by Laura Hird
Someone chapped at the front door. John went to see. It was Tania, still in uniform.
Seen Dek? she said. He wasn’t in the pub.
Last time I saw him he was heading off with that game in his bag, said John. Thought he might be trying to swap it for a drink. Frankie Boy’s chessboard’s starting to get a bit worn.
No, he wasn’t there. I think we should go over and see if he’s all right.
Aye, us and the rest of the Broons, said John. I can’t come out, I’m doing my mum’s hair.
I’ll give you a hand, then, said Tania. They went upstairs. John’s mum’s hair was dry, combed and lashed in a tight bun.
Some excuse, said Tania.
See you? said John, shaking his finger at his mum. You’ve got a lot to answer for. Can you not run away and join a circus or something? I’m away out. Listen, when I come back I want this place looking like a new pin.
John only had the one crash helmet for his moped. It took Tania and him an hour and a half to get to Dek’s place what with the evening buses and the walking.
He’s got a special knock so’s he knows we’re not the men from Barclaycard, said John, it’s some Dusty Springfield number, I can’t mind which. Could be ‘You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me’.
Dek! shouted Tania through the letterbox. It’s Tania and John!
They heard his footsteps in the hall and he opened the door.
What’s wrong? he said.
It’s nine o’clock and you’re sober, said John.
They went straight through to the lounge. It was kind of bare but neat, just a bit of dust on Dek’s maritime books and his models of tea clippers, and the usual unrinsed glasses were missing. Dek had the Go board laid out on the coffee table, which was pushed up close to the armchair with the deepest bum-hollow. A game was in progress, the black and white discs all mingled up with each other on the board in a complex pattern. John and Tania sat down on the settee together. Dek went back to the armchair and studied the board, rubbing his chin.
How about a coffee when you’re done playing with yourself, said John.
I can’t do it, said Dek.
Well, tea’d be fine. Or a can of something, if you’ve got it. Maybe a light salad, something inventive with chick peas and a twist of lemon, wee soupçon of garlic in there.
I can’t do it. These stones … white does this, black does this, then white does the same thing, there’s no end to it. I’ve been trying to crack it for two hours.
Tania and John went over and knelt on the carpet by the table. It seemed Dek had got into a situation where the black and white pieces were stalemated on one corner of the board. Black could take a white piece, but then white could immediately take the black piece that did the taking, and then white could take the black piece that took the white piece – there was no way out.
I can’t stand looking at this, said John. These black circles, I feel like God cruising over all the wardens on parade. I’ll make the coffee. He went to the kitchen.
Where’s the instruction book? said Tania.
Ach, I’ve read it backwards, said Dek, staring at the board and biting his nails.
Where is it?
Dek nodded to his right. Tania picked up the book. After a while she said Ko.
Eh? said Dek.
Ko, said Tania. It says here if black and white reach a position of ko, where a cycle of capture and counter-capture can continue indefinitely, the player whose piece is captured first has to make a move elsewhere on the board.
Where’d you find that? said Dek, grabbing the book.
Two of the pages were stuck together, said Tania.
Dek lifted the pages to his nostrils. Bacon fat, he said. Ko. OK.
OK, said Tania. You did say you’d read it backwards,.
Dek looked in Tania’s eyes. I, eh … wait a minute, don’t go away, he said, and went off to the kitchen.
Who’s winning, the wardens or those white creatures? said John.
Dek opened the fridge and took out a can.
We’re all winning, everyone except me, he said. He took a pint glass out of a cupboard and pulled the can open. She’s perfect for me, I just can’t say anything.
You need a drink, said John.
Right, said Dek.
John took the can from Dek and poured the contents brown and foaming down the plughole.
You arse. Ninety-nine pence, said Dek.
Now for the drink, said John. He held the empty can up in front of Dek. What does it say?
Best English bitter, said Dek.
The big letters.
Courage.
Right. John lifted the pint glass, tilted it slightly and rested the edge of the can carefully on the rim. You have to watch this, he said. If you get the angle wrong it foams up like spit in a sherbet fountain. Are you thirsty?
Yeah, I was kind of, aye.
Cause this is the best thing out for thirst. D’you remember telling me about your first love, Elaine Corkwood?
Course I do.
D’you remember that time you were going to ask her out?
I suppose.
How did you feel? Hot and sweaty?
Uhuh.
And your whole chest was shaking with your heart going, your mouth was really dry, your tongue felt like a cold smoked sausage, you kept dry-swallowing and trying to lick your lips. It was like that, wasn’t it?
Yeah.
So what did you do? Sounds like you were thirsty, did you go down to the pub?
I was twelve years old!
Right. You didn’t go to the pub. You had some of this stuff. Under-age drinking, the best. You knocked back some of the courage and you went ahead and asked her out.
Yeah, and she told me to fuck off.
Whoah! Just a moment. The pouring is about to begin. John gradually tilted the empty can. Its colour is golden-brown, he said, it’s cool and translucent, with a taste between malt and honey, and a mountain burn. Look at the way it curls when it hits the glass, there’s a freshness about it. Just watching that stream makes me feel better. There we go. D’you mind if I have a wee sip? John put the glass to his lips, tilted it slightly, took it away from his mouth, closed his eyes, smiled and shivered. He opened his eyes and handed the glass to Dek.
Dek took it and looked at it.
Go on, said John.
Dek lifted the glass to his mouth, rested the rim on his teeth and jerked it upwards.
Steady! said John. You’ll spill it. Take it in one, but take it steady. Christ, you’ve had enough practice.
Dek began to tilt the glass at a measured pace, eyes closed, thrapple working.
Good! said John.
The glass went up to and over the horizontal. Dek put it down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and broke wind.
OK? said John.
Ko, said Dek, and headed for the lounge.
Eh … ko, said John. He opened his mouth wide, held his head back and shook the glass upside down over it.
Dek faced Tania in the lounge. Listen, he said, I think we should maybe try going out, you and me.
Och Dek.
There’s something I’d like you to do for me, though.
John and Dek left the dental hospital after midnight. John paid for a cab back to Dek’s. In the taxi Dek took out a white porcelain piece from the Go set.
I suppose it does look a wee bit like a mint, he said. How did she have to bite it so hard?
It shows she was passionate about you. It’s the best thing that could’ve happened, said John. They’ll sort her out in there. I don’t think she’s been to a dentist since she left school.
Right enough, see the gleam in that guy’s eye when they wheeled her in.
Big special in the dental magazines, eh.
Aye. Full dental centre spread. Whoaugh.
Steady man.
When Dek and John entered the Commendatore’s office he hurled traffic safety pamphlets at them.
I’ve always wanted to do that, h
e said. Throw the book at you. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his stomach.
They’re not books, they’re pamphlets, and politically suspect as well, said John. Look. See how the cars only drive on one side of the road? The left side of the road? See? Get my drift? That Department of Transport’s nothing but a nest of communists, if you ask me.
I didn’t, did I? said the Commendatore. That’s your problem. You’re a smartarse. Nobody loves a smartarse. You’re out. God knows the punters hate us enough already without you inflicting mysterious extracts from Victorian literature on them. And there’s no place in my department for wardens who discriminate against cars on the basis of colour. You can clear your locker now.
He turned to Dek. As for you, apart from your body’s not very special ability to turn beer into piss and vomit, you’ve assaulted a disabled driver.
Ach, come on, he wasn’t disabled until I kicked him.
Oh! Two for the price of one, thank you, said the Commendatore, making a note.
Christ, said Dek in wonderment, I’ve been out of school for 25 years, and you still sound like my teacher.
John sat down on the edge of the pavement outside the wardens’ office. He looked over at his moped. Someone had stuck a ticket on it. He lowered his head, took out his P45 and started folding it into a paper aeroplane, with his shoulders hunched and his arms hanging between his knees.
Dek came out, sat down beside him and spat in the gutter.
Shite, he said.
John said nothing.
Charlie’s fixed up a meeting with the branch secretary, Dek said.
John said nothing.
Industrial action or a tribunal at least, Dek said. He turned to John and shouted. Hello! Hello … Hello!
John launched the P45 aircraft. It went a few yards and nosedived into the road. The Grand Inquisitor was right, he said, nobody loves a smartarse.
Ach, stop feeling sorry for yourself. Dek took out a big hipflask, unscrewed the top and offered it to John. John took it, shook it, sniffed it, turned it upside down and gave it back.
It’s empty, he said.
I filled it before I left. It’s courage, said Dek, putting the flask to his lips and throwing his head back. John watched as he gulped it down.
Hey, he said. Leave some for us, eh. He took the flask and swigged. It’s not so good warm, he said.
What’s Tania going to say? said Dek. Bankrupt and unemployed.
What’s my mother going to say. Fuck all. She’s like her song. She must know somethin, but she don’t say nothin. Thomas Carlyle could’ve written Ol’ Man River. He probably did. You can see him in his top hat and tails, tramping down Leith Walk with his face done up like Al Jolson, jumping up on a conveniently placed bale of cotton and singing I gets weary, and sick of tryin, I’m tired of livin, and scared of dyin.
Aaah, that’s good stuff, said Dek, finishing the courage. Fuck the tribunal. Come on. Let’s go and play with the traffic.
They struck just before the evening rush hour, and no-one realised what was happening at first. Dek concentrated on the city centre while John used his moped to hit key points further out. Their main tactic was to direct streams of cars back on each other, creating self-perpetuating tailbacks in both directions. By seven o’clock the Forth Bridge, the A1, the A8 and the bypass were all locked solid. At an early stage the traffic police asked the wardens to help them out, causing added confusion when it was realised who was responsible. A number of wardens were arrested. Others were attacked by angry motorists who had heard radio reports about an army of rogue wardens who, according to a spokesman for the Automobile Association, deserved to be shot on sight. Thousands of vehicles ran out of petrol while idling in the queues and drivers bedded down in their cars. Next day the papers gave prominence to the woman who had given birth in her car overnight and planned to call her daughter Montego.
Dek and John got six months each. The sheriff loved his vintage Bentley and wanted to give them more but the charges were too obscure. The accused were seen to drink from imaginary glasses before sentence was passed. In jail Dek perfected the art of Go and began to correspond with the Japanese masters. Tania was the subject of a long article in the British Dental Journal, explaining why it had been necessary to remove all her teeth. When Dek got out the two of them moved into a hard-to-let in the schemes, where they occasionally hosted frightened visitors from Kyoto and Osaka. The Commendatore retired shortly after the great snarl-up, rewarded for his long and selfless service with an OBE and haemorrhoids.
Dek and John’s deeds caused a rethink on traffic flow in Leith Walk and the community drama and merchant banking complex was cancelled. After his release John called Gillian and explained this had been his intention all along. Gillian wasn’t as grateful as he’d hoped because she’d started sleeping with one of the merchant bankers and was enjoying it. But they could be friends.
John ground his teeth and asked her out to the pictures. Afterwards they headed back to his place. He spent the journey explaining his mother.
She’ll sit there and look at you and cry, he said. She’ll do nothing, say nothing. It’s terrible.
Back at the house John made Gillian wait in the hall while he went upstairs to his mum’s room. She wasn’t there. They found her in the kitchen, with the table all laid out for three, with a white cloth, tea and a jam sponge. John put his hands on his hips and shook his head.
You are a truly terrible woman, he said.
His mother and Gillian looked at him. Gillian laughed. John’s mother started to cry. John and Gillian sat down and the three of them began to eat the cake.
Submission
PAUL REEKIE
YOU WOULDN’T RECOGNISE the milieu, the set up, you’d find me in nowadays Davie. These young guys. They have a basketball in the living room, but they don’t play basketball. It’s skateboards and folders and folders of their spray-paint art. Deedee asked me if I wanted a mural in my bedroom. Told him I don’t want a bedroom like an underpass. Was he going to like pish in the corner to make it authentic. Johnny B–– who’s the same age as me; when he’s telling his girlfriend he’s going to watch football on the TV says, ‘I’m going to watch the ball game.’ You get a laugh. It’s good. Don’t mind their records; two decks and 16 track going most the time. I can’t watch TV anymore; I’m not physically able. I found that when I saw adverts or anything that unexpectedly turned me on, gave me a hard-on, I was in a lot of pain. I’ll have to tell you about my warning shot from the Gods.
Mary (a painter) put turpentine down the toilet and I dropped a fag into it while I sat doing my meditations. I’m sitting with a nappy on as I write this. Arse, baws, knob all burnt. I go to the Infirmary and they put this spray on it. What have they given me for a pain-killer? Nurofen. It’s fucking useless. The skin splits if I get a hard-on or am not very careful in the bog. You remember that old John The Postman record ‘Tooth ache’? A fine representation of intense pain; well it’s worse than that. Much worse.
Thanks for the MS Davie. I’ll check with it seeing as I have the leisure. You ask about some of the Old Gang, the Old Faces; to tell you’ll be quite hard. You ask me to spare you nothing. I’ve no chance of remembering the lot. You ask how to get in the writing game and where to send stuff. I’ll send you the address of Jock’s magazine. But Davie you are a young cat yet, if you want a novel out, just sleep with those Bloomsbury women and you get any old stuff out. Look at Graham Barrie. It’s tiresome you know, sending out the old brown envelope on spec.
Mind you, novels are all shite to me. The novelist on Mt Olympus shunting his poor characters about. Novels are full of padding – they’re clearly objectionable. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve read Proust though or all those English novels, that, frivolous or in earnest were big on family values. How To Write That Novel: Get a prose style together. Don’t worry if you have a story or not but you MUST have that System Of Symbols together. Even the nowadays tape-recorder novel is shite. Somebody’s got to ou
tline the vernacular and that. Aye. But what a fucking chore. ‘I am a tape recorder’ is no more true today than ‘I am a camera’ was true in the 1930’s. Listening to the guys in the house the other day, I was reminded of when Jock did a big reading at the Tramway in Glasgow. He was back-stage after his set and this rock group were muttering amongst themselves, ‘Scottish people shouldn’t say, “motherfucker”. Man, Scottish people can say any motherfucking thing they like. These are all very fleeting thoughts though Davie. Seems as if nobody’s allowed not to be a philosopher, or not to be a polemicist. That’ll be the end for poetry then; not a bad thing necessarily? The charity shops will be stocked with even more tweeds, more corduroy trousers, yea even unto the broon brogues.
The Old Gang, The Old Faces: One I heard about the other day was Boogie, Marie’s big brother. He was adopted. Adopted by a good family though. He thought it was a shame for himself. Made sure you knew it was a shame for him. I remember he had all those WW2 magazines in the binders. I mean this is at 16. Airfix kits, Commando Comics. Even that Lockhead And The Starfighters LP, the solo one by the guy in Hawkwind. He wore all that army navy store gear. Boogie loved all of that military hardwear. Maybe it’s not a big deal. Like in our fathers’ day it was choo-choo trains. Compared to when Boogie and I were at school, kids seem to love rockets less and monsters more. What I heard was he works, writes for Jane’s Defence Monthly. That’ll suit him. I’ve still got his mother’s Complete Shakespeare, her name inside and everything. Maybe he doesn’t want it back because it’s not his real mum. It’s amazing how timid, how reactionary a person can be when they think they’re unloved.
Communist George, he’s another one. I still see him. He gave me this 1970’s pamphlet ‘Homage to John McLean’. Some of the good old jock poets in that. Edwin Morgan the best of the bunch therein. George is running icons out of the Ukraine nowadays. And it is a lucrative trade. He brought back this first-day cover from the Ukraine with this stamp of it, ‘Derek Dick (Fish) Scottish poet and writer’ with his noble head sideways-on like the Queen. And this is what passes for jock poets over there. Remember we went to see Yevtushenko reading at the King’s Theatre. That poem about the silver birch, when he was crouched up in a ball on the stage, slowly growing like a tree as the poem went. Like you did at nursery school. Effective though, else I’d’ve forgotten it. Christ, we saw Nureyev dance in the Ballet Russe the same year. L’Après-midi d’un faune and all the American tourists around us saying, ‘He sure can’t jump as high anymore … He’s getting old.’ I bet none of them knew at that time he was a hiver.