Greyhound for Breakfast (20 page)

Brian yawned; he had shifted his stance, taking the weight of his body onto the other foot. He squinted at the clock on the far wall then turned slightly to look at those
queuing behind. And reaching into his jerkin pocket he brought out a cigarette packet and opened it, but put it back again, thrusting his hands into his jeans’ pockets. He was whistling; he
stopped it. He took the UB40 from his back pocket and gazed at the information on it. Then the man in front was preparing to step to the counter. Brian started whistling again and he followed him
forward. And while the man was crouching to sign the receipt he peered over his shoulder as though trying to read his signature. Then he too had signed and was walking quite quickly out through the
door and onto the pavement. His pace slackened. He strolled along, on the edge of the kerb, gazing to there and into the gutter.

Hey! Brian! Brian!

It was Gordon O’Donnell approaching, right arm extended as if set to shake hands with him; he patted Brian on the elbow:

How you doing man?

Ah no bad Gordon, surviving.

I thought you were fucking asleep!

Ah! Brian grinned.

Gordon patted him on the elbow again. This broo eh! you meet all sorts. Heh, you have signed on I take it?

Aye.

Great stuff, we’ll need to share pints.

Eh . . .

No ehs about it!

Naw I was just going back down the road Gordon.

Rubbish. I’ll just be a minute . . . He made to walk away but paused when Brian gestured with his hands raised palms upward. And he smiled, No trouble old chap – they’re paying
me the giro across the counter these days.

Are they?

Hh, aye. Gordon shook his head. He nodded in the direction of the broo and began walking, Brian following. Aye, he said, a bit of bother with the posted yins they kept sending. Vanishing tricks!
Cheeky bastards thought I was doing it myself too! I telt them straight: listen I says if you really want to apprehend the culprit away and get a grip of that wife of mine, she’s been in and
out of my pockets for years – no kidding ye man there’s fuck all safe when she’s about. Naw I mean if I was wanting to go to the thieving games I wouldnt be wasting my time with
daft fucking giros! No brains but, that’s the trouble with these cunts.

He had pushed open the door and they walked to a small queue. Then he noticed somebody in a larger queue and he called, Hey Bill – how’s life? You alright for a tenner till the
morrow!

The man laughed. Is that all!

Make it a score if you like man I’m no fussy!

Aye it’s okay for some!

What d’you mean!

The man laughed. Gordon gave an exaggerated wink then he nudged Brian slightly and winked in a more natural manner. He glanced about for several seconds. Then he said, So what you doing with
yourself these days?

Brian shrugged.

The missus and that I mean, alright?

Aye.

Good. Good. It was Gordon’s turn next and he stepped to the counter, producing his card with a flourish and passing it to the female clerk: How you doing honey!

The woman looked at her wristwatch before replying; she pushed the receipt to him. You’re nearly an hour late Mr O’Donnell.

I know that, terrible – I couldnt get away from my work any earlier. Rush job on.

She smiled. You seem to think we dont know you’re working on the sly.

On my weans’ life now would I make a fraudulent claim? Gordon had his right hand over his heart.

The woman glanced at Brian and said, He thinks we dont take him seriously because he makes a joke about it, but we’ll catch him one of these days.

Brian smiled. And Gordon said, It’s one of these days for us all hen, one of these days for us all.

Oh dont be so morbid!

I’m no being morbid, he added as he leaned to sign his name.

They walked to the far corner and stood by the wall, close to where the cashier’s window was. A youth was balancing on the edge of a radiator nearby. Gordon noticed him and crooked his
right forefinger a couple of times. The youth came over slowly, hands in his pockets, and he muttered, Hiya Gordon.

How you doing young man.

Alright.

That’s the game. What I want you to do is dish out the harrys.

Aw Gordon I’ve no got any, honest.

Dont tell lies.

I’ve only got a couple left.

Out with them.

Aw fuck sake man.

Gordon crooked the forefinger again, until the youth took out the packet. And he handed a cigarette to Gordon who passed it immediately to Brian; he gave another one to Gordon, took one for
himself. Gordon flicked a lighter and when the three of them were smoking the youth said to him: Have you seen Wee Cally on your travels?

What? Gordon stared at him.

Naw Gordon I’m no kidding, have you?

What you talking about son? Gordon sniffed and dragged on the cigarette, blew the smoke sideways in the direction of the cashier’s window.

Wee Cally.

Wee Cally. Gordon shook his head and he said to Brian: No kidding ye man this fucking younger generation, it’s no real the way they carry on . . . He indicated the youth: The fucking young
team he’s talking about – hatchets arent good enough for them; one sniff of that barr’s irn bru and they’re away fucking about with shooters. A different world so it is, a
different world.

Brian smiled.

I was just wanting to know if you’d seen him, said the youth.

Listen son, said Gordon, I dont see people like that – know what I’m talking about? Gordon dragged on the cigarette again and frowned suddenly, he gazed away to the big clock on the
wall and shook his head.

Time is it? asked Brian.

Gordon made no answer. He stared at the male clerk working behind the counter. Heh, he called, what about the greengages? they no weighed in yet! Eh – fuck sake, the boy here’s got
his bloody work to go to!

The clerk looked at him.

The boy here . . . said Gordon, tapping himself on the chest.

The clerk continued to look at him for a moment, then dropped his gaze.

Gordon said to Brian, That’s what I love about this place, the civility! He shook his head, took a folded newspaper from his side jacket pocket and started to read; but seconds later he
folded it again and he stuck it back into the pocket and glanced at the clock, shaking his head and sighing loudly. Then he called to the clerk again: What’s the score with the cashier at
all! Is he away to the bloody Bahamas or what?

You’ll just require to wait like everybody else, the clerk replied.

Oh, very pardon, I do apologies . . . Gordon winked at Brian, then stared at the clerk whose attention had returned to the person next in the queue he was assigned to.

The giro could only be cashed in a specific post office. It was more than a mile away, in the direction opposite to where Brian was going. When he mentioned this Gordon told
him not to worry. Naw, said Brian, it’s no that, it’s just the wean and that, she comes home from school at dinnertime and I’ve got to be there I mean she’s just six.

Six!

Six, aye.

Christ!

Brian looked at him.

I thought yours were aulder than that man, six!

Thanks a lot! said Brian.

Gordon grinned. Naw, I dont mean it the way it sounds.

They had paused at the traffic lights at the junction and now as the green showed Gordon continued walking immediately and Brian went alongside him, and began saying. Naw what it is Gordon, the
wee yin, the lassie, she’ll just no go near they school meals at all.

Can you blame her!

Aye I know but the trouble is I’ve got to be there and that I mean on the button, quarter past twelve.

Mm.

On the button.

Bags of time yet then eh.

Aw I know, I know, it’s . . .

Brian! Fuck sake! Gordon had stopped walking. He shook his head, patted the other on the elbow. Will you stop your fucking worrying.

Aye but . . .

You can take a bus back down the road.

Brian nodded, then started to speak, but Gordon held up his right hand and said, The fare’s taken care of.

Aw aye, aye . . . Brian sniffed. I wasnt meaning that.

They continued walking in silence for a time. Eventually Brian turned to say, This getting the giro across the counter, I wish to God I could get into it myself!

Aye well dont. Garbage so it is, you’re better biting your nails. All it means is you’re skint for the weekend. Fucking murder.

Still.

No stills about it.

Brian nodded, smiled. He had his cigarette packet out. There were two left. He gave one to Gordon and returned the packet to his jerkin pocket and took a half-smoked dowp from behind his right
ear. And he struck a match against the grey sandstone tenement wall adjacent, shielding the flame in his cupped hands. I hate this smoking in the open air, he muttered while exhaling and chipping
the dud match . . . Know how?

Gordon shrugged as they walked on.

The fucking wind, it smokes your fucking fags! Brian shook his head. Know what I mean, sometimes you’re walking man and you’ve only had a couple of drags and the fucking
thing’s burnt right down to the tip.

Aye, said Gordon, glancing to the other side of the road.

The pub was at the corner of the next street along from the post office. Gordon and the barman knew each other. While the two were chatting quietly together Brian turned side
on, gazing at the blank television screen, then at a big coloured poster on the wall nearby; a woman tennis player, standing scratching her bum, her skirt raised almost to her waist and not wearing
any pants underneath. After a moment he looked away.

The barman was giving Gordon the change, and the two pints of lager were on the counter. Gordon lifted one and handed the other to Brian then led the way to one of the empty tables. Once the
first mouthful had been drunk Gordon said, So – no signs of a job I take it?

Nah, no yet – yourself?

Gordon shrugged.

Right enough, went on Brian, the wife’s knocked it off, a wee part-time shot, nothing startling.

Good but.

In a boozer, said Brian. She helps out at dinnertime. Pub grub and that; it’s a place up the town; hell of a busy with office workers and the rest of it. The manager says he’ll take
her full-time as soon as there’s a vacancy.

Aw good, good.

Aye. Brian nodded, he took another mouthful of the lager. Thanks for this, he said.

Gordon frowned. Dont be daft . . . He raised his own glass and drank from it. Then he tore the cellophane off the packet and withdrew two fags, and he chuckled: Heh Brian, mind the times we used
to have in that fucking paper factory! Eh? No kidding ye man I dont think I’ve had a decent laugh since I dropped them the resignation.

That’s one way of putting it!

They both laughed loudly. Gordon said, Hurry up and swallow it down; we’ll have another yin.

Naw, ta. I better get down the road. It’s the wean; quarter past twelve on the dot, without fail, every day of the week. I’ve got to be there.

Gordon glanced at the gantry clock. You’ve still got time for one more.

Nah . . . Brian sniffed.

Well a half pint then. Or a wee yin? a goldie – eh? I’m having one myself.

You twisting my arm!

Naw.

Alright then. Brian grinned.

Gordon chuckled. For an awful minute I thought you were losing your touch! Eh what you want water or something? lemonade?

The former.

The former! Gordon raised his eyebrows as he got up from the chair, and he did a sort of rapid tap-dance shuffle across to the bar.

He came back with two 1/4 gills of whisky and a jug of water. And he returned to the bar, to collect two half pints of lager. When he placed them on the table he said, Just remember me in your
will old chap.

Aw Christ Gordon, thanks.

Ah! Gordon’s face screwed up and his teeth clenched, he inhaled sharply, making a rasping noise. He poured a drop of water into his whisky and pushed Brian the jug. Brian added a measure
into his own whisky. They drank simultaneously, following it up with quick sips of the lager. Gordon wiped his mouth with the cuff of his coat sleeve, glancing round the interior of the bar. Then
he said, So how’s the horses treating you these days?

Well to be honest, I’ve no been getting too involved.

I know the feeling!

Aw naw, naw, it’s no that. I just get fucking scunnered with it.

I dont blame you. These last couple of weeks! No kidding ye Brian see last Thursday? I’m standing there, got a right few quid going onto the last favourite. Inside the final furlong and
it’s three lengths clear; then this big fucking fifty-to-one shot comes and beats it on the post. Eh? Game’s as bent as fuck man I’m no kidding ye, it’s no real.

Brian was nodding. I know, I know – and see what gets me, the faces; you walk in the door and you see the faces, always the fucking same . . . Brian shook his head and he reached for his
whisky, paused before drinking: Telling ye Gordon sometimes if I’m going to put a line on I just fucking take a walk, I get off my mark, away to another betting shop altogether. Then I go
somewhere else, afterwards . . . Brian had paused. He shook his head and studied his fag for a moment, before stubbing it out in an ashtray.

Gordon muttered, Hh! Then he glanced to the side and added, A slash, I’ll need to go for a slash.

Brian was footering with the cigarette packet when he returned. He said, I’ve only got the one left Gordon. He shrugged and took the one out, crumpled the packet and placed it in the
ashtray. He struck a match down the side of his chair but it did not ignite: he scraped it along the floor. Gordon had a cigarette of his own, and he had his lighter out, but took a light from
Brian’s match instead; as he exhaled he said: Something just occurred to me there.

He sniffed and leaned forwards, his arms folded, resting the elbows on the table: I might be able to put a bit of business your way.

What?

Naw, it’s just eh . . . He cleared his throat and drank lager, inhaled on the fag. He glanced sideways, lowered his voice while speaking: Big ears Brian. Big ears and big fucking mouths.
Know what I mean?