Salutation

I just come in here because I get fed up rattling about on my own in the house. The TV is always on and in the winter there’s a coal fire. It can be busy at lunchtimes with office workers and families out for a run and a bite tae eat. I have a look when they come through the door but I tend not to get involved unless it’s someone I ken.

The barman is fine, Ian, disna say too much but will have a yap if it’s called for. I like to read the papers; saves me getting them. A couple of pints at lunchtime, up the road for a sleep and then back at teatime. I’m not sleeping well. I can remember when this place was busy. I guess it might be at the weekends, I dinna tend to come in then.

There are a couple of other regulars. We don’t get too deep - just leads to arguments. Best to avoid the obvious - religion, politics and the like. My list has gotten bigger over the years though; it now includes homosexuals, immigrants, stripping woodchip (dinna ask) and the Royal family. Unless of course, you are looking for a fight. Maybe in my younger days but no now.

I leave the house around ten, I usually have a couple of things to do, and anyway I need to get out before Woman’s Hour comes on the radio. No cause I don’t like it, but I have had funny looks when I’ve kent way too much about abortion in Chile or the crisis in sperm donation. Pub talk is a delicate thing.

I always have the same; the only thing that changes is the price. I’ll hae a nip too if the mood calls for it or someone else is buying. The doctor has telt me to cut down but what for? It’s no like I’m doing anything else. I have never smoked; that’s bound to be in my favour eh? I see them standing outside now for the sake of a fag; dinna fancy it in the winter. Smirting. I’m gonna give it a miss.

It’s an auld pub, been done up recently though. To get rid of the nicotine stains I would think. Trying to make it presentable for all these new customers who like a smoke free environment. Haven’t seen many of them yet though.

‘Your usual, John?’

They are amazing words, they mean I belong, so does ‘same again?’ It’s a better welcome than any woman’s ever given me. Women, now that’s another thing that should be on my list. Not for the arguments they cause in the pub, but arguments in general. Maybe I need a couple of lists. I’ll ask Tony if he comes in; he always has a good angle - especially after a couple of Exports and a Bacardi and Coke. Mind you we both like women, I’ll no hear a bad word said against them. It’s just, well you ken…

‘Aye Ian,’ and as easy as that I am handed (in due course) a glass of 80 shilling. It got its name from the tax levied on the barrel. A full pint of autumn brown fluid, with a perfect head on it, the glass sits contentedly in my hand. I drink through the creamy froth into the smooth, malty blend. At that moment that’s all there is.

Quarter to one when she comes in. I watch her in the gantry mirrors. Her skin is the same colour as the top of my pint. She orders a diet Coke and a cheese and tomato toastie, and takes a seat by the window. Pulling a book out of her bag, her eyes dart over the room. I would guess that she’s a wee bit shy; her mother was the same at that age. Probably still is. I don’t look for to long, worried that she’ll catch me. She’ll be twenty-three by now, May, I think she was born. Shameful that I don’t know but there you go.

I was never really a ladies man, och I kent a few but I wasn’t one of those fellas that had a different one every week. I relied on luck rather than personality. And I never went with them for more than a couple of months, saved me getting into any difficult situations. Always thought I’d leave, join the army, but I never did. Why get tied down?

She doesn’t come in every lunchtime, mostly Wednesdays, I’ve noticed. At least now I don’t have to hang around the school gates to see her, always bothered me a bit that. I’ve never spoken to her and never intend to. I can just imagine what her Mum’s told her. Besides I don’t want to upset either of them – what would be the point. I canna go waltzing in disrupting everything. So I just leave it.

I reach for the only paper left on the bar and quickly turn to page five; I always do that when she’s in. It’s only proper. She puts her book down when her food arrives. Polite as always she gets interrupted when her phone beeps beside her. That happens a lot, I’m no sure if she has a lad or not. It’s maybe just pals, anyway she reads the message and puts the phone down beside her plate. Her blond hair keeps getting in the road and she has to hold it back when she’s eating. For the smallest of moments she catches me in the mirror.

‘You got your heating on yet John,’ Ian wipes the bar in front of me.

‘Christ no, dinna tell me you are one of them.’

‘One of them what? One of them cauld folk?’

‘Cauld? Get yer semmit on man,’ I pretend to study the paper, not wanting to get drawn in. Her phone beeped again. Ian glowers across.

‘Bloody annoying things,’ he says to me.

The door goes again, two suits out for lunch; I make a mental bet with myself. Two to one it’s golf, five to three it’ll be football. Crap odds I know, but it doesn’t really matter, I still haven’t paid myself the last fifteen-pound I made. They make their order and sit too far away for me to hear. All bets are off.

I begin to wonder what I must look like to her. An auld man, middle aged if she’s kind. Always the same gray trousers and blue jacket. I try to put on a clean shirt every couple of days but I don’t always manage. Gray hair needing a trim, slim apart from the belly at the front. Has she noticed my eyes? The same golden colour as hers’, like a lion’s. I guess they could give the game away.

It’s half past one and I am guessing she’s getting ready to leave. I look to the mirror just as the door goes and she’s gone. Sighing, I push my empty glass away. There are stains like frost covering the bottom of it. It looks dirty, the same colour as my net curtains up the road. I scratch my chin; the irritation of missing her leave seems to have left a physical impression.

Ian is immediately over to clear up the plate and glass. After giving the table a quick wipe he goes back to the safety of his bunker.

‘Wee bit snooty that one.’

‘I think she might be shy, Ian.’ I am careful not to answer too quickly.

‘Nah, she’s not shy; you should have seen her last weekend, out with her pals. None of them are shy when they’ve had a few. Worse than the laddies they are at times. Butter wouldn’t melt when they’re sober but they forget I see what goes on all the time.’

‘Like what?’ I can feel the itch spread down my neck. I scratch hard over the two-day beard.

‘Carrying on, like. Another drink John?’

‘Aye Iain.’ There’s no way I’m going now.

‘Hardly any claes on, drinking, swearing, chatting up the laddies. They can put em away too.’ Iain slides the full glass back to me. I need this drink; my throat has cemented up, it feels bone dry. The liquid hits my stomach quickly but I still feel thirsty.

‘Aye, Megan’s hardly shy, or at least she wasnae last week when she was getting felt up round the back bar. It’s all on the video if you want to see. Aye, they make great viewing on a Sunday morning - fairly opens your eyes.’ Ian winks at me, his body is perfectly still while his arm steadily washes glasses. All too well I get the picture.

‘Megan,’ I repeat, as if giving her name life for the first time, its first public airing. Oh I kent what she was called: read it in the paper when she was born. I had just never had the occasion to say it. Thankfully Ian had disappeared to the kitchen. I gulp at my pint but it is losing its flavour. I notice every physical discomfort and try to alleviate some of it by shifting my weight off my left foot. The pricking and numbness stops but still hinders any thoughts of immediate escape. And it was definitely time to get home.

My head is fairly going for it all the way up the road. My thoughts are seesawing with each new consideration.

‘Might have kent… just like her Mother. A right pair of slags’. And for some strange reason I can feel tears coming. I’m raging and itching to go faster than I’m able to, desperate to get home to have a think. Joe Ballantyne waves from his garden at No 3, I raise my arm in reply. The key refuses to go in and I’m swearing by the time I get the door open. The post is lying on the mat. Two brown envelopes and a card telling me to go and pick something up from the post office. ‘What the hell will that be?’ Normally that would keep me wondering for a while. Not today. No way will I get a sleep now. I fix myself a cup of tea. Removing yesterday’s papers from the armchair I sit down, staring beyond the collapsing dried flower arrangement, I can see out the window on to the street. After a few minutes I get up and pull the blue curtains shut. The yellow flowers in the pattern meet in the middle. I open them up a little bit so that they don’t; for some reason it annoys me when they do.

The sideboard is just in my reach; I pull out my only book. Anna Karenina, Tolstoy. It’s a battered version, illustrated, and inside it has some pictures of its own - five in all, saved from the local papers. Little milestones caught in black and white. Megan’s class winning something at school (she’s at the front smiling like an angel.) Then another: she’s part of a swimming team, a day out with the guides: and another two, her modest face sat amongst the crowd. Folded up again across the crease line they go back into the book. I get a firelighter from the cupboard and put the book on top of last night’s ashes. I have the scrapings of a glass of whisky while I watched it burn. It takes about five minutes. I’ll take the ashes out when I come back from the pub; they’ll have cooled down by then. I go into the kitchen, stick the radio on and tidy up a bit. The afternoon play has started; I’ll listen to that while I peel some tatties.