What?
Who was it you bought it off?
Away and fuck yourself, muttered Ronnie and he stood to his feet and jerked at the leash, the greyhound getting quickly up off the floor; and he walked it straight out the pub, not looking back.
*
Once through the park gates he let more slack into the lead before continuing on up the slope, the big dog now trotting quite freely. But the exercise he was giving it just now wasnt necessary. He was only doing it because he needed time to think. Babs would not be pleased. That was an understatement. It was something he had managed to avoid thinking about. And he was right not to have. If he had he would probably never have bought it. It was a case of first things first, buy the dog and then start worrying.
It stopped for a piss. Ronnie could have done with one himself but he would have got arrested. When they resumed he watched it, its shoulders hunched, keeping to the grass verge, sniffing occasionally and looking to be taking an interest in everything that was going on. It was quite a clever beast, the way it paid attention to things. And as well the way it moved, he was appreciating that; definitely an athlete — sleek was the word he was looking for. It described the dog to a tee. Sleek. That way it gave a genuine impression of energy, real energy — power and strength, and speed of course. The thing was every inch a racer.
Leaving the path he crossed the wide expanse of grass, heading down by the bowling greens. It was late spring/early summer, getting on to the middle of May, still a bit cold when the sky clouded; but just now it was fine, the sun shining. More than half of the bowling rinks were occupied. Ronnie paused by the big hedge, peering over, and recognizing a few faces. But he was not going to go in. He wasnt in the mood for more slagging. Sometimes you got sick of it, you werent able to fucking, just to cope with it, it was difficult. You felt as if you’d had enough of it.
Beyond the bowling greens lay the flowerbeds. A lot of prams and pushchairs were in the vicinity, and on the benches women mainly, with the wee toddlers staggering about here and there, looking as if they were going to fall and bang their heads on the paving. But they were always okay; it was fucking amazing. He took the leash in to have more control of the dog but it seemed not to notice anything, not to be in the least nervous, even when one of the toddlers made a lunge at it.
Along by the pond he spotted a bench where a middle-aged guy was seated alone in the centre, a folded newspaper and a plastic bag of messages beside him. He had a bunnet on his head, a fawn trenchcoat, a scarf; probably the same clothes he would have been wearing in January.
Ronnie sat down, he sighed. He was aware of a tension easing out of his shoulders and he deliberately made them droop so he could relax even more, feeling a sort of twinge at the top of his spine which made him shiver. He glanced at the middle-aged man and nodded. Nice day, eh?
The man’s head twitched in agreement.
Ronnie brought the cigarette dowp out from his inside ticket pocket and he gestured with it. You got a light at all? he asked.
Dont smoke. I chucked it ten year ago.
Aw. Wise man.
The middle-aged guy nodded at the pond: I mind the day it was chokablok with boats — big yins; yachts and all kinds.
Ronnie looked at him.
Beauties. You’d be lucky to get sailing at all unless you were up early!
What?
Now it’s paddle-boats for weans. Pathetic, bloody pathetic.
Aye. . Ronnie looked away. It was models he was talking about. His attention was attracted to a couple of boys who were fooling about on one, a paddle-boat, right away out, rocking the thing from side to side until it looked like the water would go over the top. Their laughter was loud; it was yells more than anything, really noisy. Fucking terrible. Ronnie grunted and shook his head, glanced at the middle-aged man. And then he said, Look at them. Pair of bloody eedjits. They’re going to wind up capsizing the thing — look at them! Christ Almighty!
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.