James Kelman - Greyhound for Breakfast

The middle-aged man was staring off in the other direction altogether.

And the dog had started tugging at the leash. It was behind the bench and moving about, and now doing a shite, straining and doing a shite. Ronnie smiled and shook his head. Life just continued, it was fucking crazy how it went. He faced the front again, seeing the two boys, laughing and rocking the boat, one of them trying to paddle at the same time. But there were stacks of broken glass at the bottom of the pond, that was what they failed to realize. It wasnt just him being totally out of order and losing his temper with them. If one of them fell in he could really hurt himself, he could cut himself quite badly, that was what happened, something fucking silly, turning into something serious. Weans! He shook his head and glanced at the middle-aged guy. Weans! he said, Bloody awful!

The man nodded slightly and sniffed.

I’ve got three of them, said Ronnie, smiling: A boy and two lassies.

Mm.

Ronnie looked at him for a few moments, seeing something in his face that made him think he probably didnt know what he was talking about, that he didnt understand because he didnt have any kids of his own. They’re a fucking problem at times, he said, weans. Bloody awful! He grinned and then sighed and after a brief look at the greyhound he got up and tugged on the leash, headed off towards the exit. And the middle-aged man hadnt even acknowledged him. A moaning-faced old bastard he had been anyway. It was funny how some folk ended up like that. All fucking screwed up and tight and not able to open out with people. Chucked smoking ten year ago. No wonder he was so fucking bad tempered! Ronnie had tried to chuck it twice and each time it was Babs told him he’d be as well starting again because he was making every cunt’s life a misery! But if he had succeeded she would have been delighted. She only said it to give him the excuse for starting again, because she thought he was suffering. And she was right! He was fucking suffering! No half! And yet, there again, he could have put up with it; he was putting up with it. Maybe she should just have kept her mouth shut, if she had kept her mouth shut and let him fucking get on with it, if she had just let him get on with it then maybe he would have fucking knocked it off, he might’ve chucked it. But what was the point of making excuses? He was good at that. That was one thing he was always good at, making fucking excuses, he was smashing at that.

*

It was half past four. He saw the time through the window of a shop.

He had bypassed his own street and kept on towards the Cross. The traffic was heavy; lines of buses at the terminus. People who still had jobs. He led the greyhound on across the road and down by the newish housing development. The dog was probably getting quite tired now. He had it back on a short lead, it was walking where he wanted it to. It was a nice big thing. He liked it. There was something about it; it made him feel a bit sorry as well, a kind of courage in the way it walked, its head quite high. He was not scared to face Babs. Even though she had this habit of always being right!

It was just that he wanted to have things clear in his head first. So that he would have an answer; that’s all. She was too good at arguing, Babs, too good at arguing. She was liable to make him totally speechless. This is because she was always right. She just had the knack of finding that one thing, that one thing he could never get the answer for. That one thing, it always seemed to be there. But the only way he ever found the fucking thing was once it came up, once she brought it up or it came out, sometimes it just came out, while the argument was happening, and that was him, stuck for words.

He had arrived at the pier. It was derelict. He stood by the railing peering through the spikes. The ferryboat went from here to Partick. Old memories right enough! Ronnie smiled. Although they werent all good. Fuck sake. They werent all good at all. And then these other memories. And the smells. And the journey twice a day six days a week. These smells but of the river, and the rubbish lapping at the side of the steps down, and at low tide the steps all greasy and slippery, the moss and the rest of it. Did folk fall in? It always looked like that. It always looked as if folk would fall in. Fucking dangerous — especially for auld people with walking sticks. Even just the rain, that made the steps slippery.

The greyhound was looking at him. It had tugged on the leash to make him notice. A big whitish dog with a lot of black markings. Now standing squarely, like a middleweight boxer; and its long thin tail curling down to between its hind legs. So placid. It was strange. Sometimes when you saw them at the track — especially after the race — they were fierce, really fierce; going for each other, fangs bared inside the wire muzzles. Even just now, seeing its shoulders and that barrel chest, the power there, so palpable, the power, it could have stepped right out the fucking jungle. And its walk, that sort of pad pad pad — athletic wasnt the word.

Ronnie felt in his pockets for a loose match but there was none. He hadnt a light! He smiled. But one of the obvious factors was money. It cost a fortune to keep a dog. And you had to look after it properly otherwise what was the fucking point? you’d be as well keeping a stupid wee pet, a poodle or something. Stew twice a day was what the guy had advised, unless of course it was running that night. If that was the case you gave it nothing, not till after the event, not unless you were wanting it to lose. In which case you fed it five minutes before the fucking off !

There were other things he would have to find out about. Although some of it he would really only find out at the actual track, when he was along there giving it a time trial on Sunday afternoons. He was looking forward to that, it would be quite good. And he would be keeping his ears open and his mouth shut. Maybe get to know a couple of folk, and they would keep him straight at the beginning. Which was one of the reasons he had been hoping that bastard Kelly would’ve got involved. Kelly knew guys who were into different things and as well as that he used to like going over to the track. Between the two of them they could start finding out the right ways of working it. There was a lot more to the game than fucking exercise. Kelly was a bastard.

Ronnie paused. He had been walking a wee while, as far as the town hall. He crossed at the zebra crossing, making for Copland Road. His tea would be ready right at this minute and Babs would be wondering. But it was still too early; he was not prepared enough. And his fucking feet were beginning to feel sore. And if he felt like that what about the dog? A sit down would have been nice. He did have the cash for one more pint; also over and above that he had enough for 10 smokes. Not buying the packet earlier had been intentional, for obvious reasons: he would maybe only have had 2 or 3 left by this time, plus if he had crashed them in the boozer for fuck sake he would’ve had fuck all, maybe just the same roll-up dowp! Now, if he watched himself, he could buy the 10 and even put one aside to wake up with the morrow morning, when Babs got the Family Allowance money — the giro wasnt due till next Wednesday.

The leash was jerking. The dog knew how to get his attention alright!

It was across the road: a guy walking three greyhounds at once, two from one fist and one from the other — them all looking well-groomed, taken care of. Sleek. Ronnie nodded. He called over: Nice day!

Aye!

As long as the rain keeps off!

Aye! When the man made to continue on Ronnie called:

You getting a turn?

The man shrugged. He indicated the dog walking alone: This yin goes the morrow night!