by Agnes Owens
‘Wis it you that done it then?’
‘Dear God naw, though I know how it happened.’ Dreamily he paused.
‘How?’ Now I was interested and hoped he would not sag to the floor before he could tell me. He swayed a bit then came back to the subject.
‘D’ye know that heid-banger Pally McComb?’
I nodded.
‘Well, I heard it was Wullie Morrison that ran ower ma dug. So I gave Pally a couple o’ rabbits tae gie him a doin’. I wid have done it masel but I didny want involved wi’ the law.’ His voice sank confidentially. ‘As ye know I huvny got a dug licence. Anyway, Pally is that shortsighted that he didny know the difference between Wullie and Johnny, so he banged Johnny.’
‘I see,’ I said, but I didn’t think it was such a great story.
‘How’s the dug then?’
‘I selt it.’
‘Ye selt it?’
‘Aye, it wis gettin’ past it. Matter o’ fact it wis a bloody nuisance wi’ a’ these complaints aboot it. But dae ye know who I selt it tae?’
‘Naw.’
He began to laugh then went into paroxysms of coughing. I was getting impatient. He finally calmed down.
‘It wis Wullie Morrison that bought it.’
I said nothing. I couldn’t make any sense out of it.
‘Ye see,’ McDonald wiped the tears from his eyes, ‘I sent Pally up wi’ a note tae Wullie this afternoon tae say he’d better buy the dug, due tae its poor condition efter bein’ run ower, or else. Well, he must have seen the state o’ his brother’s face, so he sent the money doon right away. Mind ye, I didny think he’d gie me twenty pound. Personally I’d have settled for a fiver.’
‘Wullie could never stick the thought o’ pain,’ I said. I began to laugh as well, and hoped Paddy would keep on his feet long enough to get me another drink.
‘Right enough, Paddy,’ I said, holding firmly on to him, ‘ye’re a great case, an’ I’ll personally see that when ye kick the bucket ye’ll get a big stane above yer grave, me bein’ in the buildin’ trade an’ that.’
McDonald’s Mass
I was taking a slow amble along the river bank. The weather was fine, one of those spring mornings that should gladden anyone’s heart. The birds were singing, the trees were budding and the fishing season had started, but I was feeling lousy. The scar in my temple and the cuts round my mouth were nipping like first-degree burns. My neck felt like a bit of hose pipe and the lump on the back of my head was so tender that even the slightest breeze lifting my hair made me wince. My mother’s remark, ‘You look like Frankenstein’, had not been conducive to social mixing, but since I wanted someone to talk to I decided to look up my old china Paddy McDonald because at times he could be an understanding man if he was not too full of the jungle juice.
I turned with the bend in the river and there on the bank, under the old wooden bridge, was a gathering of his cronies, namely, Billy Brown, Big Mick, Baldy Patterson and Craw Young. They were huddled round a large flat stone that displayed two bottles of Eldorado wine and some cans of beer, but I could not see Paddy.
They did not hear or see me approaching. Billy Brown jumped up as startled as a March hare when I asked, ‘Where’s Paddy?’ at the same time staring hopefully at the wine.
‘Paddy’s died,’ he informed me.
My brain could scarcely adjust itself to this statement.
‘That canny be true.’ Without waiting for the offer I took a swig from the bottle.
‘It’s true right enough,’ replied Billy, smartly grabbing it back. ‘I found him masel up in the Drive as cauld as ice an’ as blue as Ian Paisley.’
The Drive was a derelict building where the boys did their drinking when it was too cold for outdoors.
‘Whit happened to yer face?’ asked Big Mick.
‘That’s a long story.’ I was so stunned by the news that I had forgotten about my face for the first time since I woke up. Billy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were like saucers and his face greyer than grey. He was a close associate of Paddy’s. Not exactly a mate, more like a sparring partner, but they spent a lot of time together except when they were in jail.
‘I didny know whit tae dae, so I got the polis in an’ they sent for an ambulance. They carted him off while I waited ootside.’
‘How dae ye know he wis deid? When Paddy wis out cauld he always looked deid,’ I said.
‘If ye’d seen the colour o’ his face you’d hiv known he wis deid.’ No one disputed this fact.
‘That wis a rerr wee hoose he had,’ said Baldy Patterson wistfully. He was referring to the broken-down bothy where Paddy lived. ‘I think I’ll go up efter an’ see tae his pigeons.’
‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘The man’s hardly cauld an’ ye’re gaun tae move in.’
‘He wis cauld enough when I seen him,’ said Billy. ‘Onyway, somebody has tae feed his pigeons.’
The second bottle was opened and passed around with some beer, and now I was included in the company. Normally I don’t care for wine and beer first thing in the morning, but this day was an exception what with my sore face and Paddy being dead. Now that I was hunkered down on eye level with them they began to study me.
‘Yer face has improved a lot since I last saw ye,’ said Craw Young who always fancied himself as a bit of a wit. ‘Ye’ve got a bit o’ character in it noo.’
‘Better watch I don’t put a bit o’ character in yours,’ I retorted, but I didn’t put any emphasis on my words because they were all away beyond my age group and fragile with years of steady drinking and sleeping out. I thought Paddy had been the toughest despite his burst ulcers and periodical fits if he was off the drink for more than a week, but I was wrong. Mellowed by the wine and the sadness of Paddy’s death, I explained how five fellows from the city had picked a fight with me and stuck broken tumblers in my face. It was really only two fellows but I had my reputation to think of.
‘It’s the bad company ye keep,’ said Billy sagely. ‘We auld chaps know the score.’
‘Is that so,’ I said, ‘an’ jist how many times have you been in jail?’
‘Och, that’s only for disturbin’ the peace and vagrancy. Ye canny count that.’
‘Anyway, Paddy must have been OK this mornin’ if he was in the Drive, otherwise how wid he manage tae get there.’
‘He got lifted last night wi’ the polis as far as I heard, but they must have let him oot early. I didny get in tae the Drive till aboot eleven this mornin’,’ explained Billy.
‘Where were you last night then?’ asked Big Mick with suspicion.
‘I don’t mind much aboot last night,’ said Billy sheepishly. ‘Matter of fact I woke up in Meg Brannigan’s.’
We all jeered. Meg Brannigan was a slattern who drank anything from Vordo to meths. Even Billy was a cut above her.
‘Anyway I jist happened to pass oot on her couch.’
We jeered again.
‘Here,’ said Craw who had been deep in thought. ‘How d’ye know it wisny murder?’
‘It wid be murder bein’ wi’ Meg,’ chortled Big Mick.
‘I mean how d’ye know Paddy wisny murdered?’
‘I never murdered him onyway,’ said Billy vehemently.
‘OK, OK,’ said Baldy, ‘the main thing is whether he wis murdered or no’ who’s gaun tae bury him?’
‘Bury him?’ we echoed.
‘He’s got tae be buried an’ don’t forget that’ll cost money.’
We looked at each other with dismay.
‘He’ll jist have tae go intae a pauper’s grave,’ said Craw with a lack of taste.
‘Terrible tae think o’ poor Paddy in a pauper’s grave,’ said Baldy.
‘It’ll no’ dae him ony harm. He’ll have plenty company.’
‘Maybe he wis insured,’ said Big Mick.
‘Nae chance,’ said Billy. ‘He discussed it wi’ me once. The insurance company wid have nothin’ tae dae wi’ him. He’s whit ye call
a bad risk.’
‘Maybe we could get up a collection,’ said Baldy.
‘Who the hell is gaun tae put tae it? Who dae we know that’s got money? I mean real money.’
My face was feeling painful again and I was fed up with all this debate. Paddy had been the only one with any smattering of intelligence about him. Now he was gone.
‘Anither thing,’ said Big Mick. ‘We’ll have tae let the priest know.’
‘First I heard Paddy wis a Catholic,’ said Craw sharply. He turned to Baldy, ‘Did you know that?’
‘Naw, but I always thought there wis somethin’ funny aboot him.’
‘He didny tell me onyway,’ said Craw bitterly, ‘for he knew ma opinion aboot Catholics.’
‘I never knew you had opinions aboot anything,’ said Big Mick. I could see he was becoming angry. Likely he was a Catholic too with a name like Mick.
‘Anyway,’ Billy Brown butted in, ‘you don’t even know whit you are. You telt me ye wir an orphan.’
‘I might’ve been an orphan but I wisny a Catholic.’
‘Who cares?’ I said.
We all glared at each other for some seconds. Then to prove how displeased he was with the subject Big Mick finished off the remainder of the wine in one swallow. We stared gloomily at the empty bottle.
‘I’m off,’ said Mick with the air of a man who is going to get things done. He threw the bottle into the river and marched off with as much determination as his long shaky legs would allow him.
I said, ‘Me too.’ Groggily I arose, wishing I had gone to work. It couldn’t have been any worse.
After the evening meal of sausages and mash, one of my mother’s favourite dishes, I sat staring glassily at the television. I didn’t particularly wish to venture into the Paxton Arms to meet types like Willie Morrison. He would be overjoyed at the brilliance of my savage face and even more so at the news of Paddy’s departure. After all, he had been so terrified of Paddy he was forced to buy his dog, and Willie hated that dog, though he was too frightened to get rid of it. And that dog, for all its mean look, had a loving nature. It trailed on Willie’s heels like a shadow. Willie would dodge up closes to avoid it, but to no avail. It could always seek him out panting and slavering with joy. With Paddy gone the dog was definitely a goner too. My mother sat down to view the telly twitching about and straightening cushions. I suspected my company was a bit of a strain for her. I said, ‘Did ye know that Paddy McDonald is deid?’
‘Is he?’ she replied in a flat voice. We both stared at the box. Finally she said, ‘He’ll no’ be much loss anyway.’
‘I suppose not.’ I kept my voice neutral.
‘He wis nothin’ but a tinker anyway,’ she added.
‘There wis nae proof he wis a tinker.’
‘He wis worse. He wis just a drunken auld sod that neither worked nor wanted.’
I let the remark go. I could not expect her to have any understanding of Paddy.
‘By the way,’ I said, ‘I heard he wis a Catholic. If he just died this mornin’ when wid they haud his mass?’
‘Usually the same night, I think.’
‘Whit time aboot?’
‘Maybe seven. I mind that’s when they held mass for Mrs Murphy.’ Then looking aghast she added, ‘Don’t tell me ye’re gaun tae the chapel for that auld rotter.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ I said, but inwardly I thought I should. It would be the decent thing to do. I was feeling a bit emotional about it all, and stood up quickly before she noticed my eyes were wet.
‘I’m away oot,’ I said before any more remarks could be made.
I headed for the chapel with a lot of indecision. It’s right next door to the boozer which is handy for the Catholic voter. I noticed there was more business going for the chapel though. You would have thought there was free beer by the manner in which everyone rushed up the stairs. I hung about until the rush was over and looked up and down the street furtively. Which was it to be, the boozer or the chapel. Then I thought, what the hell, I should pay my respects to Paddy. I took the plunge and scurried up the stairs. I didn’t know what I expected to see behind these dreaded doors, but apart from a couple of statues and something that looked like a fancy washhand basin, there was nothing much to put me off.
I sneaked in through another door to be confronted with all the solemnity of the papal worship. My face was red as I squeezed into a bench at the back because all the seats were jam-packed. But not a soul bothered or even gave me a glance, so engrossed were they in the sermon. The priest’s voice was a meaningless drone to me, and I wondered if the mass for Paddy had begun. After a time I felt relaxed enough to look around at the decor. I considered it quite tasteful and if anything, except for the odd statue here and there, quite plain. I liked that. It was peaceful and uplifting. Maybe Paddy’s death had a meaning for me. Maybe it was to join this mob and get a bit of religion. Definitely food for thought. Though it would be fine if I could hear what the priest was saying, but whatever it was it would be appropriate and Paddy would be pleased if he could hear. Probably he could. In this place anything was possible. Then it struck me I couldn’t see Paddy’s coffin. Perhaps it was too early for this. I wished I knew more about these matters. To see if it was lying handy I stood up. An old woman sitting next to me whispered as loud as a shout, ‘Sit doon son. It’s no’ time for staunin’.’
I sat down quickly. No sooner had I sat when everyone stood up. For the next half-hour we were up and down like yo-yos. Though you didn’t sit all the time you were down. Sometimes you had to kneel on the long stool on the floor. I was beginning to get the hang of it but it was very sore on the knees. Still there was no sign of Paddy’s coffin, nor had I heard a mention of his name. At one of the sitting parts I whispered to the old woman next to me, ‘Could ye tell me missus if the priest is saying mass for Paddy McDonald?’
I don’t know if the message got through but her reply made no sense.
‘Look,’ she said balefully, ‘I don’t know anything aboot Paddy McDonald, but whatever they tell you I’ve lived a decent life for the past ten years and atoned for everything. I’m never away from this bloody place atoning – so don’t start.’
Her voice finished on a hysterical note. All eyes that had been transfixed forwards were now transfixed backwards on me. The priest, as distant as a postage-stamp picture, had stopped swinging the smoky stuff. I was so burnt up with embarrassment I felt my wounds were opening up to drip blood. I wiped my face on an ancient paper hanky but sweat only dampened it. Then the pressure was released. The eyes turned away and the priest carried on swinging the smoky stuff. I had scarcely got over all this when, out of the blue, everyone got up from their seats and began to walk down the aisle in a single file, even the old woman. I couldn’t stand any more so I stood up as though I was going to join the queue but instead turned quickly to the right, out of the door, passing the fancy washhand basin and into the marvellous fresh air. It was the only sensible thing I had done all day.
* * *
The first person I bumped into, or rather he bumped into me, was Paddy McDonald. I wasn’t all that surprised. The absence of his coffin or any mention of his name had cast doubts anyway. I didn’t want to know him now. He was in one of his complicated, mindless moods. In other words, completely stoned. He clung to me as if I was a long-lost lamp-post. If he had been sober there were a million questions I could have asked him, but as it was I merely said, ‘Hi Paddy.’
Stoned though he was, he was bursting with information. ‘D’ye know whit I’m gaun tae tell ye?’
‘Whit?’ I said.
‘Because o’ that stupid sod Billy Broon I wis carted off tae hospital this mornin’. They widny let me oot. Telt me ma liver was a’ tae hell. It took me a’ day tae get ma haunds on ma clathes.’ He paused to regain the drift of his conversation, still gripping me tightly. ‘Noo they tell me that Billy an’ the team are in ma hoose lettin’ a’ the pigeons away an’ God knows whit else. Wait till I get ma haunds
on the bastards.’
I tried to break from his vice-like grip, saying, ‘Ye’d better hurry hame then before they set yer hoose on fire.’
In his agitation he released me. Facing the Catholic church, he uttered every blasphemy he knew. It seemed to me that Catholics are a very extreme lot. If they are not one way they are the other. Of course that is only my opinion. In the middle of it all I walked away. Though I hoped he had the energy to batter Billy Brown to a pulp for the bother he had caused me. And all this had to happen when I had a sore face.
Grievous Bodily Harm
‘Any old rags! Toys for rags! Any old rags!’
The voice of Duds Smith, magnified through an old tin trumpet, roared up our street, penetrating the thickest eardrum.
‘I wid jist as soon burn ma rags than gie them tae that auld cheat,’ said my mother in her usual arrogant style.
‘I thought ye usually wore them,’ I muttered.
‘Whit’s that?’
‘Nothing.’ I then added the uppermost thought in my mind, ‘How’s about a pound till Friday?’
‘Don’t be daft. For a’ the money you gie me I couldny afford nothing.’
She went on to explain at great length that I must be unaware of the fact the cost of living had risen in the past five years and surely I must realise the fiver I gave her every week would hardly keep a dog going. Fixedly I stared out of the window. I knew she would eventually wear herself out then begin to feel guilty at my lack of defence. At the least I might get fifty pence from her which was the entrance fee for the Paxton Arms. Her tirade petered out and she sat down breathing heavily while Duds’s voice penetrated the pregnant silence. His motor was now opposite our window. Kids were running out with bundles large and small leaving a trail of scruffy articles behind them while Duds was handing out balloons and Hong Kong whistles in a benevolent style and deftly slapping to the side any of them who were returning burst balloons and soundless whistles.
‘Mean auld swine,’ said my mother as she joined me to survey the scene. I knew she was playing for time.