— Aye, said Winchester, — everybody used this place back then. Every hoor and comic singer came here. Great atmosphere it had.
— Was that back in the punk era?
Winchester shook his head briskly, his features puckering in distaste. — I hated all that shite. Killed musicianship. Led Zeppelin, the Doors, they were the boys, he waxed. — The Lizard King!
In Winchester’s elation Skinner was privy to a hitherto unrevealed side of his associate. He disconcertingly glimpsed a younger, livelier soul, before the reductive powers of ageing and alcohol had done their work. — You remember an Edinburgh band back then called the Old Boys? he asked Winchester. — My ma was into them. I think she hung about with them.
— Naw . . . Winchester shook his his head. — I wisnae interested in aw that shite. Punk was just a noise, he reiterated.
Losing interest in his colleague and turning to the barman, Skinner remarked, — I hear that the grub’s got a good rep here.
— Always has had, he agreed.
— Aye, Skinner nodded, sidling closer to the bar as he warmed to his topic, — been reading that De Fretais guy’s book, ken the telly chef?
— Aye, he doesnae like ehsel, that boy, the barman sarcastically observed.
Skinner nodded and smiled. — No half, eh. He’s written that food sex book, The Bedroom Secrets of the Master Chefs. Tells you how to get a bird intae bed by cooking her a meal.
— Spend enough on drinks trying to get them into bed, the barman laughed, — fucked if I’m cooking for them as well.
Skinner chortled in acknowledgement. — I never knew he started out here. He namechecks this auld chef fae this place; the boy taught him everything, apparently. I’d never heard ay the old gadge but he seemed a right character.
The barman rolled his eyes as he saw Winchester had drained his glass and Skinner was making an impression on his. He gave the ‘same again’ gesture, to which Winchester responded positively, then turned back to Skinner. — Sandy Cunningham-Blyth. That old cunt’s the bane of my life, he said ruefully.
Skinner couldn’t believe his ears. — He still works here?
— Wish he did, at least he’d be in the kitchen. It’s a lot worse than that: he fucking well drinks here. The barman shook his head. — See, if it was up to me, I’d have barred the drunken auld pest years ago, but he can do no wrong in the eyes of the management here. ‘An Archangel institution’, the boss calls him. He ought to be in a fucking institution if ye ask me, the barman said, rapping out a speech Skinner sensed he’d deployed on several occasions.
— So old Sandy boy is still a local?
— He’ll be in here tonight, that’s for sure, unless the old cunt’s fallen under a bus or something. We can but hope, the barman continued, deadpan, as a Fife housewife came over and ordered a round of gins.
— What does he look like?
— His coupon’s like it’s been detonated by explosives and stitched back together by a blind seamstress on acid. Don’t worry though, you’ll hear him before you see him, the barman gravely advised.
Having got their four pints in, Skinner and Winchester sauntered back to the office, observing their customary ritual. Winchester always stopped in at the newsagent and let Skinner go ahead while he purchased an Evening News. Then he’d follow on a few minutes later. That way they hoped that they wouldn’t be associated as drinking cronies.
Most of the current gossip in the department, however, didn’t concern drinking, but focused around the respective losses incurred by Kibby and Skinner. People seemed a lot quicker to empathise with the former’s setback than with the latter’s and this preferential treatment did not escape Skinner’s notice.
After Kay’s departure it had not taken Skinner long to commence a half-formed casual affair with Shannon McDowall. Shannon had also had a romantic setback, walking in on her boyfriend Kevin screwing one of her best friends. The colleagues’ new relationship consisted of them going out for a drink after work, getting a bit pissed and necking furiously for the rest of the night. Although it always stopped at that point, it was observed by the odd party and became the subject of much salacious chat in the workplace.
That afternoon Skinner had been chomping at the bit after his four lunchtime pints with Winchester and he and Shannon found themselves sitting in the Waterloo Bar on an early finish after work. — It’s a shame about Brian’s dad. Shannon shook her head. — He’s taking it very badly.
Skinner found himself barking at her in hostility. — At least the fucking muppet knew his faither, his venom causing her to recoil slightly. Aware of his heavy-handedness, Skinner shrugged in apology at his chère amie. — Sorry . . . it’s just that my dad, he could be anybody in this pub. He looked around at the chattering groups of drinkers, all animated after finishing work. — My mum never talks about him, willnae tell me a thing about the fucker. That little bastard Kibby walks around like he’s the only person on this earth that’s ever known pain and everybody goes: ‘Awww . . . poor wee Bri-yin . . .’
He could see that Shannon was gauging the extent of his antagonism towards Kibby, and he reasoned that it wasn’t a particularly endearing quality to display. But she was also struck by a more powerful emotion, that of empathy. — You know that I lost my mum when I was younger, she told him.
Skinner thought about his own mother, how it would feel if anything happened to her. — I can’t imagine how bad that would feel. He shook his head, then thought about Kibby. What must the poor wee fucker be going through? he considered.
— It felt totally fucking shite, basically, Shannon said evenly. — Dad couldn’t cope. Had a breakdown. She took a long drag on her cigarette. As he watched it burn, Skinner wanted one but fought the craving. — I had to look after my wee brother and sister. So uni was out, I needed to get a job. This place was reasonably well paid, and they sent you on day release to get the Public Health Management Certificate. I can’t say it’s what I wanted to do, inspect fucking kitchens, but I suppose it’s important work, and I’ve made the most of it. But that’s why my heart goes out to Brian right now. I know what it’s like to lose someone like that.
— I’m sorry . . . I do feel for Brian, Skinner said, and he strangely felt the need to have Kibby with them, to comfort Kibby, to hold him, and the impulse shocked him. — It’s just that I’m not over Kay – he said quickly, then suddenly stalled, realising that accidentally, and by omission, he’d just referenced a relationship they had both steadfastly resisted defining. — That’s no reflection on you, you’ve been great, it’s just . . .
Their hands crossed over and entwined. Skinner often had cause to reflect that sometimes a snog could be more intimate than a fuck. Now it seemed that there were circumstances where simply holding hands could imply a deeper pathos still. He looked at the rings on her fingers, then into her large, brown eyes and saw the sadness in them, and felt something inside him stretch towards her.
— Thanks for trying, Danny, but you don’t need to. We’re both on the rebound and we’re helping each other out, having a bit of a laugh, repairing some badly damaged self-esteem. — Let’s just leave it at that for now and if anything else happens, it happens. Okay?
— Aye, Skinner agreed, possibly a little too eagerly, he fancied, and the tight grin that pursed her lips told him that this had indeed been the case. Yes, something in his soul was still waiting for that phone call from Kay, although the realist in him knew that it would never come. — Aye, rebound relationships are always dodgy and that. Let’s keep it low pressure, he said, then aware of a slightly painful impasse, asked, —You were wi Kevin a while, eh?
— Three years.
— You must miss him, he said, thinking of Kay.
— I do, but it wasn’t right for a while. We both knew it. We couldn’t fix it, but we couldn’t end it. In a way it came as a relief. I suppose I was already feeling the loss of him those last months we were together. If I’m being honest, I miss Ruth more. Her face pinched and her eyes
narrowed, — that weak, twisted, treacherous, fucked-up bitch was my best friend.
She lost two of them in one fell swoop. One fell fuck. I lost Kay. I loved her, but couldn’t love her properly. I can’t love anybody again until I’m a whole person. I’m not complete till I know myself, and I don’t know myself till I know my old man. I’ve got to find that fucking chef, and I don’t care what this old fucker’s like, I’d rather it was him than De Fr . . .
They smiled at each other and Skinner suggested that they move on to the Archangel Tavern.
— But that place at the top of the Walk has cocktails at half-price during happy hour, Shannon urged. Since she’d split up with Kevin she too was seeking some sort of regular oblivion, this being as much the attraction as anything else in Skinner’s consort.
— Wait till you see this place though, Shan, brilliant atmosphere and some real characters, Skinner said with great zest, relishing the prospect of meeting a certain old chef.
— Let’s give it a go then, she said with an enthusiasm he found touching, wishing Kay could have shared it. Then again, he gloomily considered, maybe she did at the start.
They walked down into the station, cutting across the overpass. Skinner wondered whether he should take her hand, or put his arm around her. No, it seemed strange them being like that when they worked in the same office together. The intimacy of the pub had evaporated in the cold, night air, like a Hollywood musical where the hero and heroine go through an elaborate song-and-dance act, ending up in each other’s arms, only to pull nervously apart when the music stops.
As they crossed the footbridge and decended into Market Street, Danny Skinner thought in mounting anticipation about Sandy Cunningham-Blyth. He pushed open the frosted-glass doors of the bar and ushered Shannon through.
A drunken old bastard. The apple doesnae fall far from the tree . . .
Even though he had never set eyes on him, Skinner knew who Cunningham-Blyth was straight away. This, he reasoned, was nothing to do with any possible paternal recognition, nor even the description furnished by the barman, accurate though it was. In the small, crowded lounge there was an old guy sitting on his own and the only free seats in the house were beside him. He was muttering to himself, as drinkers on either side of the exclusion zone sat with their backs to him in poses of intent avoidance.
Nodding to the barman he’d talked to earlier, who had now changed into a checked shirt, Skinner got up a pint of lager and a vodka and Coke for himself.
— I’ll have a large whisky n lemonade. Shannon pointed to the gantry. — Teacher’s will do nicely.
— You want to watch that stuff. It completely decimates the prostate gland.
— Danny, I don’t have a prostate gland.
— I rest my case, Skinner smiled cheerfully as they moved across to the empty seats.
Sandy Cunningham-Blyth gave the arrivals a big smile, like a country host welcoming expected guests. He was a squat, hunched, bearded, broad-shouldered man with silver hair that was thin on top and ran down his back in lank greasy strands gathered into an unlikely ponytail. His few remaining teeth were stained yellow and he stank of old booze and tobacco. Wearing a crumpled shirt, a checked lumberjack coat and soiled fawn corduroy trousers tucked into old boots, he was a man whose own comfort seemed designed to upset any possibility of that state in others. Most of all, and the barman was spot on, thought Skinner, the man had a complexion which suggested a lifelong devotion to debauchery. He eyed Shannon as she sat down. — Come to me, pretty lady, he said in an unabashedly leering greeting. In response she turned snootily away, pretending not to notice, while Skinner laughed in nervous amusement.
— And your name is? Sandy persisted, gently tapping her on the shoulder as she quickly shot Skinner a ‘let’s sit somewhere else’ look before turning to her self-appointed host.
— Shannon, she said in polite terseness, as Skinner pulled his chair round to make a circle, forcing her to turn in.
— That majestic river of old Erin, Cunningham-Blyth waxed dreamily, a trickle of saliva dripping on to his beard, and began to quote, — ‘No more he will hear the seagull’s cry, ower the bubbling Shannon tide . . .’ Does your family hail from the Emerald Isle?
— Nup, they took the name from Del Shannon. My dad was a big fan, he played in a rockabilly band, she took a delight in explaining.
Sandy Cunningham-Blyth seemed a bit deflated at this news, letting his big shoulders slump forward. Then his face ignited and he said, — So, where do you stay, my little runaway?
— Meadowbank, Shannon said, now slightly warming to the guy. He was just a harmless old drunk, after all.
All the time Skinner was scrutinising Sandy Cunningham-Blyth.
Decrepit, but probably not even sixty, young enough to have had my mother and got her up the duff twenty-four years ago. A definite pisshead and still going strong. If he’s my old man I just hope I’ve inherited the cunt’s constitution!
— I’m Danny, Skinner extended his hand and felt a strong grip, tried to work out whether it belonged to the drink or the man. — This is a rare pub, eh? he said, looking around.
— It used to be, Cunningham-Blyth scratched in gravelly tones. — It used to be a place where people with a lust for life would eat and drink and discuss important matters, he continued, looking in reproach at the current clientele. — Now it’s just another watering hole.
— Have you drunk here a while? Skinner asked.
— Yes I have, Sandy Cunningham-Blyth said proudly, then let his eyes bulge. — Sometimes I even worked here.
— Behind the bar?
— God, no, the old chef laughed.
— The restaurant?
— Getting warm, Cunningham-Blyth said teasingly.
— You look a creative sort of a guy . . . the type with plenty of flair . . . I’ll bet you were a chef.
Cunningham-Blyth was delighted. — I was indeed, my astute young friend, he said, and it was Skinner’s turn to be moved by the older man’s flattery. Cunningham-Blyth took his smile as all the vindication he needed to tell his story. — I had no formal training, I’d just always loved to cook, loved to entertain. Originally, I had embarked on a career as a barrister and went to the other bar, the old chef waved disapprovingly towards the High Street. — And I thoroughly detested it. I reckoned that Edinburgh didn’t need another fucking mediocre lawyer, but back then they could certainly have done with a decent bloody cook!
— Funny, my mother did waitressing here, back in the late seventies, Skinner said, testing the water, noting that Shannon was now in conversation with another couple beside them.
— Ah, now you’re talking! Those were great times at this place. What was her name?
— Beverly. Beverly Skinner.
Sandy Cunningham-Blyth furrowed his brow, trying to cast his mind back, but it seemed that he genuinely couldn’t recall Beverly. He shook his head and sighed. — So many passed through here at one time.
— She had green hair, quite unusual back then. She was a sort of punk. Well, not sort of, she was a punk.
— Oh yes! A delightful girl as I recall, the old chef sang, — though hardly a girl any more, I suppose!
— Naw, Skinner agreed, as Sandy Cunningham-Blyth again seized the cue to move back into tales of the restaurant in its heydays. It was general stuff, but Skinner was content to play it cool and develop a relationship with the ex-chef as the drinks flowed.
Then Cunningham-Blyth started to crumble. After a spate of drifting in and out of consciousness, by the time last orders came round he had completely passed out. Shannon turned to Skinner. — I’m going home. Alone, she added, aware that she always had to make that statement in order to fend off his advances at this time of the night.
— Aye, fair enough, Skinner said. — I’m going to get the old boy into a taxi.
Shannon was slightly disappointed not to have to repel Skinner’s ardour, though his generosity towards the old drunk increased his standing in her eyes
.
Skinner had managed to rouse Cunningham-Blyth, staging an inpromptu farce, which involved getting him across the road, into the station and inside a taxi before he conked out again. It was a pantomime performance with the lead alternately coaxing, cajoling, begging and threatening. Before the alcoholic coma claimed him, the former chef had managed to bark out a Dublin Street address. The worst part was getting him out the cab and up the stairs. There was an excruciating search through the veteran cook’s pockets for his keys, but Skinner doggedly persevered. The stairs were a nightmare; Cunningham-Blyth was bulky, moreover his weight would shift, as he would appear in semi-control, before sinking back into total inebriation again. At one stage Skinner feared they would both go crashing down the steep stairs or, worse, cowp over into the well.
After the ordeal of getting him into the flat and on to a bed, Skinner decided to explore Cunningham-Blyth’s apartment. It was roomy, with a large, well-furnished drawing room and an impressive island kitchen. This room wasn’t used frequently though; opened tins, strewn takeaway boxes and empty beer cans testified that Sandy’s parties weren’t as lavish as of old.
This flat is fucking minging.
Skinner prepared to leave but then he heard crashing noises and went back to investigate. There was a heaving sound and he saw Cunningham-Blyth puking up into the toilet at the end of the hall, his trousers down at his ankles. — You awright there, mate?
— Yes . . . Cunningham-Blyth turned round slowly and splayed out on the floor, his back resting against the jacks. Skinner couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. The old chef jerked like a puppet, and the similarities didn’t end there, as he had no genitals: where they ought to have hung there was only some ugly red and yellow scar tissue. On closer examination, Skinner thought that he could make out a sack, which may or may not have had something in it, but there was certainly no penis. Out from this angry formlessness came a tube feeding into a plastic bag, which was attached by a belt to his waist. The bag was slowly filling up with yellow liquid right in front of Skinner’s eyes.