So it rains and I see your dripping pains, your wish to fit in here, get dry and show wit. If you want to, come in and swank but here's the twist from me to thank - I'm the one that does the twisting, born to do it, for years been crushing the likes of you who, smart as you are, will never go very far. You misguided fool, what rises in the pool?
All the same, plainly, it's not easy rising to where I am and you need to watch you do not get too far up or the drop's one hell of a way down. Apes, such as I, climbed trees while you scratched for nuts around the scrub. Look up if you want for I hardly care what you might see. I know you do not have the where-for-all to wear them. A cautionary tale to be going along with:
Along with my chums, we accepted the foreign-exchange teacher under our wing. A tasty tottie, not that much older than ourselves, we helped her out as to the local oinky-way of stringing words together. Such neds, we informed her, referred to a car as a minge. Pertaining to her neat-petite drive-around, I said it was an engine with a certain je ne sais quoi, an attempt to speak her language that whirled her head, relaxed comfort in her shoulders so I could ask - how does it perform, how do you freshen the Camembert smell and how many men have managed to fit in said voiture at any one time? She answered all questions candidly - goes very well, how you say le refra?chissant d'air? Oh-oui, pardonnez-moi (she blushed at her own foolishness) and at one time squeezed in? Ha-la to go Londres - c'est cinq pas comprenant me. Naturally mes petits innocents we put her right and told her exactly what minges are, for Mademoiselle Hereforus may proffer oinks contretemps in her Renault Cleo but if she is too soon made glad, too easily impressed by that, then she is but my screen grab. Little petite here-and-ours was like all things we hang to gather dust and wonder why she got all musty. For our class is a very small class, specialised in exchanging quids for quips, witty take-offs so flash as slink-in-before-you-know-it. Aptly named Ing?nue found her legs crossing for fear lace dropping in front of sixth form though not to me applying. She blushed the tri-colour knowing that, despite le r?volution, she allowed a rise to charm her. I recall her tight-lipped glance at the door. The heart-gasp at my feet dug in the footwell.
Will't please you sit and look at her, on this my smart phone? Democracy, autoracy or oligarchy, we are rapacious. Vote, rebel, be mendacious but be impressed. Seen enough? Shall I text you more, it only needs a finger pressed?
In Market Street, in Pret A Monger, with winter wearing weary on and sweet Greselle Tweeting as I read ... Why there you ask? Ask you can, we were there not seeing you but we Tweeted and you followed.
'Yah, Marcus,' a hand flopped an iPhone before me, 'but should we be Eurosceptic, mean-say - this likes - Farage - one of us?'
And us, who is us? The salient question came from Greselle - chiffon print dress, an Alice, rose-tinctured nose-up caused by a hand constantly volumnising weight into her hair. Also beside to me, Imogene, pure to her name, also Roedean, resembles Amy Winehouse with sophistication sheened right up her snake-entwining legs. Then Grant, lets just say - jaded eyes. In my pocket, a lighter, a tooth pick which, still pointed, I snapped and flicked to him. He looked puzzled why.
'Marcus?' Greselle pined, swinging a Sophia Webster my direction returning me online. I rubbed my shin as if hurt. 'Yah, Heel ... Answer the question.'
Asked a question, hear the question as wanted-heard or answer with a question. I prevaricated.
'Well, yes and no.'
'Oh, you no-yes. Say-how-is,' a crossed-leg swung sulky. 'Brute - mhmm?'
'No as in white-trash vote for Trump, but yes as in bon viveur doing very well thank you, any side of whatever pond.'
'Hmm? So-yah-so?' Greselle finger-flicked further and subject changed. 'Oh-yah, peng-what - anyone for Davos this Easter?' Lapping her mobile sorry-sad, she leaned over looking the part but verbalisation is so fork-tongue. 'Sorry, ask now - you ski, Grant?'
'Not so you'd notice,' he told her over a latte gulp like that might help.
Grant, your basic polyethylene plastic sort, would soon get scratched. Greselle would stack him somewhere and slushing down Glen Shee would never be the piste she opened up for him. No doubt he sat thinking - knocked in there when asked, what the chance of further lapping in Switzerland? Darling prosaic-thinker he who should be reading Middle Ages Poetry not Social Anthropology, bolded it out with - could learn, you giving lessons?
One to put on her blog as exuberant crowd funder with alternative ways but nine in ten a flop. Greselle gleamed delighted as nails tinkled drum-tap heartbreaks on her Pret A Monger Star. She uttered a jerky suck-up into her lungs as if caffeine failed in purpose. Hand came down from mouth, swiped phone left, shoe got the cursory glance and finally came the grin - Sophia Webster slipped on and off smoothly enough.
'How sweet, ' said like Alice to dormouse. Greselle then confused the situation by reaching over with a there-there as if Grant was Timmy, mingling her sweet perfume
balsamic over his bitter coffee aromas; a nose like a bud-ache tasted, both should recall ... someway. 'Yah, utterly divine, but, mhmm, Grant-darlingzz - not the way Davos works.'
Her tone, raised as if question to the simple, clouded his brow. Jowls drew curtains with enough chink left for us to understand his latte stirring. However, yoink bright enough to be at St Andrew's, played sport and thought to square-jaw this game he felt good for, as proved five times just last night. He asked just how Davos worked and wearily her head tilted to paint a pointless line across the ceiling. Up went shoulders then down sighed a pity for his effort.
'I once met Claridge at a shoot,' I said.
This might seem a random thing to have said but it was not. It was as pointed as the toothpick. Greselle's rueful grin concurred. Imogene, studying Greselle's MacBook, comprehended exactly. All the same, Imogene froze me a look as if I had offered her family story to some Who Do You Think Your Are? researcher. That look a wall to me.
'I liked him. Timely death, what?' I shrugged closing my book.
Imogene smiled and I saw her, not long from then, as posh-neat intelligentsia, bespoke clothing allowance, corresponding on financial matters for Sky News or Channel 4. Her racial slant assist with that squint pierce for the answer. A block to me.
'Opportune I say, renting yuk-things, tongues do wag,' she explained.
Her eyes stayed narrowed returning to the screen where the nose-tip tracked the text. Grant's eyes dried looking round for the reason his mobile twitched but we gave it no reason to vibrate. We knew he was Wi-Fi, read it, knew all but what he really ached to learn was how we felt about it. He drew a blank for we were at one end of the table and he down there.
'This much say - thought the old paedo learnt this in Nazi Germany - mezuzah you can screw off but screw down your deviancy or get noticed.' Dark hair swished by me on the uplift of her nose that left Grant once more finding a need to stir coffee. 'Sure-yah, you'd say he was only a child then but just how his wife put up with him?'
'Well ...' My eyes went small. My voice became rich-sweet as Rosh Hashnana honey cake to salve solace and shore her up. 'She had Martha.'
Grant's mobile revolved and she saw it for what it is. What it always was in the hands as such as he, so her head fell to my shoulder and her hand ran my hair.
'Sure-yah, time to go, tutorial, ten,' Imogene said kissing my cheek. She snapped the Mac lid shut and slid it back with a suggestion just for Greselle. 'Yep, Gress, repetition - boring-yawn-yah - junk okay?'
'Both parts?'
'Oh-pos-yah - show how later, mhmm?' Imogene flashed her smile untwisting lips of doubt. Then to everyone. 'Drinks, six, okay-yah?
Okay, ultra-yah and surprising yes but that lacrosse-cocktail set were up to fit a fix for those like Grant who, at that time, had closed his eyes as Immy aired a muah passed his ear. Surely my eyes were open as he woke to smiles all round with him main-casting his game as if on a throne. Oh, such a Davos Seaworth him to think fingers grow again or to be caught thinking that night Greselle would turn Melisandre-kinky for him. Not
the first to turn and ask but, however, he stooped on getting up. And me? I never stoop.
Six-thirty, outside the Central chavving roll-ups with pints of hand-pull like we are unimpeachable but February was cold for MaxMara, tweed or cotton and so we stubbed litter for the pavement frieze then proceeded inside. Grant did not smoke so he was dregs down a pint finding it his turn to buy. Girls asked for gin and tonics and when he returned Geselle asked what daddy did?
'Looking for work just now.' He was evasive as if expected to loose virginity. Her smile won over his reticence, pants-down. 'He was a fitter for Tullis in Glenrothes - it's closing - er - closed.'
He pronounced it as Glenrotheees. Like, yah, so primitively naive. Therefore, he was someone's son reading how to be a lover and the shock emitted from Griselle's throat was unbound to any fitter's ethics. However, it hurt the nouveau-tom and so she purred against him. She apologised this forgive-me straight from Jane, and told him she felt furry-fuzzy, only straight-face did not fall for that with the little witnessed breezing over her lips. Squiffy, she rephrased more accurately, smoothing her hip to his. Drive her home and she would squiggy the front seat; squidge it up incase first home came quicker than expected. Herodias with the wicked smile, she had the whole bar on her platter listening as mouths lipped drinks as so much rancour swallowed and although it was she caught him, gripping pint with knees together, at first Grant was not for driving and neither should she.
'Yeah-yah-so, haven't planned to, have I?' She mewed his face as if she had no claws. 'Oh, come on, Grant, I know you want to drive my Mini Cooper, you've asked me often enough.' Greselle then explained it graphically on him, pencilling round the outline as I nodded like he should know what Google could turn up.
'Okay,' he muttered pushing her hand away from where looks lolled.
'There now, you're with us now, what's your worry, hmm?'
Imogene rubbed his shoulders hunching over a pint. It did not help much and he continued sipping like the taste was apple-sourings from the barrel bottom but his breath smelt just as ours - tainted sexual-arousal.
We finished our drinks and Grant went round to the Scores with Greselle to fetch the car, which left time for Imogene and I to visit Luvian's for two sauvy-blancs and two sauv-cabs. Time still to make a phone call, as one could not rely on plebs.
'Marcus!'
Hand at her breastplate mortified but then fingers laddered my lapel as if Harris lapped her toes. My Hebridian memory of dunes and dimples of a smile which, escaping me at that time, in that moment glowed its gloaming.
Wheel-spun at the fountain and in the Mini eyes whirled with a question obviously asked before getting there. Grant asked again - so, this squiffy? Greselle answered by stretching legs into the footwell. Nothing explicit, more suggestive, but enough for a hasty gear-change and we heard the low chunter of an engine strain. Rain splattered the screen and he fumbled for wipers. Greselle backed the door with a mouth-huh wondering where the attention had gone.
'Did Greselle tell you how it works in Davos?' I asked. We were turning round by the cathedral having got there via a one-way street while Greselle straightening out her dress. 'Rent a chalet there and its full of Greselles and Imogenes cooking up and dusting down and getting their skiing free, know what I mean, pillock?'
'Oh-yah, fuck you too Marcus, wait and see.' Greselle rolled out all laugh like gold and causing Grant to swerve, Imogene to arm-hug me like the sure furlong ticket-winner but left me wondering why the road so fucking quiet. Next thing blue light and a short-sharp squeal relaxed me as swapping eyes with Imogene, we then find Greselle had joined us in seventh heaven. Knock on the window with reason to suspect. We knew he had the puff to blow.
They took him away and as none of us could safely drive this side of the border, Imogene phoned for a taxi. She smiled her request over the mobile with a breath to bring it quickly. Eyes slanted but glee glistened on watching Greselle curl round me. Breath intoxicating as Solome's promise, Gress's kiss stung my throat and caught there as an addiction sought. Second time would never be the same not that it would stop any of us trying. I felt certain pride swell, bound to happen, and Greselle was aware. I told her it was her distraction for the taxi and she smiled the open way her mother has, finger-walked my chest in a way also reminiscent and asked:
'So, Davos, yah? Easter - your place Marcus?'
The Immie coiled against me with a quick bite at my ear and fixed pouty lips upon the same enquiry. To shelter them or just because I could or because I rubbed my ear, I winged their shoulders. Mummy's perfume on Immie, the bane of which, the imprint of the moment is, as was more red than green on Gress's dress.
'Sorry? Davos?' I was suave in reassuring someone. 'Daddy's place really, I'd need to ask who's coming.' Their youthful eyes appealed for hope as lips played smiles for positioning. 'Let's just say your place tonight girls - yes?' I onlined the niggle.
There now, I warned you that nothing changes with the likes of I.
Mind you, at the time, Imogene took a Selfie - naughty capers in South Castle Street. And true, pernicious was the harshness in Greselle's rummage of advantage taken later. YouTube it. You can't tell who's who. Me you ask? Be shocked at that half-flush that dies along the throat, the one whose head she cuts off.
THE STRIKER
Scotfree2 Tales From Scotland Page 7