Greyhound for Breakfast (9 page)

Arthur shrugged slightly, still staring at the table.

‘I mean you dont have to; nobody’s forcing you. See I thought cause you were winning the most money you wouldnt mind taking it on – eh Pat?’

‘Well . . . I suppose . . .’ Pat brought out his cigarettes and gave one to Mister McDonald.

‘Is it alright if we smoke as well?’ Jimmy sniffed.

‘Christ son there’s nobody stopping you!’ Mister McDonald frowned at him. ‘What do you mean? For God sake dont tell me yous’ve been sitting there gasping! I never
thought.’ He looked at Pat. ‘Did you?’

‘Naw.’

Mister McDonald frowned at the boys. ‘Honest,’ he said, ‘if yous want to smoke smoke – far be it from me . . .’

Moments after this Arthur was dealing. A couple of rounds later Matt’s da put down a £1 note for the bet, and he gave a wink to Pat, then a swift glance across to the settee. He said
to Arthur, ‘Okay son?’

Arthur looked at Jimmy but said nothing. He dealt the cards and eventually had to twist and was bust. Mister McDonald lifted the winnings and added, ‘Hard lines son.’

Arthur nodded. Mister McDonald bet £1 in the next round and he won it; and he won the next one as well. Then the door opened and in came Matt. He walked to the table, positioning himself
behind Arthur’s chair, not saying anything to anybody. His da had bet another £1 and Arthur was counting out coins to cover it. Mister McDonald needed a twist this time and he got a ten
and was bust. Ha ha, said Matt.

‘He was due a win,’ replied Mister McDonald. ‘Eh Pat?’

‘He was, aye.’

The cards were dealt for the next round and Mister McDonald grinned and turned his face up. It was an ace. He slapped his hands together, winked at Pat. ‘A big bullet,’ he said,
‘a big bullet.’ He brought a £5 note from his hip pocket and laid it down. After several moments silence he said to Pat: ‘You having a side bet with me?’

‘Eh . . .’

‘You canni bet all that anyway,’ cried Matt. ‘It’s no allowed!’

‘What?’

‘You’re no allowed to bet all that on an ace! There’s a limit!’

‘A limit?’ Mister McDonald screwed his face up. ‘First I’ve heard of it. You never said anything about limits Arthur?’

‘That’s no bloody fair,’ cried Matt.

Arthur was gazing down at his money. He had three £1 notes there plus the coins; he started counting the coins.

‘Dont,’ said Matt. He turned to the settee: ‘Hey maw!’

‘Tch tch tch.’ Mister McDonald shook his head.

‘Da’s betting a fiver!’

‘What!’ Missis McDonald stared across. ‘Am I hearing right? Ya bloody dumpling!’

Her husband stared at her.

‘I’m telling you,’ she said, ‘a joke’s a joke but this’s gone far enough.’

‘A bet’s a bet.’

‘A fiver? Dont be so bloody stupid; all you’re doing is making a fool of yourself!’ She shook her head at the other two women: ‘Have you ever heard of anything like this
in your life!’

Her husband smiled. He winked at Pat, then called: ‘When you make a bet you make a bet. That’s what you dont know.’

Missis McDonald stared at him. ‘Aw rap up,’ she said. ‘Come on Arthur put your money away. Yous as well.’ She gestured with her right hand at the boys. And after a moment
Arthur started putting his money into his pocket.

‘So that’s it then?’ said Mister McDonald. ‘You finished?’

Arthur shrugged slightly.

‘Tch tch tch.’ Mister McDonald said to Jimmy: ‘What about you son, you finished as well?’

‘It’s all finished,’ said his wife. ‘You spoiled it.’

‘I spoiled it!’ Mister McDonald chuckled. ‘Me?’ He said to Pat: ‘It was me that spoiled it.’

Missis McDonald said to the boys: ‘It’s time you were all away.’

Mister McDonald grinned at Matt. ‘I think something’s bothering your maw son.’

His wife sighed. She turned to the two women. ‘See?’ She shook her head and folded her arms, sat back on the settee.

And a moment later Matt nodded at the four boys and they got up from the table and followed him to the door. He led them down the lobby, standing aside to let them out onto the landing.
‘See yous the morrow,’ he muttered, shutting the door.

We had been sceptical from the very outset but the way he set about the tasks suited us perfectly. In fact, it was an eye-opener. He would stand there with the poised rifle,
the weather-beaten countenance, the shiny little uniform; yet giving absolutely nothing away. His legs were bandy and it produced a swaggering stance, as though he had no time for us and deep down
regarded us as amateurs. But we, of course, made no comment. The old age pensioner is a strange beast on occasion and we were well acquainted with this, perhaps too well acquainted. In the final
analysis it was probably that at the root of the project’s failure.

There used to be this talkative old lady with a polite English accent who roamed the betting shops of Glasgow being avoided by everybody. Whenever she appeared the heavily
backed favourite was just about to get beat by a big outsider. And she would always cry out in a surprised way about how she managed to choose it, before going to collect her dough at the pay-out
window. And when asked for her nom-de-plume she spoke loudly and clearly: Cute Chick!

It made the punters’ blood run cold.

I suppose it is best not to say what the name of the station was but if I mention it was the one that got ‘swallowed’ up then the majority of folk familiar with the
old subway system will have a fair idea of the one in question. Although lying underground it was one of those which seemed very close to the surface in a strange sense. Actual daylight always
appeared to be entering though from where I don’t know and people somehow assumed the outer layer of corrugated roofing explained everything. I also remember when I was a boy I was absolutely
fascinated by the inordinate amount of dripping. Water seemed to come from anywhere and everywhere. As a result, I was ready and willing to believe anything. Especially was I willing to believe
that the tunnel beneath the Clyde was full of rotting timbers and set to collapse at any moment. This was the yarn told me by my older brother. I doubt whether the fact that it actually was a yarn
fully dawned on me for a further decade.

Those familiar with the station must readily recall its peculiar hallmark, a weird form of illusion; its main ground resembled a large mound or hill and from the bottom of the long flights of
stairs intending travellers would find themselves ‘walking up’ a stiffish gradient along the platform. Such a gradient was a physical absurdity of course but this did not stop visiting
travellers from experiencing the sensation. I have to confess that I was as guilty as the next regular in the enjoyment I gained from observing the unwary.

Another hallmark of the station, though the term is somewhat inappropriate, was the Small Family. As far as many people are concerned when we speak of the station we are speaking of them, the
Small Family, but I am not alone in the belief that had the peculiar ‘mound’ or ‘hill’ not existed then the Small Family would have associated itself with another station.
Individually members of the family were not especially small, rather was the phrase applied as a simplified form of reference by the regulars which in the first instance must have derived from the
little mother. There was no father, no male parent, and the female – the little mother – was very small indeed, birdlike almost. Yet be that as it may this tiny woman most certainly was
a parent who tended her young come hell or high water.

Of the four children in the family group I chiefly recall the eldest, a large boy or young man. He had the appearance of being big and strong but at the same time with a form of
‘lightness’ of the brain, a slightly brutish quality. I once heard a traveller describe his walk as ‘thick’ and this to my mind was very apt indeed. The other children were
aged from infancy to pubescence but at this juncture I am unable to recollect their sexes; they would walk to the front of the mother with the large boy bringing up the rear, often carrying a long
stick which he let trail on the ground.

When regulars spoke of the Small Family they did so in a wryly amused fashion. In those days an odd camaraderie existed between us. I am of the opinion that this was the case because of the
tacit assumption that in stations like ours the queerest occurrences might take place right beneath one’s nose but that in the very act of perception the substance of such an occurrence would
have slipped, as it were, ‘round a corner’. I should point out that I am very aware of the pitfalls in nostalgia. But I doubt whether it is necessary to state that the Small Family in
itself was never a source of amusement to us. The truth of the matter is that we regulars admired if not marvelled at them. Above all did we esteem the little mother. In conversation with an old
friend recently we were discussing this; he made the strong point that simply to have been a parent of the large boy would have tested a man’s resources. This is not, of course, in any sense,
to excuse the absence of a male parent; it was intended as a testimony to the character of the tiny woman. In those days things were more tough than they are now and she could not have had an easy
time of it. My friend reminded me that the family seemed to earn their living by gathering and that often they were to be seen carrying large bundles of soft goods. It is possible they may have
kept a stall in one of the lesser street markets in the area to the south of the Tron.

I told my friend of a dream I used to have in which the large mound or hill in the station had become hollow and was fashioned out as a makeshift home for the Small Family. Inside it the floors
were carpeted and the kitchen contained every domestic and labour-saving convenience. The rationale of the dream is fairly obvious but my friend also pointed to an element of reality insofar as the
back end of the mound would have afforded a degree of shelter. He also reminded me that any form of shelter was always welcome in the old station because of the tremendous rushes of air. This most
definitely was the case and of the more amusing side-effects of the illusion, as experienced by visiting travellers, perhaps the most striking was the sensation that true equilibrium would be
achieved only by crawling on all fours.

I had wanted to speak to my friend of an incident that occurred many many years ago. In matters like this it is far better to move straightaway to the core of the subject otherwise we run the
risk of losing our way. My desire was basic, to have the subject aired. It is my opinion that to air a subject, to present the question, is to find oneself on the road to solution. I may well be
wrong. In itself the incident is of no major significance, neither then or now. But it is one that remains to the forefront of my memory and has done for more than thirty years. It concerns my own
children.

I have had five children, the eldest of whom is a daughter. At the time I speak of she was 9 or 10 years old but even then had looks of a striking quality. She also regarded herself as quite
grown up, as quite the young lady. I must confess that both myself and my wife regarded the girl in a similar light which is not at all uncommon, she being the eldest of the five.

The day of the incident was a Sunday and my wife was not feeling a hundred percent; she decided to remain home with the youngest two while I set off with the other three on a visit to an elderly
relation. All children loved the old subway system and mine were no different. Even yet I can recall their excitement as we tramped downwards, down the long flights of stone steps, thoroughly
enjoying the onrush of air, the strange smells and echoing sounds. Once onto the platform we ‘ascended’ the large mound or hill to stand hand in hand, peering into the blackness of the
tunnel, awaiting the arrival of the next train.

In our group as a whole I should say there had been close on twenty folk, and by ‘group’ I simply refer to those on the platform who were intending passengers, as opposed to the
Small Family. They had appeared suddenly, from nowhere it seemed. I myself travelled but rarely on Sundays and I confess to rather a shock on discovering they were here in the station on that day
as though it were any other. The other travellers must have been experiencing an unease similar to my own. Not to put too fine a point on it there most certainly was a general strain, and we stood
as though rooted to the spot. But gradually I became aware of a pressure on my hand. It was being caused by the child whose hand I held and she in turn was being affected by the child whose hand he
was holding who in turn was being affected by my eldest daughter’s hand. My eldest daughter was very uncomfortable indeed, but not agitated and by no means in any distress. It was the large
boy, he was staring at her. He had halted at the rear of his family and was standing stockstill, staring at her in an entirely un-selfconscious manner. It was the most peculiar thing. I see the
moment clearly and distinctly and the two figures are in isolation. Beyond that is a blur, until I hear my daughter’s voice:

‘Dad, I want to put her on the mantelpiece!’ and she pointed to someone in their group, either a child or I suppose, perhaps, the tiny woman.

There are many aspects of this incident I regard as worthy of comment, as worthy of discussion. Over the years I have dwelt on the matter periodically but without ever allowing it to become an
obsession. I would like, however, to speak of it with my friend. I have wanted to do so for quite some time but the subject I find difficult to approach, that is, the core of the subject for I find
it all too easy to discuss topics peripheral to it.

As the years pass I have become close to overwhelmed by an ever-increasing burden of guilt. There is no one cause. I think that if I could isolate different events, the experiences I derived
from them, if I could bring these out into the open then perhaps I would be on the road to assuaging such feelings and ridding myself of the burden. I am also aware that the sensation of guilt
– even chronic guilt – is part and parcel of the ageing process and in neither case does a cure exist. Ultimately, however, to have said that is to have said very little.