— Too right, Tam: ah’ve learned ma lesson. That isnae exactly a lie, cause ah have learned a lesson. Just no the yin they hud in mind. — How’s Spud?
— Dinnae ask. As bad as ever. Imagine pittin yersel through aw that rehab shite for nowt.
— Aw, right, ah say aw hangdog, but inside ah’m elated. Go on, the laddie Murphy! — And Matty?
— As bad as Spud, but in Wester Hailes.
Ah take Tommy’s point. So it’s about as bad as it can get for oor Mr Connell. Ah note Hazel’s talking tae Second Prize and his bird, so ah grab ma holdall and head tae ma auld bedroom, puttin my diary at the bottom ay a cupboard full ay books and other auld shite.
When ah go back ben the front room, muh ma is arguin wi Billy, wavin some caird she wants him tae sign. — No way, he shakes his heid, — ah wouldnae sign anything fir they Currans. You no remember how they carried oan at Wee Davie’s funeral?
— But they’ve been neighbours, son … She looks imploringly tae me. — You’ll sign perr Olly’s git-well caird, won’t ye, pal?
— Didnae ken he wis … what’s up wi um?
— Aw, ye willnae huv heard … he hud a massive heart attack, Ma says sadly. — Claims he goat this nasty letter fae the council. Aye, he wis that enraged he jist flung it straight in the fire. Then he went up thaire and started shoutin the odds, aboot coloured people n that, ye ken how they could git …
— Bams, says Billy.
— … n he goat himself awfay worked up, cause the council denied aw knowledge ay any letter. But he wis ragin, n he tried tae git at the clerk behind the screens, so they called the polis. Well, he left eftir that, but he collapsed ootside in Waterloo Place, so they took him right intae the Royal.
Ah feel this chill spreadin over me, n the colour drainin fae my face. Ma thrusts the caird and pen intae my hands. Billy looks at me. — You’re no gaunny sign that, ur ye? You hated that bastard!
— Ye huv tae live n let live. It’s only a caird, n ah widnae wish that oan anybody, ah tell um. Then ah deek the caird, which has a cartoon ay a downcast-looking boy in a hoaspital bed, thermometer in his gob, wi the caption: SORRY TO HEAR YOU’RE ILL. Ah open it up n the same gadgie’s now full ay zest, gless ay champers in his hand, winking at a sexy nurse, whae pats her hair. The message reads: HERE’S TO GETTING BACK TO YOUR OLD SELF SOON!
So ah lay the caird doon oan the sideboard and scribble: All the best, Olly. Mark.
— That’s ma boy, Ma smiles indulgently, then whispers intae my ear, — that’s the real you, son. That’s the goodness ay ye comin oot, before aw they daft drugs made ye aw funny n nasty, n she kisses the real me oan the cheek.
Ah winks at her n turns tae Billy. — Mind that Wolves team that beat Herts in the Texaco Cup final? Youse won one — nil doon thaire but goat gubbed three — one at Tyney? How many players kin ye name fae that team?
— Fuck … he says, his brow furrowing, — ah kin hardly name any Herts players! Let me see, there wis Derek Dougan, obviously, Frank Munro … was it Billy Hibbitt? … Kenny Hibbitt … talkin aboot Currans … that was the boy who scored twice, Scottish guy n aw … Hugh Curran! N whae else? Billy turns tae ma faither, whae’s chatting tae Tommy and Lizzie. — Dad, he shouts him ower, — that Wolves team that beat Herts, the Texaco Cup …
— Some team, muh dad says, wipin his beak wi a paper towel. — Mind, youse aw got Wolves strips that Christmas? Ah hud tae send away for your yin?
— Aye. Fort Wanderers. You took that team photae at Christmas. It never came oot, ah state, lookin pointedly at Billy. — Shame that, eh? Nivir mind, but; ah kin still see it ma mind’s eye. Left tae right, back row; me, Keezbo, ah glance over tae the boys wi their birds: Tommy, Rab, then back tae Billy, — Franco and Deek Low n aw. In the front, crouchin in front ay us, again, left tae right; Gav, English George, Johnny Crooks, Gary McVie, mind ay poor Gazbo? Chocolateface Dukey and Matty wearin a goalie’s jersey.
Billy looks a bit disconcerted, as muh Dad cheerfully says, — Well, at least aw that bloody rubbish ye were takin husnae destroyed yir memory!
No, it has not. Because one thing ah mind ay clearly is a certain address in Albert Street, and the seven digits ay a phone number gied tae us by Seeker. Ah move across tae Hazel n pit my airm around her slender waist. She smiles at me, immaculate in that yellay dress wi they pop socks, and smellin wonderful, lookin like a fifties suburban American girl of the cinema. Ah git a stirrin in my breeks. Ah think aboot whether ah should take her up tae the flat in Monty Street n have crap sex wi her, or track doon Johnny, Spud, Matty, Keezbo and co, or go and see ma good buddy and personal trainer, Seeker.
Avanti
WHEN I TELL you that the best part of the place is the railway station, you begin to get some idea of what I’m talking about. Of course, I’d never let them know back in Leith that my mother’s home town is a shithole, far removed from those Tuscan landscapes swathed in breathtaking light, where ah led the gaping simpletons tae believe the Mazzolas originated from. In possibly the most visually stunning country on God’s earth, this toon is a thorn among roses. Even in Italy’s shabbiest region other shitheaps in the locale look down on it. Ah can even see why my mother’s family left for Scotland.
It never seemed so bad when ah was a kid. The fact that a large section ay it was still buried under a landslide since the 1960s didnae escape me, but then ah only saw a place of mystique, the child’s imagined underground city, rather than the reality of a festering den of municipal complacency and corruption. While hardly artist-inspiring, the auld family farmhouse had seemed romantic, instead of a draughty rural slum, and even the huge car breaker’s yard full ay rusty Fiats that still dominates the dusty hamlet was a playground to us, not an eerie blot on the landscape. And I didn’t notice that the ground around the settlement was barren and its citizens unsavoury and depressed-looking enough no tae seem oot ay place on Gorgie Road.
The only parts I think of affectionately are this cafe bar in the station, where ah sit drinking fantastic Italian coffee, and the old barn where cousin Antonio thoughtfully left a pile ay knock-off hassocks fae the church before he married and went to Napoli tae become a minor civil servant. In the family tradition, it was there that I finally had my way with Massima. Before ah was allowed to break the seal, I endured two weeks of frustrating kisses and gropes and the Catholic girl blow jobs I knew from back home (thank fuck ah went tae a non-denominational school, one thing ah do owe that cunt of a faither), followed by plenty of pleading, cajoling, threatening and, finally, the desperate mentions of love and marriage. And Massima is almost twenty years old! My cousin Carla pointedly warned me, after practically throwing us together in that Italian apprentice matriarch way: she has a boyfriend. So we’ve been sneaking around like fugitives, fae the station tae the barn.
But persevere is my middle name, and right now ah’m enjoying my coffee, not at all miffed that Massima’s train, coming fae another village two stops down the line, is delayed by almost thirty minutes. Where is the Duce when you need him most? No matter; I can’t think of anywhere better tae wait than this wee bar with its glass door, watching the fat old men playing cards at the next table. Sipping my coffee, comforted by the gleaming, hissing espresso machine, which evokes the old steam engines of yesterday. Thinking about how, for the poor bastards in this town, things dinnae seem tae have changed that much since then: it’s still a lifetime ay commitment for one fuckin ride! It’s a ‘C’ day, and the word is: