— Tell me about it, I grimace, looking over at oddly nervous Lara, who’s networking like her life depended on it.
Becky and I swap numbers on our mobiles: hers is a new one. Jason is watching them depart. — Stop checking out their arses, I chide, — you’ve got a girlfriend now. At the very least I expect you to be subtle in your leering.
Jason looks sorrowfully at me. — Sorry, doll, force ay habit.
— Well, cut it out. You don’t catch me staring at boys’ packets, I tell him, ‘you don’t catch me’ being the operative part of the comment.
Poor Jason just says, — Right enough.
He’s such an innocent, deep down.
We come across a big, beautiful-looking bull at one of the shows. Its intelligent stare seems to unnerve Jason. — What’s up?
He shakes his head. — Yon bull’s giein ays some fuckin look awright; sly, evaluatin, wise. Last time ah saw yon expression wis the face oan muh ma’s fancy man in yon snobby wee hotel, ya hoor, he nods at the bull. — Ah ken you awright, Wee Arnie, ya cunt, he says. Then he turns to me and adds in conspiracy: — Yon look thit sais ‘it might be a good idea tae discourage Jason fae comin roond sae much’. Aye, aye, ah ken.
— Don’t be so paranoid, Jay, I laugh, grabbing his bony arse. — When you win at Bathgate tonight, I’ll fuck you senseless.
His eyes bulge out so severely it’s like a movie computer-generated special effect. — But what if ah git beat?
— Then you can fuck me senseless.
His jaw drops to compound the effect of the eyes.
The buzz goes around that there’s free champagne in the sponsors’ tent, so Jason and I are right across. We’re enjoying the bounty with restraint as I have to run Jay to Bathgate for the tournament, but Lara’s appeared and she’s still a suffering bag of nerves. I hear her going on to some toff about Princess Di. — The latest theory is that she was murdered because of her views on Palestine.
Jason’s picked this up and looks aghast. — What fuckin views oan Palestine? Git tae fuck! he snaps in irritation like a little terrier. Suddenly it’s all very testy between the two of them. The toff takes his leave, and not very discreetly either, swanning off in disdain.
— Thank you, Jason! Lara spits. — Do you have any idea who that was?
— Some hoor, says Jason, mimicking the toff’s arrogance and heading off himself, circulating like he’s to the manor born.
That’s my boy!
It becomes more than apparent that Ms Grant is not pleased with my choice of partner. — I’m trying to get in with the sponsors and you bring him along! She squeals as Jason shamelessly steals over to her uncomfortable-looking father and mother, engaging them in conversation. Dr Grant is looking away, while Mrs Grant is struggling with a pained face. What’s even more delicious is that I know Jason knows just how much he’s winding them up, and is thoroughly enjoying it! So am I.
— But he’s fun! I protest, enjoying her discomfort. The bruise has faded a bit, but you can still see it. Of course, I’d previously told her that it was completely invisible.
— You haven’t been, you know …? she asks.
I shrug nonchalantly. — I’m saying nothing, Ms Grant.
— You have! With a stable boy! With a failed jockey! A stalker midget, a drug addict … how horrible … Then she sees I’m not amused. — But Jen, you could do better. You’re so pretty.
— Don’t worry about me, I tell her. — I’m fine. I’m getting shagged. That was my big problem, remember? Well, problem solved.
— But Jason … he’s stalked us both all over the fucking country! Lara gasps.
I stare into her bruised eye. — Yes, I know that I don’t have your immaculate taste in the opposite sex.
— Gosh! Her hand instinctively goes to her eye. — It really doesn’t show, does it?
Then a voice booms through the tannoy, telling Lara to go to the paddock and ready Scarlet Jester.
— Maybe a little, I concede, — but it’s really nothing to worry about.
She looks wanly at me, touching her face, and heads off in trepidation.
— Good luck, Ms Grant, I shout.
I have to hand it to Lara; she is a good horsewoman, and a gutsy competitor. In spite of everything, she pushes Gillian Scott all the way for the cup. But Gillian is gangly, spotty and an awkward mess out of the saddle. Her teeth are more prominent than those on any horse in the tournament. The television people go through the motions with her, but what they really want to do is talk to the sexy, feisty loser, Lara Grant. No, you can’t worry about our Ms Grant. She’s a Nazi monolith and some day she’ll rule the world. But I have to admit to being concerned when she comes storming up to us, in a real state of agitation. — It’s a disaster! she shrieks, tears in her eyes.
— Second to Gillian Scott isn’t a disaster, Lara. She’s won –
— No! The interviewer made a joke about my black eye! On camera!
— Thi’ll edit that oot, surely, Jason says, strutting over, champagne glass in hand. Lara’s bottom lip trembles and she breathes heavily through her nostrils like a snorting dragon. I doubt she’s ever hated anybody in her life as much as she detests Jay right now, although the TV presenter must come a close second. — Never mind though, second isnae bad, Jason says at that moment, and I have to stifle a chuckle. — Better tae huv fought n loast, that’s ma stance. He turns to me with a thoughtful nod, his bottom lip curling out. — Onywey, we’d better be shootin oaf, if yi’ll pardon the expression!
— You going to come along to Bathgate with us? I ask Lara.
She bubbles back at me: — I can’t go to Bathgate … to some table-football game! Don’t you see! Everything’s ruined! And she runs across to Dr and Mrs Grant, collapsing sobbing into her father’s thin chest. Her mother strokes her hair, looking accusingly over at us.
— My God, she’s such an emotional retard! How old is she! I find myself squealing with sheer, unbridled delight, and utter shock. — What an outburst! I never, ever knew that she was such a daddy’s girl!
We go to take our leave and Jason waves and shouts over at them, — See yis, well! As we head to the car he says to me, — Never liked thon Doaktir Grant. Eh wis ey a right tight hoor wi they lines whin ah worked in the warehoose.
Climbing into the car, we set off for Bathgate. The second glass of champagne was a mistake and I drive slowly and with great deliberation. I keep thinking about something that’s been concerning me and I decide to raise it with Jay. — She was only fourteen when you went out with her. Wasn’t that a bit dodgy?
Jason does that crazy thing with his eyes, then hunches his shoulders back. — Whin ye pit it like that, mibbe it wis, but ah nivir saw it that wey at the time. Ah mean, thir wis nae hanky-panky, it wis jist a friendship brought aboot fae a mutual love ay the hoarse. Besides, she wis probably mair experienced thin me at the time!
That’s the amazing thing about Jason, he actually boasts about his celibacy. This marks him out from any other boy I’ve ever met. — I wouldn’t doubt that. I don’t mean it as a slur on you, Jay, but Lar’s always been a busy slut.
— Aye, but thir wis nowt like that wi us. The odd wee snog, but maistly, as ah sais, it wis the mutual love ay the hoarse thit brought us thegither. The rest wis aw platonic.
I look steadily at him. — She’d have fucked you back then if she thought you were up for it. I turn back to the road, then accelerate past a camper van. — She told me that.
I watch his eyes bulge out a little further as he sits in silence.
We get into Bathgate and on the Whitburn Road stands the rather imposing Victorian building, the Dreadnought Hotel, with its five spires and five bay windows. We go inside and a receptionist ushers us through to the nightclub, which is the venue for the semi-finals.
This guy Maxwell is the tournament favourite, and he’s brought a few supporters from Corstorphine with him. They wear maroon Hearts football tops with ‘Maxwell No 1’ in white letters on the back. Howe
ver, some of the Fife boys from the Goth pub are over, and Jason’s dad is down with some friends. One of them is the old down-and-out minister, who seems to have got himself together a bit. I catch his dad looking at the confident, swaggering Maxwell, and saying to Jason, — Niggah don’ fool nobody. I can see the pussy in his eyes.
Jason doesn’t respond, just clenches his jaw.
The crowd is fired up. They’ve obviously been drinking, especially the Fife contingent. I change my mind about the disgraced minister as he slurs something I can’t understand at me. At least he doesn’t smell too bad, though. Jason is obviously nervous. — Okay? I ask.
— Ya hoor, ah dinnae want tae lit every cunt doon, he says to me, holding out trembling hands.
— It’s okay, Jay. Just do your best, I urge.
He nods tersely and heads to the table.
It’s a very tight game but Maxwell seems to be at the table more and Jason is finding it hard to keep possession. His jaw is tight in concentration, but he gives out the odd exasperated ‘shite’ or ‘fuck’. It’s just a hiss, really, and it’s at himself rather than his opponent, but the referee gives him some disapproving glances. Then Maxwell opens the scoring and there’s gloom and doom in the air from the Fife camp, as several overweight, bespectacled guys in maroon tops jump around.
Then suddenly, Jason is awarded a penalty, which Maxwell hotly disputes. Jason converts it and we all go crazy, setting up a chant of ‘Blue Brazil, Blue Brazil, Blue Brazil …’, which we’re told to cease by the officials. For the first time, I realise, I really feel like I’m part of my town, like I belong. And that’s not something to be celebrated; in fact, it’s the saddest thing I can think of: enjoying myself with a bunch of strange permanently pre-adolescent misfits at a table-football tournament. And worse: I feel anything but sad at the moment.
— Eh’s takin a pummellin, but, his friend Colin Watson, or ‘Neebour’ as they call him, whispers in my ear. But Jason’s goalkeeping is inspired and he makes several brilliant saves as Maxwell’s shots rain in on his goal. They go into extra time and still can’t be separated. It comes down to the penalty shootout.
At first I thought I was imagining things, but now I’m sure that Maxwell’s been staring at my tits before and during the game. It has to be the case; I’m the only female here. Inspired, I take off my jumper. Underneath it I have the sleeveless T-shirt and the Wonderbra, showing the rack off at its best.
I’m standing behind Jason, who’s positioning his keeper for Maxwell’s penalty. I can see Maxwell looking from me to the goal and back to me. I look straight at him and slowly lick my lips. He shoots, and Jason saves! I make sure I stay behind Jason as he converts to Fife cheers at the other end. Already, the poor Corstorphine lad is almost in tears at what he perceives as the injustice of it all. — This is nae wey tae decide a place in the final ay a major tourney, he bleats. — It’s a joke!
He scores his next one, but he’s still disconsolate, as Jason converts to go two-one up. Maxwell seems to sink into a seething depression and the referee urges him to take his third kick. He thrashes it and it rebounds straight off Jason’s keeper and bounces right down the table. After a cheer, there’s a ghostly silence, then a roar as Jason coolly converts, punching the air, and it’s three-one. Chants of ‘so fucking easy’ come up from the Beath mob, only to be silenced by officials making disqualification threats. We all shut up.
The referee gets the broken Maxwell to take his fourth. He needs to score his last two and hope that Jason misses his last pair, just in order to force more penalties. Maxwell scores, and it seems to energise him as he forces his face into a twist of defiance. It’s now in Jason’s hands. This for the game. Our hearts sink as he blasts high and wide.
Maxwell goes up to the table. I’m right over the defending Jason’s shoulder, looking at Maxwell. He won’t look at me. I wait till he goes to take the flick and I quickly pop out my breast, hoping that the umpire doesn’t see. As my cleavage is hastily secured the ball flies wide and the Fife crowd celebrates, with chants of ‘Blue Brazil’ filling the air, and Jason is in the final of the Scottish Cup!
He gets up and shakes the hand of the referee, then the disconsolate Maxwell, who reluctantly proffers his mitt, but can’t look at him.—A wee announcement, Jason says suddenly, raising his voice, as shushing is urged by the Beath boys, and the crowd falls silent. — Ah’m no gaunny take part in the final ay the Scottish Cup. He shakes his head to incredulous gasps. — It’s up tae youse what ye dae, he says, turning to the officials. — Ah hereby forfeit this game in favour ay ma very gifted opponent, Murray Maxwell. And ah take the opportunity tae wish Murray all the best fir the final.
Maxwell is walking away, shaking his head. A fat guy tries to lift his arm, but he brushes it off.
An official comes up to Jason, obviously panicky. — But this is most irregular, Mr King! We at the East of Scotland Table Football Association –
Jason cuts him off. — Youse at the East ay Scotland Table Fitba Association need tae git laid. It’s a bairn’s game fir retards. Grow up, ya fuckin tubes!
— Mr King – the official briefly blusters, before walking away, shaking his head in disgust.
Jason’s dad grins and looks at his son in admiration. — Ain’t cutting no deal with that muthafuckin DA, he shouts. Neebour and the Duke are looking at each other, nodding in agreement. Everybody in the Fife squad laugh, as the Corstorphine lads hang their heads and start to sneak out.
I see Maxwell turning away, shaking off the overtures of another official. — I’m no taking part in this disorganised crap, he spits. — You let people into this tournament who bring it into disrepute! I lost under the association rules! It’s over, do you hear?! Over!
In the pub across the road, Jason’s dad approaches with some drinks he’s got up. — Well done, son.
— Aye, ah held ma bottle in the shoot-oot, Faither.
— Naw, son, thon speech, he says, all misty-eyed, and the disgraced minister nods in approval. — Pure James Connolly or John McLean. A sort ay ‘I stand here as the accuser, not as the accused’ speech fae the dock, pittin authoritarian structures oan trial in thir ain fuckin coort, he turns to me, raising an eyebrow, — if yis’ll pardon my French. Aye, he says to Jason, — ah saw the spirit ay Auld Bob Selkirk and Willie Gallagher thaire, son. The very spirit we need tae turn yon so-cried Kingdom intae the fully-fledged Soviet Socialist People’s Republic it wis destined tae become!
Jason looks at the dirty reverend. — It wis Jack here that wis the inspiration, he says, and the drunk ex-man of the cloth beams.
We slam our pint glasses together and toast the forthcoming communist revolution. If my father could see me now!
29.
OLD FOUR-LEGS IS BACK
SO AH’M BACK in the morn and it’s a nippy heid wi aw last night’s champers n lager: the tipples ay the workin man n wummin. But even though ah’m ridin ehs lassie, thir’s nae escaping merkit forces: Tam Cahill still wants a fill shift in the stables. Ah’m graftin like a hoor servicing a trainload ay tweakers, only the odd glad eye fae Jen brightenin up the day.
But we couldnae believe it whin the RSPCA boys showed up at the Cahill hoose n opened the back ay the van. There wis auld Ambrose in a cage, but still wi thon bit ay driftwid in ehs mooth! Eh widnae lit it go!
Evidently the daft mutt jist kept swimmin, driftwid wedged intae they jaws like a hoor’s haund intae yir pocket, n the current fae the tidal Firth took um as far as Leith whaire eh washed up. The polis n the authorities wur alerted by a lone angler whae saw um paddlin, cream-crackered, intae Newhaven harbour.
So Tam Cahill’s gaun, — That’s him! That’s muh boy! N they opens the cage n the dug ignores um, jumps oot n bounds ower tae me droapin the bit ay driftwid at ma feet.
Ah bends ower n pats the laddie’s heid. — There’s a boy, there’s a boy, ah goes n looks up at the rest ay thum.
— He never let thon bit ay wid oot ehs sight, even when he was eating, one RSPCA ma
n, a boy wi a military tash, goes. — Woe betide ye if ye tried tae take it oaf him!
— Aye, ah looks roond nervously, — ah used tae chuck um things tae fetch.
Tam disnae notice but, eh jist goes doon n leads up the dug.
The other RSPCA boy, a clean-shaven hoor, goes tae Tam, — Those scars on his face and body, sir, how did he come by these?
— Mauled by Rottweilers, Tam tells them sadly, and this cunt is yin plausible hoor, ah’ll gies um that. — Two ay thum set upon him in Dunfermline Glen; the mess they made ay him. Eh turns tae the dug as if lookin fir backup, — Thought wi wir gaunny lose ye … again, ya wee rascal! Aye, they fair made a mess ay um, eh, boy? eh sais sadly, then turns tae the uniformed men. — They pit thum doon, of course. It wisnae the dugs’ fault; ah blame the owners.
The clean-shaven RSPCA boy disnae look impressed, mind you.
Tam seems tae recognise this and changes tack, gaun intae ehs wallet. — Right, chaps, how much is it ah owe yis?
Clean-Shaven shakes ehs heid. — It’s all part of the service.
— Then it’s an excellent service, neebs, Tam says, — but what aboot a wee drink oan me? Ah really cannae thank yis enough for finding him and bringing him back tae ays.
Clean-Shaven looks at ehs mate Tashy for a second. The hoor looks like some cunt’s rammed a white-hoat poker up ehs erse. — Thank you, sir, but there’s no need. However, if you want to make a donation to the RSPCA, that would be most welcome.
— Coont ays in, Tam beams in contentment.
— Unfortunately, we can’t take cash here, Clean-Shaven says, — but we do have forms for you to complete.
— Right … Tam says deflatedly, cause the cunt kens that ehs been huckled!
Tashy goes back intae the car and comes oot wi a set ay forms which Tam fills in, ehs jaw droapin a wee bit, then the boys take thum n jump back intae the motor n speed oaf.
Once thir oot ay sight Tam boots the dug in the side n perr Ambrose lits oot a sad yelp, n cowers away. — See what you’re costing me, ya cunt! Fuckin twelve quid per month on direct debit! He wellies the perr boy again n muh hert rises tae muh mooth.