N it went oan like that, so it did, ya hoor ye.
Ah sup the last ay the black gold and gie Ambrose a very gentle tug, and low and behold the boy’s oan ehs feet n wir oot the door. Goat the hoor eatin oot ay muh hand here!
14.
VET DOBSON
DOBSON HAS JUST finished another examination of Midnight’s leg. The trot was too much for him, now he’s hobbling again. I phoned Fiona La Rue who came round straight away, then on her advice, I called Dobson. Now it’s not looking good. The vet’s face briefly crinkles in distaste as the horse excretes. Clifford the pony brays as Curran the pig (named by my father after the policeman who busted him for drink-driving) headbutts the back of his legs. — Will he be okay for the Hawick competition? I ask, knowing what the answer will be.
He looks sombrely at me, then at my father. — I’m afraid not. Look, Jenni, I’m sorry to say this, the words spill grimly from those rubbery lips in that hangdog face, — but I think we may have to face up to the fact that Midnight’s leg makes him unsuitable for showjumping. It’s a very high-impact sport, and it’s only going to make this weakness worse.
Clifford the pony makes a playful whinny, as if in celebration of the news.
My father has been standing over us; one hand stuffed into a pocket, the other pulling on a cigarette. Rolls of fat hang from his chin. It’s as if seeing him from this angle is showing me how much he’s aged and I now feel a strange tenderness towards him. Which evaporates instantly when he opens his mouth. — Telt ye, he says, shaking his head knowingly, a sneer cutting his face, igniting his features, pulling them north. — That hoarse is gaun naewhaire but intae Spiller’s pet foods.
I swallow hard and look in appeal to Dobson, who shakes his head in disgust. — He’s a perfectly healthy horse, Tom, there’s absolutely no question of him having to be put down. It’s only tendonitis, but he needs much more rest and another course of anti-inflammatories will do wonders. I would say, though, that competition jumping is very unlikely.
— So eh’s washed up, that’s what yir sayin? My dad looks aggressively at the vet.
— I wouldn’t put it like that, Tom, Dobson whines. — He might still be suitable for lighter use; pleasure or trail riding, hunter-jumper, dressage and such. It’s just that showjumping is very hard on horses and his leg has a weakness.
My dad flicks the cigarette out of the stable. — Dead wood, that’s what I call him. He shakes his head. Midnight looks so depleted, his eyes so sad, I almost want to scream at my father to shut up. — We bought him as a jumper, a competitor. Now he’s going tae be another parasite whae does nowt but drain resources, he says, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looking around in contempt.
Who the hell does he think he is? What does he know about horses?
— Midnight’s a Cleveland Bay, I protest, — they’re really carriage horses, I explain to the old fool as I stroke Midnight’s face and whisper calmingly in his ear. My dad and that pig, the one that’s supposed to be a companion, they spook him. It’s funny, but he’s okay around Ambrose the dog.
— Aye? Well, ah’ll mibbe buy ye a carriage fir um, he says facetiously, — then ye can dae they horse-drawn tours ay the Beath. That’s aboot his dead strength n you might even make some money instead ay spending aw ay mine on lost causes!
I’m outraged at his crassness and selfishness and all I can think to say is, — I didn’t ask to be born!
— It’s aboot the only thing ye huvnae asked fir, he scoffs.
Dobson the vet looks nervously at us and says, — I think I should be off. And I’m thinking to myself what a fucking good idea that is.
15.
PERTH PACK
MINDFUL AY THE lessons ay previous abuse, ah took it easy in preparation fir the next roond ay the Scoattish. Ah goat a nice bit ay haddock fae Boak’s at the Central Perk market: protein, ya hoor. The laddie even dressed it up in breed-crumbs, so ah fried it up at hame, mine in a sanny on Sunblest, Lurpak, pepper n HP, in front ay Scotland Today, the auld man, a traditionalist, at the table wi ehs Pot Noodles oan the side, hummin yon 50 Cent’s ‘What Up Gangsta’ under ehs breath.
A double feast n aw, cause later that night Kravy treated ays tae a big curry at the Shimla Palace. The only time ah’ve been in whin it wisnae thir eat-aw-ye-kin Sunday buffet. Felt like a fuckin sultan whin ah got back hame. Fir synergy purposes, ah hud a guid auld ham shank tae some Asian porn, blawin muh load as the vindaloo still bubbled in ma belly wi the lager. Nae black gold or grinnin Scandinavian sirens wi a curry: a chap needs a sense ay propriety.
The next morning ah’m oan the back ay Kravy’s bike n wir tearin through the Beath high street like a thirsty Kelty hoor oaf the backshift wid a six-pack. Wir gauny hit the trail fir Perth n ah feel like tellin the Kravitz laddie tae cool they proverbial jets, but it wid be an exercise in futility. Thankfully, eh does slow doon though, whin eh sees the twa lassies gaun past oan the hoarses.
— Better no spook they gee-gees, eh shouts, or something like thon as eh slows tae a halt beside the lassies.
— Hi, Lara (whae’s clad tae chug tae, by the way) shouts at us, — where are you off to?
— Perth, ah goes. — Goat a result. Common sense prevailed at administrative level n ah’m back in the cup. Gaunny progress fir the Kingdom, show thum whaes philosophy ay table fitba will win through in the end. When’s yir Borders tourney?
— Thursday, Lara goes.
— Might even take a wee jaunt doon thair oorselves, eh, Kravy, support the lassies, likes, ah ventures. Kravy jist shrugs non-committally. Eywis been a cool yin. Bit ye kin tell thit they dark, broodin looks huv goat the birds’ gashes fair waterin. N ah’m thinkin it widnae be a bad result if ah jist left the field clear fir him wi Lara, n concentrated ma efforts oan that wee Jenni Cahill lassie; peach ay an erse oan it! So ah says, — Ye headin doon then, Jenni?
— I’d entered but I’ve had to scratch. Midnight just isn’t ready, she says sadly. — The vet has even said he might not be able to jump in competition again.
— I’m sure he will, Lara smiles.
— Right, Kravy goes, — hud on tight, Jase, you’ve got a tourney to win, n eh kicks oot n wir tearin up the road n by the time ah’m relaxed enough tae look back the lassies n even the hoarses ur jist dots.
Ya hoor, ah dinnae like aw this swervin in n oot ay traffic oan the motorway! Thir’s nowt ye kin say but, ah jist try n think ay the next life, wonderin if thir might be some sortay arrangement whereby Fife becomes the new Sussex, a county ay affluence within the realm and Scots withoot sectarian leanings can sing ‘God Save the Queen’ wi an absence ay irony! N ma dreamin works tae an extent, bit whin wi stoap oaf at the Little Chef for a coffee b/w one ay Mr Kipling’s fir the sugar hit, ah’m shakin like a Hill ay Beath hoor thit’s been gittin pleasured wi a pneumatic drill insteed ay a vibrator.
— Ye okay, Jase? Kravy asks.
— Nerves, ah tell um, — no through bein oan the bike, ah lie, — ah’m an ex jockey eftir aw, well, trainee, bit it’s this forthcomin game wi Clarky. The boy’s good, n ah’m feelin the weight ay the coonty’s expectations oan they shelpit, roond shoodirs ay mine. Bit the better the stage fright, the better the performance, ya hoor.
Kravy looks deeply intae ma eyes. — You’ve goat the spirit, the soul n the passion. Eh’ll no live wi you, Jase.