At the top of Bellsyde Hill he slowed down and stared at the view. What hills away over there? The Renfrews maybe. Or it could still be the Old Kilpatricks? Rather than use the tarred pathway he ran downhill across the grass embankment. He had seen nobody since leaving the house more than ten minutes ago. A truck nearly killed him as he came dashing out onto Drumchapel Road from the blind-spot exit.
The truck jammed to a halt and the driver peered out the window. ‘Wee bastard!’ he roared. ‘You daft wee bastard!’
But Tommy never stopped running. He flew on down Garscadden Road and up through the goods’ entrance into Drumchapel Railway Station. The paper-hut stood by itself on the adjacent waste ground, parked beside it were a couple of cars. Half a dozen bicycles were propped against the wooden hut walls. He pushed open the door. The thick blue air made his eyes smart. The place was crowded. It seemed as if everybody was shouting, swearing and joking. Tommy joined at the end of the queue of boys waiting to receive their papers. The boy standing in front of him was a man with a beard. Tommy gazed at him. Behind the wide counter three men assisted by two youths were distributing the Sunday newspapers. The big man and the thin man were laughing uproariously at something the crew-cut man was saying. Some of the boys were also grinning and it was obviously very funny.
Each boy’s bag was being packed tight with newspapers and one large boy had so many that he needed two bags. When Tommy’s turn came he stepped forwards and cried: ‘Six run!’
‘Six run?’ repeated the crew-cut man gaping at him.
‘Aye!’
‘Where’s MacKenzie?’
‘He’s away camping. I’m his wee brother.’
‘What’s that?’ called the thin man.
‘Says he’s MacKenzie’s wee brother,’ said the crew-cut man over his shoulder.
‘Hell of a wee!’ frowned the big man.
‘What age are you kid?’ asked the crew-cut man.
‘Twelve and a half. I’ve been round with my brother before. Three times.’
‘Ach he’ll be okay,’ said the crew-cut man when the big man’s eyes widened.
‘MacKenzie be back next Sunday?’ asked the thin man.
‘Aye,’ replied Tommy. ‘He’s only away for a week. He’s down at Arran with the B.B.’
The thin man nodded to the other two.
‘Aye okay,’ agreed the big man.
‘Right then Wee MacKenzie, pass me your bag!’ The crew-cut man began packing in Post, Express and Mail; as he worked he called out to the two youths who collected other newspapers from the shelves which ran along the length of the wall behind them. When the bag was filled and all the newspapers in order the man bumped the bag down twice on the counter and told Tommy to listen. ‘Right son,’ he said, ‘they’re all in order.’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Post, Express, Mail. That’s easy to remember eh? Then People, World, Pictorial, Reynolds and Empire. Okay?’
Tommy hesitated and the crew-cut man repeated it. Tommy nodded and he continued: ‘Telegraph, Observer and Times. You got that?’
‘Aye.’
‘Right kid, then off you go, and we close at two remember.’
‘At two?’
‘Aye, two. Remember!’
‘But John’s always home before eleven.’
‘Aye that’s John kid.’ The crew-cut man grinned. ‘Anyhow, take it away.’ He pushed the bag along the counter and Tommy walked after it. One of the youths held the strap out and he ducked his right arm and head through. The youth helped him to manoeuvre it to the edge of the counter and then he looked down at him rather worriedly.
‘Okay son?’ he asked.
Tommy nodded and straining he heaved it off from the counter. The bag of papers plummeted to the floor like a boulder, carrying him with it. Everybody in the hut roared with laughter as he lay there unable to extricate himself. Eventually the thin man cried, ‘Give him a hand!’
Three boys jumped forward. They freed him and hoisted the bag back up onto the counter. Tommy gazed at the men. After a moment the thin man said to the crew-cut man, ‘Well Jimmy, what do you think now?’
‘Ach the kid’ll be okay.’
‘Give him a weer run,’ suggested the big man, ‘that six is a big bastard. Somebody else can do it.’
‘No mister,’ said Tommy, ‘I can do it. I’ve helped my brother before.’
The crew-cut man nodded then smiled. ‘Right Wee MacKenzie. Put the strap over one shoulder just. The left’s the best. Don’t put your head under either, that’s how that happened. It’s a question of balance. Just the one shoulder now. Okay?’
Tommy nodded, pulled the strap on, and the crew-cut man pushed the bag to the edge of the counter. ‘Ready?’
‘Aye.’
‘Right you are kid, take it away.’
Tommy breathed in deeply and stepped away from the counter, bending almost horizontal beneath the weight. He struggled to the door, seeing only the way as far as his feet.
‘Open it!’ shouted the thin man.
As the door banged shut behind him he could hear the big man say: ‘Jesus Christ!’
Tommy reached the top of Garscadden Road and turned into Drumchapel Road by the white church. His chest felt tight under the burden and the strap cut right into his shoulder but he was not staggering so often now. It was getting on for 5.30 a.m. When he looked up he saw the blue bus standing at Dalsetter Terminus. About fifty yards from it he looked again, in time to see the driver climb up into the cabin. Tommy tried to run but his knees banged together. The engine revved. He half trotted in a kind of jerking motion. The bus seemed to roll up the small incline to the junction. Fifteen yards now and Tommy was moving faster on the downhill towards it. An oil-tanker passing caused the bus to stay a moment and Tommy went lunging forwards and grabbed at the pole on the rear platform. The bus turned into the main road and he swung aboard with his right foot on the very edge, managing to drag on his left, but he could not pull up the bag. The weight strained on his shoulder. It was pulling him backwards as the bus gathered speed. Nobody was downstairs. His chest felt tighter and his neck was getting really sore. The strap slipped, it slipped down, catching in the crook of his elbow. He clenched his teeth and hung onto the pole.
Then a cold hand clutched him.
‘PULL!’ screamed the old conductress.
He gasped with the effort. She wrenched him up onto the platform where he stood trembling, the paper-bag slumped between his legs, unable to speak.
‘Bloody wee fool!’ she cried. ‘Get inside before you fall off!’ She helped him and the bag up the step and he collapsed onto the long side-seat with the bag staying on the floor. ‘I don’t know what your mother’s thinking about!’ she said.
He got the money out of his trouser pocket and said politely, ‘Tuppny-half please.’
At the foot of Achamore Road he got down off the platform first and then got the paper-bag strap over his left shoulder again and he dragged it off. He heard the ding ding as the conductress rang the bell for the driver. On the steep climb up to Kilmuir Drive he started by resting every twenty or so yards but by the time he had reached halfway it was every eight to ten yards. Finally he stopped and staggered into the first close and he straightened up and the bag crashed to the concrete floor. He waited a moment but nobody came out to see what had happened. A lot of the papers had shifted inside the bag and he heaved it up and bumped it down a bit, trying to get them settled back, but they did not move. His body felt strange. He began doing a funny sort of walk about the close, as if he was in slow motion. He touched himself on the shoulder, his left arm hanging down. Then he walked to the foot of the stairs and sat on the second bottom one. He got up and picked out a Sunday Post but it stuck halfway it was so tightly wedged; when he tugged, the pages ripped. Eventually he manoeuvered it out and he read the football reports sitting on the step. Then he did the same with the Sunday Mail. A long time later he returned the Reynolds News and stood up, rubbing his ice-cold bottom.