which one?’
‘Moorcroft.’
‘Wait a minute. Are you Marty Dunlop? I heard you’d walked away.’
‘That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.’ Marty kicked the ground like a teenager, embarrassed to look at him. She dreaded what he’d say next.
‘You were the talk of the steamie.’ He laughed. ‘My granny used to say that, when she’d heard a good bit of gossip.’
Marty tried to smile. She knew the expression but never thought she’d be its subject.
‘Yeah, I bet I was. Did the staffroom gossips have a field day? Like knitters round the guillotine.’
Joe looked like she’d lost him. He shrugged. ‘Don’t have a staffroom, me. Don’t miss it either, I have to say.’
‘So who were you talking to?’
‘Big Sean. I see him for a pint on a Friday night. He was almost in tears when he told me you’d packed it in. His exact words were, “A fine, talented woman, so she is. Now there’s another gifted head-teacher gone. What a feckin waste.” I’m pretty sure that’s how he put it.’
Marty smiled at his Irish accent, and the thought of Big Sean sticking up for her.
‘Aha,’ said Joe Docherty, with a twinkle in his eyes that made her feel fourteen again. ‘That made you smile. Almost. Why so glum? You’ve escaped.’
‘Glum is mild for how I feel most of the time, and, for the record, I didn’t want to “escape”, as you put it. Anyway, you’re a PE teacher?’ Time to steer the conversation away from her. Nobody wants to listen to someone else’s woes.
‘My background’s in PE but I work in Outdoor Education now. With disadvantaged kids, mostly up at the bothy by Loch Etrin.’
‘Oh, I know it. We used to send kids up there to do their Duke of Edinburgh award. That was when Matt Harvey was in charge.’
‘Yeah, I worked with Matt when I first joined the service. Great guy. Sadly, there’s only me left now. And a different kind of kid from the ones you used to send. My lads have all been excluded, permanently. I’m their Last Chance Saloon. Next stop, the jail.’
‘Bankside Bairns?’
‘Yeah, mostly. They’re good lads, Marty. It’s just … living there …’
‘I know.’ And she did.
‘Without blowing my own trumpet, I’m saving these boys. From drugs, serious crime, you name it. Or at least, I’m trying.’
Marty could sense the man’s passion. It was coming off him in waves.
‘But my boss, in his wisdom, has decided to shut the bothy.’
‘Thomas Smeaton?’
‘The very same. I take it you know him?’
‘Do I know him? That bastard’s the reason I no longer run Moorcroft Academy.’
‘Don’t hold back.’
‘Sorry, perhaps he’s a friend of yours.’
Joe snorted. ‘Aye right. Want to tell me what happened?’
‘It’s a long story. Just let’s say Smeaton had better hope he never meets me in a dark alley.’
As if her anger was too much for him, like a fire that gets too hot to be near, Joe stepped away. ‘Sorry, but I need to keep moving before this shoulder stiffens up altogether. It’s been great seeing you again. Tell Winker his old pal said hi, next time you speak to him, will you?’
‘I certainly will. And sorry again about that daft dog of mine.’
‘Don’t give it another thought. These are tough old bones. I’ll be fine.’
‘Bye then,’ she said, regretting her ill-humour. She would have to watch that.
She was walking away, keeping Chance close when she heard her name and turned to see Joe jogging after her.
‘Can I give you this card with my contact details? Sorry it’s so grotty. Been in my pocket for years. Sally always insisted I keep one on me, in case of emergency. If you can manage to read it, will you pass on my e-mail to Winker? Maybe ask him to get in touch sometime?’
***
CHAPTER 11
Marty sipped a gin and tonic while she put the finishing touches to dinner and then, as she lit two candles, she called David to the table. She had been short with him several times this week and was determined to make an effort tonight. She had even put on a bit of
make-up, not that David would ever notice.
‘This looks lovely,’ he said, spotting the candles but not the lipstick. ‘What kind of wine would you like?’
‘There’s a white chilling in the fridge. I’ll have some of that, thanks.’
‘Righty-oh.’
God, she wished he would stop saying that. If it wasn’t ‘righty-oh’ it was ‘okay dokey’. When had these little catchphrases of her husband’s stopped being endearing? When did they start to get on her nerves?
‘How was your day, Darling?’
She looked up, a sarcastic answer on her tongue, but his smile reassured her he was joking. She remembered her plan to be nice to him. ‘Mark rang earlier. He’s got a new girlfriend. She sounds nice.’
‘Will we get to meet this one, do you think?’
‘Who knows? He’ll be home at Christmas. I can’t wait.’
‘You miss him, don’t you, Love?’
Marty bit hard on her lip and nodded.
David filled her glass and gave her an awkward, sideways hug. ‘Did you get a chance to check out that art class I mentioned?’
Marty reminded herself she was supposed to be making an effort tonight and tried to make her voice sound light and carefree. ‘I’m afraid our idiot of a dog put the kibosh on that.’
Chance appeared in the doorway of the utility room, a hopeful look on his face. He had been banished to his bed while they ate.
‘Yes, I’m talking about you. Now, go to bed.’ The dog obeyed, but not before he gave her a baleful stare fit to melt the hardest of hearts. She and David looked at each other and laughed. ‘You did say “dog” and he thinks that’s his middle name. What did he do?’
‘He tripped up a jogger. A serious runner actually.’
‘Oh dear, and was she hurt?’
‘It was a guy, and fortunately he wasn’t badly hurt although it looked for a little while as if he might have damaged his shoulder. But the thing is, he was sprawled on the path, writhing in pain, when I came along, with Chance licking his face.’
A clicking of claws on the laminate made them both look towards the door. Sure enough. There he was. In unison, they both said, ‘Bed!’ and the dog slunk off, managing to look offended.
‘The stupid beast was lucky he didn’t get kicked into the canal,’ said David.
‘Had the man been able to stand, I think he’d have been very tempted. Once we got him on to his feet he seemed okay but he’ll be a bit bruised in the morning.’ This was the point where Marty knew she ought to mention that the jogger had recognised her from thirty years ago. And what he’d told her about Smeaton.
‘So what did you do all day, Darling?’
‘I take it you mean, what did I do all day, apart from cleaning your house, washing your clothes, fetching the weekend’s food and cooking you this delicious meal?’ At least he had the good grace to look sheepish. ‘I sat with my feet up, what do you think I did?’
‘Sorry, sorry.’ He leaned across the table and took her hand. ‘All I want is for you to be happy, Marty.’
‘How can I be happy when I’ve been robbed of a job I adored? I’ve been put out to pasture long before my sell-by date.’
‘A few mixed metaphors in there.’
Marty gave him a warning look over the rim of her glass and took a mouthful of wine so enormous it choked her.
David was out of his chair in an instant, saying, ‘Careful!’ and slapping her on the back.
‘I’m okay. Sit down,’ she spluttered, reaching for her water glass.
‘Okay dokey. It’s just, I don’t understand why you’re so miserable.’
Why wouldn’t he leave it? Marty closed her eyes and hoped he would read her body language and take a hint.
‘Half the teachers in the country would bite your hand off if you offered them a chance to retire early on full pension.’
‘Yes, but I’m not one of them. I lived for my job, for that school, for those kids and those teachers. I was making a difference to lots of lives and then I was flung on the scrap-heap. And you want me to be happy solving shitty Sudokus or painting pathetic watercolours?’
David’s look reminded her how he felt about her swearing. ‘You really need to move on, Marty. It was your choice to resign and I know sometimes you regret that, but all this pent-up anger can’t be good for you.’
‘What do you suggest I do about it, David? Since you seem to be such an expert.’
David, to his credit, ignored her sarcasm. ‘Well, I’ve got a suggestion. You know how they say laughter is the best medicine?’
‘Who says?’
David smiled briefly and ploughed on. ‘I was telling the chaps at golf that you’re at a bit of a loose end.’
‘A bit of a loose end?’
‘You remember Peter Blenheim, don’t you? No? Well, his wife is a social worker over at Bankside, you know, that rough housing estate with all the terrible drug problems?’
‘I know where Bankside is, thanks, David.’
‘Anyway, his wife says they’re looking for volunteers to put on a community pantomime. It’s called Itchybella. Like Cinderella, get it?’ He chuckled. ‘That would be right up your street. Tell you what, I’ll ask him to get his wife to pass on the organiser’s number.’
As if he’d found the solution she’d been searching for all this time, David drained his wine and pushed his chair back. The scraping noise set her teeth on edge. Slapping his hands on his thighs, he declared, ‘Righty-oh. Shall we take a coffee through to the lounge? There’s a good documentary about Alaska at half-nine.’
She lifted her wine glass from the table and stood. ‘Tempting though that sounds, David, I’ll pass. I’ve had enough of this day. I’m going to bed.’
In the doorway she stopped. ‘By the way,’ she said, ‘I’m planning to do something about my pent-up anger. But it won’t be taking part in any bloody panto.’
***
CHAPTER 12
Half-way to Bankside Joe had to switch on the minibus headlights. The rain wasn’t so much falling as hanging in the air. You couldn’t see it or touch it, but it would have you soaked in no time. The sky was a solid grey that showed no promise of brightening. Some days, dawn and dusk looked the same and it hardly got light in between. Joe tried to remember what sunshine looked like and how it felt to be warm. He hated winter days like this. As if on cue Radio Two played the Boomtown Rats and Joe found himself singing along. When he reached the line about shooting the whole day down he felt for the first time that he understood the sentiments behind the song.
The boys were waiting in the vandalised bus shelter by the community centre. The sight of them huddling there made Joe glad he’d called the newspaper. People deserved to know what was going on. These boys were good lads at heart. Okay, so they’d been expelled from mainstream school, but school wasn’t for everybody. The only thing that could motivate them to get up in the morning was the bothy and Smeaton was determined to take that away. The young reporter Joe had spoken to seemed keen to run the story. Investigative journalism was her ‘thing’, she said. Joe had smiled at her enthusiasm as he fed her all the details.
Slug was first to notice the minibus but last to make a move. He raised his hand to wave to Joe and then, as if that signal had used up all his energy, seemed disinclined to leave the bus shelter.
The other boys piled into the van while Dykesy held the door. ‘M’oan Slug,’ he said, ‘you comin?’
‘Naw.’
‘How no?’
‘Jist no feelin like it.’ He walked away in the direction of the shopping precinct.
‘Slug’s no comin this mornin, Big Man.’
‘What’s wrong? He’s usually dead keen on the bothy.’
‘He had a bad pie last night. Or half a dozen,’ said Liam, chuckling.
‘Shut it, Liam. Somethin’s happened to his big brother.’
‘Aw sorry, Dykesy. Ah never heard.’
‘His unit got ambushed on night patrol. One guy got k
illed. Nae news about Slug’s brother yet, but ah think he’s badly hurt.’
‘Aw man, that’s fuckin terrible. Sorry for swearing, Mr Docherty.’
‘No, you’re right, it is terrible. Poor guy, and poor old Slug.’
‘Ye’ll never get me in nae army,’ said Dangermoose.
‘They’d never take you anyway, Danger, ye’re far too wee. You up for it, Liam?’
‘Soon as ah’m old enough, ah’m off. So’s TJ. Have ye no seen the adverts on the telly, ye can get a great life in the army.’
‘Ye can get yer baws shot off as well, man,’ said Dykesy.
‘No if ye’re careful. Anyway, TJ and me are plannin to look out for each other. But ah’m tellin ye, ah’m leavin Bankside.’
‘Did you ever get ambushed when you were in the army, Sur?’
Joe pretended he hadn’t heard the question. ‘Where is TJ this morning? He’s never late.’
‘He cannae come. He’s got nothin to put on his feet. His ma’s boyfriend sold his new trainers to get money for drugs.’
Joe shook his head. This was a first, an all-time low. A boy being forced to miss a session because he had no shoes to his name?
‘Give him a phone, please, Dykesy? Tell him we’ll go and pick him up. My wellies should be in the back there. He can wear them till he picks up his hiking boots at the bothy.’
TJ’s street was one of rougher addresses in the town. Many of the houses were vacant, their windows protected by metal shutters. The sparse open space between blocks was littered with everything from supermarket trolleys to burnt-out cars. It reminded Joe of news footage he’d seen of cities under siege. He imagined there must be folk here who were scared to leave their houses. A few windows had blinds or pretty curtains and some gardens showed that the occupiers had pride in their homes. Not everyone here was a drug addict or dealer, but they were the ones that got the place a bad name.
‘There’s TJ, Sur. Aw no, whit’s he got on his feet?’
‘It looks like his granda’s slippers.’ The boys burst out laughing and poor TJ barely had time to get in the van before they started winding him up.
