Greyhound for Breakfast (7 page)

Inhaling deeply he got up and wiped the oven clean with a damp cloth. Normally he liked music, any kind. The problem was it was the same songs being played over and over, all the fucking time
the same songs – terrible; pointless trying to read or even watch the midday TV programmes. Maybe he was going to have to get used to it: the sounds to become part of the general hum of the
place, like the cars screeching in and out of the street, that ice-cream van which came shrieking
I LOVE TO GO A WANDERING
ten times a night including Sunday.

A digestive biscuit lay crunched on the carpet by her feet.

Thanks, he said, and bent to lift the pieces. The carpet loves broken biscuits. Daddy loves picking them up as well. Come on . . . he smiled as he picked her up. He carried her into the room.
She twisted her head from side to side. It was the music.

I know, he said, I know I know I know, you’ll just have to forget about it.

I cant.

You can if you try.

She looked at him. He undressed her to her pants and vest and sat her down in the cot, then walked to the window to draw the curtains. The new wallpaper was fine. He came back and sat on the
edge of the double bed, resting his hands on the frame of the cot. Just make stories out of the picture, he told her, indicating the wall. Then he got up, leaned in to kiss her forehead. I’ll
away ben and let you sleep.

She nodded, shifting her gaze to the wall.

You’ll have to try Audrey, otherwise you’ll be awful tired at that nursery.

Sitting down on the armchair he lifted the cigarette from the ashtray, and frowned at the ceiling. He exhaled smoke while reaching for last night’s
Evening Times
. The tin of paint
and associated articles were lying at the point where he had left off yesterday. He should have resumed work by now. He opened the newspaper at the sits. vac. col.

The two other children were both boys, in primaries five and six at the local primary school. They stayed in at dinnertime to eat there but normally one would come home after; and if it happened
before one o’clock he could send the wee girl back with him to nursery. But neither liked taking her. Neither did daddy for that matter. It meant saying hello to the woman in charge
occasionally. And he always came out of the place feeling like an idiot. An old story. It was exactly the same with the headmistress of the primary school, the headmistress of the last primary
school, the last nursery – the way they spoke to him even. Fuck it. He got up to make another coffee.

The music had stopped. It was nearly one o’clock. He rushed through to get the wean.

The nursery took up a separate wing within the building of the primary school; only a five-minute walk from where he lived. Weans everywhere but no sign of his pair. He was
looking out for them, to see if they were being included in the games yet. He had no worries about the younger one, it was the eldest who presented the problem. Not a problem really, the boy was
fine – just inclined to wander about on his tod, not getting involved with the rest, nor making any attempt to. It wasnt really a problem.

The old man with the twins was approaching the gate from the opposite direction; and he paused there, and called: Nice to see a friendly face! Indicating the two weans he continued, The
grandkids, what a pair! No twins in the family then all of a sudden bang, two lots of them. My eldest boy gets one pair then the lassie gets another pair. And you know the worrying thing? The old
man grinned: Everything comes in threes! Eh? can you imagine it? three lots of twins! That’d put the cat right among the bloody pigeons!

A nursery assistant was standing within the entrance lobby; once she had collected the children the old man said: Murray’s the name, John, John Murray.

Tommy McGoldrick.

They shook hands.

I saw you a couple of days ago, the end of last week . . . went on the old man. I was telling my lassie, makes a change to see a friendly face. All these women and that eh! He laughed, and they
continued walking towards the gate. You’re no long in the scheme then Tommy?

Naw.

Same with myself, a couple of months just, still feeling my way about. I’m staying with the lassie and that, helping her out. Her man’s working down in England temporarily. Good job
but, big money. Course he’s having to put in the hours, but like I was saying to her, you dont mind working so long as the money’s there – though between you and me Tommy
there’s a few staying about here that look as if a hard day’s graft would kill them! Know what I mean? naw, I dont know how they do it; on the broo and that and they can still afford to
go out get drunk. Telling you, if you took a walk into that pub down at the shopping centre you’d see half of them were drawing social security. Aye, and you couldnt embarrass them!

They were at the gate. When the old man made as though to continue speaking McGoldrick said, I better be going then.

Right you are Tommy, see you the morrow maybe eh?

Aye, cheerio Mr Murray.

Heh, John, my name’s John – I dont believe in the Mr soinso this and the Mr soinso that carry on. What I say is if a man’s good enough to talk to then he’s good enough to
call you by your first name.

He kept a watch for the two boys as he walked back down the road; then detoured to purchase a pie from the local shop, and he put it under the grill to heat up. At 1.20 p.m. he was sitting down
with the knife and fork, the bread and butter, the cup of tea, and the letter-box flapped. He had yet to fix up the doorbell.

The eldest was there. Hello da, he said, strolling in.

You no late?

He had walked to the table in the kitchen and sat down there, looking at the pie and stuff. Cold meat and totties we got, he said, the totties were like chewing gum.

What d’you mean chewing gum?

That’s what they were like.

Aye well I’d swop you dinners any day of the week . . . He forked a piece of pie into his mouth. What did you get for pudding?

Cake and custard I think.

You think? what d’you mean you think?

The boy yawned and got up from the chair. He walked to the oven and looked at it, then walked to the door: I’m away, he said.

Heh you, you were supposed to be here half an hour ago to take that wean to the nursery.

It wasnt my turn.

Turn? what d’you mean turn? it’s no a question of turns.

I took her last.

Aw did you.

Aye.

Well where’s your bloody brother then?

I dont know.

Christ . . . He got up and followed him to the door, which could only be locked by turning a handle on the inside, unless a key was used on the outside. As the boy stepped downstairs he called:
How you doing up there? that teacher, is she any good?

The boy shrugged.

Ach. He shook his head then shut and locked the door. He poured more tea into the cup. The tin of paint and associated articles. The whole house needed to be done up; wallpaper or paint, his
wife didnt care which, just so long as it was new, that it was different from what it had been when they arrived.

He collected the dirty dishes, the breakfast bowls and teaplates from last night’s supper. He put the plug in the sink and turned on the hot water tap, shoving his hand under the jet of
water to feel the temperature change; it was still a novelty. He swallowed the dregs of the tea, lighted a cigarette, and stacked in the dishes.

A vacuum cleaner started somewhere. Then the music drowned out its noise. He became aware of his feet tapping to the music. Normally he would have liked the songs, dancing music. The wife
wouldnt be home till near 6 p.m., tired out; she worked as a cashier in a supermarket, nonstop the whole day. She hardly had the energy for anything. He glanced at the fridge, then checked that he
had taken out the meat to defrost. A couple of days ago he had forgotten yet again – egg and chips as usual, the weans delighted of course. The wife just laughed.

He made coffee upon finishing the dishes. But rather than sitting down to drink it he walked to the corner of the room and put the cup down on a dining chair which had old newspaper on its top,
to keep it clear of paint splashes. He levered the lid off the tin, stroking the brush across the palm of his hand to check the bristles werent too stiff, then dipped it in and rapidly applied
paint to wall. It streaked. He had forgotten to mix the fucking stuff.

Twenty minutes later he was amazed at the area he had covered. That was the thing about painting; you could sit on your arse for most of the day and then scab in for two hours; when the wife
came in she’d think you’d been hard at it since breakfast time. He noticed his brushstrokes were shifting periodically to the rhythm of the music. When the letter-box flapped he
continued for a moment, then laid the brush carefully on the lid of the tin, on the newspaper covering the chair.

Hi, grinned a well-dressed teenager. Gesturing at his pal he said: We’re in your area this morning – this is Ricky, I’m Pete.

Eh, I’m actually doing a bit of painting just now.

We’ll only take a moment of your time Mr McGoldrick.

Aye, see I’ve left the lid off the tin and that.

Yeh, the thing is Mr McGoldrick . . .

His pal was smiling and nodding. They were both holding christian stuff, Mormons probably.

Being honest, said McGoldrick, I dont really . . . I’m an atheist.

O yeh – you mean you dont believe in God?

Naw, no really, I prefer taking a back seat I mean, it’s all politics and that, eh, honest, I’ll need to get back to the painting.

Yeh, but maybe if you could just spare Ricky and myself one moment of your time Mr McGoldrick, we might have a chat about that. You know it’s a big thing to say you dont believe in God I
mean how can you know that just to come right out and – hey! it’s a big thing – right?

McGoldrick shrugged, he made to close the door.

Yeh, I appreciate you’re busy at this time of the day Mr McGoldrick but listen, maybe Ricky and myself can leave some of our literature with you – and you can read through it, go
over it I mean, by yourself. We can call back in a day or so, when it’s more convenient and we can discuss things with you I mean it seems like a real big thing to me you know the way you can
just come right out and say you dont believe in God like that I mean . . . hey! it’s a big thing, right?

His pal had sorted out some leaflets and he passed them to McGoldrick.

Thanks, he replied. He shut the door and locked it. He remained there, listening to their footsteps go up the stair. Then he suddenly shook his head. He had forgotten to mention Allende. He
always meant to mention Allende to the bastards. Fuck it. He left the leaflets on the small table in the lobby.

The coffee was stone cold as well. He filled the electric kettle. The music blasting; another of these good dancing numbers. Before returning to the paint he lighted a cigarette, stopping off at
the bathroom on his way ben.

Heh what d’you make of this man I’m standing in the betting shop and this guy comes over. Heh john, he says, you got a smoke?

A smoke . . .

Aye, he says.

So okay I mean you dont like to see a cunt without a smoke. Okay, I says, here.

Ta.

Puts it in his mouth while I’m clawing myself to find a match.

Naw, he’s saying, I dont like going to the begging games . . .

Fair enough, I says, I’ve been skint myself.

Aw it’s no that, he says, I’m no skint.

And out comes this gold lighter man and he flicks it and that and the flame, straight away, no bother. Puffs out the smoke. I’m waiting for the bank to open at half one, he says,
I’ve got a cheque to cash.

Good, I says, but I’m thinking well fuck you as well, that’s my last fag man I mean jesus christ almighty.

A wise man resists playing cards with foreign language users. This is a maxim Mister Joseph Kerr should always have been well aware of. So how come he had succumbed to
temptation yet again? Because he thought he would take them, that’s how. If you had discussed the point prior to play he would have nodded in a perfunctory fashion – that’s how
much a part of him the maxim was. And yet he still succumbed. Of course. Gamblers are a strange breed. In fact, when he noticed his pockets were empty he frowned. That is exactly what he did, he
frowned. Then he stared at the foreign language users who by this time had forgotten all about him. And the croupier was shuffling the deck for a new deal. And yes, she was also concealing her
impatience in an unsubtle way, this croupier, and this unsubtlety was her method of displaying it, her impatience.

Mister Joseph Kerr nudged the spectacles up his nose a wee bit, a nervous gesture. His chair moved noisily, causing the other players to glance at him.

But what was he to do now? There was nothing he could do now. No, nothing to be done. It was something he just had to face. And yet these damn foreign language users had taken his money by
devices one could scarcely describe as being other than less than fair, not to put too fine a point on things. And how in the name of all that’s holy could the fact that it was himself to
blame be of any consolation?

He scratched his ear and continued to stand there, by the chair, and then he sighed in an exaggerated manner but it was bitterly done, and he declared how things had gone too far for him now,
that he had so to speak come to the end of his tether. The croupier merely looked at him in reply but this look might well have been a straightforward appeal for a new player.

Mister Joseph Kerr shrugged. Then he stood to the side, making space for the new player who moved easily onto the seat. There was a pause. Mister Joseph Kerr had raised his eyebrows in a
slightly mocking fashion. He smiled at the new player and touched him on the shoulder, saying how he should definitely pay heed to that which he knew so thoroughly beforehand. The new player glared
at the hand on his shoulder. What’s the meaning of this? he murmured.

In all probability he too was a foreign language user. Mister Joseph Kerr nodded wearily. Maybe he was just bloody well growing old! Could that be it? He sighed as he strolled round the table,
continuing on in the style of somebody heading to an exit. He entered the gents’ washroom and gazed at himself in the mirror. It was a poor show right enough, this tired face he saw; and
something in it too as if, as if his eyes had perhaps clouded over, but his spectacles of course, having misted over. The thought how at least he was breathing, at least he was breathing, that was
worth remembering.