Remedy is None by William McIlvanney

them.’
    Uncle Hughie took advantage of her absence to pivot on his chair and fart thunderously, as if it was some kind of inbuilt fanfare-system.
    ‘Well, if ye haven’t burst yer farting-clappers already, Hughie,’ Charlie’s father said jocularly, ‘ye’ll do it when ye try to break this egg.’
    ‘Better wi’ a toom hoose than a bad tenant.’ Uncle Hughie said cryptically, taking off his jacket prefatory to combat.
    ‘Homespun proletarian wisdom,’ Charlie said.
    But his Uncle Hughie was absorbed in his preparations. He was rolling his already rolled-up sleeves even higher.
    ‘Ye’d better strip to the waist, Hughie,’ Charlie’s father said seriously. ‘It’ll make an awfu’ mess when that egg bursts.’
    Uncle Hughie took him at his word. He peeled off shirt and vest as one, and stood naked to the waist, revealing a huge craggy torso with fine dark coal-scars running over the left shoulder, and tattooed forearms. On his left forearm what looked like some sort of dancing girl stood with her arms tirelessly upraised, a faded relic of the romantic past who had aged with Uncle Hughie. On his right forearm two pale pink hearts had grown anaemic with the years.
    Elizabeth entered like a handmaiden, carrying the egg. A space was cleared in the middle of the floor, and Elizabeth sat down beside Charlie on the settee like a ringside seat. Everything was done with formal propriety, as if it was all according to the eggbreakers’ handbook. Uncle Hughie was set in the middle of the cleared space and Charlie’s father stood with his hand on his shoulder, giving him a brief run-through of the rules. Uncle Hughie was nodding quietly, not missing a trick. Charlie almost expected to see him shake hands with the egg, and started to give a tense sibilant commentary in Elizabeth’s ear.
    ‘I want a good clean fight,’ he was saying. ‘And break when I say “break”. You both know the rules. I won’t hesitate to disqualify either you or the egg. So come out fighting and may the best egg win.’
    Uncle Hughie was ready. He laced the fingers of both hands carefully together and held them cupped upwards while Charlie’s father painstakingly placed the egg between his palms. Uncle Hughie’s hands closed impatiently on the egg, but Charlie’s father halted him and ran his fingers lightly round the edges of the egg to make sure that it was being held only by the tips.
    ‘Right, Hughie,’ he said. ‘Away ye go.’
    Uncle Hughie started to press.
    ‘Feeling is running high at the Garden tonight,’ Charlie resumed in Elizabeth’s ear. ‘This is something of a needlematch, Hughie versus The Egg. Human dignity hangs in the balance.’
    Uncle Hughie was now visibly putting on the pressure. The dancing girl writhed sensuously. His right forearm had angina pectoris in duplicate. Huge veins rose and fell on his neck like organ-stops. His forehead, ploughed with effort, slowly took on a faint dew of sweat. His body, like an overheated boiler, became suffused with an unnatural red glow, as if combustion was imminent. And at the middle of this gigantic exertion, in the still centre of the hurricane, lay the egg, a tribute to the grit of Danish hens.
    Uncle Hughie relaxed and took a breather. His palms glittered decoratively, sequined with sweat, and he wiped them on the seat of his trousers.
    ‘Ah wouldny have believed that,’ he said.
    ‘There y’are,’ Charlie’s father said, vindicated. ‘Ye’ll maybe no’ be so cocky the next time.’
    He resumed his grip on the egg, with Charlie’s father sitting confidently watching. Charlie became aware that Elizabeth was struggling to hold in her laughter. She snittered once briefly, like a horse neighing, and cut it short. Glancing at her, Charlie saw her lips twisting nervously in an attempt to suppress the laughter which showed beneath her composure like a kitten under a coverlet. Then he felt laughter lit like a slow fuse in himself, rising steadily, coming nearer to