Ugly Puggly 18

Ugly Puggly was doing something with broad beans and peas, boiling them to death.

‘Whit have you got in the oven?’ I smacked my lips together, after a good booze-up, I fancied some grub. ‘I’d a terrible dream, I thought it was Monday.’

Pulling open the oven door, he peered at the contents. ‘Duck wae fennel and garlic butter.’

‘Fuck, that smells good. Don’t suppose you’ve got anythin for a fry-up?’

‘Nah,’ he flicked the kettle on. ‘All the frozen stuff went wae the power goin aff.’

I brushed past him and rinsed my mug under the water and glanced outside The windmill was hardly turning, it was too nice a day. ‘I’ll need to go doon to the shops and get the papers and rolls. I’ll get a packet of sausages.’

‘No for me,’ he snorted. ‘All that pre-packaged shite. Sweepings aff the abattoir floors.’

‘Just the way I like it. Yer more expensive sausage is just a different hoof wae a different label. Snob value. That’s aw it is.’    

He handed me a teabag from the box in the cupboard. I put it in the mug and stirred my tea. ‘Remember when we used to think we were better than other folk because we’d loose tea in a teapot and didnae use teabags?’

‘Nah, we always just used teabags.’

I sat at the table and sipped my tea. ‘That’s cause we were better than you.’

He laughed. ‘Aye, you used to think so.’

‘Where’s the playboy? He still up the stairs, sleeping?’

‘Aye, he’s had a hard night. He says he’s gonnae turn over a new leaf.’

I grinned. ‘I’m sure he will. He’s full of new leaves.’ Then I spluttered. ‘Will he fuck!’

‘But he’s young.’

‘Aye,’ I conceded the point. ‘He is. Maybe, too young. Maybe he should go back and stay wae his mammie?’  

‘Aye, maybe he will.’ He shoogled one of the pots on the ring and turned down the heat. ‘It’s good tae have a mammie tae go hame tae. Maybe you should go hame tae yer wife?’

I remembered days like this sitting at the table with Ugly Puggly stealing the last potato scone. My mum saying it was allowed because he was a guest. Our guest. ‘Greedy cunt,’ I’d said under my breath. Mum had given me a slap on the head.  Instinctively, I tapped my pocket for my fag packet, even though I’d been off them for two years. ‘You know you’ve got a hangover, when you waken up wae three socks—and only one of them is yours.’

‘There’s a mystery waiting to be unravelled. But imagine waking up one morning and findin oot the Americans have elected the moron’s moron as President. And he doesn’t believe in anythin apart from his love-in with Putin, who he labelled a “genius” just before he invaded Ukraine for the third time. Certainly, no global warming. Won’t sign the Paris agreement or attend Cop-out 21. When all the major nations meet and agree to disagree, while the collapse of civilisation and the sixth great global extinction event is noo.’

I finished the dregs of filtered tea. ‘Fuck sake, I just asked for a burnt sausage, no a lecture. It’s too early fer that stuff.’

‘Nah,’ he pulled open the oven and banged the duck about in its baking tray. ‘It’s too late. And it’s no just about us.’ He nodded at the ceiling. ‘He’ll no have a future.’

‘Och, he’s no got a future anyway. Maybe he should join the Lib-Democrats. Or handcuff himsel to a petrol tanker. At least one of they things might be useful.’

‘Maybe he should. Maybe we all should. There’d be worse things in the word tae dae.’

‘Aye, it’s like eating broccoli. Yeh know it’s good for yeh, but it tasted shite. But I draw the lines at the Liberal Democrats. Remember no long ago that was the same mob that formed an Alliance wae the worst of the Tory scum.’

Ugly Puggly raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, worst till noo.’

‘When yer scrapping the bottom of the barrel, there’s almost more barrel too scrape. It’s like the mystery of the socks. There’s always another Tory appears that’s worse than the last.’

We both turned our head as Dave wandered into the kitchen, yawning. Ugly Puggly’s faded blue, cotton housecoat hanging from his thin frame. ‘Whit time is it?’

‘Late-ish,’ I said.

‘Ten-past ten,’ Ugly Puggly smiled and flicked the kettle on. ‘You want some tea?’

I stood up to let Dave in at the table. ‘I’m goin for rolls. You want me to get you sausages or bacon?’

‘That would be nice,’ he patted me on the chest, in an overfamiliar manner, but it allowed me to look at his feet and check out what socks he was wearing. Maybe he was a closet Tory. Being homosexual was one thing. I could live with the mass extinction of dinosaurs two-hundred-million years ago, but never live with a Tory.

‘But, I’m a bit peckish noo. Whit have you got in the oven?’ He slid into the seat at the table. ‘Mmmmm. It smells lovely.’

‘Duck,’ I replied.  

Ugly Puggly put a mug of tea on the table in front of him. Dave grabbed for his hand and kissed his fingers. He rubbed the outside of his hand against his cheek.

‘Aye, duck,’ I muttered to get Dave’s attention and to stop them canoodling in front of me, which was making me uneasy. ‘He had to be up early tae get it fae Dalmuir Park. A bit of recycling. Mouldy bread. Big net, and whoosh! Bob’s yer uncle. Hunter-gatherer at work.’

‘You ne er?’ Dave pushed Ugly Puggly’s hand away.

‘Aye, he did. One of yer mob, Elton John, sung about it. Circle of life. But the worst thing is when there’s some wee kids about. And they ask, “Where are you goin wae that duck mister?” And he says, “I’m just takin it hame to gee it a proper bath”. ’

Dave glance over at the oven and then at Ugly Puggly’s face. I muttered, ‘Duck murderer,’ out of the side of my mouth, before clicking shut the kitchen door behind me and searching for my jacket and some change.