by Ian Todd
“So, whit ur they then?” Issie wanted tae know, sounding uncomfortable, as Sharon cursed hersel fur furgetting that Issie couldnae read or write.
“Whit, did ye furget yer glasses, hen?” she managed tae get in, as everywan sighed wae relief.
“Er…aye, sorry, Sharon. If Ah hid hauf a brain it wid’ve been lost long ago,” Issie replied nervously, as the others leaned forward, scanning the sheets.
“Menus?” Soiled Sally exclaimed.
“Menus,” Sharon confirmed, sitting back oan her chair. “Each wan wae a different price at the bottom ae them.”
“Twenty-five pence per heid?”
“This wan says fifty pence, so it dis,” Ann echoed, looking up fae her sheet.
“Christ, look at the seventy-five pence wan…who’s that fur, the Queen’s only ugly daughter, Anne or whitever the horsey bitch is called?” Betty shouted in wonder, shaking her heid.
“Listen, let’s no sell oorsels short here. Whit we’re daeing is gieing people a choice. If they want fancy, they’ll get fancy. If it’s potted-hough sandwiches and a wee fruit scone, then that’s whit they’ll get. They’ll still get quality wae good Robertson’s jam in it fur twenty-five pence a heid. It’ll always be quality we’re gieing people.”
“Oh, Ah don’t know,” Betty murmured, tut-tutting, sounding doubtful.
“Look, the days ae providing slap-up grub fur people’s weddings and praying that the hat that gets passed roond at the end ae the night covers oor costs wae a wee bit left fur a packet ae fags is o’er, so it is.”
“It aw sounds kinda expensive, so it dis. Kin we no shave aff fifty percent and see whit reaction we get fae people, Sharon?” Issie asked.
“Naw, we bloody well cannae, Issie,” Sharon snapped back, nipping any dissention in the bud. ”Unless, of course, ye aw want tae go back tae trying tae stoap smoking?”
“Well, how aboot getting shot ae the expensive seventy-five pence menu then?” Ann suggested as a compromise. “That’s the wan that jumps oot at ye, so it dis.”
“Ann, believe you me. That menu is anything bit expensive when ye see whit’s oan it.”
“Aye, Ah know, bit it’s jist that…”
“Look, Ah happen tae know ae at least hauf a dozen weddings aboot tae come up that we’re gonnae get approached aboot. Noo, Ah’m jist no prepared tae work masel intae the tar oan the road oot there, jist so that people kin hiv a good swally, while we’re in here slaving away like the Queen’s maids fur a pittance.”
Silence.
“Whit’s it tae be?” Sharon asked them, drumming the chewed fingernails ae her right haun oan the surface ae the table, as the twanging, rolling base ae The Everly Brother’s ‘The Price Ae Love,’ rattled and shook the stacked pots and pans that wur sitting oan the shelves underneath the workbench across fae where they wur sitting.
“Who’s gonnae tell them?”
“Who?”
“The happy couples that’ll be convinced we’re trying tae rip them aff?” Soiled Sally replied, blowing oot a stream ae fag smoke at the flies buzzing roond the bare light bulb above their heids.
“Ah will,” Sharon agreed. “And if they’re no happy, then they kin either get somewan else tae dae it cheaper or they kin dae it themsels.”
“Kin we no put thegither a wee kind ae leaflet or something?” Ann asked.
“Fur whit?” Issie demanded.
“Tae make it less hard fur poor Sharon here tae hit them wae a price tae their faces.”
“Look, Ah’m no bothered. Ah know whit we’re worth…remember, there’s four ae us tae consider…plus Sally,” Sharon added, as everywan laughed.
“Hoi, ya cheeky cow, ye. Ah take that personally, so Ah dae.”
“Ah think a leaflet is a brilliant idea, so it is,” Betty beamed, haudin up her fingers in a square in front ae everywan, as four sets ae eyes lit up.
“That widnae be a wee challenge fur a business name, by any chance, wid it, Betty?” Sharon asked, smiling, as that wee ugly cretin wae the toothy grin, Herman The Hermit, led the masses next door wae ‘There’s a Kind ae Hush’ and Betty smiled, nodding.
“Maybe.”
“Aye, bit we don’t want any ae they big fancy sounding words that nowan kin pronounce noo, Ann. Ye’re no at night school noo,” Issie warned her.
“Aye, well, you jist concentrate oan coming up wae your nomination and leave the rest ae us tae work oot oor ain wans at this end, Issie,” Ann retorted.
“See, she’s started awready, so she his,” Issie pouted.
“Oh ma God, we’re gonnae open up a business…wait till that useless misfit Bert hears aboot this wan,” Soiled Sally shrieked wae excitement. “That’ll teach the basturt tae swipe ma fag money, so it will.”
“Right, that’s settled then. Monday morning it is, here at The Springburn Halls, fur poor auld Nan’s funeral tea. Nae business name means nae vote, so mind and come armed wae something,” Ann warned them aw excitedly.
“We’re no gonnae be charging Squinty Alex fur Wee Nan’s funeral tea, ur we?” Issie asked, mortified.
“Issie, don’t be daft. Of course we’re no. We’ll put oot the word roond everywan asking fur a wee donation. Right, who’s fur a wee dance and a sing-along then?” Sharon asked them as Charlie and they Muff Divers ae his launched intae ‘Great Balls Ae Fire’ wae the worst Jerry Lee Lewis accent Sharon hid ever heard in her life as everywan next door roared their approval.
Chapter Twelve
“Right, here we go, Lisa Marie. When Ah gie ye the nod, that’s when ye drap the needle oan tae the 45.”
“Noooooo, Da, Ah’ve goat homework tae get finished,” she girned, sitting cross-legged oan the bed, exaggerating that annoyance ae hers.
“Look, the longer ye sit there interrupting me, the longer Ah’ll be,” he retorted, turning slightly tae the left a wee bit so as tae get a better look at his full profile in the mirror behind the wardrobe door.
“Noo?” she mouthed quietly, clearly noising him up.
“Naw!” he mouthed back silently, scowling a warning at her, shaking that heid ae his as he quickly composed himsel again, looking moody and troubled in tae the mirror, as he gied her the nod.
He let oot a wee cough tae clear his throat as the sound ae Two Thousand and Wan: A Space Odyssey, started tae fill the room fae Lisa Marie’s record player oan the wee table under the windae. Lisa Marie tried, bit failed, no tae burst oot giggling as her da started walking roond in a wee circle, heid bowed like a world champion boxer, nodding tae the imaginary stage crew tae the left and right ae him as he pushed his way through the hingers-oan backstage, oan the carpeted flair-space at the bottom ae her bed, the opening live recording ae the brass section ae ‘That’s Awright Mamma,’ jumping oot ae the wee battery operated turntable.
“Well, that’s awright Mamma, that awright fur yoooo…” he let rip, as the towel that hid been hauf covering his face landed oan the cat’s heid, where it sat across at the door, scratching tae escape.
“Tea up!” Pricilla shouted, popping her heid roond the door as a grateful Sylvester disappeared like a shot.
“Arrggghhh!” Elvis howled, as Lisa Marie laughed, scrambling across the bed, ducking oot ae they grappling hauns ae his. “Don’t think we’re finished in here,” he warned her.
“Is that it?” Lisa Marie asked, nodding at the fancy card that wis sitting leaning against her other granny’s ashes vase, as her ma reached across tae the sideboard and picked up the card and handed it tae her.
“Mr Elvis Presley is cordially invited tae compete in ‘Elvis Is The Main Man Event’ competition at The Plaza Ballroom,” she read oot loud, looking up at her da, as he winked back at her. “Heat wan, Friday 12th ae September at wan pm. Heat two, seven pm. Semi Final, Saturday the thirteenth, wae heat wan at wan pm and heat two at seven pm. And then, Da-Da-Dah! The Grand Finale oan Sunday the 14th…whit happens if ye miraculously manage tae get tae the final oan the Sunday only tae discover ye’ve lost that voice ae yers?”
>
“And whit happens if Ah don’t?”
“Wae a name like yours, it’s gonnae be some embarrassment if ye don’t get through the first roond, never mind getting tae the final, so it is,” she said, scooping a lump ae her mashed totties up aff ae her plate wae the link sausage oan the end ae her fork, before dipping it in her baked bean sauce and popping it in her mooth.
“Wae a name like yer da’s, there’s no way he’s no gonnae make the final,” her ma said tae her. “Jeez, it wid bring the whole competition intae disrepute, so it wid. Is that no right, Elvis?”
“Ach, ye’re jist as bad as her.”
“Whit?” they baith chorused thegither in feigned innocence.
“Well, it’s no working, so it’s no. This is the day Ah’ve been waiting fur aw ma life. Christ, Ah’m no gonnae sleep until September comes roond noo, so Ah’m no,” Elvis scowled, taking a moothful in tae they pouting lips ae his.
“Oh, the middle ae September?” Lisa Marie exclaimed, remembering, looking fae wan tae the other.
“Aye, Lisa, hen. Ah didnae mention it tae yer da, jist in case he didnae get through tae the heat stages,” Pricilla telt her, reaching across and putting her haun across her daughter’s.
“So…whit aboot ma Duke ae Edinburgh stuff then?”
“Aye, well, Ah wis gonnae speak tae ye aboot that wan, darling,” Pricilla replied, putting oan her best apologetic expression that she kept jist fur times like this.
“Bit Ah kin still go cycling and camping wae Annie, Lucy and Penny doon tae Loch Lomond then?” Lisa Marie asked, eyes narrowing.
“Aye, well....”
“The Duke ae Edinburgh Awards? Ah’ve been telling ye aboot it fur months, so Ah hiv…remember?” she reminded her ma.
“Oh…er…vaguely.”
“That noo Ah’m twelve and a young adult, me and ma pals kin get tae dae things oan oor ain…like camping and cycling…and aw that…” Lisa Marie said, her voice trailing aff.
“Camping…whit, wur you aware ae this, Pricilla?” Elvis asked, eyes narrowing, smelling a rat.
“Ah wis aware that Lisa Marie wis daeing the award…bit Ah thought it wis aboot getting involved in running aboot daeing shoapping fur some ae the auld wans aboot the area…ye never mentioned any camping tae me,” her ma scowled at her.
“Ah bloody-well did!”
“Hoi, language!” the baith ae them barked at her.
“Well, if Ah’m no gaun camping tae Loch Lomond, then ye better no be expecting me tae be sitting aw weekend listening tae a bunch ae weird people trying tae imitate Elvis Presley!” she howled defiantly.
“Er, excuse me miss…we’ll hiv less ae the weird. Ye’re ma’s no a day aulder than forty,” he reminded her, laughing.
“So, Ah kin go…camping doon tae Loch Lomond then?” she asked eagerly.
“Lisa, like Ah’ve awready said, me and yer da’ll hiv a wee chat aboot it between oorsels and then we’ll get back tae ye, okay?”
“Bit… Ah’m twelve…”
“Jist leave it at that, Lisa, or ye’ll be spending that weekend wae Granny Presley,” Pricilla warned her, and Elvis smiled, wincing, as Lisa Marie drapped her knife and fork noisily oan tae her plate.
“Ah’ve telt ye before, her name’s no Presley!” she shouted, scowling at her da, disappearing through tae her bedroom withoot a backward glance at them.
“She gets that fae you, so she dis,” Pricilla reminded him, reaching across and stabbing wan ae Lisa’s sausages wae her fork.
“Me? Ah’m no twelve,” Elvis retorted, leaning across and stealing the sausage before it reached Pricilla’s plate.
Chapter Thirteen
“Aye, ye made it, Elvis.”
“So, whit’s happening then?” he panted, the sweat pishing aff ae him as he took aff his jaicket and silk scarf and draped them o’er the back ae the bench in front ae them.
“Ah think his case is up next, so it is.”
While he goat his breath back, Elvis listened tae the heavily-built guy in the donkey jaicket in the dock express genuine surprise that somewan like him could’ve ended up staunin where he wis, accused ae hitting that wee wife ae his, the mother ae his four weans, o’er the heid wae an empty Irn Bru bottle, while in the full throes ae a heid-thumping hangover. He seemed genuinely mystified that the said heidache hid resulted in him being huckled by the polis and her being gied seven stitches by the wee fat doctor wae the horn-rimmed glasses and the bad breath up at The Royal the night before. Impressive though the wife-beater’s acting obviously wis, it didnae take Elvis’s mind long tae drift back tae when he’d received the telephone call fifteen minutes earlier, jist as he’d been aboot tae exit the office and surprise a couple ae fish and chip shop and cafe owners up oan Maryhill Road wae his unannounced presence. The call hid been fae Jack Hawks, wan ae his sanitation officers, who’d been roond the corner at Lanarkshire Hoose, The Sheriff Court, oan Ingram Street. Jack hid jist been informed that the case he’d been waiting tae be called up oan, as a prosecution witness, wis nae longer gaun aheid due tae the charges hivving been drapped. This wis despite a shit-shovelful ae evidence, including quality photographs ae cockroaches in the throes ae multiplying by the thousands in the back ae the breid storage cupboard ae Keppochhill Bakery Ltd, up at the Keppochhill Road end ae Pinkston Drive. Twenty-wan species ae bacteria, including Salmonella, Staphylococcus and Klebsiella pneumoniae being the least deadly found oan the cuticle and in the guts ae the scurrying wee basturts. Efter hinging aboot, chewing the cud, trying tae find oot whether there hid been a bribe involved, Blind Bill Campbell’s name hid come up in the conversation wae wan ae the wee clerks ae the court. Seemingly, Glesga’s answer tae Fagan himsel hid been arrested and wis noo due tae appear fae custody roond at the Central Police Court oan Turnbull Street, doon in The Saltmarket.
“Elvis, ye better get yer arse doon tae the Central Polis Court, as in pronto!” Jack hid shouted o’er the revving engine ae a big red GPO van sitting oan the ramp, waiting tae nip oot and intae the traffic.
Jack hid jist dashed oot ae the procurator fiscal’s office tae the wee telephone cubicles built in tae the side ae The Post Office building, opposite the courthoose oan South Frederick Street.
“Why, whit’s up?”
“Ah’m no sure, bit Ah’ve jist found oot that Blind Bill Campbell is due up in front ae Calypso Allan this morning, so he is.”
“Blind Bill Campbell…Harold Sliver’s Blind Bill…that Bill?”
“Aye.”
“Right…” Elvis hid shouted in tae the receiver, no quite sure at that stage as tae the connection wae him or the work ae the team. “Whit ur the charges, Jack?”
“Vagrancy.”
“Vagrancy?”
“That’s whit Ah’ve been telt,” Jack hid screamed back o’er the racket.
“Right, Ah’m oan ma way. Kin you nip roond tae Turnbull Street and keep a place in the public gallery fur me,” he’d shouted, drapping the phone in tae the cradle before grabbing his jaicket and scarf fae the back ae his chair.
Blind Bill Campbell, if he wisnae awready a millionaire, must’ve been pretty close tae it by noo. Harold Sliver, wan ae the journalists fae The Evening Citizen hid done whit he called ‘an investigative expose’ oan Campbell, covering a five-day spread fae the Monday tae the Friday, oan the double life he lived. Everywan and their dug in The Corporation HQ, alang wae maist ae the toon, hid been chattering in wonder wan day and howling in jealous outrage the next. As well as highlighting his criminal activity, it hid been his so-called lavish lifestyle that seemed tae be upsetting everywan. According tae Sliver, Blind Bill Campbell ran a network ae pickpockets and purse thieves that operated wherever there wis mair than three people congregating aboot oan the street or shoaps, gaun aboot their daily business, aw o’er the city. Apparently, nowan wis safe fae the sticky-fingered clutches ae that young pickpocket team ae his. It hid been claimed that his squad ae thieving street urchins, aged as young as ten years auld up tae their mid teens,
wur generating tens ae thousands ae tax free pounds a year. The paper hid started the week aff by printing pictures ae his lavish lifestyle, behind his claims ae being a poor, helpless, blind beggar, who hid tae survive oan whit passers-by oan the street drapped in tae the auld, chipped tin cup that he carried aboot wae him. There hid been a brilliant photo ae Bill staunin at the corner ae Bath Street and Renfield Street wae the cup held oot in front ae him, an auld piece ae cardboard tied roond his neck by a frayed piece ae string. The cardboard hid ‘War Veteran’ scribbled oan it wae whit looked like a black bit ae charcoal. At a first glance, the sight ae the poor, bedraggled basturt, staunin oan the corner, wid’ve made a glass eye water. That is, until ye clocked the photos underneath ae a well-dressed glutton, sitting in amongst a group ae scantily-clad dolly-birds, scoffing champagne in The Chevalier Casino up in Buchanan Street or posing ootside a big fancy hoose wae a swimming pool in a place called Marbella across in Spain. Also, the fact that the war veteran hid been blind fae birth added tae the harmonic, outrageous howling fae everywan. It wis wan ae the best demolition jobs that Elvis, and maist ae the reading population ae the toon, hid witnessed, since a journalist called Mary Marigold, fae The Glesga Echo, noo deid, hid done oan JP Donnelly, a notorious corrupt councillor up in Springburn, efter wan ae the local wummin stood in a by-election against him back in 1972. JP never recovered efter that wan. The follow-up heidlines aboot Blind Bill, accompanied by photos ae thieving basturts wae wee black boxes covering their eyes tae hide their true identities, explained in detail how Blind Bill’s sticky-fingered army ae thieves operated. Bus stoaps seemed tae be a particularly favourite target. Wan set ae photos hid two wee boys, aged aboot ten or eleven years auld, mid-week, so obviously dogging school, in amongst a crowd ae wummin stepping oan tae the back ae a bus ootside The Glesga Echo offices at the bottom ae Hope Street. Wan wee boy stood, jist in front ae the victim, his back, hard against her while the other wee wan, stood directly behind him. In effect, the wummin and her handbag wur caught between the two wee sticky-fingered toe-rags. It wis the wan at the back that did the damage. Efter clicking open the handbag and dipping his fingers in tae remove the purse, the pair doubled back oan themsels and let the victim step forward, her haunbag gaping like a hippo’s open mooth, up and oan tae the back ae the bus. The photographer hid followed this particular two-boy crime wave across a dozen bus stoaps in the city centre, and highlighted the fact that there wis o’er a dozen wee two-boy teams operating at bus stoaps, crowded shoap front windaes and traffic lights aw o’er the toon. Wummin’s purses wur called ‘Purbons’ by the wee blaggers, apparently. Oan another day’s instalment, Sliver’s article covered aw the fitba matches taking place at Parkheid, Ibrox, Firhill and Shawfield. Wee squads ae two-boy pickpockets wur in full ‘pocket-dipping’ mode, lifting wallets, right, left and centre fae the back trooser pockets ae unsuspecting fitba supporters, as well as whisking wristwatches by the dozen fae wrists in the crush ae the crowds. The maist vulnerable time fur losing yer wallet or wristwatch wis when ye wur heidin up the crowded steps fae the turnstiles tae take yer place in the stand, when the home team scored or in the toilets at hauf time. There hid been a cracking photo ae two wee manky, grinning toe-rags, their identities blacked oot, staunin wae wan erm each held aloft, covered in every make ae watch known tae man. Another interesting detail highlighted hid been the statistics covering a day at the main railway and bus stations where ‘Purbons’ ‘pocket-dipping’ fur wallets and watches, wur operating at an alarming rate. Nowan hid read anything like it. The fact that the expose’ oan whit wis happening contained these amazing black and white photos ae the dastardly deeds taking place, only served tae make everywan reading the articles feel mair vulnerable. Sliver hid even drawn up seasonal no-go areas fur readers, like the winter fitba season, the Christmas Panto queues at The Kings Theatre and The Pavilion, plus the Kelvin Hall circus extravaganzas, summer nights doon oan Glesga Green at the shows, the Barras at weekends and holiday queues ae people waiting tae heid aff tae Rothesay and Largs oan the Glesga Fair fortnight. Of course, Blind Bill hid denied everything. According tae The Evening Citizen, Blind Bill operated oot ae a ‘front’ run-doon tenement flat up oan Rooney St, jist up fae the junction, where Possil Road veers aff ae Garscube Rd, and doon fae The Astoria Bingo Hall. According tae Blind Bill, efter being confronted by Harold Sliver underneath whit the paper claimed wis his living room windae, he claimed that he wis jist up visiting a sick pal ae his.