Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

That was what her mum felt. Failure. Stricken by that horrible disease and she blamed herself. She feels like she’s abandoning us, as if she’s failed .

The next slide showed a group of overall-clad, power-saw-wielding workmen, engaged in the act of felling trees. To Alison, Alexander looked sombre, as if he was mourning the passing of an old friend. Another shot, this time of some trees piled up and blazing, a thick black cone of smoke billowing into the air against a blue-white sky. Alison thought of the last funeral she was at. It would have been Gary McVie from school, who’d died on Newhaven Road, driving home a stolen car while drunk. He was a young, popular and good-looking boy, and there had been a big turnout. Now she imagined his smashed body blasted to bone chips and dust, down in that furnace they’d lowered the coffin into. Matty, who’d briefly worked at Seafield Crematorium, had cheerfully told her that the incinerator didn’t completely reduce bodies to ash, the attendants had to put them through this crushing device to grind down the stubborn skeletal larger bones: the pelvis and the skull.

Mum … oh Mum …

Alexander’s messianic gaze fell on the assortment of councillors, officials, staff and pressmen, then swept upwards to the smattering of concerned citizens in the public gallery. — The intensification of Dutch elm disease control, through a sanitation policy of the felling and burning of elms, is absolutely vital in order to keep the disease at a manageable level and allow us to gradually replace the elms with other species.

Alison was now thinking of her mother playing with grandchildren, the kids she supposed that one day she, Mhairi and even Calum might have, as Alexander clicked on a slide of trees being planted. Suddenly, he was upbeat once again. Did he have kids? Alison thought she recalled him saying something in passing to that effect. After the interview, when she’d been appointed and came to see him and they’d had a coffee and an informal chat.

— This policy of ruthlessly culling diseased trees and renewal through planting is the only way to preserve our treescape, thus our cityscape, he contended, winding up the presentation on that positive note, graciously thanking the audience. It had seemed to go well, even if it was intended more as a ‘hearts and minds’ session, as he’d previously described it to her. The recreation committee had already passed the policy and it would go through the formality of going to the full council next week, as extra resources had to be sought from the Scottish Office. As he climbed down from the platform, Alison gauged Alexander’s smile; terse and businesslike, warm and inclusive, yet some way shy of frivolity, accepting with ease the admiration for the way he’d formulated this policy and was now preparing to enact it.

When she finally caught his eye, Alexander was in the company of a late-middle-aged man. He had an implausibly red face, as if it had been spray-painted, this startling effect heightened by his silver hair and a bright yellow shirt. — Alison … Alexander smiled, as she moved over to them, — this is Councillor Markland, chair of the recreation committee. He then turned to the belisha-beacon man. — Stuart, Alison here’s our new admin support for the unit. She’s been seconded from the RCP.

— How’s things at the Commie these days? Councillor Markland asked her.

— Fine, Alison smiled, warming to the councillor for using the punter’s colloquialism for the Royal Commonwealth Pool, rather than the bland councilspeak Alexander had deployed. — I’ve just started this job with Alexander today, on secondment for a year.

— Come and grab some lunch with us, Alexander said, — then I’m going to take you on a wee drive round some of the Dutch elm disease hot spots.

They left the Chambers, heading in hazy heat across the Royal Mile to a wine bar. It was the last day of the festival and the narrow street was packed with crowds watching performers do their things on the cobblestones. By the time she got across, Alison had flyers for eight different shows pressed into her hand. Alexander took a couple, but Stuart Markland waved away the proferring young students with a low, gruff burr, displaying the intimidating bearing of a man who’d seen it all before. But he ignited as they stepped inside the tavern, literally rubbing his hands with glee as they were shown to a table in the corner.

Though far more appreciative of the wine than the food — her stomach seemed to have shrunk — Alison nonetheless forced her way through it, mindful that she’d eaten little over the last two days. Stuart Markland seemed to be enjoying both. He grinned wolfishly at them as he shovelled some chicken Kiev into his mouth, then wiped it with his napkin.

Alexander, nursing one glass of red, made a serious point. — I don’t like the way some people are deploying the acronym ‘DED’ in council correspondence. I’ve made this view known to Bill Lockhart. If the papers get a hold of that and start adopting it, it gives off a ghoulish, defeatist impression. We have to avoid own goals, Stuart, he said, compelling the councillor to give this point his attention.

— For sure, Markland barked.

— Dutch elm sounds more robust. Alexander stabbed the air with his fork. — The press will be a huge part of this campaign, so let’s make sure we’re all singing from the same song sheet as soon as possible. Alison, you might like to monitor the correspondence relating to the unit, and Dutch elm disease in general, and perhaps diplomatically issue a wee note to concerned parties to that effect.

— Right, Alison said.

What the fuck is he on aboot ?

Markland seemed to be considering something, lowering his busy brows. For a few seconds, Alison thought it was the wine he was savouring, before he asked, — So when does this felling and planting policy start coming intae action?

— I’ve got a squad out right now. Down in darkest West Granton, by the gasworks. Started yesterday, Alexander said, stopping short of smug in his self-satisfied confidence. He knew he’d bent the rules and jumped the gun by sending them out before the policy was rubber-stamped, but he was anxious to appear dynamic.

He studied Markland’s booze-beaten face for a reaction, feeling palpable relief when it crumpled into a smile. — You dinnae let the grass grow under your feet, the councillor said, adding, — no pun intended, and to Alison’s delight and Alexander’s obvious discomfit, he waved across to the bar, ordering a second bottle of wine.

When the bottle came round, Alexander put his hand over his glass, and looked up at the waiter. — I’m driving.

Markland reminded Alison of an illustration of the Cheshire cat from a book she’d had as a child, as he turned to her. — Great, aw the mair for us! Here’s tae the new unit, he toasted.

Alison in Wonderland, Mum used to say .

By the time she left the bar with Alexander, Alison was more than pleasantly groggy to the extent that she had to be careful as she lowered herself into the passenger seat of his Volvo. She thought there was no point in trying to conceal her state. — Wow … I’m not used to afternoon drinking, she said. — I have tae admit, I feel a wee bit sozzled n that’s pittin it mildly!

— Yes, thanks for taking one for the team, Alexander nodded, starting up the car, apparently genuinely pleased at her for drinking what was the best part of a bottle of wine.

Barry fuckin job this …

With yesterday’s excesses, the lack of sleep and the early-afternoon effect, she was certainly feeling it. — S’awright …

— Don’t get me wrong, Stuart Markland’s a great guy, Alexander said, turning onto the South Bridge, — but he’s very much of the old school.