Scratch

by Gillan, Danny

  ‘Are you okay, Jim?’

  ‘I’m fine, just tired,’ I said.

  ‘After last night I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Oh.’ It seemed my dad had chosen to share the previous night’s adventures after all. Fortunately, my mum looked more amused than anything. I was too distracted to get embarrassed.

  ‘Just be careful,’ she said. ‘You’re not a teenager anymore, even if you do insist on pretending otherwise.’

  ‘I know, sorry. I’m going up to bed, see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Night night.’

  ***

  Two hours later, I was staring at my bedroom ceiling. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough for me to make out the biggest spider I had ever seen in my life scuttle across the plaster above me. It paused in its journey at a point which, were it to lose its grip somehow, would see it land on my face.

  This image was enough to force me out of bed and put on the overhead light. The sudden illumination sent the spider sprinting towards the cornicing for cover. It was a big bastard, right enough. You never seemed to see wee spiders anymore; it’s always these huge two-inchers with the long, spindly legs and scary sense of purpose. Global warming, probably.

  I was debating whether to kill it, trap it and throw it out the window or just hope it would go away by itself when my phone went bing-bong.

  - hi it’s me. you ok? -

  Although she still hadn’t actually given me her number I took a chance and assumed it was Paula.

  - think so. you? - I sent back.

  - bit freaked out. sorry for running away -

  - getting used to it -

  - sorry. I meant what I said. I do love you -

  - me too you -

  - no clue what to do about it though -

  - snap -

  - want to get lunch tomorrow? -

  - yes I do -

  - ok. call you in the morning -

  - ok g’night -

  - g’night -

  I felt much better after this, and could probably have got to sleep if I hadn’t remembered about the big spider. It was nowhere to be seen, and I spent another hour lying wide-awake in bed, convinced it was waiting for me to lower my guard so it could launch an attack. You rarely think rationally at three in the morning, I find.

  ***

  I drifted off eventually, and woke after eleven the following morning. It was closer to twelve by the time I was showered and dressed, and joined my parents downstairs.

  ‘Morning,’ I said, sitting at the dining table opposite my dad.

  He looked up from his Glasgow Herald. ‘Afternoon. Found your bed all by yourself last night, then?’

  ‘I did, thank you.’

  He held my gaze for a second, before nodding and returning his attention to the letters page.

  ‘Do you want something to eat? I’m doing French toast,’ my mum called from the kitchen.

  ‘No thanks, I’m going out for lunch.’

  ‘Really? Who with?’ Mum came out of the kitchen and looked at me expectantly.

  ‘Eh, Terry.’

  ‘Again? Oh, well, that’s nice.’

  I didn’t realise how hungry I was until I first smelled, then saw, the plate piled high with eggy bread. I hoped Paula would phone soon.

  ‘When are you going out?’ she asked, smothering brown sauce onto her first slice.

  ‘Not sure.’ My mouth watered. ‘I’m waiting for him to phone. He wasn’t sure when he’d get out of the office.’

  ‘Okay,’ Mum said, giving me what looked like a suspicious look. I had spent the vast majority of my years on Earth lying to my parents without a worry, but now Joe’s assessment of my abilities in this area had me wondering. ‘Well, be sure to say hello from us. We haven’t seen Terry for ages.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘How’s he getting on at work?’ Dad asked, before shoving a forkful of eggy delight into his mouth.

  ‘Yeah, pretty good.’

  ‘He’s coping all right with the responsibility?’ I had, perhaps foolishly, told them about Terry getting promoted. To my old job.

  ‘Seems to be.’

  ‘I always thought Terry was a bit of a waster,’ my dad went on. ‘Looks like he might be proving me wrong.’

  ‘Could be,’ I said. ‘It’s early days.’ If Joe really wanted to see someone fighting without fighting, he should have a look at my dad.

  ‘At least he’s pointing in the right direction.’ Ooh, zinger.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear how proud you are.’

  ‘Jim!’ Mum said.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So, it’s Friday,’ my dad said. ‘Pay day.’ He looked at me.

  ‘Actually, I need to do a week’s lying time. This was a lie, but I viewed it as a necessary one. I was skint.

  The looks they gave me had me wondering again about Joe’s opinion of my skills as a peddler of pish, but I stuck it out.

  ‘Oh well,’ Mum said. ‘Double next week, then.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘You have to pay what you owe in life, Jim,’ my dad said. ‘When you’re an adult,’ he added.

  ‘At least you won’t have to worry about money for cigarettes,’ Mum said. ‘Will you?’

  This would just have to be next Friday’s problem. ‘There is that,’ I said. ‘I’ll be upstairs.’

  I went back to my room and switched on the TV, praying Paula’s call would come soon. I was dying for a smoke.

  Despite having spent a good three hours the night before (in between panic attacks about the big spider) and a couple so far that day thinking about it, I still didn’t know what to make of Paula’s revelation. She loved me. She loved me! Holy Jesus fuck.

  It was, of course, the best thing that had ever happened to me in my life, ever. That was a given. But I couldn’t help thinking about that taxi journey home. The way Paula almost seemed to flinch when I took her hand; the fact that we barely spoke a word to one another for the entire ten-minute trip. The fact she had felt it necessary in the pub to point out that she wasn’t a bitch. Why couldn’t she be a bitch?

  And, the biggest worry of all, that she was obviously petrified of anyone saying anything to anyone about anything. What did that say, really? That there wasn’t an ‘us’ to talk about? That it was a nice idea but it couldn’t happen so I shouldn’t be stupid? So why did she say it, then?

  I wished she would hurry up and call.

  By two o’clock I was beginning to wonder when exactly they ate lunch in Germany.

  By three o’clock I was desperate for a cigarette, if only to quell the hunger pangs.

  By four o’clock I had accepted she wasn’t going to phone and went for a walk to the BP garage, where I bought four bags of steak and onion Walkers and twenty Marlboro lights. All of the crisps and three of the Marlboros were gone within fifteen minutes. She hadn’t phoned. Why would she do that? Why would she text me in the middle of the night to say she would, then not?

  The answer was obvious, even to me.

  I had never experienced unrequited love, reciprocated love then a broken heart within the space of twenty-four hours before (at least not all with the same person). It was not a nice feeling, not nice at all.

  I wandered the streets aimlessly for a while, I think I actually kicked a couple of pebbles along the pavement at one point, before heading back home to get ready for work.

  Being a barman, getting ready for work involved putting my cap on and checking I had change for the bus so it didn’t take long.

  ‘Are you away already? I thought you didn’t start till six,’ my mum called from the living room, as I trudged down the stairs at quarter to five.

  ‘It’ll be busy. I thought I’d get in sharp. Can I borrow change for the bus?’

  ‘Wait till I check my purse. What happened to Terry today?’

  ‘I guess he couldn’t get away. It’s no big deal.’

  ‘That’s a shame. I could tell you were looking forward to seeing him. He
re.’ She handed me a couple of pounds worth of silver.

  ‘Cheers. I’ll be in late, take your key out of the door before you go to bed so I can get in.’

  ‘I’ll remind your dad.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Shed.’

  ‘Okay, bye.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Jim?’

  ‘Fine, bye.’

  ‘Most people grow out of their ‘surly teenager’ phase when they stop being teenagers, you know.’

  I smiled. ‘I think we can both agree I’ve turned out to be a bit of a late developer, in many ways.’

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘Okay. See you later.’

  ***

  I was outside The Basement by 5.20, and decided to go in for a coffee and a brood before starting my shift. I pushed the wooden door open and was hit in the face by a wet bar towel, which was unexpected.

  I had a flashback to the Moosehead years as I smelled stale lager and felt my eyes blur and my face go sticky. Then there was the noise. It sounded like the Baghdad Barras on Suicide Sunday (all bomb jackets half-price, get yours fast and have a blast!). People were shouting, glasses were breaking, music was blaring and staff were wailing.

  I wiped my eyes clear and pushed past the first couple of bodies, heading for the bar. The place was rammed, and they all had suits on.

  It was Friday, it was tea-time, and I shouldn’t have been surprised. I just hadn’t banked on such an immediate immersion in the nightmare of twatdom that is the ‘office big night out’.

  I wanted a coffee and a brood.

  ‘Jim! Get your arse back here, we’re in the shit!’ Mark shouted from behind the bar.

  ‘I don’t start till six!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t—’ I gave up. Mark couldn’t hear me over the throng and I knew he wouldn’t care if he could. I was there and they were struggling. Was I part of this team or not? Yes. Yes I bloody was!

  I elbowed a few more be-suited bams out of the way and squeezed through the hatch. I quickly assessed the situation. Mark, Natalie and another girl I’d never seen before were hopping about like mad, pouring pints and taking money, trying to stem the tide of tossers screaming drinks orders at them. How best to be of help?

  They had split the space behind the bar between them and were defending a third of the front line each, so where should I insert myself to be of the most use? Tricky. Mark was probably the strongest of them, but that assumption could have been down to nothing more than familiarity and sexism so I couldn’t be sure. I decided to observe the girls’ performance for a while before making my final—

  ‘Jim, get your coat off and pull a fucking pint for Christ’s sake!’ Mark yelled at high volume with extreme emotion.

  ‘Yeah, ya fucker!’ Natalie and the other girl shouted in unison.

  I threw my jacket into the office, pulled a pint, and poured a drink. Then another and another and another …

  I hadn’t been so stressed or panicked or busy or exhilarated since the last Friday I worked behind a bar almost ten years earlier.

  It was terrifying but telling; it was horrible but hilarious; it was scary but easy; it was the biggest rush I’d felt in years.

  We ran out of pint glasses half a dozen times within the first two hours; we ran out of ice every fifteen minutes; we ran out of lemon wedges every twentieth gin and tonic; we ran out of patience every time some fuckwit asked for a cocktail.

  It was the ultimate juxtaposition of bile and brilliance, vileness and vindication, which I’d forgotten all about. It was why I loved bar work. Some customers were horrific, and some were lovely; some orders were a doddle, and some were a piss-taking nightmare. A till empty of change was the enemy; a keg spurting its last bit of foam before dying was the enemy; the reams of baying drunkards shouting for attention were the enemy.

  The perfectly poured pint was your friend; the order you knew the prices to and could add up in your head was your friend; the patient customer who smiled and said ‘thanks’ was your friend.

  Most of all, the people struggling through the same shit as you and still smiling were your friends. Colleague is a rubbish word; it doesn’t cut it in catering.

  All those people wearing suits and shouting patronisingly at us were out with their colleagues. I was standing toe to toe with my compatriots. These three, noble fighters I was battling alongside were in my team. We didn’t work together, we fought together. And, by ensuring we had each other’s backs covered, we won together. I’d forgotten about that closeness, I’d, I’ll admit it now, missed it. It was in fact quite beautiful. I’d liken it to medical staff in an emergency room, maybe firemen, or possibly even soldiers in a war zone; it’s that level of closeness.

  ‘Hi Jim, I’m Lucy. I thought I’d introduce myself seeing as you haven’t bothered,’ said the barmaid who wasn’t Natalie.

  ‘Huh?’

  The bar had died down a bit. It was almost eight, and all the married suits had gone home to be sick on their children and all the single ones had gone home to take their suits off before coming back out. That only left the ones who were having affairs, and they were never any bother. They huddled in the corners, cowering from the light as they pawed each other under the table, only scuttling out of the darkness to order the occasional cosmopolitan.

  ‘I’m Lucy, hello,’ Lucy said again.

  ‘Sorry, shit, sorry. Hiya. Nice to meet you, seeing as you’ve been saving my arse for the last two hours,’ I said. Lucy had spotted and saved me from three overcharges, two undercharges and one potentially embarrassing (and exceedingly patronising) misunderstanding I had over a customer’s query as to whether or not we sold Pils behind the bar.

  Lucy was very blonde, but not in a Paris Hilton way. She was as tall as I was and (it goes without saying) a lot younger - twenty, if that. She was exactly the type of girl randy old men drooled over, and had a sparkle in her eye that said she knew it. Hopefully I hadn’t reached the ‘randy old man’ stage, just yet.

  It’s a disgrace that the hospitality industry is second only to the fashion world (and the music industry, and the acting profession, and probably a few others) when it comes to extreme bias regarding the physical appearance of those it employs (no matter how much they say it isn’t true). There are two sure ways to get a job in catering - you either have lots of experience, talent and stamina while being willing to take orders from and serve people Archbishop Tutu would have a hard job seeing the good in, or you look like Lucy.

  Even more shocking, this edict is applied far more stringently to girls than guys, hence the fact I had managed to get a job. Very occasionally, you would come across someone who was both, like Paula, but that was rare. Sammy, though, had always been an excellent judge when it came to hiring staff (Kate being an exception), and, having seen her at work, it looked like he’d found another star in Lucy. Natalie, too, had more than pulled her weight and Mark was a definite pro. If this chain had a weak link it was me.

  ‘No worries,’ Lucy said. ‘You’ll get the hang of it. You did okay, considering.’

  ‘Considering what?’

  ‘That, you know, you’re new.’ Somehow, I sensed this wasn’t what she had really been thinking.

  ‘And old?’

  ‘What? No, not at all,’ she said, a little too quickly. ‘What are you, twenty-five?’

  ‘Thirty-three.’

  She attempted to look shocked. ‘Really? I’d never have guessed.’

  I laughed. ‘Yeah, thanks for trying.’

  ‘Sorry. You’re only a few years younger than my dad, how mental is that?’

  ‘Don’t. The last time I worked in a pub I only had to guess if someone was younger than me to know if I should ask for ID. Now I have to decide if they’re young enough to be my child.’

  ‘Aw, cheer up,’ Lucy said. ‘How offended would you be if I called you Uncle Jim?’

  ‘You know, Lucy, you seem like a very nice girl but I think I’m going off you.’
<
br />   ‘Right, so it’s Jim the grumpy uncle, then.’

  ‘I’m going to stop talking now,’ I said, shaking my head.

  ‘It could be worse. We call Sammy Grandpa Sam.’

  I laughed. ‘To his face?’

  ‘No chance.’

  Mark came out of the office. ‘I’m all for teambuilding,’ he said, ‘but we’re going to be heaving again in about half-an-hour. What are the chances of the glass shelves and fridges being full by then?’

  ‘Poor to non-existent would be my assessment,’ I replied.

  ‘Why not have a go at proving yourself wrong, mate, eh?’

  ‘Yessir.’ Back to work it was.

  When Mark was out of earshot, Lucy said, ‘We call him Victor Meldrew.’

  ‘And what about Kate?’

  ‘That’s easy,’ Lucy said. She turned to Natalie, who was filling a cooler with bottles of beer. ‘Uncle Jim wants to know what we call Kate, Nat.’

  ‘Daisy,’ Natalie said without looking up.

  ‘Daisy?’ I said.

  ‘Daisy the lazy cow,’ Lucy replied.

  ‘Ah.’

  It took until I was halfway through washing the legions of dirty glasses before I thought about Paula again. That’s another beauty of bar work - when it’s busy you don’t have time to think about anything. The down side is that, when you do remember something you’d been worrying about earlier, it smacks you in the face like a whale’s tail.

  I told myself one missed phone call didn’t mean anything, but I didn’t believe me. Surely she must have realised how fragile a grasp I had on, well, everything? Barring a medical emergency of some sort, what possible reason could she have for not calling, other than figuring out what she’d said was a huge mistake? Then I panicked that there had been some sort of medical emergency, and hoped to Christ she was okay. But I wasn’t that lucky. She wasn’t dead or otherwise incapacitated, the truth of the matter could only be that Paula Fraser had told me she loved me, and then changed her mind. That was horrible.

  ‘So, how was the gorgeous Paula Fraser then?’ A voice from behind me said. It was Terry, obviously.

  ‘She, just was.’ I said, turning round.

  ‘Did you have champ and mutton for dinner?’