Greyhound for Breakfast (25 page)

Beyond the bowling greens lay the flowerbeds. A lot of prams and pushchairs were in the vicinity, and on the benches women mainly, with the wee toddlers staggering about here and there, looking
as if they were going to fall and bang their heads on the paving. But they were always okay; it was fucking amazing. He took the leash in to have more control of the dog but it seemed not to notice
anything, not to be in the least nervous, even when one of the toddlers made a lunge at it.

Along by the pond he spotted a bench where a middle-aged guy was seated alone in the centre, a folded newspaper and a plastic bag of messages beside him. He had a bunnet on his head, a fawn
trenchcoat, a scarf; probably the same clothes he would have been wearing in January.

Ronnie sat down, he sighed. He was aware of a tension easing out of his shoulders and he deliberately made them droop so he could relax even more, feeling a sort of twinge at the top of his
spine which made him shiver. He glanced at the middle-aged man and nodded. Nice day, eh?

The man’s head twitched in agreement.

Ronnie brought the cigarette dowp out from his inside ticket pocket and he gestured with it. You got a light at all? he asked.

Dont smoke. I chucked it ten year ago.

Aw. Wise man.

The middle-aged guy nodded at the pond: I mind the day it was chokablok with boats – big yins; yachts and all kinds.

Ronnie looked at him.

Beauties. You’d be lucky to get sailing at all unless you were up early!

What?

Now it’s paddle-boats for weans. Pathetic, bloody pathetic.

Aye . . . Ronnie looked away. It was models he was talking about. His attention was attracted to a couple of boys who were fooling about on one, a paddle-boat, right away out, rocking the thing
from side to side until it looked like the water would go over the top. Their laughter was loud; it was yells more than anything, really noisy. Fucking terrible. Ronnie grunted and shook his head,
glanced at the middle-aged man. And then he said, Look at them. Pair of bloody eedjits. They’re going to wind up capsizing the thing – look at them! Christ Almighty!

The middle-aged man was staring off in the other direction altogether.

And the dog had started tugging at the leash. It was behind the bench and moving about, and now doing a shite, straining and doing a shite. Ronnie smiled and shook his head. Life just continued,
it was fucking crazy how it went. He faced the front again, seeing the two boys, laughing and rocking the boat, one of them trying to paddle at the same time. But there were stacks of broken glass
at the bottom of the pond, that was what they failed to realize. It wasnt just him being totally out of order and losing his temper with them. If one of them fell in he could really hurt himself,
he could cut himself quite badly, that was what happened, something fucking silly, turning into something serious. Weans! He shook his head and glanced at the middle-aged guy. Weans! he said,
Bloody awful!

The man nodded slightly and sniffed.

I’ve got three of them, said Ronnie, smiling: A boy and two lassies.

Mm.

Ronnie looked at him for a few moments, seeing something in his face that made him think he probably didnt know what he was talking about, that he didnt understand because he didnt have any kids
of his own. They’re a fucking problem at times, he said, weans. Bloody awful! He grinned and then sighed and after a brief look at the greyhound he got up and tugged on the leash, headed off
towards the exit. And the middle-aged man hadnt even acknowledged him. A moaning-faced old bastard he had been anyway. It was funny how some folk ended up like that. All fucking screwed up and
tight and not able to open out with people. Chucked smoking ten year ago. No wonder he was so fucking bad tempered! Ronnie had tried to chuck it twice and each time it was Babs told him he’d
be as well starting again because he was making every cunt’s life a misery! But if he had succeeded she would have been delighted. She only said it to give him the excuse for starting again,
because she thought he was suffering. And she was right! He was fucking suffering! No half! And yet, there again, he could have put up with it; he was putting up with it. Maybe she should just have
kept her mouth shut, if she had kept her mouth shut and let him fucking get on with it, if she had just let him get on with it then maybe he would have fucking knocked it off, he might’ve
chucked it. But what was the point of making excuses? He was good at that. That was one thing he was always good at, making fucking excuses, he was smashing at that.

*

It was half past four. He saw the time through the window of a shop.

He had bypassed his own street and kept on towards the Cross. The traffic was heavy; lines of buses at the terminus. People who still had jobs. He led the greyhound on across the road and down
by the newish housing development. The dog was probably getting quite tired now. He had it back on a short lead, it was walking where he wanted it to. It was a nice big thing. He liked it. There
was something about it; it made him feel a bit sorry as well, a kind of courage in the way it walked, its head quite high. He was not scared to face Babs. Even though she had this habit of always
being right!

It was just that he wanted to have things clear in his head first. So that he would have an answer; that’s all. She was too good at arguing, Babs, too good at arguing. She was liable to
make him totally speechless. This is because she was always right. She just had the knack of finding that one thing, that one thing he could never get the answer for. That one thing, it always
seemed to be there. But the only way he ever found the fucking thing was once it came up, once she brought it up or it came out, sometimes it just came out, while the argument was happening, and
that was him, stuck for words.

He had arrived at the pier. It was derelict. He stood by the railing peering through the spikes. The ferryboat went from here to Partick. Old memories right enough! Ronnie smiled. Although they
werent all good. Fuck sake. They werent all good at all. And then these other memories. And the smells. And the journey twice a day six days a week. These smells but of the river, and the rubbish
lapping at the side of the steps down, and at low tide the steps all greasy and slippery, the moss and the rest of it. Did folk fall in? It always looked like that. It always looked as if folk
would fall in. Fucking dangerous – especially for auld people with walking sticks. Even just the rain, that made the steps slippery.

The greyhound was looking at him. It had tugged on the leash to make him notice. A big whitish dog with a lot of black markings. Now standing squarely, like a middleweight boxer; and its long
thin tail curling down to between its hind legs. So placid. It was strange. Sometimes when you saw them at the track – especially after the race – they were fierce, really fierce; going
for each other, fangs bared inside the wire muzzles. Even just now, seeing its shoulders and that barrel chest, the power there, so palpable, the power, it could have stepped right out the fucking
jungle. And its walk, that sort of pad pad pad – athletic wasnt the word.

Ronnie felt in his pockets for a loose match but there was none. He hadnt a light! He smiled. But one of the obvious factors was money. It cost a fortune to keep a dog. And you had to look after
it properly otherwise what was the fucking point? you’d be as well keeping a stupid wee pet, a poodle or something. Stew twice a day was what the guy had advised, unless of course it was
running that night. If that was the case you gave it nothing, not till after the event, not unless you were wanting it to lose. In which case you fed it five minutes before the fucking
off
!

There were other things he would have to find out about. Although some of it he would really only find out at the actual track, when he was along there giving it a time trial on Sunday
afternoons. He was looking forward to that, it would be quite good. And he would be keeping his ears open and his mouth shut. Maybe get to know a couple of folk, and they would keep him straight at
the beginning. Which was one of the reasons he had been hoping that bastard Kelly would’ve got involved. Kelly knew guys who were into different things and as well as that he used to like
going over to the track. Between the two of them they could start finding out the right ways of working it. There was a lot more to the game than fucking exercise. Kelly was a bastard.

Ronnie paused. He had been walking a wee while, as far as the town hall. He crossed at the zebra crossing, making for Copland Road. His tea would be ready right at this minute and Babs would be
wondering. But it was still too early; he was not prepared enough. And his fucking feet were beginning to feel sore. And if
he
felt like that what about the dog? A sit down would have been
nice. He did have the cash for one more pint; also over and above that he had enough for 10 smokes. Not buying the packet earlier had been intentional, for obvious reasons: he would maybe only have
had 2 or 3 left by this time, plus if he had crashed them in the boozer for fuck sake he would’ve had fuck all, maybe just the same roll-up dowp! Now, if he watched himself, he could buy the
10 and even put one aside to wake up with the morrow morning, when Babs got the Family Allowance money – the giro wasnt due till next Wednesday.

The leash was jerking. The dog knew how to get his attention alright!

It was across the road: a guy walking three greyhounds at once, two from one fist and one from the other – them all looking well-groomed, taken care of. Sleek. Ronnie nodded. He called
over: Nice day!

Aye!

As long as the rain keeps off!

Aye! When the man made to continue on Ronnie called:

You getting a turn?

The man shrugged. He indicated the dog walking alone: This yin goes the morrow night!

I’ll keep my fingers crossed!

The man nodded.

Whereabouts? Ashfield?

But the other guy made no reply to this; instead he continued on with the three dogs without glancing back over to Ronnie. Ronnie shook his head but he grinned briefly. Typical dog owner! They
were notorious for it. And any information they did give out had to be treated with caution; in fact you were probably better just to consider it as useless, as not worth bothering about.

He went into a wee shop and bought the 10 fags and a book of matches and he was puffing when he appeared on the pavement. Farther along there was another guy with a dog, an elderly man –
he looked like an old age pensioner. That was another thing about this, how it could keep you active and fit, and still involved.

At one time this district had two greyhound stadia to itself. Ronnie had been well acquainted with the last that closed down. The White City. It had been a licensed track and he used to go quite
regularly, even as a boy; him and his pals used to have this way of skipping in down by the dummy railway. It had been great, evenings like this, the sun shining and the rest of it. The other track
was the Albion, a flapping gaff. Ronnie had been too young for that one but the old timers yapped about it still, how it was the best of the lot and all that sort of shite.

He just wasnt ready to go home yet, not yet, not quite; he would be soon. At least it wasnt raining; if it had been raining it would’ve been terrible, even for the sake of the dog just.
Kelly was a disappointment. So was the other three. But it was hopeless dwelling on that; you had to do things for yourself in this life; nobody was going to do it for you. It was him that had
bought the dog, and he would have to fucking take care of it, just take care of it, it was down to him. The lassies would give him a hand; they would like being able to take it out for walks and
the rest of it. They wouldnt think he was daft, it was Babs just, she would think he was daft. Other people would think he was daft as well. Was he daft? Maybe he was daft; he was always fucking
– what was he?

He could just go home for his tea. No, not yet. He couldnt get it right. He still needed to think things out. Where to keep the dog for instance. The boy’s room. Could he keep it there?
Would Babs accept it? Would she fuck. She would just fucking, she would laugh at him. Quite right as well. What did he actually go and buy it for? Stupid. That would be her first question too and
he couldnt fucking answer it, her first fucking question, he wouldnt be able to answer it, he wouldnt be able to give a straight answer to it. Thirty-five years of age, soon to be thirty-six,
married for nearly nineteen years, a son of eighteen – a fucking granpa he could be.

He needed time to think. He just needed time to think. And what was the fucking time anyway? it must’ve been after six. The tea would just go back in the oven; the tea would go back in the
oven.

Ronnie jerked at the dog; he had wound the leash round his knuckles and was clenching his fist as he walked, and he transferred it to his left hand.

*

The same guy served him as at dinnertime but this occasion he did speak; he frowned and he muttered, They’ll no like you bringing it in too much.

What?

The barman nodded, looking up from the pint he was pouring: A lot of folk bring in theirs as well Ronnie, know what I mean? Just ordinary pets I’m talking about – in other words, wee
yins!

Dont give us that, replied Ronnie. What about these big fucking alsatians! You’re feart to walk in here sometimes in case you step on a tail and get fucking swallowed.

The barman nodded, smiled slightly.

Ronnie sniffed; he glanced at the greyhound by his feet: He wouldnt hurt a flea.

The barman shrugged. I’m just telling you Ronnie, they’ll complain.

Okay, I hear you . . . Ronnie sipped at the pint, awaiting his 2 pence change; when the barman passed it to him he dropped it through the slot of the huge bottle of charity money, and he went to
the toilet. The dog was quite the thing on the floor when he came back.

He should have come to another pub. That would have been the best idea. He glanced about; a couple of curious stares at the dog. Fuck them all. The dog wouldnt harm a flea. It was just a big
– Christ! it was just a big pet.