The Lost Boy and The Gardener's Daughter: The Glasgow Chronicles 3

by Ian Todd

  “The Gardener’s Daughter?” he asked.

  “No, this is Saba, The Duke’s daughter,” Morven replied exasperated, annoyed that he wis making a bad situation worse.

  Paul looked at the redheid. He hidnae really goat a good swatch ae her when he’d bumped intae her up in the woods. She wis aboot the same height and age as Morven. Her hair wis tied up in a ponytail at the back. Her pale complexion exaggerated the colour ae the green eyes that bored straight through him. It took him a second tae remember the last time he’d come across anger as intense as whit wis glaring oot ae that face in front ae him, and then he remembered. It hid been years ago, when he wis aboot ten or eleven, and it hid been a red-heided banshee oan that occasion as well. It hid been his pal Johnboy Taylor’s maw…a right mad basturt when she goat started. Paul and his pals, Johnboy, Skull and Tony Gucci hid aw been walking up Parly Road in the Toonheid wan day. Paul hid been oan the run fae his approved school and the others hid been dogging the school and hid jist come back fae the toon centre where they’d been shoplifting. Suddenly, a polis car hid arrived oan the scene, mounting the pavement wae its tyres screeching. Ye wid’ve thought they’d jist robbed a bank. The bizzies hid jumped oot and chased efter them. Tony and Skull hid heided across the road, ducking in and oot ae the honking traffic, causing aw the cars and buses tae bang oan their brakes. They’d hid a big sergeant up their arses aw the way before they’d heided up Dobbies Loan. Himsel and Johnboy hid ran intae the nearest tenement closemooth. They knew aw the closes like the back ae their hauns, so insteid ae running through the close tae the back, where they knew there wis a locked iron gate, they’d nipped up tae the first flair stairheid landing and nipped oot through the landing windae. The bizzy who’d chased them wis a skelly-eyed, useless basturt called Crisscross. While they’d nipped up the stairs, Crisscross hid heided straight through tae the back and arrived at the gate jist as they landed oan the ground oan the other side.

  “Stoap, ya wee basturts!” Crisscross hid howled, shaking fuck oot ae the gate.

  “Aye, right, ya skelly basturt, ye,” Paul hid shouted back, as himsel and Johnboy hid disappeared up and o’er a dyke intae McAslin Street.

  Fae there, they’d nipped up through Canning Lane oan St James Road, which took them o’er intae Cathedral Street. They’d jist been sauntering up the lane, laughing aboot the expression oan Crisscross’s ugly cross-eyed mug, when they’d been ambushed. There hid been four ae them. There must’ve been a dogging officers’ convention or something gaun oan in Allen Glen’s or The City Public School. The lane wis really narrow and when ye goat tae the gates that took ye intae the side entrance ae Allen Glen’s and The City Public, there wur two big pillars. Opposite the pillars, in the lane, wis a wee square fire exit door opening, set back intae the wall. They’d jist goat level wae the gates and the opening in the wall, when the basturts hid jumped them. Paul hid goat wan ae them wae a smacker ae a left hook oan his right eye before his mate hid dragged him doon fae behind. Johnboy hid never stood a chance. Two big bears hid come oot fae beside the pillars fighting and hid started pummelling the hell oot ae him. Wan ae them hid been clutching his wooden clipboard in his hauns and hid been whacking Johnboy o’er the napper wae it. It hid only taken seconds fur Johnboy tae land oan the deck beside Paul. The dogging squad in the Toonheid…the basturts who hunted doon people who didnae turn up fur school…wur aw big ex-polis and army guys, who knew how tae throw a punch or two. While himsel and Johnboy wur lying oan the deck, screaming the place doon, the Lone Ranger and Tonto hid arrived oan the scene, in the shape ae Johnboy’s maw and wan ae her pals, Foosty Taylor.

  “Hoi, ya big galoots, ye! Leave that boy ae mine alane,” Helen Taylor hid screeched, decking the prick wae the clipboard wae wan punch, while grabbing the other wan by the hair, swinging him roond and rattling his face aff the railings.

  Meanwhile, Foosty hid started ladling intae the two who’d jumped Paul. Paul smiled, remembering how he’d managed tae crawl roond behind her, while Johnboy hid scurried behind that maw ae his.

  “That’s assault, so it is, Taylor,” Mr Clipboard hid howled, covering his splattered nose wae his haun.

  It hid ended in a stand-aff. The four dogging squaddies hid stood there panting, lumps ae hair torn oot ae their heids by the roots, wae their faces bruised and scratched tae fuck.

  “Don’t ever let me catch any ae youse basturts laying a finger oan any ae ma weans again,” Johnboy’s maw hid panted back.

  “Ye’ve nae right tae interfere wae us daeing oor job,” wan ae them hid whinged.

  “Never, ever, touch ma weans or there will be mair ae the same tae come yer way,” Helen hid replied, hair oan fire, white-faced and green eyes blazing at them.

  It must be the red hair, Paul thought. Wan ae the boys…he thought it might’ve been Joe, although he couldnae remember…hid warned them tae never, ever, marry a redheid.

  “We’re just off to get a few scones,” Jock said, trying tae lighten the atmosphere and bringing Paul back tae the here and noo.

  “And what do you think of the games, Paul?” Morven asked, jumping in tae support Jock’s tactic.

  “Whit makes ye think the rabbits belonged tae you then?” Paul challenged Lady Posh-arse, knowing full well that he wis throwing petrol oan the fire.

  “Because we own the land and what’s on the land belongs to us,” Angry Eyes shot back.

  “Well, Ah know plenty ae people who ur sitting oan yer land, bit ye’ll never own them, no matter whit you or that da ae yours thinks,” Paul retorted.

  “Let’s go, Morven!” Angry Face hissed, eyes blazing, face turning even whiter than whit it wis awready.

  Saba turned oan her heel and stomped aff withoot waiting fur Morven.

  “Nice one, Paul,” Morven said frostily, before turning and following her.

  “Aye, mind and tell yer school pal boss that she needs tae loosen up and stoap getting they fancy rich knickers ae hers in a twist,” he couldnae help retorting, as Morven’s back disappeared intae the passing throng.

  “Christ, I thought I was the expert in getting girls to hate me, Paul. You’ve no chance of a second date at the dance next year now, at least, not with Morven Gabriel,” Jock said, smiling as they entered the tent.

  “Who the hell does he think he is, talking to me like that? He doesn’t even know me,” Saba fumed.

  “Well, you did accuse him of being a poacher, Saba.”

  “But he is a poacher. I saw him with my own eyes.”

  “So?”

  “Morven, don’t start sticking up for lover boy. He looks as if he would steal the eyes out of the back of your head, that one.”

  “Hmm, but you must admit, he is kind of cute.”

  “He’s as rough as a badger’s bare bottom.”

  “Now you’re starting to sound like your father. You must admit, Saba, there’s something about him. He’s not like some of them about here. He obviously stands up for himself and I don’t know about the badger bit. I think he’s quite handsome.”

  “He’s a self-opinionated thieving rogue. And that accent? Where the hell did he get that?”

  “Glesgie.”

  “He’ll come to a sticky end, that one. If my father catches him on the estate, believe me, he’ll wish he never left the place.”

  “I don’t get the impression that the thought of your dad would keep him awake at night, Saba.”

  “No? Well, I wouldn’t be so sure of that. I heard my father talking with his man, Riddrie and John Sellar. They’re planning to rid the strath of poachers. If George and Cameron Sellar catch him poaching on the estate, your boy will be in big trouble.”

  “It’s nice to hear you sticking up for your father, for a change, Saba,” Morven said sarcastically.

  “I’m not. Taking what isn’t yours isn’t right, no matter where you live or come from. I’m telling you, he’s trouble and he’ll break your heart. You would be well advised to stay clear of him.”

  “I’ve only jus
t met him. I don’t know much about him. If he’s at the dance tonight, I’ll definitely have a dance with him though, so don’t go spoiling it for me.”

  “Don’t you worry about that, although don’t say you weren’t warned. And what was he on about me being a gardener’s daughter?”

  “I’m not sure. Where did you two meet anyway?”

  “I was out riding Genghis early one morning up in Balblair Wood when I came across him. He was kneeling down, tying up his ill-begotten gains.”

  “What, first thing in the morning? You weren’t still in your nightie, were you?” Morven asked, laughing.

  “Yes, I think so. Why?”

  “He probably thought you were a ghost. He called you ‘The Gardener’s Daughter.’”

  “But The Gardener’s Daughter didn’t ride around on a white Arabian stallion, at least, not to my knowledge.”

  “I’m telling you, I bet that’s who he thought you were.”

  “He did look as if he had seen a ghost, when I think about it…now that you’ve mentioned it,” Saba laughed.

  “Wait until I see him. I’ll ask him.”

  “Right, where to now? I can see my father’s finished handing out another set of medals and trophies. Let’s go before he sees me.”

  “Let’s head across to the Caber final before heading down to the ring. The knockout boxing competition should be starting soon.”

  Paul hidnae come across Innes since they’d arrived at the field earlier. He’d bumped intae Whitey, who wis talking tae some fancy dressed wummin, who hid a similar accent tae hers. She wis also talking tae her in a strange language. He assumed it hid been Gaelic.

  “Paul, this is my good friend, Irina. She hails from the same neck of the woods as me,” she’d said.

  “Hellorerr, Irina.”

  “My, what a handsome boy you’ve got there, Galina,” Irina said, in a heavy accent.

  “Galina?” he’d asked, frowning.

  “That’s my real name, Paul. I originally came to Scotland from Estonia. My father was a White Russian who fled St Petersburg after the Bolshevik revolution in nineteen eighteen. We went to Estonia, along with a lot of other Russian refugees. I lived in a small town near to where Irina was born. That’s why Innes calls me Whitey. I’m a White Russian.”

  “So, youse wurnae speaking in Gaelic then?”

  “No, no. Irina stays over in Spinningdale with Mr Robertson Justice, who’s a famous actor. Irina was a famous actress during the war in Germany. We don’t get a chance to see each other these days,” Whitey replied, laughing.

  “Where’s Innes? I hivnae seen him aw day,” he’d asked her.

  “He’s probably with his cronies in the beer tent or down at the boxing ring. I said I would see him down there later.”

  “Aw, right, Ah’ll maybe see if Ah kin catch up wae him. Nice tae meet ye, Irina,” he’d said, before him and Jock hid wandered aff.

  There wis a fair crowd awready there by the time they arrived. A piper wis wailing like a demented hen as a guy in plus fours, wae his back tae them, wis up in the ring, dishing oot medals and getting his photo taken wae each ae the medallists.

  “That’s The Duke,” Jock said in Paul’s left lug.

  Efter the medallists hid their photo taken, The Duke joined his posh cronies in the elevated seating area. There must’ve been aboot fifteen tae twenty big-wigs, aw men in their kilts and plus fours, taking occasional sips oot ae fancy hip flasks and talking amongst themsels. The Duke wis sitting oan the left in the front row. Paul noticed a bookie hid set up his booth tae the left ae where the toffs wur sitting. The three pug ugly Sellars wur milling aboot in the gap tae the right ae The Duke. He clocked Innes, staunin talking tae Donald the butcher and Packer, who’d kept him up hauf the night wae his awful singing. Paul and Jock heided o’er tae join them.

  “Awright, Innes?”

  “Paul, Jock, how are you both doing, laddies?”

  “You’ll be entering the competition then, Paul? A big strong laddie like you should do well, eh?” Packer said smiling, winking at Innes and Donald, jist as movement started up in the ring.

  Paul turned tae hiv a look. A wee baldy man in a yellow checked suit, wae a bowler hat stuck oan his napper, wis staunin in the centre ae the ring. In wan corner, a right mean looking guy in shorts, wae a broken nose, stood scowling at everywan. Beside the pugilist, a dolly bird in a mini-skirt, twenty years past her nineteenth birthday, wis feeling the muscles oan his right, clenched fisted erm, trying tae convince the punters that it could be their erm she wis hinging aff ae.

  “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye! Welcome to the nineteen sixty nine Ardgay Highland Games Knockout Boxing, winner-takes-all competition,” Bowler Hat shouted, in a heavy broad Irish accent, through an auld tin megaphone that looked similar tae the wan Minnie the Minx used tae noise up her da in the Beano he remembered reading when he wis in Lennox Castle Happy Holiday Camp.

  “Christ, he looks mean, that one,” Donald said, nodding towards the boxer, as Miss Auld Dolly Bird nineteen fifty, pranced roond the ring in her mini-skirt and red matching high heels, haudin up a fresh ten pound note between her hauns fur everywan tae clock.

  “Right, listen up, gentlemen. Here are the rules of the competition. To start the competition off, we need a challenger to come up here to fight our man for that mint-fresh ten-pound note that the lovely Jezebel is showing off to you. In case any of you haven’t got it, it’s not the lovely Jezebel you’ll be fighting against to walk away with this astounding cash prize, but the one and only Paddy ‘Knock-out’ Brown, West of Ireland Amateur Boxing Champion of nineteen hundred and sixty eight. Now listen up, boys! Each round lasts two minutes. If the challenger wins the bout, and we all hope he does, the ten-pound note passes to him. However, he is only the caretaker and has one more task to perform before he can walk off with all that lovely lolly. He has to defend his prize. If challenged, and he beats the new challenger, then he walks away with it. To win the prize, a person needs to win two consecutive fights. Without a challenger, we all go home and there’s no boxing in this lovely field today. If no one wins the money, I’ll donate it to the amateur boxing benevolent fund when I get back to The Emerald Isle. Now then lads, on that happy note, who’s first?”

  Silence.

  “Come on, gentlemen. Winner-takes-all, one pound to enter, ten pounds the prize for two, two minute rounds?” Bowler Hat hollered, pointing tae the ten-pound note still floating roond the ring.

  Silence.

  “It always starts off like this,” Jock said, turning tae Paul, as everywan looked aboot tae see if there wur any takers.

  “C’mon gentlemen, who’s first then?”

  Suddenly, a haun shot up and aw heids turned tae hiv a gander ae whose haun it wis.

  “Christ, it’s Beefy Macpherson from Portmahomack,” Packer said, as everywan clapped and whistled encouragement, and Beefy climbed intae the ring.

  “C’mon, Beefy,” somewan shouted, as Beefy haunded o’er his pound note tae Miss Jezebel, before being helped intae an auld pair ae red Everlast boxing gloves.

  “On you go, Beefy!” another voice shouted.

  “What do you think, Innes?” Donald asked him.

  “I think I would wait and see what the form is, Donald,” Innes said doubtfully, as a queue formed across at the bookies’ booth.

  “Right, lads, into the middle, and remember, I’m looking for a fair fight, with no kicking or biting. Back to your corners and when the bell goes, out you come,” Bowler Hat said tae the fighters.

  The fight lasted aboot twenty seconds intae the second roond. Beefy wis used like a punch bag in the first wan. Roond two saw him carried oot efter he walked intae a flurry ae fists. The next four challengers ended up in much the same state as the wan before them. Everywan who went up against Paddy ‘Knockoot’ Broon wis knocked oot in either the first minute ae the first roond or within twenty seconds ae the second roond before things started tae change. A guy called Whisky Boner, fae Edderton, caugh
t Paddy oot by gieing him a left hook tae his ribs and a right jab tae his heid. The jab tae the heid put the champ oan tae the canvas, although he did get back up and knock Boner oot in the second roond. It wisnae long efter this that things really started tae go doonhill fur the Irish champ. His final fight ended in the first roond against a boy called Alex the Pike, fae Brora. The whole ground shook when Paddy Broon landed full oan his back like a felled oak tree.

  “He’s really there to warm the crowd up, Paul. The promoter, whose brother is the bookie, knows their man will last about ten or twelve fights before he gets knocked out. This gets the locals going and before you know it, everyone fancies their chances.”

  “Aye, it’s quite clever. Ah kin see that it wid be hard tae walk away wae the ten-pound note. Maist ae them ur knackering themsels oot in the first roond, trying tae get in wae a bombardment ae punches,” Paul acknowledged.

  “Oh, someone will walk away with it alright. My money is on George Sellar. He’s won it the last three years. He’s just biding his time.”

  Paul looked across at the Sellars. The father wis leaning o’er, listening tae something being said in his ear by The Duke. He’d noticed the two sons wur gaun back and forth tae the bookies, putting oan bets fur aw the VIPs.

  “How hiv ye done oan the bookie, Innes?” Paul asked him.

  “I started with thirty shillings and I’m sitting with twenty five in my pocket,” he replied.

  “I’m down about four pounds,” Donald, the poorest butcher in the Highlands, declared.

  “Fifteen shillings here,” Packer said.

  “The odds are terrible. That bookie is a bloody robber,” Donald moaned.

  “And George Sellar? Is he a boxer then?” Paul asked them.

  “He won Lairg, Bonar Bridge, Edderton and Clashmore, as well as the Ardgay knockout competition last year,” Jock chipped in.

  “Aye, bit kin he box?” Paul asked them, as the body ae another challenger hit the canvas boards wae a deafening thud.