Greyhound for Breakfast (24 page)

My name is John Devine and I now discover that for the past while I’ve been going off my head. I mean that the realization has finally hit me. Before then I sort of
thought about it every so often but not in a concrete sense. It was actually getting to the stage where I was joking about it with friends! It’s alright I would say on committing some
almighty clanger, I’m going off my head.

On umpteen occasions it has happened with my wife. Two nights ago for instance; I’m standing washing the dishes and I drops this big plate that gets used for serving cakes, I drops it onto
the floor. It was no careless act. Not really. I had been preoccupied right enough and the thought was to do with the plate and in some way starting to look upon it not as a piece of crockery but
as something to be taken care of. This is no metaphor; it hasnt got anything to do with parental responsibility. My wife heard the smash and she came ben to see what was up. Sorry, I said,
I’m just going off my head. And I smiled.

THE INITIAL REBELLIOUS BEARING IS SEEMINGLY AN EFFECT OF THE UNIFORM’S IRRITATION OF WHICH AMPLE EVIDENCE IS ALREADY TO HAND. BUT THIS KNOWLEDGE MAY BE
OFFSET BY THE POSSIBILITY OF BEING TOUCHED BY GLORY. AT THE STAGE WHERE THE INCLINE BECOMES STEEPER THE ONE IN QUESTION STARED STEADFASTLY TO THE FRONT. HIS BREATHING, HARSH AS BEFITS AN UNDERGOING
OF THE EXTREME, NEVER BETRAYED THE LEAST HINT OF INTERIOR MONOLOGUE. THERE WAS NO SIGN OF A WISH TO PAUSE AND NOR WAS THERE ANY TO REDUCE OR TO INCREASE PACE. HIS CONTROL WAS APPROPRIATE. THE AIR
OF RESIGNATION GOVERNING HIS MOVEMENT CONTAINED NO GUILT WHICH INDICATED AN AWARENESS OF OUTSIDE INFERENCE. IT WAS AT THIS PRECISE MARK THE SATISFACTION EMERGED IN THE PROCEEDINGS. HIS ARMS AROSE
STIFFLY UNTIL THE FINGERTIPS WERE PARALLEL TO THE WAISTBAND. HIS GAZE HAD BEEN DIRECTED BELOW BUT HE CONTINUED STARING TO THE FRONT AS IF EXPECTING OR EXPERIENCING A REACTION. WHAT WAS THE NATURAL
SUMMIT MIGHT WELL HAVE BEEN INTERPRETED AS OTHERWISE.

Ronnie held the dog on a short lead so it had to walk on the edge of the pavement next to the gutter. At a close near the corner of the street two women he knew were standing
chatting. They paused, watching his approach. Hullo, he said. When they peered at the greyhound and back to him he grinned and raised his eyebrows; and he shrugged, continuing along and into the
pub.

The barman stared while pouring the pint of heavy but made no comment. He took the money and returned the change, moved to serve somebody else. Ronnie gazed after him for a moment then lifted
the pint and led the dog to where four mates of his were sitting playing Shoot Pontoon. He sat on a vacant chair, bending to tuck the leash beneath his right shoe. He swallowed about a quarter of
the beer in the first go and then sighed. I needed that, he said, leaning sideways a little, to grasp the dog’s ears; he patted its head. He manoeuvred his chair so he could watch two hands
of cards being played. The game continued in silence. Soon the greyhound yawned and settled onto the floor, its big tongue lolloping out its mouth. Ronnie smiled and shook his head. He swallowed
another large draught of the heavy beer.

Then Mclnnes cleared his throat. You looking after it for somebody? he asked without taking his gaze from the thirteen cards he was holding and sorting through. Ronnie did not reply. The other
three were smiling; they were also sorting through their cards. He carried on watching the game until it ended and the cards were being shuffled for the next. And he yawned; but the yawn was a
false one and he sniffed and glanced towards the bar. Jimmy Peters had taken a tobacco pouch from his pocket and started rolling a fag. Ronnie gestured at it. Jimmy passed him the pouch and he
rolled one for himself. He was beginning to feel a bit annoyed but it was fucking pointless. He stuck the finished roll-up in his mouth and reached for a box of matches lying at the side of the
table. Heh Ronnie, said Kelly, did you get it for a present?

What?

I’m saying did you get it for a present, the dog – a lot of owners and that, once their dogs have finished racing, they give them away as presents – supposed to make rare
pets.

Aye. Ronnie nodded, inhaled on the cigarette.

I’m serious.

Aye, said Tam McColl, I heard that as well. Easy oasy kind of beasts, they get on good with weans.

Ronnie nodded. This is a good conversation, he said.

Well! Tam McColl grinned: You’re no trying to tell us it’s a fucking racer are you! McColl chuckled and shook his head: With withers like that!

Withers like that! What you talking about withers like that! Ronnie smiled: What do you know about fucking withers ya cunt!

The others laughed.

My auld man used to keep dogs.

Aye fucking chihuahuas!

Are you telling us you’ve bought it? asked Kelly.

Ronnie did not reply.

Are you?

Ronnie dragged on the cigarette, having to squeeze the end of it so he could get a proper draw. He exhaled the smoke away from where the greyhound was lying. Jimmy Peters was looking at him.
Ronnie looked back. After a moment Jimmy Peters said, I mean are you actually going to race it?

Naw Jimmy I’m just going to take it for walks.

The other three laughed loudly. Ronnie shook his head at Peters. Then he gazed at the dog; he inhaled on the cigarette, but it had stopped burning.

Does Babs know yet? asked McInnes.

What?

Babs, does she know yet?

What about?

God sake Ronnie!

Ronnie reached for the box of matches again and he struck one, got the roll-up burning once more. He blew out the flame and replied, I’ve just no seen her since breakfast.

Tam McColl grinned. You’re mad ya cunt, fucking mad.

How much was it? asked Kelly. Or are we no allowed to ask!

Ronnie lifted his beer and sipped at it.

Did it cost much?

Fuck sake, muttered Ronnie.

You no going to tell us? asked Kelly.

Ronnie shrugged. Eighty notes.

Eighty notes!

Ronnie looked at him.

Jimmy Peters had shifted roundabout on his seat and he leaned down and ruffled behind the dog’s ears, making a funny face at it. The dog looked back at him. He said to Ronnie, Aye
it’s a pally big animal.

Ronnie nodded. Then he noticed Kelly’s facial expression and he frowned.

Naw, replied Kelly, grinning. I was just thinking there – somebody asking what its form was: oh it’s pally! a pally big dog! Fuck speed but it likes getting petted!

That’s a good joke, said Ronnie.

The other four laughed.

Ronnie nodded. On you go, he said, nothing like a good fucking joke. He dragged on the roll-up but it had stopped burning once again. He shoved it into the ticket pocket inside his jacket then
lifted his pint and drank down all that was left of the beer. The others were grinning at him. Fuck yous! he said and reached for the leash.

McInnes chuckled: Sit on your arse Ronnie for fuck sake!

Fuck off.

Can you no take a joke? said Jimmy Peters.

A joke! That’s fucking beyond a joke.

Kelly laughed.

Aye, said Ronnie, on ye go ya fucking stupid bastard.

Kelly stopped laughing.

Heh you! said McInnes to Ronnie.

Ah well no fucking wonder!

Kelly was still looking at him. Ronnie looked back.

McInnes said, You’re fucking out of order Ronnie.

I’m
out of order!

Aye.

Me? Ronnie was tapping himself vigorously on the chest.

Aye, replied McInnes.

It was just a joke, said Jimmy Peters.

A joke? That was fucking beyond a joke. Ronnie shook his head at him; he withdrew the dowp from his inside ticket pocket and reached for the box of matches again; but he put it back untouched,
returned the dowp to the ticket pocket, lifted the empty beer glass and studied it for a moment. He sniffed and returned it to the table.

The others resumed the game of Shoot Pontoon.

And after two or three minutes Tam McColl said, Heh Ronnie did you see that movie on the telly last night.

Naw.

We were just talking about it before you came in.

Mm. Ronnie made a show of listening to what McColl was saying, it was some sort of shite about cops and robbers that was beyond even talking about. Ronnie shook his head. It was unbelievable. He
stared at the cards on the table then he stared in the direction of the bar, a few young guys were over at the jukebox.

Jimmy Peters was saying something to him now. What was it about, it was about fucking the football, going to the football. Ronnie squinted at him: What?

Three each, said Jimmy, what a game! Did you see it?

Ronnie shook his head. He glanced at the shelf in beneath the table, the four pint glasses there, dribbles of beer in each. It was fucking beyond belief.

That last goal! said Jimmy.

Ronnie nodded. He clapped the dog’s head, grasped its ears, tugging at them till at last it shook his hand away. He sniffed and muttered, I’ll tell yous mob something: see if this
fucking dog doesnt get me the holiday money I’ll eat it for my fucking breakfast.

The others smiled briefly. And Kelly said, So you are going to race it?

Ronnie shrugged. He didnt feel like talking. It was time to leave. He felt like leaving. It would be good to be able to leave; right now. He reached to clap the dog, smoothed along its
muzzle.

Heh Ronnie, said McInnes. Where you going to keep it?

Ronnie wrapped the leash round his hand and he nodded slightly, lifted the box of matches.

No in the house? grinned Tam McColl.

There was a silence.

You’re fucking mad!

Whereabouts in the house? asked Jimmy Peters.

Ronnie struck the match and tilted his head while getting the roll-up burning; he exhaled smoke: The boy’s room, he said. Just meantime. He’s no here the now. He’s away with a
couple of his mates. Down to London . . . He sniffed and dragged on the dowp again.

The others had been sorting the cards out after a new deal.

We never knew he was going, said Ronnie, no till the last minute. One of his mates got a phone call or something so they had to move fast.

Move fast? said McInnes.

It was a job they were after. They had to move fast. Otherwise they wouldnt fucking get it.

Aw aye.

Ronnie shrugged.

Kelly glanced at the greyhound and said, What you going to call it? You got something fixed?

Eh . . . I dont know. The guy I got it off says it’s up to me. The way it works, most of them’s got two names, one for the kennel and one for when it races.

Kelly nodded. Has it definitely raced Ronnie I mean I’m no being cheeky?

Aye Christ it’s qualified at Ashfield and it’s won three out of ten at Carfin.

Honest?

Aye, fuck sake.

What’d they call it?

Ronnie sniffed.
Big Dan
.

Big Dan
? Tam McColl was grinning.

What’s up with that ya cunt ye they’ve got to call it something! Ronnie shook his head, and he glanced at Kelly: You heard of it?

Eh naw, no really.

Ronnie nodded.

I’ve never been to Carfin but; never I mean – have you?

Naw.

You sure it’s won there? asked Jimmy Peters.

Aye Christ he showed me, the guy; it’s down in black and white.

Whereabouts? asked Kelly.

Whereabouts? Ronnie squinted at him.

Where’s it written down?

The fucking
Record
.

Aw.

Kelly said, You talking about the results like? On the page?

Ronnie looked at him without saying anything in reply. He lifted his empty beer glass and swirled the drop at the bottom about, put the glass to his mouth and attempted to drink, but the drop
got lost somewhere along the way. He said, Plus I saw its form figures and that on a race-card.

Kelly nodded.

Both McInnes and McColl and now Jimmy Peters were looking at him. Ronnie said, In the name of fuck! What yous looking at!

Aye, well, muttered McInnes, Your boy’s fucked off to England and you’ve went out and bought a dog.

What?

There was no further comment. Ronnie shook his head and added, For fuck sake I’ve been wanting to buy a dog for years.

Aye, well it’s a wee bit funny how it’s only the now you’ve managed it.

What?

Your boy goes off to England and you go out and buy a dog . . . McInnes stared at Ronnie.

Who was it you bought it off? asked Kelly.

What?

Who was it you bought it off?

Away and fuck yourself, muttered Ronnie and he stood to his feet and jerked at the leash, the greyhound getting quickly up off the floor; and he walked it straight out the pub, not looking
back.

*

Once through the park gates he let more slack into the lead before continuing on up the slope, the big dog now trotting quite freely. But the exercise he was giving it just now
wasnt necessary. He was only doing it because he needed time to think. Babs would not be pleased. That was an understatement. It was something he had managed to avoid thinking about. And he was
right not to have. If he had he would probably never have bought it. It was a case of first things first, buy the dog and then start worrying.

It stopped for a piss. Ronnie could have done with one himself but he would have got arrested. When they resumed he watched it, its shoulders hunched, keeping to the grass verge, sniffing
occasionally and looking to be taking an interest in everything that was going on. It was quite a clever beast, the way it paid attention to things. And as well the way it moved, he was
appreciating that; definitely an athlete – sleek was the word he was looking for. It described the dog to a tee. Sleek. That way it gave a genuine impression of energy, real energy –
power and strength, and speed of course. The thing was every inch a racer.

Leaving the path he crossed the wide expanse of grass, heading down by the bowling greens. It was late spring/early summer, getting on to the middle of May, still a bit cold when the sky
clouded; but just now it was fine, the sun shining. More than half of the bowling rinks were occupied. Ronnie paused by the big hedge, peering over, and recognizing a few faces. But he was not
going to go in. He wasnt in the mood for more slagging. Sometimes you got sick of it, you werent able to fucking, just to cope with it, it was difficult. You felt as if you’d had enough of
it.