Greyhound for Breakfast (18 page)

The desklids were going up. It was good it was dinnertime and you got away for a while. Imagine a school where you had to spend the dinnerhour in the classroom, where you werent allowed out.

Mr Cowan was looking at him. Gary lifted the desklid and kidded on he was shifting stuff about. Smit was over by the door and most of the other boys had left already. And the lassies as well,
nearly all of them standing up and lifting their bags and things. It was terrible. Gary got up and strode to the door and right out and down the corridor, not looking back the way. One thing he was
going to do as well he was going to leave by the car park because it was strictly against school rules and you got that tingle.

Heh Gary!

It was Smit. He kept walking, striding across the playground towards the car park and soon there wasnt anybody else about and he felt as if the sun was about to shine and his nerves were
twanging away and he felt it right down his spine, the voice shouting: You boy! Gary laughed aloud but there was nothing, nobody around at all, the teachers in the staffroom probably. Idiots. Their
life was just a joke the way they got all worked up about wee things, petty things.

Far to the side and parallel he spotted Big Hammy and the rest walking along the track. They’d be heading for the chip shop. Where was Smit? If he was coming behind it would be really
hopeless. But he was not going to turn round and see because that even made it worse. And if he was following Gary was going to knock fuck out him because he was fucking sick of it, getting
followed about the place, people would think he was a poof or something, the both of them, because that was what happened, they just waited their chance, just so’s they could start telling
stories about you. They did it with everybody. If you could manage to kid on you didnt care, that you didnt really care what they said, that was the best thing.

He was approaching the last bit of the driveway now and he paused and moved his head sideways a fraction, and he whispered quite loudly: Smit! see if you’re behind me, I’ll fucking
batter ye.

No answer. There was nothing. Gary was walking on again. As soon as he reached the gate he turned but there was nobody at all, there was nobody stretching right back into the car park, the space
was totally empty. What a sight!

Hey Chanty!

Gary turned and started walking. It was Big Hammy had shouted on him; he’d be wanting to know if Gary was going to the chip shop or what was he doing, because he always liked to know what
people were doing and he knew Gary might be dogging the afternoon. Some of them thought Gary was good because of the way he went about on his own, no really bothering about the rest and just going
away and dogging it whenever he felt like it. There were places to hang out if you had dough but sometimes right enough he felt it would be better if somebody was there as well, along with him. Big
Hammy and a couple of the others waved at him but he ignored them and kidded on he hadnt seen them and they shouted again, Hey Chanty! Gary – hey Gary!

He kept on walking.

The fish van was at the corner of his street. Three women were standing down from the step-up, talking together. One of them said, There’s Gary.

Even Gary, he was getting sick of that. What was worse? Gary or Chanty or Mister Chambers? Or Chamby? Chanty Chamby.

He had the doorkey in his hand on arriving at his landing but he could see a light on in the lobby. His da was in. Usually he was at this time of the day but sometimes he wasnt, Thursdays and
Fridays especially.

He shut the door, went into his own room immediately and changed his socks. Recently he’d been making a point of looking after his feet. He was reading about this guy John Brady who was an
athlete and raced for England and something happened which led to his feet, something about his feet, no being right for running because of it, whatever it was, and he was under doctor’s
orders to stay away from all sports or games, and apparently it seems even if he had been taking regular care of them it would’ve been okay.

His da was at the kitchen table reading the newspaper, he glanced up to say: Alright Gary!

Hullo da.

If you fancy making scrambled eggs . . .

Nah, I’ll just have some toast and cheese. You wanting anything?

Eh . . . His da frowned a moment. Aye, he said, okay, I’ll take a slice.

Gary pulled open the cupboard door for the loaf of bread. He felt like slamming the thing shut. That was what really fucking annoyed you when you came home, him just sitting there and you
actually having to do the cooking. It was as if you just came home from school to make him his dinner. You would have been better off no bothering. He stuck the loaf back into the cupboard, went to
the fridge. The margarine and cheese were next to each other. But he wasnt going to make anything now, fuck it, he wasnt going to make it, and he slammed shut the fridge door and stepped back to
the cupboard. I’m just making a piece and jam, he said, I’m no bothering with toast and cheese.

Mm.

Will I make you one as well?

What . . . ? His da gazed at him over the top of the page.

D’you want a piece on jam? I’m no making toast and cheese.

His da frowned: A piece on jam?

I’m in a hurry so I’m no bothering with the toast.

Okay, aye. You making tea?

Naw.

His da nodded. Then he said, Something bothering you?

Gary shook his head, he swivelled the lid off the jar, began spreading the jam.

Stick the water on.

Gary filled the kettle and plugged it in without answering. He poured himself a mugful of milk, handed a piece to his da and started eating the first of the two he had made himself. He stood by
the sink, staring out the window, the sky totally grey, a line of blackbirds sitting along the gutter of the roof opposite. Thirty-eight pence lay on the window sill. And that was it, he was
definitely dogging it now. He waited for the kettle to boil then collected the coins with one hand while footering with the plug and the kettle with the other. Is it coffee you’re wanting? he
asked his da, and he slipped the coins into his pocket when the pages rustled. His da wasnt thick. The very opposite. It was just Gary knew how to work things. This beard his da had started
recently and parts of it were whitish. Is it coffee? Gary asked.

See the ’Gers are playing the night!

Aye.

The Hibs!

Hibs?

Be a good game.

Aye . . . Gary felt his heart thumping and that feeling all over, nearly as if he was walking on a pile of cushions. He bit into the crust of his own slice and munched it, nodding in reply to
the idea of Rangers and Hibs. Rangers and Hibs. He nodded, munching the bread, the coins in his pocket and what if his da knew they were there, if he knew but just wasnt saying anything. It was one
of these things you could imagine, terrible. But he wasnt going to put them back because something would go wrong and he’d definitely get caught, unless he put them somewhere else, ben the
living room maybe, on the mantelpiece.

His da was okay. No he wasnt, he was daft. Not an idiot but, just daft. Gary felt sorry for him, sitting about the house all day, and he had made that remark to the maw last week, Look at my
beard! going white at 36 years of age! No even forty yet. But it wasnt funny, it never came out right and the maw as well, her face, you didnt know what she was thinking. The whole thing was
rubbish. Hey Da!

Mm.

See granpa, what age was he when he left school?

Granpa . . . Same as me, fifteen.

Fifteen, I thought he was fourteen.

Naw, that was my granpa. Who you talking about?

My granpa, aye.

Mm, he was fifteen. My own granpa was fourteen.

Gary bit another mouthful of bread. Who was it was thirteen then?

Aw aye, that was my uncle, the one that got killed – well, he was my great uncle really, my granpa’s brother, his big brother. We’ve got a photo of him when he was a wee
boy.

Is that the one he’s wearing a bunnet?

Gary’s da nodded, smiling. That’s the one, he said. You see him standing at a big wall; well that’s the place he worked, it was a bottling factory down near Brigton Cross. I
mind my granpa taking me and showing me the spot. He was just a boy when it happened and he used to tell me about it. That’s your great grandfather . . . Gary’s da laughed: They called
him Wee Tam. He was a Clyde man, sometimes he took me with him to watch them when they were playing at home. That’s your great grandfather, and your great uncle, that was his big brother
– naw, your great great uncle, the wee boy that got killed; it gets complicated.

Gary had spooned the coffee into the cup; he poured in the boiling water, the milk, the sugar.

What was it you were asking? said his da, when Gary passed him the cup.

Nothing. I was just wondering but, if it was alright if I stayed off this afternoon.

How what’s up?

Nothing.

His da nodded, he sipped at the coffee and reached for his tobacco tin. I’ll tell you something Gary, he said, I think it’s daft dogging school if you’ve no got a reason. I
mean you’ll never learn anything that way. You’ve got to try.

Alright, I’ll go.

I’m no saying that.

Gary was back by the cupboard and lifting the mug of milk to gulp the rest of it down. The newspaper was rustling. His belly felt as if it was tied in knots; he wished he had a smoke, he could
have a smoke. He glanced out the window and then into the sink, swallowed the last drips of milk and rinsed out the mug, upturned it on the draining board.

All I’m saying is it’s best if there’s a reason. What is it you’ve got on? said his da.

English and maths but it doesnt matter.

His da smiled.

Gary stared at him.

I used to hate them as well!

I dont hate them, said Gary. He turned and lifted the second slice of bread and jam, almost all of it remained, he opened the cupboard and threw it inside, shut the door. I’m away, he
said.

You in the huff now?

What?

Nothing.

Gary sniffed.

His da munched the piece on jam, still looking at the newspaper.

I’m no in the huff . . . Gary stared at his da and continued to stand there by the cupboard, leaning his elbow on the edge of the worktop.

I cant just tell you to dog school you know.

Nobody’s asking you to.

Fine then cause I’m no going to.

Gary opened and closed the cupboard door and he muttered, I wish maw still came home for dinner.

His da said nothing.

She used to make soup and that.

Gary! I’ve told you umpteen times, you can go to the bloody dinner-school whenever you like.

I dont want to go to the dinner-school.

His da looked at him.

Gary walked to the door into the lobby.

You going back to school?

Aye.

Fine.

He was out on the landing with the front door shut, before remembering about the thirty-eight pence. But he was glad he had lifted it. He thumped down the stairs and out through the close. Two
lassies were across the street laughing at him. They were at St Joseph’s Catholic school and were in 3rd year. One of them was supposed to fancy him or she had done when they were going to
the club but probably she didnt now because he hadnt done anything. She was one of these lassies that looked really wee for her age and her legs were really thin plus as well she was always
laughing all the time and it sounded daft. He glanced across and stopped walking for a count of three. He still had three quarters left of the fag Big Hammy had given him. He called over: Yous got
a match at all?

They laughed and strode away with their arms linked together. That was actually a daft thing to do and showed the difference between them and somebody who was more grown up – anybody, no
just Tracy, they would have said aye or naw or something but no just a silly laugh. That was how if he had done something, if he had met her after school, what would’ve happened? where would
they’ve went? Imagine any of the guys seeing him! No chance. She was just too wee, or she acted too wee; weanish, too weanish. Tracy’s figure was like a woman, it was how she got into
pubs. She just didnt fancy him but. It was the truth and she had made it plain. She just didnt fancy him. You wondered how that happened. She didnt even seem to see him and sometimes he was staring
right at her, it was funny. But that was the same with the rest of them, it was just older guys she was interested in.

Hey Chanty! It was Smit. He had appeared from a close.

Gary scowled at him: What you wanting ya wee bastard?

Any fags?

Gary continued walking.

Heh Gary that bird there, that Catholic, she fancies you.

Shut your fucking mouth.

Smit laughed. She’s no got any diddies!

What did you say there! Gary had stopped dead and he grabbed Smit and punched him hard on the shoulder.

Oh ya bastard . . . Smit swung round with his boot and caught Gary just below the right knee.

Ya wee . . . Gary clenched his teeth and rubbed at it.

You shouldnt’ve fucking done that! shouted Smit.

Gary was glaring at him and his breath came harshly: I’m going to fucking batter you if ye keep annoying me – alright!

Smit stood where he was. And Gary lunged at him and got him by the neck and he bunched his left fist close to his face. Alright! he cried.

Take your hands off! shouted Smit.

A man in overalls was watching them from a shop doorway up ahead.

Gary let him go after a moment. I’m just warning you, he muttered.

Aye well just take your hands off!

Go and fucking leave us alone then! cried Gary.

Ya bastard, said Smit.

Gary stood with his hands on his hips then he cleared his throat and spat at the ground to the side of Smit and Smit moved off, taking the first steps back the way. Gary remained until a
distance of about 30 yards separated them.

He went into the shop and bought a box of matches. Smit had disappeared when he came out. Freedom at last.