Skagboys (2 page)

‘
C’mon, pal, the cab’s here,’ he says, maybe a bit abashed at her fussing, as he looks through the curtains ootside tae the street, before turning and kissing my gran on her foreheid. Then she grabs my hand. ‘You’re the best ay them, son, the best ay them aw,’ she whispers in urgent confidence. She’s said this every time ah’ve seen her since ah wis a bairn. Used tae make us feel great, till ah found oot she said it tae aw her grandchildren, and her neighbour’s kids! Ah’m sure she means it at the time, but
.

The best ay them aw
.

She releases the grip and hands Dad the duffel bag. ‘Dinnae you be losin the Thermos flask in that bag, David Renton,’ she ticks
.

‘
Aye, Maw, ah telt ye ah’d keep an eye oan it,’ he says sheepishly, like he’s become a surly teenager again. He starts tae go, but she stops him. ‘You’re forgettin something,’ she says, and goes tae the sideboard and produces three small glesses, which she proceeds tae fill up wi whisky. Ma dad rolls his eyes. ‘Maw
…’

She isnae hearin him. She raises a gless, forcing us tae follow, although ah hate whisky n it’s the last thing ah want this early in the morning. ‘Here’s tae us, wha’s like us – damn few n thir aw deid!’ Gran croaks
.

Dad knocks his back in a oner. Gran’s has already gone, by some kind ay osmosis, as ah didnae even see her pit the gless tae her lips. It takes me two retching gulps to get it doon. ‘C’mon, son, yir a Renton,’ she chides
.

Then Dad nods tae me and we’re off. ‘She’s an awfay wumin,’ he says with affection, as we climb intae the big black taxi, ma stomach burning. Ah wave back at her small figure, standing in the doorway in the murky street, willing the daft auld bat tae git back inside, intae the warm
.

Glasgow. That was how we learned tae spell it at primary school:
Granny Likes A Small Glass Of Whisky
.

It’s still pitch dark and Weedgieville is spooky at four o’clock on a Monday morning, as the cab creaks and rumbles intae toon. It’s minging in here; some dirty fucker’s puked fae last night and ye can still smell it. ‘Jesus Christ.’ The old boy waves his hand in front ay his neb. Ma dad’s a big, broad-shoodird sort ay gadge, whereas ah take mair eftir my mother in build: sticklike and rangy. His hair can genuinely be called blond (even though it’s now greying), as opposed tae mine which, however ah try n dress it up, is basically ginger. He’s wearin a broon cord jaykit, which ah have tae say is quite smart, though ruined by the Glasgow Rangers FC lapel badge, pinned next tae his Amalgamated Union of Engineering Workers yin, and he fairly reeks ay Blue Stratos
.

The bus is waitin fir us in the empty square behind Argyle Street. Some pickets are being harassed by a change-scrounging jakey whae keeps staggerin oaf intae the night then returning, always reprising the same routine. Ah climb oan the bus tae get the fuck away fae the pest. This cunt disgusts me; he’s nae pride, nae politics. His deranged eyes roll and those rubber lips purse in that purple face. He’s been beaten tae a pulp by the system, and aw the parasite can dae is try tae scrounge offay people
whae’ve
goat the bottle tae fight back. ‘Wanker,’ ah hear masel snap
.

‘
Dinnae be sae quick tae judge, son.’ Dad’s accent is mair Glaswegian; stepping off the Edinburgh train at Queen Street does that. ‘Ye dunno that boey’s story
.’

Ah say nowt, but ah dinnae want tae ken that minger’s tale. Oan the bus, ah sit beside Dad and a couple ay his auld mates fae the Govan yards. It’s good, cause ah feel closer tae him than ah’ve done in a while. It seems ages since we’ve done something thegither, just the two ay us. He’s pretty quiet n thoughtful though, probably worried cause ay ma wee brother, oor Davie, being taken back intae the hoaspital
.

There’s plenty bevvy oan the bus but naebody’s allowed tae touch it till we head back, then we’ll celebrate stoapin they fuckin scab lorries! Stacks ay nosh but; Granny Renton has made loads and loads ay sannies on white, spongy Sunblest bread: cheese and tomatay and ham and tomatay, like it’s a funeral we’re gaun tae!

Mind you, oan the bus it’s mair like a fitba match than either boneyerd procession or picket; it has a big Cup Final vibe tae it, wi aw they banners hingin in the windaes. Half ay the people on oor coach are striking miners, fae pits in Ayrshire, Lanarkshire, the Lothians and Fife; the other half trade unionists like the auld man, and assorted fellow travellers, like me. Ah was delighted when Dad telt us he’d got us a seat; the politicos at the uni would be as jealous as fuck that ah wis oan one ay the official National Union ay Mineworkers’ buses!

The bus isnae that far out ay Glesgey before the night fades away intae a beautiful summer sky ay early-morning greeny-blue. Even though it’s early, a few cars are on the road, some ay them blaring their horns at us in support ay the strike
.

At least ah’m getting some conversation out ay Andy, whae’s ma dad’s best mate. He’s a wiry,
salt-ay-the-earth
Weedgie boy, an ex-welder and lifelong CP member. His bony face has this almost translucent, nicotine-yellay skin stretched ower it. ‘So, that’ll be you back at the uni in September, eh, Mark?
’

‘
Aye, but a few ay us are gaun oaf oan the InterRail acroas Europe next month, eh. Been back graftin at ma auld job as a chippy, tryin tae get some shekels thegither
.’

‘
Aye, it’s a great life when yir young. Make the maist ay it, that’s ma advice. Ye got a girlfriend at that university?
’

Before ah can answer, Dad’s ears prick up. ‘Better no have, or that wee Hazel’ll be daein her nut. Lovely wee lassie,’ he says tae Andy, then turns tae me n goes, ‘Whit is it she does again, Mark?
’

‘
Windae displays. At Binns at the West End, the department store, likes,’ ah tells Andy
.

A big contented crocodile smile spreads across my dad’s pus. If the cunt knew what Hazel and me’s relationship wis like, he widnae be sae keen tae bang oan aboot her aw the time.
A terrible
But that’s another story. The auld boy’s just chuffed tae see us wi a bird, worrying fir years ah was a possible buftie boy due tae ma musical tastes. Ah hud an aggressively glam-rock puberty, and was a teenage punk.
Then there wis the time that oor Billy caught me wank

Another story
.

We’re makin good time, n it’s still aw cool when we git ower the border tae England, but as we get near Yorkshire and oantae the smaller roads, things git a wee bit weird. Thaire’s polis everywhere. But instead ay stoapin the bus every few yards for nae reason at aw, as we expect, they just wave us oan. They even gie us helpful directions as how tae git tae the village. ‘What the fuck’s aw this aboot?’ one boy shouts. ‘Whaire’s aw the usual roadblocks n harassment?
’

‘
Community policing,’ another gadge laughs
.

Ma dad looks oot at a row ay smiling coppers, one ay whom waves at us wi an ear-tae-ear grin. ‘Ah dinnae like this. This isnae right
.’

‘
As long as they dinnae stop us gettin they scabs sent back,’ ah goes
.

‘
You’ll keep the heid,’ he warns us in a low growl, then frowns. ‘Whae’s this mate that yir meetin up wi then?
’

‘
Just one ay the boys fi London ah used tae stey in the squat at Shepherd’s Bush wi. Nicksy. He’s awright
.’

‘
Another wan ay they dippit punk rockers, ah’ll bet!
’

‘
Ah dinnae ken what music he’s listenin tae now,’ ah tell him, a bit irritated. He can be a daft auld fucker sometimes
.

‘
Punk rock,’ he laughs tae his mates, ‘another fad he got bored wi. What’s the latest yin, this aw-night soul stuff? Gaun doon tae Bolton Casino n drinkin Cokes!
’

‘
It’s
Wigan
Casino
.’

‘
Same difference. Some night that must be! Cans ay juice!
’

Andy n some other boys join in n ah jist take the slaggin cause it’s pointless arguing wi dozy auld fuckers aboot sounds. Ah feel like telling thum that Presley and Lennon are wormfood and tae git the fuck ower it, but naw, it’s a barry vibe oan the bus, and as ah say, nae point arguing
.

Eventually, wi the help ay the polis, we get intae the village n park the bus in the main street, in a line wi aw the others. It’s weird, cause it’s that early, the sun’s still warming up as mair people assemble. The auld man slopes off tae a payphone, n ah kin tell by the expression oan his coupon what the gist ay the conversation is, n that it’s no good news
.

‘
Awright?
’

‘
Aye …’ he says, then shakes his heid. ‘Yir mother wis sayin that the wee felly hud a terrible night. They had tae gie him oxygen, the lot
.’

‘
Aw … right. Ah’m sure he’ll be okay,’ ah tell him, ‘they ken what they’re daein
.’

Fuck. Even doon here that little cunt has tae spoil it aw …

Dad says something aboot how he shouldnae huv left Wee Davie as my ma doesnae dae the postural drainage right, n he worries that the nurses at the hospital are too busy tae spend enough time oan it. He shakes his heid, pain nippin his pus. ‘They cannae afford tae lit that fluid build up in his lungs
…’

Ah cannae listen tae this same crap again. We’re in Yorkshire n the atmosphere’s still brilliant but it’s like the Cup Final feeling’s changed intae a sortay music festival vibe. Everybody’s upbeat as we march tae the field where the pickets are massed. My dad even cheers up n gits talking tae this Yorkshire boy, then swaps his AUEW badge for the gadge’s NUM one, baith ay them proudly pinnin the other yin’s button oantae his chest like it wis a medal
.

We can see the coppers assembling ahead ay these barriers they’ve pit up. Thaire’s fuckin loads ay them. Ah eyeball the white-shirted cunts fae the Met; a boy oan the bus said they dinnae want tae use too many Yorkshire polis oan the front line, in case ay any divided loyalties. On oor side there’s banners fae every trade union and political group ah’ve ever heard ay joining the gathering. But ah’m startin tae feel edgy: thaire’s still mair polis. For every load ay pickets that swells oor ranks, the polis force seems tae increase tae correspond, and then some mair. Andy gies vent tae the growin sense ay trepidation in the air. ‘They’ve been preparing fir this for years, since the miners done ower Heath
.’

Ye cannae miss the plant we intend tae blockade; it’s dominated by two huge phallic chimneys, risin out ay a series ay industrial Victorian buildings. It looks ominous, but the polis have goat us aw herded intae this big field on its north side. Then thaire’s a sudden stillness in the air as the chants fade
away;
ah look at the plant and it feels a bit like Auschwitz and for a second ah get the queasy notion that we’re gonnae be corralled
intae
it, like thaire’s gas ovens thaire, because no only are the polis outnumberin the pickets, they’re now positioned oan three sides ay us, and we’re cut off oan the fourth perimeter by this railway line. ‘These bastards know what thir daein here,’ Andy shakes his heid ruefully. ‘They led us right here. Something’s gaun oan!
’

Ah sense he’s no wrong, cause up ahead there’s aboot fifty polis oan hoarseback and quite a few mair wi dugs. Ye kin tell they mean business, cause thaire wisnae a WPC in sight. ‘You stick close tae us,’ ma dad says, suspiciously clockin a group ay thickset boys wi Yorkshire accents, whae seem like they want tae get steamed in
.

Suddenly a roar ay applause ripples through the crowd, as Arthur Scargill appears tae a rock star’s welcome, and the ‘Victory to the Miners’ chant starts up. That comb-over hair ay his flaps in the breeze, and he pulls oan this American baseball cap
.

‘
They say that there’s been a lot ay MI5 infiltrators doon here,’ this gadge called Cammy fae our bus is sayin tae Andy, as we bunch forward tae git a view ay Scargill
.

Ah disliked that kind ay talk, cause ah preferred tae think ay British Secret Service cunts as bein like Sean Connery, decked oot in tuxedos in Monte Carlo, no sad fuckers snoopin roond pit villages in Yorkshire, pretendin tae be miners and grassin every cunt up. Scargill’s got the megaphone and he launches intae one ay his trademark rousin speeches that tingles the back ay ma neck. He talks aboot the rights ay working people, won through years of struggle, and how if we’re denied the right to strike and organise, then we’re really nae better than slaves. His words are like a drug, ye feel them coursin through the bodies aroond ye; moistening eyes, stiffening spines and fortifying hearts. As he
wraps
up, fist punched into the air, the ‘Victory to the Miners’ chant reaches fever pitch
.

The miners’ leaders, including Scargill, are up arguing wi the top coppers, telling them that we’re no getting tae stand where we fuckin well need tae, in order tae properly picket, n we’re penned intae this field which is way too far fae the plant. ‘Might as well be in fookin Leeds,’ a big gadge in a donkey jaykit shouts at a pork-chop-sideburned copper in full riot gear. ‘You’re a fookin disgrace!
’

The cunt stands impassive, lookin ahead, like he’s one ay they guards at Buckingham Palace. But the mood suddenly changes again, the tension seeming tae dissipate as a fitba gets kicked intae the crowd n some ay us get a game started up, using miners’ hard hats for goalposts. A surge ay euphoria comes ower me as ah clock that nippy wee cockney cunt, Nicksy; he’s on the baw, giein it loads, mouthing off, so ah steam in wi a dirty two-fitted tackle on him. ‘Take that, ya English bastard!’ ah’m shoutin as he goes doon, then he springs up howlin: ‘You farking MI5 or what, you farking Jock cunt?!
’

The boys around us stop playin, as if anticipating a showdown, but instead we start laughin
.

‘
How goes it, Mark?’ Nicksy asks. He’s a wiry, busy-eyed wee gadgie, wi a floppy fringe and hooked nose, whae looks and moves like a lightweight boxer, perpetually shuffling and swaggering. The boy has some fuckin energy
.