Perhaps that chance had now come.
Mrs Veitch was speaking to Mrs Porteous. ‘This afternoon at three? Yes, I’m sure that would be suitable. Thank you very much, Mrs Porteous.’
She put the telephone down. ‘She didn’t sound quite as enthusiastic this time. I hope she hasn’t changed her mind. As you probably noticed I had to do a wee bit of evading. She showed signs of being interested in your scholastic attainments. You may not be successful, Duffy, but I’m sure you won’t let me down. I wouldn’t mention it to anyone in the meantime, except of course your mother.’
‘She’s gone to Spain for a holiday.’
‘Oh yes, I heard she was going. So you’re on your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sure you’ll manage.’ She hesitated. ‘You’re a friend of Helen Cooley’s, aren’t you?’
‘I know her.’
‘Did you know she’s been sent to a reform school in Aberdeen? Or she will be when they catch her. She’s run away.’
‘She said she was going to London.’
‘That’s just the reckless thing she would do. What on earth does she think she can do there? Do you know, Duffy, she sat in that chair and was very uncomplimentary about the size of my bottom because I’d had the impudence to advise her to take a job as scullery maid in the hotel where your mother works. Did I think she was going to spend her life washing dishes for effing toffs? She’ll be lucky to get such a job in London.’ Again she hesitated. ‘If you want to get on in the world, Duffy, she’s the kind best avoided.’
‘That’s what my mother says.’ He rose. ‘Thank you, Mrs Veitch.’
‘Remember, it’s just a possibility. Don’t bank on it too much. Come in and tell me how you get on.’
‘Yes, I will. Good morning.’
No Etonian could have taken his leave more graciously. As Harry Flockhart had said Duffy was a mystery. She herself had never been able to make up her mind whether the boy was a bit simple, as most people believed, or was very astute, in his own peculiar way. Perhaps he was a late developer. Many famous men had not done well at school.
Waiting for him outside the careers office were Mick Dykes and Johnny Crosbie. They had seen him go in.
They too were the kind best avoided if he wanted to get on in the world. Scum, his mother called them. No doubt Mrs Porteous thought so too but as a politician she would be too prudent to say so.
In spite of his pride in his curly hair and physical bigness Dykes was unsure of himself. His jeans were worn out and dirty, his anorak had holes at the elbows. He grumbled that his mother and sisters would not wash or mend for him, but it never occurred to him to do it for himself. He had been warned by Sergeant Milne and others not to take up a career of crime because, being so stupid, he would be sure to spend most of his life in jail.
Crosbie was smaller and much more knowing. His eyes, as Cooley had said, were queer, not only because of their different shades of blue but also because they had a habit of going suddenly skelly, when one of his headaches afflicted him. His fair hair stuck up in sharp tufts, like a Mohican’s. Round his waist was a belt made up of imitation bullets. Stuck in it was an imitation tomahawk, made of rubber. His jeans and jerkin were black. Inside one of his high-heeled cowboy boots was a compartment where he kept his knife. This wasn’t imitation, being sharp enough to cut a cat’s throat with one slice. He boasted he had killed eight. He leered like an imbecile but was really alert and cunning. Disconcertingly, he had a quiet soft voice, and seldom swore.
They were pleased to see Duffy. Dykes often cadged money from him.
‘Got a job, Duffy?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Didn’t need to ask, did I? You and me, Duffy, and Johnny, no cunt wants us. Well, we don’t want them, do we?’ He laughed but his big fat babyish face was sullen and unhappy. He wanted very much to be liked and to have lots of money.
‘Big Molly and wee Cathie were telling us your mother’s gone to Spain,’ said Crosbie.
‘Yes, so she has.’ He always played the simpleton with them. Sometimes he wondered if Crosbie was taken in.
‘Molly was saying you wanted her to go and stay with you,’ said Dykes, grinning lewdly. ‘It’s all right with me, Duffy, except that I promised her to Johnny. He said he’d give me three packets of fags.’
‘If you want her, Duffy, she’s yours,’ said Crosbie, ‘as long as I get a wee shot whenever I want.’
‘If you’d like to give me a couple of quid, Duffy, that’d be fine. She’s a great ride.’
‘Mick hires her out at 50p a go.’
‘Just to pals,’ said Dykes. ‘She doesn’t keep on asking what you’re going to give her, like lots of other birds. Christ, as if I ever had anything to give anybody.’
He then proceeded to give a self-piteous account of his life.
His mother allowed him only 40p per week pocket money and expected him to buy clothes out of it at jumble sales. She wouldn’t let him into the house even if it was pouring rain but ordered him to go and find a job. He didn’t have a proper bed and had to sleep on the floor in the living-room, which meant he had to wait till they’d all stopped watching television. His two older brothers had a room to themselves and wouldn’t let him share it. They said his feet smelled. So they did but it wasn’t his fault. He had only two pairs of socks and they were often soaked because his shoes let in water. His married sisters made fun of him. They kept asking if it was true he had the biggest dick in Lightburn. Women were more dirty-minded than men. Did Duffy know that? It was true he had a big dick but he was big all over and still growing. His mother laughed at him and said he’d be able to join the Scots Guards, but maybe he would one day, just to show her.
All that was uttered in a whine of great seriousness.
‘Mick fancies your mother, Duffy,’ said Crosbie, with a wink of his light-blue eye.
Dykes grinned. ‘He’s a liar, Duffy.’
‘He fancies Veitch too. But do you know who he’s got? Mrs Burnet, Fat Annie they call her. She’s over forty and she’s got four kids. Her man’s in England working, or so she says.’
Duffy could hear his mother’s shocked voice: ‘Are these the kind of friends you have?’
Dykes wasn’t sure whether to regard his possession of Mrs Burnet as something to brag about or be ashamed of. ‘She’s not so fat, and she gives me cans of beer.’
Duffy had seen Mrs Burnet in the street, pushing a pram. She was like what Molly McGowan would become in twenty years or so, if no one saved her.
He remembered Cooley’s message. He had to get rid of Cooley. She was the only one in a position to guess that it was he who had painted the challenge on the town hall.
‘Cooley wants to see you, Mick. She wants you to ask your uncle to get her a lift to London.’
‘Where is she? We heard she had done a bunk.’
‘She’s hiding in my house.’
Dykes grinned. ‘Me and Johnny can’t see why you fancy Cooley. She’s got no tits and she’s so bloody quarrelsome. Isn’t that right, Johnny?’
‘Sure is. She’s had the clap, too.’
‘She wouldn’t say who gave it to her. She can keep a secret all right. Have I to come to your house to see her?’
‘Yes, Mick. Tonight, at seven.’
‘Can I come too?’ asked Crosbie.
‘Yes, Johnny.’
Crosbie’s presence would make her all the more impatient to leave.
They were now walking along the main street towards the town hall.
People were staring at the words painted on the wall.
‘What’s up?’ asked Dykes. ‘What are they all looking at?’ He pushed forward and tried to read the words. ‘What the fuck does it mean, Johnny?’ he asked.
Crosbie read it out.
‘Fucking nonsense,’ muttered Dykes.
‘Watch your language, you,’ said a woman with a wart on her nose.
‘What do you think it means, Johnny?’
‘A
sk Duffy. He did it.’
‘Don’t be fucking stupid, Johnny. Duffy doesn’t know words like that.’
‘Maybe he got them out of a book.’
‘Tell him he’s a silly cunt, Duffy.’
‘I’m not putting up with this,’ cried the woman with the wart as she marched off to complain to Sergeant Milne and Constable Hastie in a police car parked not far away.
‘She’s shopping you, Mick,’ said Crosbie, gleefully.
How had he known, thought Duffy, that I wrote those words? Was it a lucky guess or does he have some insight into my mind?
Duffy shivered.
‘Don’t worry,’ muttered Dykes. ‘I can handle these cunts.’
The policemen had come out of the car and were approaching. The other onlookers drifted away. They wanted nothing to do with either foul-mouthed youths or officious police.
Sergeant Milne was a big dour man who made no attempt to disguise his contempt. ‘I’ve just had a complaint about you, Dykes. Using filthy language.’
‘Was it that whure with the warty nose? I wasn’t speaking to her.’
‘Maybe not, but she heard you. It’s an offence to use that kind of language in public.’
‘Everybody uses it. I’ve heard cops use it. Why pick on me?’
Milne nodded towards the writing on the wall. ‘Is that your handiwork?’
‘I don’t even know what the fuck it means.’
‘Likely enough you didn’t do it yourself, for you can’t write, but maybe you know who did do it.’
‘I don’t know anybody that uses words like that. Do we, Johnny?’
Milne glowered at Crosbie whom he especially disliked.
‘You see, sergeant, we’re not religious,’ said Crosbie.
Constable Hastie tried not to grin. Detective Sergeant McLeod in charge of the investigation had suggested that it was the work of religious cranks: he was religious himself. Sergeant Milne thought political subversives were to blame. Constable Hastie himself was inclined to think the culprits were the same High School show-offs who had painted the statue red-white-and-blue.
Sergeant Milne turned to Duffy. ‘What’s your name? Where d’you live?’
‘Duffy, sir. 86 Kenilworth Court.’
That artful ‘sir’ caused the sergeant’s attitude to soften. He had time for young people who respected authority.
‘Don’t tell me this pair are pals of yours.’
‘They were in my class at school.’
Well, said Milne’s expression then, you couldn’t have been bright, but being backward’s not a crime and good manners and neat sensible clothes go a long way to make up for it.
‘What does your father do, Duffy?’
‘He’s dead, sir. My mother works in the Caledonian Hotel.’
Constable Hastie whispered in the sergeant’s ear. Some of the younger policemen frequented the lounge bar and knew his mother.
‘If you want to keep out of trouble, Duffy, stay away from this pair. I’m sure your mother would agree with me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Get along then.’
As Duffy walked away he heard the sergeant say: ‘Leave that lad alone, do you hear? He’s just the sort you two would corrupt.’
‘What’s corrupt?’ asked Dykes, suspiciously.
Suppose, thought Duffy, I don’t get the job and decide to carry on with my war. Dykes and Crosbie would make suitable recruits. In no war in history had soldiers been asked to pass a test of moral fitness. According to Mr Flockhart among the Crusaders there had been adventurers, villains, and cut-throats. All that was required of participators in wars was instant and complete obedience, whether the order was to tear pages out of books or drop bombs on cities.
CHAPTER NINE
Cooley wanted to know where he was going all dressed up.
‘For an interview.’
‘About a job?’
‘Yes.’
‘What job?’
‘At the pottery factory.’
‘Porteous’s place?’
‘Yes.’
‘You mean to tell me you’d be willing to work for that stuck-up bastard, after what she’s done to me? Talk about defilers and abusers! She’s the worst.’
He said nothing.
‘What kind of job? Sweeping the floors? That’s all she’d think you good for. Anyway they’re on slack time at the factory. Was it Veitch that arranged it?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s a dizzy bitch. She gets things wrong. Because she’s in love, maybe. Her boyfriend’s in Aberdeen. He’s got a good job in oil. He visits her whenever he can and they spend most of the time in bed. She’s knackered for days afterwards. She’s worried he’ll not marry her. So she gets things wrong.’
‘Who told you all this?’
‘Wee Cathie. Her mother knows Mrs Calderwood who does Veitch’s cleaning. I expect it’ll be wee Johnson the manager you’ll see.’
‘My appointment is with Mrs Porteous.’
‘You really have a high opinion of yourself, Duffy. Why would her ladyship want to interview a floor-sweeper?’
‘I have to see her at three o’clock.’
‘You’re early then.’
‘I’m going to the bank first.’
‘Now you’re talking. How much are you going to take out?’
‘Enough.’
‘How much is enough? Depends on what you want to do, doesn’t it? Remember what I said about coming to London with me. If you don’t get this job, and you won’t, come with me. Mick’s uncle could get both of us lifts. It’d be safer if there were two of us. You want excitement, well here’s your chance.’
‘Why are you so sure I won’t get the job?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Duffy, why should Porteous give you a job when she’s turned down dozens with certificates? Out of pity? She’s got a heart of stone. Because you fancy her daughter? She doesn’t know that, but if she did she’d be more likely to warn the cops. I don’t care what Veitch said, it’ll not be Porteous you’ll see but the manager and he’ll tell you nothing doing, no floor-sweepers required, thank you very much, goodbye.’
‘It’s not a floor-sweeping job. Mrs Porteous wants an apprentice to learn the whole business of pottery.’
‘Did she tell Veitch that?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t believe it, but if it was true, why the hell would Veitch send you?’
‘Why shouldn’t she send me?’
‘Because, Duffy, she may have a soft spot for you but like everybody else she thinks you’re daft, or half-daft anyway. You’ve put on too good an act, Duffy. Sometimes I’m not sure myself that it is an act. Like last night when you were havering about defilers and abusers. Now here you are imagining you’ll get this job and work your way up to the top and become manager and marry Margaret and live in a villa in Ballochmyle and have kids that you’ll send to private school so as not to be contaminated by the scruff at the High School. Like in one of your mother’s story-books. You really are simple, Duffy, if you believe that’s going to happen.’
Perhaps he did not believe it was going to happen but he let himself hope that it would. So much so that on his way to the bank he saw people differently from the way he had seen them that morning. Then he had blamed them for their complacency which he had thought would bring about the destruction of the world. Now he approved of their refusing to embitter their lives with useless protests. Besides it could be that they were right after all and war could be averted only by the possession of bigger bombs than the enemy’s. If he was to join the human race, as Mr Flockhart had ironically suggested he should, it would be people like these, sensibly dressed, clean, respectable, and hard-working that he would want to associate with, not unwashed long-haired hippies that went on protest marches, nor foul-mouthed louts like Mick Dykes, nor punks without conscience like Crosbie.
Cooley had jeered about him making his fortune, as if it had never been done before. Andrew Carnegie had gone
to America a poor unknown boy and had become one of the richest men in the world, and a famous philanthropist. Mrs Porteous had once said, when addressing the Lightburn Women’s Business Club – it had been reported in the local newspaper – that the best way of helping the poor was not through hand-outs from the State but through the efforts of successful men and women in creating businesses that gave employment and brought prosperity to the whole country.
In the bank the clerkess without hesitation handed him five five-pound notes, the amount he had entered on the slip. ‘How’s your mother?’ she asked, cheerfully. He replied that his mother was in Spain on holiday, the money was to pay bills. ‘I’m green with envy,’ she replied, with a wink.
The other people in the bank accepted him as one of them. They approved of the careful way he placed the notes in his wallet and then put the wallet into his inside pocket. By showing respect for money he was also showing respect for those who valued it properly.
A workman was scrubbing the declaration of war off the wall.
Duffy saw it as symbolic: his war was off. He was another person.
At the back of his mind sounded faintly a warning not to be too confident. He did not heed it. He was convinced he would be able to win over Mrs Porteous.
The girl in the reception office was only a year or two older than himself.
‘I’ve to see Mrs Porteous at three,’ he said, shyly.
She consulted a diary. ‘Is your name Thomas Duffy?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re in good time.’
The clock on the wall said five minutes to three.
‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Mrs P. has someone in with her.’
She wanted to be inquisitive but was afraid he might be a friend of her employer. ‘Do you live in Lightburn?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t say I’ve seen you around.’
He hadn’t seen her either. It wasn’t strange. The town had only twelve thousand inhabitants but they lived in cliques.
Just Duffy Page 6