James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

Jimmy Peters was saying something to him now. What was it about, it was about fucking the football, going to the football. Ronnie squinted at him: What?

Three each, said Jimmy, what a game! Did you see it?

Ronnie shook his head. He glanced at the shelf in beneath the table, the four pint glasses there, dribbles of beer in each. It was fucking beyond belief.

That last goal! said Jimmy.

Ronnie nodded. He clapped the dog’s head, grasped its ears, tugging at them till at last it shook his hand away. He sniffed and muttered, I’ll tell yous mob something: see if this fucking dog doesnt get me the holiday money I’ll eat it for my fucking breakfast.

The others smiled briefly. And Kelly said, So you are going to race it?

Ronnie shrugged. He didnt feel like talking. It was time to leave. He felt like leaving. It would be good to be able to leave; right now. He reached to clap the dog, smoothed along its muzzle.

Heh Ronnie, said McInnes. Where you going to keep it?

Ronnie wrapped the leash round his hand and he nodded slightly, lifted the box of matches.

No in the house? grinned Tam McColl.

There was a silence.

You’re fucking mad!

Whereabouts in the house? asked Jimmy Peters.

Ronnie struck the match and tilted his head while getting the roll-up burning; he exhaled smoke: The boy’s room, he said. Just meantime. He’s no here the now. He’s away with a couple of his mates. Down to London. . He sniffed and dragged on the dowp again.

The others had been sorting the cards out after a new deal.

We never knew he was going, said Ronnie, no till the last minute. One of his mates got a phone call or something so they had to move fast.

Move fast? said McInnes.

It was a job they were after. They had to move fast. Otherwise they wouldnt fucking get it.

Aw aye.

Ronnie shrugged.

Kelly glanced at the greyhound and said, What you going to call it? You got something fixed?

Eh. . I dont know. The guy I got it off says it’s up to me. The way it works, most of them’s got two names, one for the kennel and one for when it races.

Kelly nodded. Has it definitely raced Ronnie I mean I’m no being cheeky?

Aye Christ it’s qualified at Ashfield and it’s won three out of ten at Carfin.

Honest?

Aye, fuck sake.

What’d they call it?

Ronnie sniffed. Big Dan .

Big Dan ? Tam McColl was grinning.

What’s up with that ya cunt ye they’ve got to call it something! Ronnie shook his head, and he glanced at Kelly: You heard of it?

Eh naw, no really.

Ronnie nodded.

I’ve never been to Carfin but; never I mean — have you?

Naw.

You sure it’s won there? asked Jimmy Peters.

Aye Christ he showed me, the guy; it’s down in black and white.

Whereabouts? asked Kelly.

Whereabouts? Ronnie squinted at him.

Where’s it written down?

The fucking Record .

Aw.

Kelly said, You talking about the results like? On the page?

Ronnie looked at him without saying anything in reply. He lifted his empty beer glass and swirled the drop at the bottom about, put the glass to his mouth and attempted to drink, but the drop got lost somewhere along the way. He said, Plus I saw its form figures and that on a race-card.

Kelly nodded.

Both McInnes and McColl and now Jimmy Peters were looking at him. Ronnie said, In the name of fuck! What yous looking at!

Aye, well, muttered McInnes, Your boy’s fucked off to England and you’ve went out and bought a dog.

What?

There was no further comment. Ronnie shook his head and added, For fuck sake I’ve been wanting to buy a dog for years.

Aye, well it’s a wee bit funny how it’s only the now you’ve managed it.

What?

Your boy goes off to England and you go out and buy a dog. . McInnes stared at Ronnie.

Who was it you bought it off? asked Kelly.

What?

Who was it you bought it off?

Away and fuck yourself, muttered Ronnie and he stood to his feet and jerked at the leash, the greyhound getting quickly up off the floor; and he walked it straight out the pub, not looking back.

*

Once through the park gates he let more slack into the lead before continuing on up the slope, the big dog now trotting quite freely. But the exercise he was giving it just now wasnt necessary. He was only doing it because he needed time to think. Babs would not be pleased. That was an understatement. It was something he had managed to avoid thinking about. And he was right not to have. If he had he would probably never have bought it. It was a case of first things first, buy the dog and then start worrying.

It stopped for a piss. Ronnie could have done with one himself but he would have got arrested. When they resumed he watched it, its shoulders hunched, keeping to the grass verge, sniffing occasionally and looking to be taking an interest in everything that was going on. It was quite a clever beast, the way it paid attention to things. And as well the way it moved, he was appreciating that; definitely an athlete — sleek was the word he was looking for. It described the dog to a tee. Sleek. That way it gave a genuine impression of energy, real energy — power and strength, and speed of course. The thing was every inch a racer.

Leaving the path he crossed the wide expanse of grass, heading down by the bowling greens. It was late spring/early summer, getting on to the middle of May, still a bit cold when the sky clouded; but just now it was fine, the sun shining. More than half of the bowling rinks were occupied. Ronnie paused by the big hedge, peering over, and recognizing a few faces. But he was not going to go in. He wasnt in the mood for more slagging. Sometimes you got sick of it, you werent able to fucking, just to cope with it, it was difficult. You felt as if you’d had enough of it.

Beyond the bowling greens lay the flowerbeds. A lot of prams and pushchairs were in the vicinity, and on the benches women mainly, with the wee toddlers staggering about here and there, looking as if they were going to fall and bang their heads on the paving. But they were always okay; it was fucking amazing. He took the leash in to have more control of the dog but it seemed not to notice anything, not to be in the least nervous, even when one of the toddlers made a lunge at it.

Along by the pond he spotted a bench where a middle-aged guy was seated alone in the centre, a folded newspaper and a plastic bag of messages beside him. He had a bunnet on his head, a fawn trenchcoat, a scarf; probably the same clothes he would have been wearing in January.

Ronnie sat down, he sighed. He was aware of a tension easing out of his shoulders and he deliberately made them droop so he could relax even more, feeling a sort of twinge at the top of his spine which made him shiver. He glanced at the middle-aged man and nodded. Nice day, eh?

The man’s head twitched in agreement.

Ronnie brought the cigarette dowp out from his inside ticket pocket and he gestured with it. You got a light at all? he asked.

Dont smoke. I chucked it ten year ago.

Aw. Wise man.

The middle-aged guy nodded at the pond: I mind the day it was chokablok with boats — big yins; yachts and all kinds.

Ronnie looked at him.

Beauties. You’d be lucky to get sailing at all unless you were up early!

What?

Now it’s paddle-boats for weans. Pathetic, bloody pathetic.

Aye. . Ronnie looked away. It was models he was talking about. His attention was attracted to a couple of boys who were fooling about on one, a paddle-boat, right away out, rocking the thing from side to side until it looked like the water would go over the top. Their laughter was loud; it was yells more than anything, really noisy. Fucking terrible. Ronnie grunted and shook his head, glanced at the middle-aged man. And then he said, Look at them. Pair of bloody eedjits. They’re going to wind up capsizing the thing — look at them! Christ Almighty!