deep in thought, cogs turning like Windy Miller’s gaff. ‘Are Czechs legal here?’ he said.
‘Oh yeah. Don’t get so many of them as the Poles, that’s all.’
‘Still, legal or no’, times are hard and nobody likes to see their job being taken by a foreigner. See all those protests on the telly, barricading in those Italian workers? . . . Mental.’
I nodded, wound down the top of the window to let some smoke out. ‘They’ll be undercutting the wages. By how much, though – that’s the question. I don’t deny anyone a job, but if they’re getting below the going rate then everyone’s getting ass-fucked.’
‘Except the boss man.’
I wound up the window again. It was too cold to let any air in. ‘Michael wouldn’t go for that.’
Mac swivelled on the seat, ‘I wasn’t trying to say—’
‘No. I know . . . I wasn’t having a go either. What I’m saying is, Michael wouldn’t go for that kind of racket, I know it.’
Mac’s mind ground out an answer: ‘But fat Davie might.’
‘Bang on.’
Chapter 7
I DROVE MAC BACK TO the Wall.
‘It really as bad as you say in there?’ I asked.
‘Pretty much.’ It was a bad scene. I wondered what Hod had been up to with my old pub. ‘You should come and take a swatch at the place.’
I hadn’t ventured into the Wall since I sold up. Sounded like Hod’d turned it into – the worst of things – a style bar. Just the thought of trendies in Jimmy Choos laying waste to my memories of the place had me about chucking up, said, ‘Maybe later.’
Mac got out the car, bent over the door. ‘Move on, Gus. Stop living in the past.’
Felt content where I was, didn’t see anything so fucking great about the present, or any future to come for that matter. Went Judge Judy, said, ‘ Whatever. ’
‘I’m serious, mate . . . Come down later, Hod’ll be rapt to see you.’
I knew he was right. Hod was my oldest mate and I’d good as blanked him because of this pub. I still felt sore that I’d lost it – Col had left it to me in his will. I said, ‘Aye, okay. Soon, promise.’
Mac thinned his lips. Wasn’t buying any of it. He closed the car door. Usual jumped into the vacated seat.
The drive home was slow, the traffic ponderous as the endless Edinburgh buses struggled with the elements. Snow and freezing temperatures did not go with double-deckers, hills, and lazy lard-ass drivers, all looking for an excuse to piss off anyone that crossed their route. They were an almost perfect symbol for the modern Scottish workforce: why devote your time to making the customer happy when it’s far more satisfying to make them miserable?
I got parked across from the shop where they sold the aquariums and exotic fish. The drains reeked round here, real bad. I’d caught a bloke tipping a bucketful of dead little fish down there once. My powers of deduction told me that it wasn’t a first.
Usual chanked it up the street, sat at the door to the stairwell. I tugged his ears as I reached the step, put the key in the door. Some jakey had taken another slash on the wall. I held my nose and waved the dog on. As I took the stairs I saw the old woman from across the way. I’d seen her a few times before. Never knew her name – Debs and I referred to her as the auld wifey at number three.
‘Hello there,’ I said. She was struggling with a couple of Iceland carrier bags. ‘Want me to get those for you?’
She beamed. ‘Oh, would you, son?’
My heart went up a gear; I pressed out a smile. ‘Surely.’ She had a great hand-knitted scarf wrapped around her neck, I think the term is Fair Isle. ‘That’s a fine knit there. You do that yourself?’
She was still a bit breathless after the few steps she’d taken. ‘Oh no, my late sister did this for me, many a long moon ago.’
I immediately felt the tragedy of her life; it seared into me. I felt my own age too – I’d now lost a brother. I carried up the bags and listened to the old woman tell me
‘Oh yeah. Don’t get so many of them as the Poles, that’s all.’
‘Still, legal or no’, times are hard and nobody likes to see their job being taken by a foreigner. See all those protests on the telly, barricading in those Italian workers? . . . Mental.’
I nodded, wound down the top of the window to let some smoke out. ‘They’ll be undercutting the wages. By how much, though – that’s the question. I don’t deny anyone a job, but if they’re getting below the going rate then everyone’s getting ass-fucked.’
‘Except the boss man.’
I wound up the window again. It was too cold to let any air in. ‘Michael wouldn’t go for that.’
Mac swivelled on the seat, ‘I wasn’t trying to say—’
‘No. I know . . . I wasn’t having a go either. What I’m saying is, Michael wouldn’t go for that kind of racket, I know it.’
Mac’s mind ground out an answer: ‘But fat Davie might.’
‘Bang on.’
Chapter 7
I DROVE MAC BACK TO the Wall.
‘It really as bad as you say in there?’ I asked.
‘Pretty much.’ It was a bad scene. I wondered what Hod had been up to with my old pub. ‘You should come and take a swatch at the place.’
I hadn’t ventured into the Wall since I sold up. Sounded like Hod’d turned it into – the worst of things – a style bar. Just the thought of trendies in Jimmy Choos laying waste to my memories of the place had me about chucking up, said, ‘Maybe later.’
Mac got out the car, bent over the door. ‘Move on, Gus. Stop living in the past.’
Felt content where I was, didn’t see anything so fucking great about the present, or any future to come for that matter. Went Judge Judy, said, ‘ Whatever. ’
‘I’m serious, mate . . . Come down later, Hod’ll be rapt to see you.’
I knew he was right. Hod was my oldest mate and I’d good as blanked him because of this pub. I still felt sore that I’d lost it – Col had left it to me in his will. I said, ‘Aye, okay. Soon, promise.’
Mac thinned his lips. Wasn’t buying any of it. He closed the car door. Usual jumped into the vacated seat.
The drive home was slow, the traffic ponderous as the endless Edinburgh buses struggled with the elements. Snow and freezing temperatures did not go with double-deckers, hills, and lazy lard-ass drivers, all looking for an excuse to piss off anyone that crossed their route. They were an almost perfect symbol for the modern Scottish workforce: why devote your time to making the customer happy when it’s far more satisfying to make them miserable?
I got parked across from the shop where they sold the aquariums and exotic fish. The drains reeked round here, real bad. I’d caught a bloke tipping a bucketful of dead little fish down there once. My powers of deduction told me that it wasn’t a first.
Usual chanked it up the street, sat at the door to the stairwell. I tugged his ears as I reached the step, put the key in the door. Some jakey had taken another slash on the wall. I held my nose and waved the dog on. As I took the stairs I saw the old woman from across the way. I’d seen her a few times before. Never knew her name – Debs and I referred to her as the auld wifey at number three.
‘Hello there,’ I said. She was struggling with a couple of Iceland carrier bags. ‘Want me to get those for you?’
She beamed. ‘Oh, would you, son?’
My heart went up a gear; I pressed out a smile. ‘Surely.’ She had a great hand-knitted scarf wrapped around her neck, I think the term is Fair Isle. ‘That’s a fine knit there. You do that yourself?’
She was still a bit breathless after the few steps she’d taken. ‘Oh no, my late sister did this for me, many a long moon ago.’
I immediately felt the tragedy of her life; it seared into me. I felt my own age too – I’d now lost a brother. I carried up the bags and listened to the old woman tell me
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