An Old Pub Near the Angel (11 page)

‘What’s he talking about?’ asked someone.

‘When did he start in the job?’ asked another.

‘Never get a pint now,’ muttered Brother Reilly.

‘You mean THE “Bill”?’ queried the Chairman.

‘Of course,’ replied Willie. ‘As far as I can ascertain there have been no individual points raised, neither has the “Bill” as a whole ever been discussed – at any of your branch meetings.’

Someone at the back laughed. Old Sammy shuffled up the passageway and out, quietly closing the door behind him.

‘He’s a student!’ confirmed someone at the back.

‘Well son,’ explained the Shop Steward, ‘naturally we don’t like it but it has to get done. I mean it had to come.’

‘What’s it all about?’ asked Tam.

‘It means one cannot strike unofficially, for one thing,’ said Willie.

‘That right?’ Tam said to the table.

‘Well . . . aye,’ answered the Shop Steward, ‘but all it means is our strikes’ll all be official from now on.’ He rolled a cigarette.

‘For example,’ persisted Willie, ‘if you were to decide to strike because the management refused to meet your demands for adequate toilet paper, and the union would neither support nor back your action, you could be jailed.’

‘What!’

‘What was that?’

‘Okay son,’ commented the Chairman. Turning to Tam he said, ‘He’s talking nonsense. The management are giving us the paper anyway.’

‘I didn’t know anything about it,’ insisted Tam glaring around the room.

‘It’s on sale at the Post Office,’ someone shouted from the back.

‘But Brother what’s this about the jail for striking?’ asked an elderly man sitting in the front row.

‘Nobody’s getting the jail for striking!’ cried the exasperated Chairman.

‘Unless any of you take unofficial action,’ added Willie.

‘Right son that’s it finished. They’ve taken this decision at Headquarters and that’s it. It’s
ultra vires
!’

‘I am surprised the matter has not been discussed . . .’

‘Okay kid it’s finished,’ said the Acting Secretary. ‘It’s just politics anyway.’

‘So if there’s nothing else Brothers . . .?’

‘I don’t know the score here about all this,’ said Tam.

‘Get it at any Post Office; been on sale for weeks,’ the Shop Steward said quickly as he closed his briefcase.

‘Aye okay.’ Tam hitched up his trousers then pointed a finger at him.

‘You remember and see the manager about that bloody canteen.’

‘Aye, don’t worry about that Tam. I’ll go and see the bastard first thing in the morning.’

‘Right then.’ He nodded down to his neighbour and they strode purposefully from the room.

‘Be lucky to catch a pint,’ they heard Tam’s neighbour say.

‘Right Brothers I think we’ll wind it up here.’ The Chairman
stood up and the other committee members filed down the passageway after him.

‘Should come for a drink with us son,’ said the Chairman, pausing as he passed Willie’s row. ‘Eh Gus?’

‘Aye son, we like a good argument,’ said the Shop Steward.

‘As long as it’s no about religion,’ affirmed the Chairman. ‘OK then lads? See you tomorrow.’

When everyone had left the room Dougie turned to his companion and hooted derisively.

Willie scratched his head.

Sam pulled on his boots and laced them, then lay back in the old armchair. It was too early yet. The newspaper bundles would hardly have arrived so there was no point in leaving for a while. He stared up at his books which were arranged in alphabetical order on the wooden shelves he had built a couple of years ago. Nowadays he looked up at them more than he read them. Perhaps he would take a walk up the jumble sale on Saturday, see if there was anything doing.

He sighed deeply, aware of the phlegm rumble in his chest. He pulled himself up from the chair and filled the kettle. A hell of an amount of tea passed through him these days. He shook his head and opened the tobacco tin to roll a cigarette; then returned to his chair and tore a strip from yesterday’s paper, and got a light from the fire. Choking on the first drag Sam spat out some shreds of tobacco onto the grate. He ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth. It tasted vaguely of whisky. He had had none for a month.

The kettle whistled and he jumped up from the armchair, and turned the gas off. He rinsed out the tea pot and hand-measured the tea into it before pouring in the boiling water. He placed the pot on the fire surround to infuse.

Would soon be a quarter to six and time to get going. Doing a paper round at his age? Why not? He had started two months ago and never regretted it. The customers were more embarrassed than he was, but slow to tip. One or two of the boys made over thirty bob a week in tips. Sam had yet to make more
than a pound. Still it helped his wage up to about two and a half so why grumble. Five minutes to go.

Sam threw the tea dregs into the fire and watched the coal sizzle a moment. Used tea leaves burned well and smelled good. Perhaps he ought to write in to the papers about it; win a guinea or a prize or something. Over the crumpled jacket he put on the old Crombie coat he had found in a bazaar up Byres Road. It cost him four bob. Must have been given in error surely! Good God. He put on the corduroy bunnet.

He lived in a single end in Partick down near South Street and his close was the last remaining one still inhabited by paying tenants. The rest of the tenement building was being slowly demolished. Old Rachel still hid in number seventeen but nobody official knew that. She had moved in with the demolishers and so far had outstayed them. Her family had parked her away in an old folks’ home where she had managed to stay for six weeks before leaving and dossing around Anderston. Sam had found her there three weeks later. They had known each other for a long long time and he reckoned she could give him twenty years; he had turned seventy, five months ago. She swore to having milked cows in MacGregor’s farm at Partick Cross when she was a girl. Sam could not remember ever having heard of a farm at Partick Cross.

The snow lay thick on the ground, covering the heaps of rubble strewn around the waste ground. Still dark. Nearly three hours before the street lights were switched off.

Sam closed the door and set off up Purdon Street and along Dunbarton Road. He turned into the Kelvin Way making for Gibson Street where the newsagent he worked for had her shop. He arrived just as she opened.

‘Morning Mrs Johnstone! How are you?’ he asked.

‘Freezing Samuel,’ she smiled bravely. ‘Put on the kettle and we’ll have a quick cuppa.’

He helped her in with the bundles before going through to the back. When he returned with the tea Mrs Johnstone had almost completed the sorting.

‘Think the weather’s getting worse these days,’ she said. Sam nodded as he rolled the cigarette. ‘Makes you wonder what we pay the weather men for.’

‘Aye!’ he muttered and lit up.

‘So dear for coal as well. It’s awful!’

‘Aye!’ he paused, sipping the tea. ‘Makes you appreciate the summer.’

‘I suppose so. Do you ever go away?’

‘Aye!’ He peered at her over the cup. ‘Went down to Ayr this year.’

‘Oh Burns’ country!’ she smiled. ‘I like Ayshire. Culzean Castle’s nice. Did you see it?’

‘No!’

‘Burns’ Cottage?’

Sam grinned, ‘I was racing.’

‘Oh! Horses?’ Her eyebrows arched.

‘Aye!’ He finished the tea. ‘Think I’ll be off now.’

‘I’ve laid them out. Tobacco’s there too.’

‘Aye well,’ he lifted the papers. ‘See you in the morning then.’

‘Aye if we’re alive touch wood!’ She thumped the counter.

‘Aye well,’ he clicked his teeth together. ‘Cheerio!’

Sam delivered his last newspaper shortly before eight and then headed for home. The streets were busier now and the first office workers were already out and creeping about. The snow had stopped falling and lay deep and soft, muffling the traffic noise. His face seemed redder and his purple nose looked bluer than ever. His hands and feet tingled. Only the rumble from the depths of his belly caused him any discomfort. The thought of a hot meal quickened his step. Four or five days ago Rachel
had brought him a large cauldron of soup. He had hardly touched anything else since then; and about a quarter still remained. It improved with age. He entered number seventeen and thrust a
Daily Record
through the letter box; a transistor blared out. Rachel woke up at 6.30 every morning out of habit, drank three or four pints of tea and switched on the radio before returning to bed. Said it helped her get back to sleep. Inside his own room he lit the stove under the soup. The good smell of the broth soon filled the room and by the time he had the fire going, it was ready. He filled the large bowl brimful of steaming broth and buttered two slices of bread and sat down. Rice and bits of bacon and all kinds of vegetables floated around. He dipped the bread in until it was so thoroughly saturated he had to tilt his head back when swallowing lest part fall off and down his neck. Then he finished and sank onto the armchair raising the soles of his feet in front of the now roaring fire. He rolled a thick cigarette and settled back occasionally sipping from the mug of tea. He hardly had enough energy to read the paper.

He awoke with a start and looked up at the clock on the mantle piece; after 10.30, time to be going. He rinsed his mouth out with the cold tea dregs then spat into the dying fire. He splashed the ice-cold tap water on his face and neck; and drying vigorously felt the stiffness leaving him. He undressed and changed clothing, on went the white shirt and dark red tie over which came the navy serge three-piece suit. He felt fine.

A dozen people queued behind him at the bus stop before Partick Cross subway station. The constant flow of traffic had almost cleared the snow completely but the gutter was overflowing with black slush and dirty water. Every time a vehicle passed in the inside lane the queue jumped back out of reach of the spray. One or two had been caught unawares and an extremely fat lady
was now standing in slush-lined boots. Sam had been waiting thirty minutes and his feet were numb. The people spoke amongst themselves about the delay and the fat lady seemed to be chairing the discussion. She kept trying to involve him in his role as the head of the queue but Sam had plenty of experience in playing deaf. He could also feign senility quite easily. Eventually the bus came and he was the first of the five only allowed on to stand inside. What a racket! Ninety-eight per cent of the passengers were women and children clacking and yapping. He heard the slush-lined lady arguing with the conductor.

‘An hour I waited . . .’ she screeched, ‘an hour!’

‘You never waited an hour missus.’

‘I did so.’

‘No you never!’

‘But I did, you just ask that old man there!’ Sam could feel her podgy finger pointing somewhere between his shoulder blades. Good God! ‘Go on, just you ask him!’ she cried.

‘Missus I don’t have to ask anybody . . .’ relief surged through Sam, ‘. . . I know for a fact you couldn’t have waited any more than half an hour.’ He paused. ‘So shut up or I’ll throw you off the fucking bus!’

Silence descended over the lower deck as the conductor retreated in a scarlet rage to the front of the bus where he resumed his eight-hour stance by the driver.

‘Well!’ cried the outraged slush looking around her.

‘Is that not a disgrace?’ came a hoarse whisper from the back.

The conductor wheeled and glared at the hastily averted eyes on either side of the passageway. ‘Come on!’ he said evenly. ‘Come on speak up!’ He turned back in disgust then climbed to the top deck.

‘Well you think he’d be ashamed of himself!’ said someone.

‘Huh!’ replied the slush. ‘Not them. Only a public servant as well.’

‘Yes you’re right there,’ agreed a skinny bespectacled lady wearing an enormous fur coat. ‘And to think we pay their wages! I remember once . . .’

She turned completely around in her seat near the front before continuing, ‘when this one . . .’

At this point Sam escaped upstairs as a passenger came down. The atmosphere in the upper deck was thick with cigarette and pipe smoke, and without one window open half of the travellers were sputtering and coughing their lungs onto the floor. Sam joined them; better inhaling his own smoke than someone else’s. A whisky would be like nectar. Even another cup of tea would go down well.

Under the Central Station bridge Sam thankfully alighted and walked along to the Royal Billiard Saloon. A few labourers were out clearing snow and slush from the road. It was very cold.

He walked downstairs and through the swing doors of the hall. Although barely opened, half the thirty tables were in use. Striding across to the number-one table he stopped and, nodding to one or two of the spectators, stood by the marker.

‘Morning Sam,’ the latter said quietly.

‘Aye Joe, how are things?’

‘Not bad!’ He indicated one of the players. ‘Needs a ball!’

The man potted the brown, positioning himself well on the blue which he shot into the middle bag, the pink lay over a corner pocket.

‘Okay Danny I believe you,’ said his opponent. He smiled.

‘Want a clear?’ asked the winner.

‘Aye a clear head!’ laughed the man.

‘Quite a good game though.’

‘Aye.’ He smiled slowly as he handed the two notes over. ‘It’s a hundred and thirty I should get. I’ll see you.’

‘Aye cheerio John.’ Danny glanced around but found no response to the unspoken challenge. He noticed Sam for the first time. ‘Sam! Where’ve you been?’ He laughed. ‘Want a game of billiards?’

‘No.’

‘Pint?’

‘Now that’s a better idea.’

‘Thought you’d appreciate it.’

Inside the adjacent pub Danny ordered a pint of lager for himself and a half and a bottle of beer for Sam. He carried the drinks across to the table where Sam was sitting reading his
Sporting Life
. He looked up, and said: ‘Not a bad card.’

‘Yeah I may have a bet. Cheers!’

Sam nodded and sipped the whisky.

‘First of the day’s always the best,’ Danny said, smacking his lips.

‘First of the month more like.’