Glue (5 page)

It seemed crazy, but what had happened to Sandra Lockhart? The pretty blonde who was good at school, who’d gone to Leith Academy when the rest of her family, the Lockharts of Tennent Street, had all went to D.K. — David Kilpatrick’s, or ‘Daft Kids’ as the locals cruelly called it. Sandra was the youngest of the clan, the one child from that parish-booted band of wideos who seemed to be going places. Vivacious, bubbly and spoiled, she had always seemed a bit too big for those boots, continually appearing to look down on everybody in the tenemented streets of the old port her family came from. Everybody, except one, and he lay next to her.

The drunks had gone now, their voices tailing off into the night, but only to herald the return of the flagellating winds. Another ferocious blast and the window bellied in like Rolf Harris’s wobble-board, briefly teasing her with the possible drama of fracture, the one event that would surely waken her dozing husband beside her and force him to act, to do something. Anything. Just to show her that they were in this together.

Sandra looked at him, sleeping as soundly as the boys next door. He was fleshier now and his hair was thinning, but he hadn’t let himself go like some, and he still suggested Rock Hudson in
Written on the Wind
, the first proper film she’d seen as a girl. She tried to think about how
she
looked, and she felt her flab and cellulite, the touch of her hands on her body bringing both comfort and revulsion. She doubted if she put people in mind of Dorothy Malone any more. That was what they had called her then, ‘The Hollywood Blonde’.

Marilyn Monroe, Doris Day, Vera Ellen; she’d hinted at them all with one hairdo after another, but none more than Dorothy Malone in
Written on the Wind
. What a joke. Of course, she’d never known about this moniker at the time, at the Cappy concert and places like that. If she had, she’d’ve been so insufferable, Sandra conceded to herself. It
was only Wullie that had told her, not long after they started going out, that he was dating the lassie all the other guys knew as ‘The Hollywood Blonde’.

With sudden violence the rain thrashed like stones on the window, so hard that her heart seemed to split in two, one part rushing for her mouth, the other to her stomach. There was a time, she thought, when it all meant nothing; the wind, the rain, the drunks outside. If only Wullie would wake up and take her in his arms and hold her and make love to her, like they used to, sometimes all through the night. If only she could close the distance between them, just shake him awake and ask him to embrace her. But somehow, these were not the words either of them expected to come from her tongue.

How had the few inches between them become such a chasm?

Lying in the bed gazing at the featureless ceiling, with panic slicing through her in waves, a dazzling fissure opened up in Sandra’s mind. Through it, she could almost feel her sanity sliding into an abyss, leaving her a zombiefied shell. And she was on the verge of embracing it, comfortably, just to be like her husband, Wullie, who would sleep and sleep and sleep right through the mayhem until morning.

Stevie Bannerman can be as wide as fuck. It’s awright fir him sittin in the van aw day, it’s me that’s oot in aw weathers humpin fuckin crates oaf the back ay this lorry in the rain, stoapin at the pubs and clubs, then door-tae-door back roond the schemes here. Cannae complain mind you; thir’s loads ay birds gaun past, and bein oot here n the fresh air, checkin them oot, it’s the spice ay life. Too right.

They wanted ays tae stey oan as well, sais ah could dae a couple ay O grades if ah pit ma mind tae it. But what dae ye want tae stey oan at school fir when yuv already rode jist aboot every bird thair that’ll go? Waste ay fuckin time. Ah’ll huv tae git ma mate, the Milky Bar Kid, telt aboot that.

Goat the horn bigtime this mornin. Eywis the same eftir ah’ve been up the Classic the night before, watchin the dirty movies. Ah wanted tae go doon tae Lucy’s eftir, but her auld man’ll no lit me stey ower. Supposed tae be fuckin well engaged n aw. Time enough fir that whin yis are mairried, the cunt goes. Aye, like him n Lucy’s ma ur bangin away aw day?

That’ll be right.

We’re back at the scheme n Stevie’s stoaped the lorry at the waste. Ah couple ay auld fuckers come up tae ays. Thuv goat they toothless mooths thit pit ays n mind ay that pair ay worn oot auld dessy boots ah’ve goat in ma wardrobe, the one’s wi stitching burst in thum. Ah boat a new pair wi ma first week’s wages but ye cannae bring yirsel tae chuck the auld yins oot. — Two boatils ay orange, son, one wifie sais. Ah pull oot a couple ay boatils ay Hendry’s fae the toap crate, n take the pound and gie the change back. Sorry, missus, ah ken the juice you’re needin pumped intae you n it disnae come in fuckin boatils.

Yir no gittin it offay me anywey, missus!

They git oan thir wey n then ah see yin thit might be gittin it offay ays. Ah ken yon bright wee face next tae ays, it’s Maggie Orr. She’s wi ehr mate, another ride whae ah’ve seen aboot but whae ah dinnae ken. Well, no yet anywey.

— A boatil ay lemonade n a boatil ay Coke, wee Maggie sais. The year below ays at the school. Mair meat oan a butcher’s knife. Used tae feed her up whin ah wis monitor oan the school dinners. Ma mate Carl, the Milky Bar Kid, he’s goat the hoats fir her bigtime. Thoat eh wis in thaire cause eh wis hingin aboot wi her n Topsy wi that daft band that thir meant tae be in, n aw that crowd fae the Herts bus. Heard eh made a bit ay a cunt ay ehsel in front ay her last Setirday. Mibbe that’s how eh’s aw keen tae come wi us tae Hibs oan Setirday. Ye ken the wey ehs mind works, that cunt.

— They tell ays ye like yir Coke right enough, ah goes tae her.

She sais nowt, disnae really git the joke, but blushes a bit anywey. Her mate does n aw, but makes oot she’s squintin in the sun, pittin her hand up tae her face. Long black hair, dark eyes, n thick, full rid lips. Aye . . .

Good bit ay tit oan it.

— Youse should be at the school, ah goes, — wait till Blackie hears aboot this.

Maggie frowns at the mention ay that cunt’s name. Nae wonder.

— Aye, ah goes, — me n Blackie still keep in touch, ye ken. Good buddies, now thit wir baith workin men thegither. Eywis asks ays tae keep um informed aboot which ay ehs pupils urnae behavin themselves. Ah’ll keep ma mooth shut cause it’s you, but it’s gaunny cost ye mind.

Her mate’s laughin at this, but perr Maggie’s half sortay lookin at me as if ah’m serious. — Ah’m oaf sick. Ah’m jist oot fir some juice but, she goes, like ah’m gaunny grass her up tae a fuckin truancy officer or something.

— Aw aye, ah laughs, n looks at her pal, thir
is
a barry bit ay tit thair awright. — N your sick n aw, eh.

— Naw, she’s left, she wis at Auggie’s, Maggie explains before her mate can answer. She’s aw nervous n bothered, lookin aboot tae see whae’s watchin her bein oot.

Her mate’s much cooler. Ah like they big eyes n that long, black hair. — No workin doll? ah ask the lassie.

This yin wi the tits gits tae speak up fir the first time. — Aye, at the baker’s. But it’s ma day oaf, she says.

The baker’s wir gittin now, is it? Well ah’d pit a fuckin bun in the oven for her anywey. Nae danger. Nah, she’s no fuckin shy, no way, she’s jist workin ays oot.

— Veh-ry nice, ah say. — So’s that youse in aw oan yir lonesome? ah ask them baith.

— Aye, ma Uncle Alec’s oot n muh Ma n Dad are doon at Blackpool, Maggie tells me.

Blackpool. Fuckin barry doon thaire oan that Golden Mile, aw the pubs n that. Plenty fuckin shaggin doon thaire. Me n that bird fae Huddersfield, n the yin fae Lincoln n aw. The Huddersfield yin, Philippa, she wis the best but. Banged that much wi broke the fuckin bed. Cheeky bastard wanted tae charge us fir it, an auld chipboard kip half smashed tae fuck awready. Ah telt the wanker tae fuckin blow. Malky Carson wanted tae knock ehs cunt in. The breakfast wis shite n aw; they gied ays a sausage oan ma plate like Wee Gally’s tadger.

That Pleasure Beach wis brilliant but. Ah wis right up the tower n aw. The third thing ah goat right up whin ah wis doon thaire! Fuckin cauld though, that wind oaf the sea. N the scabby Orrs’ve went south n left wee Maggie oan her tod. — They no take you doon thaire wi thum? ah ask.

— Nup.

— Aye, ah smiles, — they ken thit they’d huv tae keep an eye oan ye. Ah’ve heard aw aboot you!

— Git away, she laughs, n her mate does n aw.

So ah turns tae this black-haired yin. — So she’s lookin eftir ye then, Maggie, eh?

— Aye.

Ah winks at her mate, then turns back tae Maggie. — Well ah’ll need tae come by, later this affie whin ah’m finished. Visit the sick patient, likes. Bring ma ain special remedies.

Maggie jist shrugs. — Up tae you eh.

— Aye but, ah tells her, — thorough examination. Second opinion, ah sais and points at masel. — Doctor, then at her wi the black hair, — nurse, then at Maggie, — patient.

The black haired yin’s aw hoat n bothered cause she’s jumpin oan the spot n she’s goat they tits jigglin away in that lilac toap when she moves. — Whoa Maggie! Hear that! Doctors and Nurses! Yir favourite game!

Maggie looks back aw cauld at me, her airms still crossed, and puffs oan her fag, brushin her floppy broon fringe oot her eyes, — Aye, you jist keep oan giein yir mind a treat son, she says turnin away.

They walk away aw snooty fir a bit, but ye kin tell the wey they look back sniggerin that they wee cunts are as shag-happy as fuck. Baith ay thaim are gittin it later oan, that’s fuckin well guaranteed. — Aye, ah kin dae that awright, just thinkin aboot you fine ladies, ah laugh. Then ah shout, — See yis later but, jist fir a fag n a wee cup ay tea but eh.

— Aye, right, Maggie shouts back, but she’s laughin now.

— See yis, girls! Ah wave, watchin thum go. That Maggie, if they Biafran cunts saw pictures ay her oan thaire news, they’d be huvin a whip-roond tae git some crates ay rice shipped ower here. Tidy erse oan that mate ay hers but; it’s like two bairns fightin in a pillaycase in they white troosers.

A total fuckin pump.

That Stevie’s some fucker. Cannae pass a bookie’s. Aw eh does is flick through the racin pages. Eh’s an edgy cunt wi a big dago moustache. One ay they boys that’s aw serious n nippy at work, n disnae lit ehsel go until eh’s finished n eh’s in the boozer. Ah dinnae hud wi that sort ay patter: as if ye huv tae be aw torn-faced tae drive a fuckin lorry the right wey. Ah’m wantin tae take ma test n git masel a motor, jist fir the shaggin likes. Birds eywis go for the guy wi the motor, no thit ah need one tae git
ma
hole, unlike some ah could mention. A van’s eywis useful but.

When wi knock oaf, Stevie wants tae go tae the Busy Bee for a pint. — Naw, ah’ve goat other plans, ah tell um.

— Suit yerself, eh goes. Eh starts gaun oan again aboot the round no makin money. Who gies a fuck aboot that? Ah git enough money oot ay it, n ye git roond tae check oot aw the fanny. That’s mair important than money, gittin the chance tae chat up different birds n find oot which ones go n which ones dinnae. Ye want clathes, ye snowdroap thum offay some cunt’s line, or git a wee fucker tae dae it fir ye.

But the main thing fir me is fanny. Ah gied wee Lucy a ring oan her finger, jist tae keep her quiet likes. She’s eywis gaun oan aboot ays bein oan the juice lorries like it’s no good enough fir her. Ah ken whaire it aw comes fae: her auld man’s a snobby cunt n aw. Drives a fuckin bus for the corpie n thinks eh’s middle-class. Cunt only goes n
says tae ays one time, — Juice lorries, thir’s no many prospects thaire, is thir?

Ah jist sat n said nowt, but ah wis thinkin tae masel, yir fuckin wrong pal, ye git tons ay prospects in that joab, n your wee lassie wis one ay them. Ah cannae fuckin well move fir prospects! Spice ay life!

Well that Maggie’s a prospect awright and ah’m straight roond tae her hoose when ah finish. She’s in the same stair as the Birrells but she’s one flair up, so ah git the gen oan her auld man n auld girl offay Billy. Fuckin pish-heids. Ah sniff the airmpits tae make sure ah dinnae smell fae luggin they crates, then ah knock at the door.

She comes tae answer n she’s standing thair, her airms folded, lookin at ays as if tae say, what are you wantin.

Ah ken what ah’m wantin awright. — Can ah come in fir a cup ay tea well? Sustenance fir a thirsty working chap?

— Awright, she goes, lookin ower ma shoodir, — but jist for a cup ay tea, n jist fir five minutes.

We go ben the front room and it’s jist her n the other lassie hame. — Ye ken Gail, Terry? Maggie asks as ah crash the ash.

She’s goat that ‘ah’m sure ah ken you fae somewhaire’ look oan her face.

— Ah’ve no hud that pleasure, ah say, noddin ower at Gail n winkin. — No yit, anywey, ah add, as Maggie sniggers and Gail hud’s ma gaze fir a bit. Birds like laddies wi a sense ay humour, n see me, ah’ve goat that Monty Python-type sense ay humour. At the school whin me n Carl n Gally started fuckin aboot nae cunt could understand us. They aw thoat wi wir mental n ah suppose wi wir. The thing Carl doesnae ken but, n that’s how eh disnae git ehs hole, is thit, aye; ye need a sense ay humour but yuv goat tae be mature aroond lassies n aw, no like the daft laddie aw the time. Look at they Monty Python cunts; they might be mental, but thir no like that aw the time. They aw went tae fuckin Cambridge or wherever, n ye dinnae git in thaire unless yuv goat brains. Ye kin bet they didnae start daein silly walks n aw that shite in thir exams. Naw. The thing is, ah am mature n aw. Ah mind ay that one teacher in art, that Miss Ormond, she says tae ays, — You’re the most immature young man I’ve ever taught. Ah hud tae jist tell her straight, ah am mature miss, ah’ve been fuckin well shaggin fir years n ah’ve shagged mair birds thin any other cunt in this school. Nippy cow only went n sent ays tae Blackie’s fir the fuckin web.

They’ve goat the efternoon telly oan, some repeats ay
The Saint
. It’s the other cunt, the one that looks like the real Saint’s wee brother. Ah
settle doon oantae the couch and Gail sits in one armchair n Maggie oan the airm ay the other. Ah’m lookin at the show ay thigh comin fae under Maggie’s wee tartan skirt and ah’m thinkin aboot that American Express advert: that’ll dae nicely. — So, tell ays aw yir adventures girls, ah ask, takin a long draw ay ma Embie Regal. — What yis been up tae? Mair importantly, ur yis gaun oot wi anybody? Ah’m wantin aw the scandalous gossip mind.