Poking Seaweed with a Stick and Running Away from the Smell

by Alison Whitelock

  ‘Rough or no’ da, it’s the truth. Like it or lump it. So, how’s your car runnin’ anyway?’

  ‘Like a sweetie—absolutely beautiful.’

  ‘And what are you drivin’ these days?’

  And so he went on to tell me about how he was driving past the showroom on Merrylees Road the week before in his lorry full of porta-loos and he saw the silver Jaguar of his dreams in the window and that he fell in love with it straightaway. So he parked the lorry at the front of the showroom window and went inside wearing his boiler suit and wiping his hands on the rag he keeps in his pocket for wiping his greasy hands on. And the salesman didn’t get up from his desk and hardly even looked in my da’s direction. My da asked him was he not going to serve him, and the salesman looked him up and down in his boiler suit with the greasy hands and he asked my da what he wanted. My da pointed to the silver Jaguar in the window and said, ‘I want that.’ And the salesman looked my da up and down again and asked him if he thought he could afford it and my da said, ‘I’ve mair money in my bank account than you’ll ever have in this fuckin’ lifetime ya wee prick!’ So the salesman told my da how much it was and my da put his greasy rag down on the salesman’s desk and took his cheque book out and paid for the car there and then and the salesman started kissing my da’s arse.

  ‘And so I got it delivered yesterday,’ he said. ‘And wait till I tell you this, you’ll never believe it. I drove it up to Lanark this morning for a haircut and an ice-cream’.

  ‘You’re far travelled for a haircut and an ice-cream are you no’?’ I said.

  ‘I suppose I am,’ he said, ‘but she’s a lovely wee lassie that cuts it and she charges me the pensioner rate so I usually get myself an ice-cream with the change from one of those new fangled gella-toria bars or whatever the fuck they’re called these days’.

  ‘Aye, it’s a gelateria. So what flavour do you get anyway?’ I asked him.

  ‘I like the straight vanilla,’ he said. ‘But sometimes I get the Lanark Hokey Cokey.’

  ‘Oh, that sounds nice. Has it got crunchy bits in it?’

  ‘Aye, it does, mind you the crunchy bits get under my plate and I have to rinse my teeth under the tap at the kitchen sink when I get home.’

  ‘Anyway, so, what happened when you went to Lanark?’

  ‘Well, I parked in my usual spot, just in behind the Crown Hotel there, you know, on the corner just after Wee Tommy’s Pie Shop and while I remember to tell you, the pie shop’s just been bought out by Pies R Us, if you can believe that. So I’m coming out of the gellatoria wi’ my cone and the Lanark Hokey Cokey’s bloody meltin’ and runnin’ down my fingers, I hate it when my fingers get all sticky like that, and I’m lickin’ the fuckin’ ice-cream to stop it running any further down the cone, when I looks up and you wouldnae believe what I saw with my own eyes.’

  ‘Naw, whit did you see, da?’

  ‘Some bastard has only come out of the nursery, bought themselves a tray of bedding plants for their herbaceous fuckin’ border, and left the tray on the bonnet of my fuckin’ silver Jaguar! My fuckin’ silver Jaguar! Can you fuckin’ believe that? Right there, on the bonnet of my fuckin’ silver Jaguar? I don’t know about you, but I just couldnae fuckin’ believe that.’

  ‘That’s fuckin’ unbelievable, da. So what did you do?’

  ‘Well I grabbed the tray of bedding plants, threw them on the ground and stood on every last one of them. Then I got into the car and finished my cone and went into the glove box and brought out a packet of those things your mother used to buy, what are they called, Wet Things, or something like that.’

  ‘Wet Ones.’

  ‘Wet Things, Wet Ones, whatever. And so I wiped my fingers on one of them, threw the wrapper of the cone and the Wet One oot the windae and headed for home.’

  ‘Right, I see,’ I said. And then there was silence.

  ‘So how’s it going for you at work?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘How’s it going for you at work?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. And there was another silence.

  ‘Well, I better be goin’ then, Ali. It was nice talkin’ to you, hen. Maybe talk to you again in six months, eh?’

  ‘Aye, awright, da, if you’ve a mind.’

  ‘Awright, Ali. Cheerio then, hen,’ he said.

  ‘Cheerio, da.’

  Thanks

  I am deeply indebted to my tolerant, wise and loving husband Thomas who lived with me through the writing of this book; my dear friend Dean Johns for the unconditional support, encouragement and praise he has offered me so freely in the few years I’ve known him; and Julia Beaven at Wakefield Press for her fresh eyes, her skill, her understanding and her patience.

  Wakefield Press is an independent publishing and distribution company

  based in Adelaide, South Australia.

  We love good stories and publish beautiful books.

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  www.wakefieldpress.com.au,

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