James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

‘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.