Street with a large hamper of best pork sausages and started giving small bundles of them away.
‘Got any more of those?’ Daisy had asked, ‘Unpackaged?’ She captured her shot at last, a great image of Albert Harvie clasping a string of sausages. She’d got as low as she could and shot straight up, picturing him against the blue sky.
‘You should’ve seen Daisy,’ Dave was still in full flow, ‘Lying on the pavement.’
‘Just like every Friday night,’ said Sharon, grinning.
‘Thanks.’ Trust Sharon to prick her bubble.
‘What did you make of our Mr Bond?’ Murdoch, returning from the doorway, where he’d retreated for a quick ciggie, still reeked of smoke. Daisy fanned herself and made a face at Ben.
‘I got the impression he feels he’s arrived at the arse end of the world,’ said Ben, drawing a shamrock with his finger on the top of his pint of Guinness, ‘but for my money, he’s lucky to be in a job.’
‘Really?’ Everyone looked at him. ‘How come?’
‘I thought his name rang a bell, so I Googled him.’
How sensible, thought Daisy, remembering Hammy MacBride’s comments and praying there was no truth in them. ‘And?’ she prompted.
Ben leant forward over the chipped wooden table. The Duke of Atholl, though the Herald ’s local pub, was not the most salubrious in Hailesbank. It might have been smart enough in the 1960s, which was when it probably got its last makeover, but since then it had endured years of heavy local use and long neglect by its owners. The customers rarely noticed this, though, thanks to the fact that the lighting in the pub was, at best, dim. This dimness enfolded them all, providing a conspiratorial cloak of a kind as Ben’s voice dropped half an octave. ‘Jay Bond was a presenter on Channel 69,’ he said, ‘You know, that one that was launched last year.’
Daisy, who seldom watched television and didn’t possess a digital set anyway, had never seen it.
‘Full of arty farty stuff, avant garde music, reports from exhibitions, South Bank style shows without the top drawer contributors, chat shows with wannabe literati and glitterati.’
‘Poncey southern tosh,’ Murdoch, who had never been south of the Border in his life, grunted disparagingly.
‘Jay Bond was one of their “star” presenters,’ Ben went on, ‘tipped for better things once he’d served his apprenticeship there.’
Daisy pictured Jay Bond. Cool, cleanly-carved good looks, clear, penetrating eyes, a good voice. The sort of man, her professional eye told her, that the camera lens would love. She could see him as a television presenter. Ben’s story was making her feel depressed. She remembered Hammy McBride’s jibe and had a horrible feeling she knew what was coming next.
‘If he was that hot, what’s he doing in Hailesbank?’ Dave asked.
‘I followed the links to some of the redtop archives for last month,’ said Ben. ‘Seems he was caught sniffing a line of coke in the Gents’ bog just before going on air. A young college student, in on work experience, got lucky and snapped him. It caused a hell of a stink.’
Daisy sat back in her chair with a thump. In the dim wattage of the wall light behind her a small cloud of dust was clearly visible, rising from the padding and settling again, with fascinating slowness, onto the dark fabric of her sweater. Her worst fears had been confirmed. ‘So he had to leave?’ she asked, subdued.
‘Quit before he was sacked, according to the reports I read.’
‘So what?’ Sharon sprung to his defence. ‘Everyone does it. In London, I mean.’
‘If you say so,’ Ben drained his pint. ‘What they don’t do is get caught doing it. Not at your place of work, not when you’re about to go on air.’
‘So how come he’s ended up in Hailesbank?’ asked Murdoch, pulling out his cigarettes and shuffling restlessly. He’ll be off outside again in a second, Daisy realised, he just wanted to hear the end of the
‘Got any more of those?’ Daisy had asked, ‘Unpackaged?’ She captured her shot at last, a great image of Albert Harvie clasping a string of sausages. She’d got as low as she could and shot straight up, picturing him against the blue sky.
‘You should’ve seen Daisy,’ Dave was still in full flow, ‘Lying on the pavement.’
‘Just like every Friday night,’ said Sharon, grinning.
‘Thanks.’ Trust Sharon to prick her bubble.
‘What did you make of our Mr Bond?’ Murdoch, returning from the doorway, where he’d retreated for a quick ciggie, still reeked of smoke. Daisy fanned herself and made a face at Ben.
‘I got the impression he feels he’s arrived at the arse end of the world,’ said Ben, drawing a shamrock with his finger on the top of his pint of Guinness, ‘but for my money, he’s lucky to be in a job.’
‘Really?’ Everyone looked at him. ‘How come?’
‘I thought his name rang a bell, so I Googled him.’
How sensible, thought Daisy, remembering Hammy MacBride’s comments and praying there was no truth in them. ‘And?’ she prompted.
Ben leant forward over the chipped wooden table. The Duke of Atholl, though the Herald ’s local pub, was not the most salubrious in Hailesbank. It might have been smart enough in the 1960s, which was when it probably got its last makeover, but since then it had endured years of heavy local use and long neglect by its owners. The customers rarely noticed this, though, thanks to the fact that the lighting in the pub was, at best, dim. This dimness enfolded them all, providing a conspiratorial cloak of a kind as Ben’s voice dropped half an octave. ‘Jay Bond was a presenter on Channel 69,’ he said, ‘You know, that one that was launched last year.’
Daisy, who seldom watched television and didn’t possess a digital set anyway, had never seen it.
‘Full of arty farty stuff, avant garde music, reports from exhibitions, South Bank style shows without the top drawer contributors, chat shows with wannabe literati and glitterati.’
‘Poncey southern tosh,’ Murdoch, who had never been south of the Border in his life, grunted disparagingly.
‘Jay Bond was one of their “star” presenters,’ Ben went on, ‘tipped for better things once he’d served his apprenticeship there.’
Daisy pictured Jay Bond. Cool, cleanly-carved good looks, clear, penetrating eyes, a good voice. The sort of man, her professional eye told her, that the camera lens would love. She could see him as a television presenter. Ben’s story was making her feel depressed. She remembered Hammy McBride’s jibe and had a horrible feeling she knew what was coming next.
‘If he was that hot, what’s he doing in Hailesbank?’ Dave asked.
‘I followed the links to some of the redtop archives for last month,’ said Ben. ‘Seems he was caught sniffing a line of coke in the Gents’ bog just before going on air. A young college student, in on work experience, got lucky and snapped him. It caused a hell of a stink.’
Daisy sat back in her chair with a thump. In the dim wattage of the wall light behind her a small cloud of dust was clearly visible, rising from the padding and settling again, with fascinating slowness, onto the dark fabric of her sweater. Her worst fears had been confirmed. ‘So he had to leave?’ she asked, subdued.
‘Quit before he was sacked, according to the reports I read.’
‘So what?’ Sharon sprung to his defence. ‘Everyone does it. In London, I mean.’
‘If you say so,’ Ben drained his pint. ‘What they don’t do is get caught doing it. Not at your place of work, not when you’re about to go on air.’
‘So how come he’s ended up in Hailesbank?’ asked Murdoch, pulling out his cigarettes and shuffling restlessly. He’ll be off outside again in a second, Daisy realised, he just wanted to hear the end of the
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