Greyhound for Breakfast (6 page)

‘I think you’re skint.’

‘I’m skint.’

‘It’s a fucking dump of a city this, every cunt’s skint.’

Fisher jerked his thumb at Mick. ‘No him, he’s no skint, a fucking millionaire, eh!’

Mick chuckled, ‘That’ll be fucking right.’

Eddie flicked his lighter and they took a light from him. Fisher said, ‘Nice . . .’

Eddie nodded, slipping it back into his pocket.

‘What you up for by the way?’

‘Och, a couple of things.’

‘No going to tell us?’

‘Nothing to tell.’

Fisher winked at Mick: ‘Dont believe a word of it.’

‘It’s gen,’ said Eddie, ‘just the maw and that. Plus I was wanting to see a few of the old faces. A wee while since I’ve been away, three year.’

‘Aye and no even a postcard!’

‘You never sent me one!’

‘Aye but I dont know where the fuck you get to man I mean I fucking thought you were inside!’

‘Tch!’

‘He’s supposed to be my best mate as well Mick, what d’you make of it!’

Mick smiled.

Not too long afterwards Eddie had swallowed the last of his whisky and then the heavy beer. ‘That’s me,’ he said, ‘better hit the road. Aw right Tam! Mick, nice meeting
you.’ Eddie shook hands with the two of them again.

Fisher said, ‘No bothering about the racing on the telly then . . .’

‘Nah, better no – I’ve got a couple of things to do. The maw as well Tam, I’ve got to see her.’

‘Aye how’s she keeping? I dont see her about much.’

‘Aw she’s fine, keeping fine.’

‘That’s good. Tell her I was asking for her.’

‘Will do . . .’ Eddie edged his way out. The elderly man shifted on his chair, made a movement towards the drink he had lying by his hand. Eddie nodded at Mick and said to Fisher,
‘I’ll probably look in later on.’

A couple of faces at the bar seemed familiar but not sufficiently so and he continued on to the exit, strolling, hands in his trouser pockets, the cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Outside
on the pavement he glanced from right to left, then the pub door banged behind him. It was Fisher. Eddie looked at him. ‘Naw eh . . .’ Fisher sniffed. ‘I was just wondering and
that, how you’re fixed, just a couple of quid.’

Eddie sighed, shook his head. ‘Sorry Tam but I’m being honest, I’ve got to hit the bank straight away; I’m totally skint.’

‘Aw. Okay. No problem.’

‘I mean if I had it . . . I’m no kidding ye, it’s just I’m skint.’

‘Naw dont worry about it Eddie.’

‘Aye but Christ!’ Eddie held his hands raised, palms upwards. ‘Sorry I mean.’ He hesitated a moment then said, ‘Wait a minute . . .’ He dug out a big handful
of loose change from his trouser pockets and arranged it into a neat sort of column on his left hand, and presented it to Fisher. ‘Any good?’

Fisher gazed at the money.

‘Take it,’ said Eddie, giving it into his right hand.

‘Ta Eddie. Mick’s been keeping me going in there.’

‘When’s the giro due?’

‘Two more days.’

‘Garbage eh.’ He paused, nodded again and patted Fisher on the side of the shoulder. ‘Right you are then Tam, eh! I’ll see ye!’

‘Aye.’

‘I’ll take a look in later on.’

‘Aye do that Eddie. You’ve actually just caught me at a bad time.’

‘I know the feeling,’ said Eddie and he winked and gave a quick wave. He walked on across the street without looking behind. Farther along he stepped sideways onto the path up by the
Art Galleries.

There were a lot of children rushing about, plus women pushing prams. And the bowling greens were busy. Not just pensioners playing either, even young boys were out. Eddie still had the
Record
rolled in his pocket and he sat down on a bench for a few minutes, glancing back through the pages again, examining what was on at all the cinemas, theatres, seeing the pub
entertainment and restaurants advertised.

No wind. Hardly even a breeze. The sun seemed to be beating right down on his head alone. Or else it was the alcohol; he was beginning to feel the effects. If he stayed on the bench he would end
up falling asleep. The hotel. He got up, paused to light a cigarette. Along Sauchiehall Street there was a good curry smell coming from somewhere. He was starving. He turned into the entrance to
The Green Park, walking up the wee flight of stairs and into the lobby, the reception lounge. Somebody was hoovering carpets. He pressed the buzzer button, pressed it again when there came a break
in the noise.

The girl who had brought him breakfast. ‘Mrs Grady’s out the now,’ she told him.

‘Aw.’

‘What was it you were wanting?’

‘Eh well it was just I was wondering if there’s a bank near?’

‘A bank. Yes, if you go along to Charing Cross. They’re all around there.’

‘Oh aye. Right.’ Eddie smiled. ‘It’s funny how you forget wee details like that.’

‘Mmhh.’

‘Things have really changed as well. The people . . .’ He grinned, shaking his head.

She frowned. ‘Do you mean Glasgow people?’

‘Aye but really I mean I’m talking about people I know, friends and that, people I knew before.’

‘Aw, I see.’

Eddie yawned. He dragged on his cigarette. ‘Another thing I was wanting to ask her, if it’s okay to go into the room, during the day.’

‘She prefers you not to, unless you’re on full board.’

‘Okay.’

‘You can go into the lounge though.’

He nodded.

‘I dont know whether she knew you were staying tonight . . .’

‘I am.’

‘I’ll tell her.’

‘Eh . . .’ Eddie had been about to walk off; he said, ‘Does she do evening meals as well like?’

‘She does.’ The girl smiled.

‘What’s up?’

‘I dont advise it at the moment,’ she said quietly, ‘the real cook’s off sick just now and she’s doing it all herself.’

‘Aw aye. Thanks for the warning!’ Eddie dragged on the cigarette again. ‘I smelled a curry there somewhere . . .’

‘Yeh, there’s places all around.’

‘Great.’

‘Dont go to the first one, the one further along’s far better – supposed to be one of the best in Glasgow.’

‘Is that right. That’s great. Would you fancy coming at all?’

‘Pardon?’

‘It would be nice if you came, as well, if you came with me.’ Eddie shrugged. ‘It’d be good.’

‘Thanks, but I’m working.’

‘Well, I would wait.’

‘No, I dont think so.’

‘It’s up to you,’ he shrugged, ‘I’d like you to but.’

‘Thanks.’

Eddie nodded. He looked towards the glass-panelled door of the lounge, he patted his inside jacket pocket in an absentminded way. And the girl said, ‘You know if it was a cheque you could
cash it here. Mrs Grady would do it for you.’

‘That’s good.’ He pointed at the lounge door. ‘Is that the lounge? Do you think it’d be alright if I maybe had a doze?’

‘A doze?’

‘I’m really tired. I was travelling a while and hardly got any sleep last night. If I could just stretch out a bit . . .’

He looked about for an ashtray, there was one on the small half-moon table closeby where he was standing; he stubbed the cigarette out, and yawned suddenly.

‘Look,’ said the girl, ‘I’m sure if you went up the stair and lay down for an hour or so; I dont think she would mind.’

‘You sure?’

‘It’ll be okay.’

‘You sure but I mean . . .’

‘Yeh.’

‘I dont want to cause you any bother.’

‘It’s alright.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘Your bag’s still there in your room as well you know.’

‘Aye.’

‘Will I give you a call? about 5?’

‘Aye, fine. 6 would be even better!’

‘I’m sorry, it’ll have to be 5 – she’ll be back in the kitchen after that.’

‘I was only kidding.’

‘If it could be later I’d do it.’

‘Naw, honest, I was only kidding.’

The girl nodded.

After a moment he walked to the foot of the narrow, carpeted staircase.

‘You’ll be wanting a cheque cashed then?’

‘Aye, probably.’

‘I’ll mention it to her.’

Up in the room he unzipped his bag but did not take anything out, he sat down on the edge of the bed instead. Then he got up, gave a loud sigh and took off his jacket, draping it over the back
of the bedside chair. He closed the curtains, lay stretched out on top of the bedspread. He breathed in and out deeply, gazing at the ceiling. He felt amazingly tired, how tired he was. He had
never been much of an afternoon drinker and today was just proving the point. He raised himself up to unknot his shoelaces, lay back again, kicking the shoes off and letting them drop off onto the
floor. He shut his eyes. He was not quite sure what he was going to do. Maybe he would just leave tomorrow. He would if he felt like it. Maybe even tonight! if he felt like it. Less than a minute
later he was sleeping.

I was there once without enough for a room, not even for a night’s lodgings in the local Walton House. 6/6d it was at the time which proves how fucking recent it was. At
the NAB a clerk proffered a few bob as a temporary measure and told me to come back once I had fixed myself up with a rentbook. I got irritated at this because of the logical absurdity but they
were not obliged to dish out cash to people without addresses. By the time I had worked out my anger I was skint again (10 fags and some sort of basic takeaway from a Chinese Restaurant). I wound
up trying for a kip in the station, then tramped about the ’dilly trying to punt the wares to Mr and Mrs Anybody. When it was morning I headed along and under the bridge to Salford,
eventually picking up another few bob in the office across from Strangeways. I went away back there and then and booked in at the Walton for that coming evening, just to be on the safe side.

The middle of July. What a wonderful heat it was. I spent most of the day snoozing full stretch on my back in a grass square adjacent to the House, doing my best to conserve the rest of the
bread.

Into the communal lounge about 6.30 p.m. I sat on this ancient leather effort of a chair which had brass studs stuck in it. The other seating in the place was similarly odd and disjointed. Old
guys sprawled everywhere snoring and farting and burping and staring in a glassy-eyed way at the television. I had been scratching myself as soon as I crossed the threshold, just at the actual idea
of it. Yet in a funny fucking way it was quite comfortable and relaxing and it seemed to induce in you a sort of stupor. Plus it was fine getting the chance to see a telly again. One felt like a
human being. I mind it was showing The Fugitive with that guy David Jansen and this tall police lieutenant who was chasing him about the States (and wound up he was the guy who killed
Jansen’s wife). I was right into it anyway, along with the remaining few in the room who were still compos mentis, when in walks these three blokes in clean boilersuits and they switched it
off, the telly. 10 minutes before the end or something. I jumped out the chair and stood there glaring at them. A couple of the old guys got up then; but they just headed off towards the door, and
then upstairs to the palliases. It was fucking bedtime! 10.50 p.m. on a Thursday night. It might even have been a fucking Friday.

He was walking slowly. His pace quickened then slackened once more. He stopped by the doorway of a shop and lighted a cigarette. The floor was dry, a sort of parquetry. He
lowered himself down to sit on his heels, his arms folded, elbows resting on his knees, his back to the glass door.

He could have gone straight home and crept inside and into bed perhaps quietly enough not to disturb her and come morning, maybe that hour earlier than usual, and out and away, before she was
awake. But why bother. He could simply not return. In this way they would simply not meet, they would not have to meet. And that would be great. He was not up to it. It was not something he felt
capable of managing. It was not something he was capable of. He could not cope with it.

But why bother. If he was obliged to do certain things and then failed to do these things then that was that and nothing could be offered instead. He had always known the truth of that. Always;
even though he seemed never to have given it voice. Never; especially not with her. She would never have understood.

And then there were his silences. That inability he had to get out of himself. It was not disgust, not contempt; nothing like that. It was something different altogether. But he had no wish to
work out what the hell it was.

He had been trying to adapt for years. And now she was there now lying in bed sleeping or awake, about to become awake, to peer at the clockface, knowing she is not as warm as usual, because of
course he is not home yet and the time, and her eyes.

He keeps imagining going somewhere else and taking a room perhaps with full board in some place far away where all the people are just people, people he does not know and has no obligation to
speak to. There was something good about that. He inhaled on the cigarette then raised himself up and bent his knees a couple of times, before pacing on. After a time he slowed, but was soon
walking more quickly.

The milk was bubbling over the sides of the saucepan. He rushed to the oven, grabbed the handle and held the pan in the air. The wean was pulling at his trouser-leg, she
gripped the material. For christ sake Audrey, he tugged her hand away while returning the saucepan to the oven. The girl went back to sit on the floor, glancing at him as she turned the pages of
her colouring book. He smiled: Dont go telling mummy about the milk now eh!

She looked at him.

Aye, he said, that’s all I need, you to get into a huff.

Her eyes were watering.

Aw christ.

She looked at him.

You’re a big girl now, you cant just . . . he paused. Back at the oven he prepared her drink, lighting a cigarette in the process, which he placed in an ashtray. Along with the drink he
gave her two digestive biscuits.

When he sat down on the armchair he stared at the ceiling, half expecting to see it bouncing up and down. For the past couple of hours somebody had been playing records at full blast. It was
nearly time for the wean to have her morning kip as well. The same yesterday. He had tried; he had put her down and sat with her, read part of a story: it was hopeless but, the fucking music,
blasting out. And at least seven out of the past ten weekdays the same story. He suspected it came from the flat above. Yet it could be coming from through the wall, or the flat below. It was maybe
even coming from the other side of the stair – difficult to tell because of the volume, and the way the walls were, like wafer fucking biscuits. Before flitting to the place he had heard it
was a good scheme, the houses designed well, good thick walls and that, they could be having a party next door and you wouldnt know unless they came and invited you in. What a load of rubbish. He
stared at the ceiling, wondering whether to go and dig out the culprits, tell them the wean was supposed to be having her mid-morning nap. He definitely had the right to complain, but wasnt going
to, not yet; it would be daft antagonizing the neighbours at this stage.