If You Liked School, You'll Love Work Page 21

  The auld man listens tae the likes ay yon 50 Cent aw day. — How kin ye say that, Faither, eftir raisin me oan Eldridge Cleaver, Bobby Seale n Malcolm X? The black man’s loast it; jist wants the bling, the hoors n then tae off ehs brothers. Like the Fifer, ah suppose.

  — The black cunt’s still goat the anger but, son, that’s what we Scots huv loast.

  — Ah widnae be sae sure, Faither, the Young Team here are a bit fuckin radge.

  — Bit it’s aw chivs, son, nae shooters like the black man in the USA, eh slurs. — Yi’ll never overthrow the white man in Westminster wi chivs.

  Ah kin tell thit the auld boy’s been oan the sauce awright, n ehs goat mair, as eh reaches intae the bag n cracks open yin ay the hauf-dozen Tennent’s n thir’s a wee boatil ay the Johnnie Walker n aw.

  Eh nods at me, as if ah’d want tae share it, n normally ah wid, but the day ah’ve goat a better offer n ah cannae be bothered listenin tae his shite.

  So ah wis right roond tae the Goth, tae meet Ally Kravitz, ma handsome big biker buddy whae absconded tae Spain aw they years ago. N eh looks good n aw. Still goat that thick black mop ay hair n the skin nice n tanned; that Romany look thit the less charitable might – and do – describe as ‘gypo’. It’s great tae see um. Mind you, thir wis eywis a wee element ay betrayal in the friendship. Whin Kravy first goat the bike, the pair ay us wir gaunny head south tae Spain, n jist leave it aw behind. Then along came Shona Cameron n it wis nae contest. She goat the Spain berth oan the back ay the boy’s bike n ah started tae git served up the Miners’Welfare follayed by the Goth.

  Twelve years doon the line but, ehs back. — What happened tae the jockeying? eh asks ays.

  — Nivir took oaf. What aboot Spain then?

  — A spiritual land, man, says Kravy takin a big gulp ay cider, — a deeply spiritual land. Shona never got it. Every land has its own voices, they just blow in the wind. Shona never heard the voices, ya know?

  — Aye.

  — The wind in her hair, she looked like a dream, but she didn’t hear the voices that carried on the wind, y’know?

  — Fuckin right, ya hoor.

  — Knew you’d get it, Jase, kent you’d get it instantly.

  Kravy had only been back once, fir eh’s step-auld boy Coco Forsyth’s funeral, ehs de facto faither, the sperm and surname donator’s ID bein shrouded in mystique apart fae the name and nationality. Apparently, eh wis a Russian that docked in Rosyth fir a day n Kravy’s ma fir a night before settin sail fir the auld USSR, n leavin a free berth fir Coco Forsyth tae push intae. It wis a hert attack thit oaffed perr Coco. No sae much ay a drink or tabs man, but would stick a block ay Lurpak oan every slice ay toast eh goat doon ehs coupon. This bein Fife, thir wis nae shortage ay thon. Ya hoor, even yin vice kin be fatal if it’s taken tae thon extreme! If yir lucky ye might git away wi a yellay caird fae the referee wi the scythe afore the end ay the official three score n ten. If yir really spawny ye might even git a wee bit stoppage time oan toap, though no much ay thon gits played in the Kingdom, but, it has tae be said.

  Eh takes me ootside and shows me the latest beast ehs been riding throughoot Europa, a Thruxton 900, a premium job fae the Triumph stable. — Great feel tae it, Jase, a responsive 865cc parallel twin engine, Kravy waxes. — Comfortable fir transporting fanny long-distance as well; preload adjustable front and rear suspension. Add tae that aluminium rims, grippy tyres and floating front discs and you’ve got the goods tae make any discerning buxom young peasant wench who is fed up wi her one-hoarse toon want tae jump on the back first and think about payment-in-kind eftir!

  Ah’m impressed but even mair so whin we git back inside n eh sets up a couple ay voddy n Rid Bulls tae accompany muh black gold n the cider he’s oan.

  — The mother awright, Kravy? Ah nivir even heard aboot her accident.

  — Aye, she took a tumble oan the icy steps whin she wis pished ootside the Welfare. It wis the indignity ay it aw; ehr skirt rode up wi it aw displayed fir the whole ay Fife tae see! Ehs voice drops menacingly: — A couple ay the young team took some revealin shots ay her wi the cameras oan thir mobile phones. Posted thum oan YouTube n a Blue Brazil website n aw!

  — That’s gantin, so it is, ya hoor, ah says, making a mental note tae check oot they sites oan the Net facilities up the library. They banned ays a few months back fir lookin at porn but they cannae git ontay ays fir a Blue Brazil yin. Ye might only git a few hundred along tae Central Perk tae see the boys play, but it sometimes seems thit jist aboot every single peyin customer hus ehs ain website. Once ah git money ah’ll be gittin ma ain computer then thi’ll be nae stoappin ays! Ah look ower tae Neebour and the Duke, in the goldfish bowl next door, oan the pool table, then droap my voice: — She wis wearin knickers, but, right?

  Kravy pouts and shakes ehs heid. — Fuck sakes, Jason, it was a Seturday night up the Welfare n she’s a single woman!

  That Blue Brazil site is gitting fuckin well checked!

  — That fuckin Young Team need tae be taught no tae cross the bastard line, Kravy sais, then eh thinks aboot it n hus a wee laugh. — Fuckin Fife but, what ye gaunnae dae, man? Listen, gie’s five minutes tae drop the bike oaf back roond at the auld mare’s, then we paint this toon, nay, this coonty, a deep shade ay rid!

  — Menstruatin gash rid, wi the commensurate touch ay darkness, ah venture.

  The boy laughs. — You’re a bam, Jason, but you’re the only cunt in this place oan my wavelength, he smiles, slapping ma shoodir.

  — Ah’m in thaire, bro, ah grin, watchin um depart. Soon ye kin hear the big metal beast striking up a roar outside n turbo-fartin its wey across toon.

  Wi a jaunty spring in ma step, ah steal ower tae the pub noticeboard where ah find a new page fae the Central Fife Times and Advertiser stuck up oan it:

  The competitors lined out once again in Necarne Castle’s picturesque walled garden for the final class of the Fermanagh Council Championship on the Sunday afternoon. There was an international flavour to this year’s festival with visiting pony teams from England and Scotland. The Scots also sent junior, young rider and senior teams to compete against their Irish hosts. Lara Grant, a member of the Fife Bavarian Warmblood team, won the prestigious Mourne Rosettes Medium Championship with Scarlet Jester.

  Aye did she no, ya hoor ye! 68.25% oan advanced test 106. Nae elementary, novice or intermediate crap for that lassie! Oan the back ay thon Scarlet Jester n aw!

  The Neebour Watson comes ower. — Neevor mind the fuckin chuggin away tae posh lassies in jodhpurs that widnae gie ye the shite offay thir bits. Ah’m no wantin that table-football hand weakened fir the morn.

  — Ya hoor sor, ah goes back tae the cunt, — it’s no like that at aw. It gie’s the hand fuckin strength.

  Neebour looks at ehs gless in ehs haund. — Ah’ll tell ye what’ll gie yir haund strength sor, is diggin intae yir pockits n setting up another pint fir yir neebs here.

  Ya hoor ye, n thaire ah wis wanting tae keep the last fiver fir a fish supper n a boatil ay Irn-Bru doon at Marco’s. Best-laid schemes, ya hoor sor. But Kravy sais thit eh wis wedged up. Aw the better fir yon Jocky Mossman laddie when eh goes tae the table. Fill yir nostrils wi that guff, ya hoor thit ye are!

  Kravy comes back in, nods tae the Duke and Neebour, whae’s gone back tae join um at the table. Then eh drums ehs fingers oan the bar. — No that struck oan it here, Jase, eh sais in a low voice, — Fancy comin back tae mine? Fridgeful ay beer and a gram ay coke, n eh’s still lookin ower tae the pool room, — … which ey splits better two weys thin fower, man.

  Ah kin hear the Fife slippin back intae Kravy’s accent, sneaky as a hoor oaf a shift intae a morning oafice cleanin job. — Bring it oan, big baws, ah goes, suppin up ma black gold. N wi head oot wi some wee waves tae the soor-faced cunts ower at the pool table. Good tae see yis, dinnae want tae be yis!

  4.

  HIS GIRLFRIEND

  THE SUNLIGHT SUDDENLY pours in through my window from behind a cloud, cutting across Lara in a dramatic s
weep as she lies sprawled across the bottom of my bed. I sidle away from it in vampire panic, squinting as I move back against my headboard. I feel very spotty and it’ll show up everything. Touching my face, I wince as an angry boil throbs under my skin. I’m bloated and cramped and my period is due. I can tell that when it starts I’ll be bleeding for days like a stuck pig. One good thing is that it means I’ll drop another couple of pounds of repulsive girl-fat, hopefully ducking under the ten-stone mark, when it comes on.

  Lara, or Ms Grant as I often call her, we use the liberated prefix with a compulsive irony that depresses us, takes one more puff on the joint and puts it in the ashtray, passing it over to me. — Do you think Will’s girlfriend is good-looking, Ms Cahill? she asks me yet again.

  I take a long toke and settle back against my stacked pillows. — The point is he obviously does, I curtly inform her. I’m loath to go through all this tiresome ‘you’re much better-looking than her, if only he could meet you he’d realise there and then you’d be our next anorexic Queen’ shit with her. Aka the usual crap she evidently needs to hear so much. — Besides, Ms Grant, don’t you think he’s a bit young to be going bald?

  — No, he’s so dishy, she says dreamily.

  Lara floats in and out of people’s lives, well, my life, as it suits her. When she comes back into my orbit after living on Mars or wherever, I’m expected to kick everyone else out of it, in order to make room for her. She undermines my other friends, and does it very well, pointing out negative qualities I’d previously been blind to, but in a very benign way, making it hard to take offence. Then, once she has you all to herself, she vanishes. She stops calling and texting and is reticent about returning messages, making you feel very needy. If I challenge her about her disappearances, she’ll tell me that she has ‘boy issues’. She always has loads of boyfriends but is the kind of girl who somehow escapes the slag reputation. At least with other girls. Some of the boys she sees, I wonder what they say about her. — What about that big guy you’ve been seeing in Dunfermline, are you going to see him again?

  — Yeah, for sure, she says, but in a very unsure manner, then ventures, — He’s kind of fun, I suppose, in a thicko sort of way. He’s uncomplicated, she thoughtfully states. — Confident. In bed, if you know what I mean, and her eyes charge with light and she looks searchingly at me.

  I nod, too quickly. I don’t want to talk about sex or to hear her talk about sex and she knows that so that’s what’s going to happen. The sun’s gone behind a cloud. The room has turned a murky blue.

  — But why are we talking about my sex life, Ms Cahill? she asks with glee. — You’re the one who so badly needs to get laid!

  — I need to leave home, I tell her, passing the joint back.

  Lara flicks the ash off the end of the joint. — Yeah, but not if you want to keep jumping. It’s hard to do equestrian sports in Fife from a flat in Edinburgh, she says, then considerately adds, — but not impossible. You could always put Midnight in stables.

  — I couldn’t, not now. He’s not used to it. It would break his heart … and mine, I miserably concede.

  — Well, that means that you’re basically tied to being here as long as you want to jump with him, she contends, and not without some smugness.

  — I know, I know! I moan, pulling my knees up under my chin. — That’s the fucking choice! Riding horses and competing with no social life and living at home with my fucking parents in this shithole, or having a proper life somewhere, but giving up the horse.

  — Put him in Fiona’s stables, Jen. It’s practically next door! Your dad wouldn’t mind shelling out.

  I look evenly at her. — That’s the point. He thinks I can’t look after him. It would be a great victory for him, and confirm that I’m as useless as he thinks.

  — Can you look after him?

  — Yes! I snap, guilty at the thought of his damaged leg. — It’s all I do! I’m in the stable mucking out, feeding, every day. That’s why I packed in uni! That’s why I stay here in this shithole!

  — I suppose Fife isn’t that bad. You just need to get out more, Ms Cahill, she says, looking over at the pile of CDs on my table. — Everything’s gloomy if you’re sitting in your room listening to Nick Cave and Marilyn Manson all day. Come out with me and Monty and his friend. We’re going somewhere special on Tuesday night.

  — Where?

  Lara glares intently at me, her eyes staring me down. A smile plays across her ruby-painted lips. — It’s secret, you have to promise that you’ll never tell.

  I’m now interested in spite of myself, although I’m trying to affect bored. — Why the big mystery?

  — Cause it’s not, well, it’s not strictly legal.

  — Is it some kind of party or rave?

  — No, don’t be daft, she says, looking at me in that patronising ‘I’m so worldly’ way that always nauseates.

  — What then?

  — Promise first.

  — Okay, I say, — I swear on the life of both my parents.

  She shakes her head firmly in the negative. — Swear on Midnight’s life.

  No way. — Oh for fuck’s sake, either tell me or don’t, I snap.

  Lara contemplates this ultimatum for a while, regarding me as if I’m an insolent wretch. And I can’t help feeling my growing discomfort at her impending disapproval. Just when it gets unbearable and I’m moved to apologise, her face softens. — Okay, she purrs, and then grins, — actually, we’re going dog fighting.

  5.

  DISCIPLINE

  THE LAST COUPLE ay days shot by like a crack hoor oan crystal. Partyin at Kravy’s aw day n night, shootin aroond oan the back ay ehs bike. Crashin oot n wakin up tae aw they takeaway cartons n empty cans litterin the flair. One or two auld Chinky tinfoil efforts, but mainly boaxes fi Sandy’s Pizza Hoose oan the High Street. Ah pit it doon tae Domino’s sponsorin The Simpsons oan Sky n Pizza Hut sponsorin it oan Channel 4. So wi went fir a few outlandish creations wi loads ay pineapple n that, aw inspired by the tarry.

  But sometimes ye hae tae wrap it up, and just go hame tae sleep. So ah take that long walk past the auld Soviet-style building ay the now renamed Miners’ Welfare Institute. Aye, the Iron Curtain came doon in Central Fife as much as it did in East Europe and the frozen winds ay the marketplace huv been blastin us since. In capitalist development wir much mair along the Bulgarian-Romanian lines, thin the likes ay the Czech Republic or any ay they new trendy Baltic States. Mair cappuccino outlets in Tallinn or Riga thin Central Fife: that ah’ll wager!

  Then ah come oantae the roundabout at the Bruce Hotel. It’s been a niggly hoor ay a winter but this is aboot the first real spring day. So ah’m oantae the high street and past the Goth, duckin doon the lane at the station intae the hoose. Hand trembling in the lock as the key goes in. Thir’s nae sign ay the auld boy thank fuck, probably doon the library again, readin the Marxist propaganda thit still slips through the cooncil’s net. Thank fuck fir dissidents! Thir’s a letter fir ays ehs left oan the mantelpiece. Ah open it up:

  Dear Mr King,

  We have received several complaints about your behaviour during yesterday’s Scottish Cup tie at the Cowdenbeath Leisure Centre. Your opponent, Mr John Mossman, has made a formal complaint to us. The association’s supervising officer and referee, Mr Alasdair Sinclair, has filed his own report. I have to inform you that your behaviour is totally unacceptable to the East of Scotland Table Footballing Association and in breach of our Rules of Conduct, with specific reference to rules number 14 (c) and 27 (b and c).

  It has therefore been decided that you will be banned for two years from all association competitions. Your return to competitive table football will be dependent on a six-month probationary period, during which your behaviour will be closely monitored. You will also, of course, forfeit the cup tie with Mr Mossman. Under the rules of the association I am obligated to inform you that you have five working days within which to lodge an appeal.

  I should add that we have al
so received complaints about damage to Fife Council property at the venue. A noticeboard was torn from its mountings in a senseless act of vandalism. We cannot say for certain who the guilty party was, but the caretaker, Mr William Carter, and Mr Sinclair have intimated their suspicions to both the council and the association.

  Yours sincerely

  Oliver Mason

  Head of Disciplinary Committee

  East of Scotland Table Football Association

  Fuck sakes! Ah cannae even mind ay playin thon tie! Ya hoor ye sor, fuck yir kip now, fuelled by outrage ah’m right doon the Goth n ahm showin thum aw the letter. The Neebour Watson screws ehs face up at ays n goes, — Ye no mind, ya daft drunken hoor, ye showed up wi Kravy, oot yir face. Ye broke two ay the boy’s players wi yir clumsiness. N eh kent ye wir coked up and oan thon base speed, it wis obvious!

  — How the fuck wis it? ah plead.

  — Chowin through yir ain bottom lip n drappin blood aw ower the pitch. Ye’d huv tested positive in a drugs test, ya cunt thit ye are!

  Fuck aye, n if it wisnae aw comin back tae ays now. The leisure centre; ah hud that big half-time line fae Kravy. Ah won n aw! — That wis jist a wee tickle, tryin tae straighten masel oot, ya hoor ye. Beat the boy fair n square, two-nil.

  — It wis three-two, Jason! For fuck’s sake, man, Neebour Watson goes. — Ye even ripped doon the big DAFC noticeboard in the corridor, sayin they shouldnae huv this in Cowdenbeath, thit it wis the unacceptable face ay globalisation.

  Ya hoor: ah’m swallayin here like a Kelty lass. — That’s aw aboot security, a separate issue. The fact is thit ah won the game!

  — Well, neebs, that’s no what the top brass say. The Neebour Watson shakes ehs heid like a dug comin oot ay the sea n Comorton’s noddin away like a toy yin in the back ay a motor.

  — We’ll see aboot that, ya hoor ye. Ah stick the letter in ehs face. — It says ah kin still appeal.

  — Naw, naw, naw, neebs, yuv goat it aw wrong; they jist pit that in tae cover thir erses. Tae thaim a successful appeal wid be like an admission ay defeat, the Neebour Watson contends n Reggie Comorton’s noddin like the wise auld sage. That’ll be right! That cunt, wi ehs degree in Wisdom-Eftir-The-Event, Skill ay Retrospection, University ay If-ah-hud-that-Prince-William’s-connections-up-in-St-Andrews-ah-widnae-be-sae-marginalised.