Playing Off Scratch

Playing off Scratch I walk along the coast and it all slips away see.
Then it's just me and the fresh air and the wind in my grey hair. I
walk with the wash of the waves, the seagulls circling, the damp earth
underfoot. I'll go for hours at a time I will, tramping up and down the
cliffs, through the thick bracken, beating back the hedges. I say hello
to people as we manoeuvre past each other on the narrow hanging paths,
walk until I start to ache. That doesn't take long these days mind. My
bones are not what they were. I go in all weathers. Not like some.
There are people that only come out with the sun. All they want to do
is lie down and slowly fry, like slices of chicken breast on a low
heat. Not me. I've always been an active man. I like to move see.
There's plenty of time to stay still when you're dead, that's what I
say. There can be sleet or falling snow, streaming rain or gales
blowing me this way and that, but there I'll be, walking the path, the
same as ever, the same as always. If it's very wet I take a stick. It
helps me keep my footing. And if it's winter cold I just put a couple
of extra layers on, wrap up and brace myself like a pilot on take off.
Carpenter by trade, I am. Yes, forty-six years these knarled old hands
have carved wood see. Sold my business a few years ago I did to a young
man from the north. Glum-faced bugger he was, but his cash was good
see. It was the right time for me to sell. Mine was a tidy little
business. Built it up myself. Put all the hard work in. Long hours, all
hours, the ones God sends and the ones he forgets about, day and night,
it didn't matter to me. There's some that don't know what that means.
Working hard I mean. They want it all presented to them now,
gilt-edged, diamonds sparkling, easy, on a bloody plate. What ever
happened to putting something in? When did that idea go? All they want
is to take something out. Take, take, take. You can see it in the eyes
of the young boys walking to the primary school near my cottage. They
look at you as if they run things, and them not even out of short
trousers. I've a good mind to take my belt to the backsides, whip the
little bastards into shape. I still work see. But now it's just for me,
for my own pleasure. I suppose that makes it more of a hobby. I'm well
shot of the marketplace. I haven't the energy for it now. All that
trying to be the best, generating good word of mouth, competing. I made
a good living out of carpentry and don't get me wrong, I'm not
complaining, but it wasn't easy, I deserve what I've got. Most
afternoons I spend in my studio surrounded by shavings and sketches. I
make furniture mostly, chairs, small tables, stools. I give them away
to my neighbours, local schools, the chapel down the road. People
always say oh, come on Perce; let me give you something for that. But
I've made my money. So I just say thanks all the same but I'm retired
now. And retired means doing it for nothing. Carpentry gives me a lot
of pleasure, but it's different from what it was see, slower, more
relaxed. There are no deadlines anymore, no worrying about pleasing
people, no one to work for. I think my work is better than it's ever
been. Because I'm free now. Since I retired I haven't wanted to work a
full day, all that's like condensation through an opened window. It's
only right, though. A man can't be expected to go on until the day he
drops, can he? I used to wonder if there was any point to my carpentry.
Wasn't everything I produced just decorative rubbish, plonked down in
corners, forgotten, just gathering dust? But then we all have our
doubts, don't we? We're not good at being satisfied; maybe that's as it
should be though. I don't like people who are too certain about things,
too sure of themselves. The moment I'd most enjoy was when I gave the
finished article to the customer. I'd search their faces for a sign
that I'd done exactly what they wanted, then there'd be the feel of the
money passing from hand to hand, the sense of a job well done. I could
go down The Court Jester and enjoy a drink with nothing to worry about.
Those were my satisfactions. Since I've been retired I've found myself
at a loose end. I'm inundated with bloody time. It's just slowed up
now. The days used to fly past but now I find myself cutting the
minutes away. I could drown in it. I think time is dangerous. Who wants
to be alone forever with all those thoughts looking for a way in? Not
me. No thanks. I need distraction see. Something to take my mind off
things. That's what work was. But now carpentry is a hobby I don't want
to be doing it all the time. What's the point of retiring if you spend
all the time doing exactly the same thing you did when you were
working? Makes no sense does it? I've never married. And I've never had
lots of friends. I suppose me and Gram are quite close, being as I'm in
The Court Jester a lot. (Thank God he's out now, the place was falling
apart without him.) And I go next door to have a drink with Ken once in
a while. But Ken and Gram are younger than me see. And that does make a
difference. And I haven't really known what to say to Ken, you know,
since what happened to Gareth. He's just not the same see. Spilt him in
two, it has. And what with Sarah always up in London. There hasn't been
anyone for quite a few years. A woman see, a bit of romance. Diane was
the last and oh, God, that was years ago. She worked in the fish and
chip shop in Kings Street, she did. I'd go in on a weekend for my one
ninety-nine special cod with mushy peas and lots of red sauce. And
she'd always give me a little bit extra and a wink. When the boss' back
was turned. I'd eat them in the shop sometimes, at the counter, with
one of those little wooden forks, the ones that break and get stuck in
your teeth. There I'd be skewering soft fleshy chunks of white fish
with the pub drunks baying at my shoulder, all of them desperate for
something to soak up the booze. You could see the irritation in the
folds of their clothes, their anger at the futility of everything. It
came out in bad jokes and lewd suggestion. You knew that beneath the
surface bravado they were all wondering how they'd lost another week of
hard work to yellow piss against the wall and raging headaches the next
day. We only went out a handful of times, Diane and me see. I made her
a little rocking chair; she loved it. Said it made her feel like a
little girl again. She ran her fingers across its smooth surface over
and over again. I told her to be careful or she'd wear right through
it. She laughed. Diane was always laughing; she was one of those
naturally jolly people you know, someone who would lift others if they
were down, the life and soul. There was just something different in
Diane's eyes, whatever you want to call it was there, trust, affection,
love even. Most people just carry their suspicion there, letting it
weigh them down like plastic shopping bags full of sugared cakes and
boil in the bag rice. There's not many people around that aren't
cynical see, about one thing or another. Diane died while on her way
home from work just after Christmas a few years ago. Drunk driver it
was. And still you see them stumbling to their cars, all over the damn
road, going sixty miles an hour and them with all that alcohol in their
blood. Makes me bloody sick. Throw the bloody key away that's what I
say. Let them hear the screams at night. The bastard that killed Diane
was about after eighteen months. I used to do the horses several times
a week. Did it for years see. Into a world of TVs I'd go, with all the
smoke in the air, posters tempting you to go a little further all the
time. And the men in coats, with pencils behind their ears and a layer
of dandruff on their shoulders, the crisply efficient folk behind the
glass, cigarette in the corner of their mouth, tutting, bored, hoping
for failure, stitching up the punters. And the form, I always loved the
form. It was my way of reading. I was never been one for novels but I
could read form for hours. I would stand there, in a quiet corner, and
pour over those pages like a CIA agent searching for that one final
clue, that solid bit of evidence that would get the wanted man. I had
success; I was one of the lucky ones. Big winners as well mind, long
odds, envy from the others in the shop. I branched out to other sports,
football, rugby, golf, I'd have a shot at anything, and I've always
loved my sport see, so I would know what was what. I approached it like
a science, but I had the temperament of an artist. I thought I was so
romantic. The betting man, him in the know, able to give you a tip for
a price or a favour, for a long time I was the man to ask, the sharp
tipster, it was knowing a form of magic, or speaking another language.
I'd pop in mid afternoon, JG Balls and Co on Graigwen Street. Between
the bakery and the off-licence. It's not there anymore mind. It's a pet
shop now. Some of the locals protested the betting shop's presence,
those who still take their lead from the, said it would corrupt the
town they did. Better to put defenceless animals in cages. Let the
grannies and the little girls peer in and go all soft inside. Still,
Jack Balls didn't put up a fight. He was looking at buying a casino in
Blackpool anyway, so he sold up in a flash and off he went. Back then
though I'd slip in through the door of JG Balls as if it was a sex
shop. Always that guilt there, that sense of doing something wrong,
something you shouldn't. I'd nods to the regulars, the men in suits and
ties, others in carpet slippers and cardigans. Mackey Spin in the
corner, his fat filling the space, out of breath and chuffing on a John
Player Special, always losing. I thought of it as a private club. Let
people like Sarah have their Groucho. I was never happier than when I'd
spend the whole afternoon in Jack's shop. We were members; exclusive
and prized we were, privy to inside information. Back outside they
didn't have a clue. Looking back I suppose the bookies made up for a
lot, it filled in gaps and spaces in the dry stonewalls of my life.
Other men had wives and children; I had little slips of paper thrust
under windows with wire meshes and the smell of fags on my clothes. It
all started to go wrong for me the day the balance between winning and
losing, being up or down, tilted the wrong way. But I kept on see, the
next day and the next. I knew there would be another big win, just knew
it. I knew I had it in me. But I was wrong. Something had gone. The
luck I suppose. In the end, it's nothing more than that is it? After a
few big flops people started to look at me as if I was spoilt goods, a
bad omen. They'd say hello but they wouldn't smile. They didn't want my
tips anymore. I lost three thousand in five days. It affected my work,
couldn't carve properly, everything I did was shoddy and my customers
were unhappy. I was spending all of my time at the bookies see, hoping
to change things around. But after losing more money I'd go home with a
few pints inside me and knock off a chair or an ornamental bookshelf
before bed. One day I woke up and I couldn't breathe. It frightened the
hell out of me. It was a warning see. The doctor said I had to be
careful. Make some changes. They put me on these tablets and told me to
relax and avoid stress. So that's how it all stopped. I stopped because
I thought it would kill me. I'm not sure I ever really cared that much
about the money. Gambling isn't about the money; it's about the
adrenalin, the anticipation, the love of chance. Trying to cheat Fate.
We all want to do that don't we? We'd all love to find a way. A few
months ago I got right back into it again. Nothing serious mind, just
the scratch cards. And scratch cards are just pure luck; it's not real
gambling see. It was an accident, how it happened I mean. By the bay,
with its cold sand and pier life and the icy waves, where it curves
around like the hind leg of a dog and the hopeful sunbathers seek
shelter from the vicious wind, there's a little shop. It sells cheap
novels for the tourists, pink rock, magazines, sweets, spades, the
usual stuff. I'd pass it every day on my walk and go in there now and
again for a bottle of water or a packet of crisps. Well this one day
there was a new woman behind the counter. Dark brown hair she had,
round face, and eyes like emeralds on silk. I asked her name. Laura.
New girl are you I said. Just moved down she said, from London. She
could have only been in her thirties. Married she was, with a little
baby girl. Jessica. They wanted her to grow up surrounded by trees and
fields and water. Her husband ran the The Hair of the Dog. Laura didn't
want to have anything to do with it. Angus understands she said with a
lovely smile. I don't want to be with him 24-7. Better for our marriage
if we have some time apart. She had a smile to fix the world. We had a
lovely chat, one of those when you come away feeling refreshed and
ready to take anyone on. I enjoyed the walk back home, thought about
her for the rest of the day. That night I nodded off in front of the
television, the faces on the screen transforming into hers, the lines
blurring, until I couldn't tell the difference. But meeting her me made
me uneasy. I knew I'd have to see her every day from then on. I woke up
with her on my mind. When I was chopping onions and the tears came I
knew they were because of her. She was in everything I did. But I
didn't have much of an excuse for going into the shop. I passed it on
my walks but I'd ever been in there once in a blue moon see. The last
thing I wanted was the others thinking I had a soft spot for the new
girl. I didn't want them teasing me; they'd be like crows picking over
the dead body of a rabbit. Give them a chance and they'd be in there
with their bad jokes and their silly leg pulling. Or her husband would
get to find out. So that was how it started, the scratch cards. I made
Laura's shop the place where I bought my scratch cards. They were my
reason, my excuse. I'd never done them before. I do the lottery of
course but I'd never much fancied the cards. I don't like that grey
stuff they use to cover up the numbers. You can't get it out from under
your fingernails. Well we soon developed our routine see, our way of
being with each other. I'd do my card there in the shop; Laura would
lean over the counter, waiting to see if I'd won anything. Then I'd
shake my head and she'd say better luck next time and I'd say something
like I need more than luck I think. She'd giggle at that and I'd hope
she hadn't seen the look in my eye. I'd ask after Angus and she'd say I
should go and have a drink in the pub sometime. I'd nod and say I would
and that was it until the next day. I avoided The Hair of the Dog like
it had a dose of the clap. My local was The Court Jester anyway, but
I'd pop into The Hair of the Dog now and again for a swift one see. The
months went by. I won ten pounds twice and twenty-five pounds three
times. With my first tenner I bought Laura a big box of Dairy Milk and
a bottle of white wine. She looked embarrassed and said I should have
spent it on myself. I told her there was nothing I needed. It's always
nicer to buy a present for someone else. She laughed and looked away.
At that moment I realised that she was falling for me too. There was
something in the way things lingered see, the laughs, the looks, the
way her hair moved. I made up my mind to declare my feelings. I had to
tell her. We could talk. She'd take the afternoon off, the girls would
understand. We'd walk hand in hand on the beach, working out how we'd
play it with her Angus. What we'd say to Jessica. Things needed to be
sorted out. There were arrangements to be made. It would all be very
delicate, just like carving the tail on one of my horses. One day in
December, just when you couldn't move for Christmas decorations and
rain, I stood outside the shop watching an empty chocolate wrapper blow
about in the wind. This was it, the big moment. There was no going
back. I took a deep breath. With one push of the door I was in the
shop. I thought I'd imagined it at first, that my nerves were playing
tricks on me. I closed my eyes and opened them again. He was still
there. Angus, behind the counter, with his arms around Laura's waist,
the two of them giggling like a pair of teenagers. He'd never been
there before. He came up to me, a big man, with sly eyes and a dull
scar on his cheek. I thought he was going to hit me. He shook my hand
and said how do you do. I said hello and asked after the pub. Doing
well he said. But we never see you in there. Laura tells me you come in
every day for your scratch cards. Laura looked proud, as if I was her
child and she was showing me off to the neighbours. As if I'd got a
gold star from teacher. Felt ridiculous, I did. Her husband kept on
about me going in for a drink and in the end I said yes just to shut
him up. I went in a couple of days later, on a Saturday afternoon.
There was hardly anyone in. Just the regular drunks and a couple of
people with nothing better to do than drink the afternoon away. Angus
was behind the bar. Bern he said when he saw me. As if we were the best
of friends. He wanted me to have a drink with him. I tried to say that
it was all right but he insisted on paying. I ordered a pint of lager
and he nodded to a table in a quiet corner. Why don't we go and sit
over there he said. They can manage without me for a while. So we sat
down and I took a sip of my drink and looked at the menu. Traditional
lasagne, traditional lamb curry, traditional chilly con carne. Angus
had a strange face; round and robust, like a battered old football you
can kick around forever but never split. He looked ugly and handsome at
the same time. His teeth were a bit yellow and his scar shone in the
oil-lamp pub. He suddenly looked mean, like someone you wouldn't want
to mess with. He nodded twice. I laughed; it was quick and nervous. You
know what this is about Bern don't you? I hadn't a clue. This is about
my wife. If I'd been holding my pint at that moment I'd have dropped it
into my lap. Laura? Yes Bern. Laura. What about her? I said. She
doesn't like you bothering her. She wants you to stop coming in. And I
would very much like that too. Understand? Or do you want me to spell
it out for you? He gripped my arm and held it for a moment. I felt his
fat furry fingers digging into my flesh. I knew he wasn't the kind of
man to talk things through. Then I was running over the top again,
though the gorse and the nettles, my back streaming with sweat and
rainwater. I ran through puddles left over from the rain the night
before, my socks collecting water like eager little sponges. As I got
to my cottage I slipped and fell. Cracked my head on the paving stones
I did. Don't know how long I lay there, the blood arc growing in the
wetness. The next time I was aware of anything I was in bed, wrapped up
in my duvet. There was a hot toddy on the bedside cabinet; the air was
full of whiskey-water fumes. Ken and Sarah were sat next to the bed on
two chairs they'd got from the lounge. They started fussing around me.
Told me that I'd given my head a real bump and that I'd been out cold.
The fridge was full. They were right at the end of a phone line if I
needed anything. Ken would do my shopping for the next couple of days.
The doctor had been around. I had to take it easy for a few days. A few
hours later I woke up to find Laura sitting by the bed. She passed me a
bit of card. It was wet and dirty. Ken and Sarah found that lying next
to you she said. It must have dropped out of your pocket love. It was
the last scratch card I'd bought. They always hang around in my pockets
for a few days before I get round to throwing them out see. I hadn't
won anything.