Sooz 11

Eddie headed down to the Clydeside. A blue plastic bag cutting into his hand, clanging against his leg as he walked into the rain. Fatty Patty wedged under his arm. His wife wanted it out of the house. She didn’t say she wanted him out of the house, but after twenty years of marriage, there were some things that didn’t need to be said. She was a home help, good for the auld yins. All that energy in such a wee body. It translated into meals cooked on time, floor washed, dishes done and enough time to cut her client’s toenails. They were called clients now, fucking clients. But his wife had a way of lighting up a room. It wasn’t her fault he put a damp squib on things and was on a downer.

He ducked his head and hauled Fatty Patty through the space in the railings. This was the tricky bit. Bushes and trees had reclaimed land that was once factory spaces, full of asbestos not doubt. He kept his eyes peeled, so he didn’t slip or squelch into the oily foul-smelling black mud. When he got higher up it was easier. The Clyde was built up to keep the water in, and there were a couple of orange plastic seats and a crate tucked in near one of the marker lights. A drum with debris around it were some of the lads had a fire going when it got too cold to drink without freezing your balls off. But it was too early for anybody to be about. He’d just needed to get out and get some air.

His fingers trailed along the tops of the aluminium cans as if ready to select the right vintage, as if they’re any difference in them. Tinny cans of lager all taste the same. All tasted shite. But better than nothing. A container ship slid down the Clyde. Greek/Cypriot flag waving. Men on deck too far away to see what nationality they were.  The wash of the boat creating a draught on the water and seagulls rising into the air and shrieking. The smell of kelp reminded him of the times his Ma used to take the family paddling down at Erskine. A small strip of beach, with sandwiches and warm ginger. He lit a fag and breathed in the past.

He sparked a can and took a gulp to wash it down.  A familiar figure trudged up behind him. ‘How’d you know I’d be here?’

Badger chuckled, ‘Your wife told us, ya daftie.’ He pointed at Fatty Patty who was sat in a plastic chair with a rock on top of her fanny so she didn’t blow away. ‘I didnae know you’d female company or I wouldnae have bothered.’

‘Fuckin’ shut up—yeh want a can?’

Badger gave him the sad eyes. ‘Don’t mind if I dae.’

Eddie swallowed a drink. Scrunched the blue plastic bag, and held a Tennents’ aloft.  

Badger sat on the crate and tapped the bottom of the can. Letting it settle, before he yanked the ring-pull. ‘So it’s come to this, has it?’

‘Whit?’

‘Drinking like a jakey before the schools are in?’ Badger stared at the grey water on the Clyde ‘Feeling sorry for yerself.’

Eddie looked through him. ‘Get a fuckin’ grip. It’s only a few cans. When we were both coming aff the rig, we’d spend three days in the boozer to celebrate. Blow a couple of hundred quid. Now I’m on the dole, meant to get by on less than £55 quid a week. A pint cost 30 pence. A can costs next to fuck-all, so fuck you.   

Badger’s jaw tightened. ‘Sorry mate. Nane of my business.’  

‘So you should be. You’ve nae idea whit it’s like. I’m always moaning at her or the kids. Always on their case. Sometimes I jist…’

Badger licked bubbles from the top of the can frothing up his nose. ‘I know.’

‘You don’t know, fuck all. You know the worst thing? I get grief fae her and she’s telling me to phone the office. I cannae tell her I’ve phoned the office hunners of times.  And when I phone the office they don’t say I’m barred or they’ve blacklisted me. I could take that. And get a poxy job in one of Glasgow’s new and shiny call centres. Nah, they just say tae me there’s nae work and to call back later—fuckers—and yet you’ve been out about four trips since then…And Christmas is coming up…and you know whit that means?’

‘Aye mate, I know.’

‘Stop saying, you know. It’s fuckin’ annoying the fuck oot of me. I spent years workin’ for they cunts. There wasnae a day I didnae collapse into bed, exhausted.’

Badger snorted with laughter, lager running off his chin. ‘Aye, whose bed? You’re forgetting mate, I was there. So stop talking shite.’ He took a slug of lager and lit a fag. ‘I’ll tell you whit I’ll dae, we’ll walk doon to Castle Street and use the phone. I’ll phone the office for you. And when they put me on…I’ll put you on.’ He waved a hand about in lieu of further explanation, ‘if you know whit I mean?’

‘You’ll be lucky. Castle Street, unfortunately, it’s no inside a Castle, but I suppose you believe in miracles so if you find its working let me know.’

‘Look, we’ll get a phone. Don’t worry about that. It’s just…I could gee you a loan of a few quid, but you’ve got to lighten up. You know whit the boss is like.’

Eddie finished his can, crumpled it with one hand, and flung it towards the water, but it fell well short. ‘Aye, a stupid looking cunt, like the rest of them.’

 ‘Aye, but that’s whit I mean. Well, Woodie—our Donnie—is from up by Stornoway. And you know whit they’re like? Every second house has been converted to either a boozer or a Wee Free Church. The police are instructed to break up gatherings of over three people and arrest anybody that smiles on Sunday. And his wife—

Eddie sparked another can. ‘She religious tae?

‘Worse,’ Badger sucked in his breath. ‘She’s fat as fuck.’  

Eddie with a smile lighting his face, leaned, and stuck his hands over Fatty Patty’s ear. ‘Fatter than Fatty Patty? ‘

Badger shook head. ‘I mean if the Leaning Tower of Pisa didn’t wear lipstick and added a few stone…’

‘Well, whit’s she got against Fatty Patty then?

Badger finished his can and burped loudly. ‘Nae need to get technical, but she is a sex doll. And Wee Frees know that God doesn’t like sex. They don’t like anything much, and they especially don’t like anything that’s free, because it sniffs of Communism. And the fact that you were making money and Woody wasnae, well he doesn’t like that. If you’re gonnae try and privatise women’s fannies he wants more than a sniff at it. He wants his cut.’

   ‘Gie it a rest.’ Eddie’s mood lightend. He took another swig of lager. He glanced over at Badger with the scarf wrapped tight around his neck. ‘You’re talkin’ about me bein’ fucked. Your nose is ruby red, like a beacon. If you sit there any longer the ships ‘ll be crashing into the shore, thinking they’ve got mair room to manoeuvre.This thing about Woodie,’ Eddie tried to figure it out. ‘I don’t get it. Whit’s he wantin’? Does he want to telling him some shite about Fatty Patty. How our eyes met through the plastic packaging of that basement sex shop in Gibson Lane…or is it just money, cash in hand?...How does he want to play it?’

‘Dunno,’ Badger admitted. His hands shook when he lit two fags. Passing one to Eddie.’  ‘He’s a right strange cunt.’

Eddie chocked on the full strength cigarette. ‘Well, how do you know about Woody?’

Badger mutters, ‘Doyle.’

‘That cunt!’ roars Eddie.

‘Aye, him.’

‘He’s eh…sorry.’

‘You spoke to him?’

‘Well, eh, no. I mean, aye, a wee bit.’

‘Listen,’ Eddie said nothing for a few seconds and started again, with a sureness of voice. ‘Aye, we all know the story about the tanks in George Square. But that was then when we had a bit of clout. What’s that word, again, about the human tendency to make meaningful sense out of random shite.

Badger studied his feet, and shaking his head to show he was listening, having heard it before. ‘Aye, voting for Tory scum?

‘Aye that’s about it. So your Doyles of the world. They found a body mummified in the bogs. Centuries old, preserved by the peat. Scraps of hair, laughter lines around the eyes. They could tell right away.’

‘Whit?’ Badger patted Fatty Patty’s knee. ‘Nae relation, I hope?’  

 Eddie puckered his lips. ‘Did a few tests. Confirmed whit they knew. He was a Tory, poor people buried at his feet. Hooked him up to yon generator and how him up walking.’

Badger jeered, ‘That’s a lot of shite. I never heard anything about that.’

‘Course you have. They elected him Prime Minister. Ted Heath, he’s still there. Not a bit of red blood in his body. Still calling the shots. But he can only dae a three-day week. He blames the Unions, but we know the real reason.

Badger played along, helping himself to another can, ‘He needs a bit of iron, a bit of meat in him. A bit of backbone. We were the same. Tea and soup. Calories were in such short supple we didn’t even know whit they were, or if you could get them aff the ice-cream van, penny a lick.’

‘Worse than that. Tory HQ where they produce the real monsters. The oxygen of publicity is like a terminal illness. Frankenstein never had a look in. And you know Doyle. You know who he votes for? – himself. Always himself. I wouldnae trust that cunt further than I could throw him.’  

‘Aye, but whit have you got to lose? said Badger. ‘You and Fatty Patty are fucked anyway…And I don’t want to see her homeless for Christmas.’

‘Shut up yah stupid cunt.’ Eddie rubbed at his balding head. ‘You know whit, I could hug yeh.’

Badger shook his head. ‘Look, just leave this shitey cans here and we’ll go and get a couple of pints.’

‘There’s naewhere open.’

‘Aye, of course there is…The Dancing Grannie.’