Stovies

It’s early evenin when we get back fae the club. Ah’ve a pot ay stovies left oer fae yesterday in the fridge ah’ll heat up fur us. Just the waiy Jeanie used tae make them wae the good butcher’s steak links fae the shoap oan Shettleston Road.

Ah’ll huv tae get the bloody door open first, mind. Three sheets tae the bloody wind, we ur. Still though, it’s allowed noo an again. Oan a day like the day, especially.

It wis a good result aw the same. It’s nice tae see them win, ye know, the Cellic.

We’d staiyed fur another couple when it finished, but no long efter, ah decided enough wis enough an came up the road, bringin Tam wae me, wae the promise ay gien him a scran.

Some scratchin roon the Yale loack an the key goes in. We stumble in the door an up the loabby. There’s a cry ay expletives fae ahent me as Tam stoats his knee aff the wee telephone table ootside the bedroom. Ah turn the loabby light oan tae see him hoppin aboot haudin his shin, ragin.

‘Fuckin thing. First ah get a belt in the mooth an noo this. Anythin else ye want tae throw at me the day?’ he sais, lookin up tae the ceilin.

‘Nae good talkin tae him up there. Ah’ve been tryin fur seventy odd year. He either disnae listen, listens an disnae dae anythin tae help, or isnae there tae hear ye in the first bloody place.’

He looks at me in recognition ay the drunken profundity an nods his heid.

It’s then ah see it, lyin oan the flair, smashed an in pieces; the picture ah keep there ay Jeanie an I, wae John, Stephanie an young Daniel, when he wis just a baby.

‘Ya bloody clown, ye! That’s you aw oer the back, that is. Stumblin through life fae wan bloody disaster tae the next. Look at it!’ ah sais, pickin up the shattered frame an pullin the photie oot. It’s damaged, the gless huvin scraped the surface, scorin a mark through mine an John’s faces.

Ah turn it oer an see oan the back, in Jeanie’s haunwritin:

 

Daniel’s first birthday, August, 1979.

 

‘Ah’m sorry Coyle. Ah never meant tae —’

‘Aye? That’s it though Tam, ye never mean tae but ye still always dae. Ye never meant tae take a swing fur that boay in The Auld Shipbank that time back when oor time wis just oot, when ah’d tae wade in an get ye oot ay it when his mates goat involved. Ye never meant it when ye set fire tae the paint store at work an ah hud tae cover fur ye, doactorin the paperwork an chaingin joab numbers tae show that ye wurnae workin in that area. An ye never bloody meant tae get yersel up tae yer neck in it wae this swine, the bastarn money lender. Ye dae know they’re just aboot tae start breakin limbs unless ye come up wae their cash, daint ye?’

‘Aye ah fuckin know! They’ll just huv tae dae whit they huv tae dae, well. Ye cannae get blood oot ay a stane. Ah know that much. Ah’m fucked, int ah? Mind oot the waiy an ah’ll clear this up fur ye.’ he sais, bendin doon an pickin up pieces ay gless.

‘Never bloody mind it Tam! Ah’ll get it. Just away in an sit doon, wull ye?’

He skulks away, face trippin him, feelin sorry fur himsel an ah fold the photie in hauf, puttin it in ma inside poakit afore pickin up the bigger pieces ay gless. Ah sweep the rest up wae a dustpan an brush an pap it aw in the bin, ben the kitchen.

‘Did ye mean that, whit ye sais?’ Tam sais, fae the livin room.

‘Sorry aboot aw that Tam, it’s no your fault bother seems tae foallie ye aboot.’

‘Naw, no that – when ye were sayin aboot God an how he disnae listen, an it’s probably because he’s no there. Did ye mean it?’

Ah consider whit ah’m gonae say because at the end ay the day, who knows, eh? Ah mean really. The Bible? Scripture? That’s just ancient propaganda. Apparent proof that the Arbrahamic God exists an wants ye tae be fearful ay him; tae bend tae his will – dae so or feel his wrath. That’s whit it sais, int it? Load ay bloody pish!

Ye spend yer life fightin tae drag yersel up oot ay the gutter; tae provide fur an raise a faimily, through hardship an destitution, an ye’ve tae take solace in it bein God’s will. Yer misery is whit he wants. Shite ah’m tellin ye! The Church is just another instrument ay oppression utilised tae subjugate us aw!

‘Well, did ye?’ he sais, again.

‘Naw Tam, naw. Ah never meant it.’

The ‘opium ay the people’, that’s whit Marx cried it, religion, an ah reckon he wisnae far wrang. If it gies folk comfort; somethin tae haud oan tae; if it anaesthetises them fae the rest ay it, let them huv it. At least that waiy it’s aw fur somethin, ah suppose.

Ah open the fridge, grabbin the pot ay stovies an peel the cling-film aff it, settin it doon oan the cooker. Turnin the gas oan low, ah tell Tam tae keep an eye oan it an leave him oan the couch rollin his baccy.

In the wardrobe in the bedroom ah reach up tae the high shelf where ah keep the shoeboax, liftin it doon.

‘Ah’m puttin the kettle oan Coyle! Ye wantin a cup ay tea made?’ Tam shouts through fae the kitchen.

‘Aye. Ah’ll no be a minute.’ ah sais, openin the boax an liftin the two books (Dubliners – James Joyce an The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists – Robert Tressell) aff tae the side, revealin the money underneath.

Ma savins. There’s aboot fifteen hunner poun there. Ah wis gonae gie it tae young Daniel when he turns twinty-wan. Mibbe help him get a start wae things. Put a deposit doon oan a hoose mibbe – a wee flat or somethin.

Ah count oot a thoosand poun an leave the rest, levellin it roughly oot in the boax an placin the books back oan tap. Stowin it away back oan the shelf it came fae, ah stick the thoosand ah’d set aside in a broon envelope fae an auld gas bill ah find in the dresser drawer.

Ah’ll still see Daniel awright, ah’ll make sure ay it. It’ll just no be as much as ah’d planned, that’s aw.

Ah should’ve done this afore noo, in truth.

‘Here ye are.’ ah sais, crumplin the envelope intae his haun, claspin it shut.

‘Whit’s this?’

‘It’s fur you. That should be enough tae settle it wae McNulty. They’re no gonnae let this go, Tam.’

He opens it, thumbin through the notes, ‘Jesus Christ, Coyle. How much is there?’

‘There’s a grand there. Just take it wae ye an go an see the bastart an put it behind ye.’

‘Ah cannae take this. It’s too much, ah cannae —’

‘Ye’ll take it awright! Whit else ur ye gonnae dae, eh? The best ye kin hope fur is they’ll kick yer cunt in an take everythin ye’ve goat tae gie them – this time. They’ll be back but. Every fuckin week until ye croak it, which might be sooner than ye think, by the way. How ye gonnae feed yersel, eh? Just bloody take it Tam!’

‘Naw ah’ll no! Ye sais it yersel! Ah’ve spent ma life, a nuttin, a fuckin waster! Yer right! An it’s aw ma dain, Coyle. At least Jackie came back tae me as an adult. She hud every right tae disown me, like her mother.

Mind ay that, eh? How she up an left wae Jackie when she wis just a tote cos ay aw the bevvyin an gamblin? An whit did ah dae, eh? Fuck all, that’s whit! Ah just let them; let them go waeoot as much ay a whimper. Couldnae even fight fur them; couldnae even be fuckin fucked dain that. Ah don’t deserve Jackie an the grandweans, an they deserve better than a fuckin alkie deadbeat like me in their lives.’

Ah clasp his haun again tightly roon the envelope, feelin his bony knuckles against ma palm. He looks at me, his face ruddied wae a lifetime ay swallyin an eyes, glazed wae the pain ay regret.

Ah want tae offer him some words ay reassurance; tae placate him in some waiy; tae gie him convalescence fae himsel, but ah cannae. Every man is a prisoner ay their ain actions, or inaction – a slave tae the memories that haunt them. Ah kin nae mare absolve him ay guilt, than he kin, me – fur oor John. Fur Jeanie. Fur mibbe dain things differently, if we hud oor time again.

Whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye, that’s whit they say. Mare shite! It’s maxims like that they bloody want ye tae believe; that ye ur, where ye ur; at yer natural station in life. Ye get whit ye get an ye should be thankful. There’s always folk worse aff than yersel, ye see – always some poor bastart further doon that sheer cliff face we’re aw haudin oan tae.

Some ascend the cunt wae ease, happily elbowin others oot their waiy, staunin oan heids an kickin oot at every bastart on their waiy up. Others start oot in loftier positions, fawin further doon wae each wrang step they take. Maist ay us though, just coorie in, hingin oan tae whitever wee foothold in amongst it aw we kin find.

Aye, its yer actions right enough, that’s whit defines ye. Dain whit needs tae be done. Dain whit ye think’s right an hopin that yer moral compass disnae let ye doon.

Inevitably though, at some point, it will, an when that happens, ye’ve goat tae live wae it. That’s aw ye kin dae.

Well, it’s no aw ye kin dae. Oor John chose another waiy.

Young Daniel thinks he wis a coward, an he’s right. He wis a bloody coward! He might huv escaped fae whitever it wis that tormented him; fae whitever troubles it wis he deemed insurmountable, but aw he left behind him wis a void. A void that ma Jeanie could never fill again.

The doactors sais it wis her hert an they wur right, just no the waiy they meant it. Her hert wis broke the day John killed himsel. Five year later, the last wee flicker ay a flame that remained, went oot.

Whit wis ah sayin again? Aye, ye dae whit’s right. An no just fur yersel, fur others tae. That’s how ah need tae help Tam. He might no be the finest example ay a man tae ever live an breathe, an he’s made mistakes, but he’s still here; still fightin his coarner. That counts fur somethin, ye see.

Furbye aw that, he’s ma pal.

Ah put doon the cutlery an plates ay stovies oan the wee coffee table in the livin room. Pipin hoat steam rises fae the dish ay stewed sausages, carrots, totties an onion.

There’s a wee nip in the air so ah wheel oer the Calor gas fire fae the coarner an click the igniter, turnin it up tae three bars.

Tam’s awready wirin intae his plate, scoopin up forkfaes like a man bailin watter oot a sinkin boat, ‘This is rare, Coyle, ah’ll gie ye that. Wis that a plain loaf in there ah seen? A couple ay slices ay that wae butter wid be magic.’ he sais.

 

It’s dark when ah wake up. Ah’ve goat the wee tartan throw that normally hings oer the back ay the couch draped oer me an Tam’s seat’s empty, the plates an glesses cleared away.

We’d hud a nightcap – a dram ay Johnnie Walker an ah must’ve dozed aff.

Liftin the square boatle aff the table an haudin it up tae slivers ay orange street light comin in through the blinds, ah see there’s aboot an inch left in the bottom ay it. It wis hauf bloody full when ah goat it oot the scullery.

Ah go ben the kitchen tae get a drink ay watter. The dishes an tumblers ur washed an dried, sittin oan the rack.

Lettin it overflow, leavin the tap runnin fur a wee minute till the watter’s cauld enough, ah fill a gless, take a drink an head fur ma bed.

In the loabby, oan the wee table, the envelope, wae the money still inside, sits next tae the phone.