— Course ah will, Ma.
— N in the same nick that ye took it away in. N if ye want a hat ah’ll buy ye a baseball cap, right?
— Aye.
— Mind then. Wee Arnie’s a stocktaking demon and Chef’s a stickler for cleanliness.
— Nae bother.
She sticks a bin liner roond it fir ays. — How ye fixed for money, son?
— Brassick, ah instinctively goes, although ah’m flush right now wi Cahill’s pey-oaf fir special services rendered and the auld ‘Egyptian fae Cairo’ hittin the mat yisterday. Even sorted masel oot wi a second-hand computer for a hundred quid fae Ideal Computers, next tae the toon hall. An investment awright: new(ish) technology, ya hoor.
She fishes oot her purse, lookin sharply at ays, thon flinty gaze fair mindin me ay the times back in the hoose whin its contents wid miraculously vanish. At the same time ah’d be aw emotional as ah stockpiled loads ay model-aircraft perts nivir tae be assembled. — Take this, son, and she hands ays two twenties.
— Ma, ah goes in gratitude, — ah dinnae ken what tae say, so ah’ll keep it short n sweet: awright.
N wi that ah snaffle the auld hoor’s guilty pey-oaf n pick up the pot n head back tae the Beath.
22.
NEW HORSE
LARA HAS TAKEN my advice and come out with me to the leisure centre. At first she was reluctant, and she refused to remove her dark glasses till we got there. I half expected her to emerge from the changing room into the gym with them still on, but they’ve been replaced by blobs of foundation. We do a full session; weights, step class, Stairmaster and the exasperatingly boring treadmill. It takes ages as she vanishes to apply fresh makeup before every new activity. Thankfully, she’s knackered and has to stop long before I run out of steam, something we’re both silently aware of! Afterwards, we go to the tanning studio. I’ve been telling her about my dad going on about this new fucking horse, and Indigo’s moaning about it all the time as well.
We’re both a reddish brown, and when we get back to the leisure centre sit at the coffee bar with still mineral water. Lara plays with a choc-chip cookie she’ll never eat, and she’s another one who won’t let the new horse thing go, venturing, — Indigo has a point. You’ll need to get something anyway, as a companion to her pony. Therefore, it might as well be a horse you can ride and you like. If you leave it, that spoiled little bitch will probably end up getting another pony!
I bristle at that comment. Indy is a spoiled little bitch, but she’s our spoiled little bitch. The terms ‘pot’ and ‘kettle’ spring to mind.
— It’s too soon, I say harshly, — and I don’t think I want another horse—
Lara raises her eyebrows in exasperation. — At least come and see what this gelding’s like, she argues.
I shake my head and watch a girl I used to go to primary school with struggle with a pushchair, toddler and a tray with two plates of chips and two cans of Coke on it. — You’re not listening to me. I want to get out of this place. I’ve had it.
— It’s the same everywhere, Lara says. — You’re just feeling a bit down.
— No, I need to get out, I state emphatically. I can’t believe her great love affair with this town, county, country all of a sudden. All she usually does is criticise the place and everyone in it. In fact, I learned this all from her. It’s how we became friends! Whatever became of Virginia Woolf?
— But you’re an excellent jumper. With this new horse—
— No way. You know as well as I do that I’m a shite showjumper. I was just doing it to please my father, and to please you in some way, cause you’re my friend. I scrutinise her for a reaction to that statement but her caked and tanned face is Botox immobile. I smile grimly and tell her the truth that I, and everybody around me, needs to hear. — I love horses and I loved Midnight, but I am not, and never have been and never will be, a jumper. And you know why?
I look searchingly at her. She’s all ears and I really do believe she expects me to say something like ‘because I’m too fat’.
And she’s obviously irked when I tell her, — Because I simply don’t want to. I love horses, being out with them, riding them, but I’m just not interested in showjumping. I’m not bothered about pushing them or myself to go faster, turn quicker, jump higher. Actually, I don’t give a flying fuck, I pompously contend. — In future I’m only doing shit that I want to do.
She looks at me in open-mouthed incredulity for a few seconds. I’ve never seen her look so dumb. When she finds her voice, she moans, — But everybody wants you to do well!
— Fuck everybody. I’m only going to turn into my mother if I don’t get of here.
— But you can’t leave me here! Lara wails. — I can’t go. I’ve got Hawick, then Bedfordshire, then—
— You’ll find other horsey friends, Lara. Don’t worry about that, I tell her. — It’s not like I’ll be vanishing off the face of the earth. We’ll still be mates, I say and I feel giddy with exhilaration as I realise that I will, soon, actually leave here; that it’s gone from being a fantasy to an inevitability and I’m not in the least bit scared about it.
— How do you fancy going out clubbing tonight? Lara says, more needy than I can ever recall her. — Just you and me? In Edinburgh? We can stay over at Sophie’s and—
— Nah, I can’t, I tell her with great satisfaction, — I’m meeting somebody later.
There is a pout of hurt sadness on her face. How many times, I consider, must I have looked so equally pitiful to her?
23.
TREVLIN
SO AH’VE GOAT wee Jenni Cahill sittin in the Goth wi me, n it’s like wir an item, gaun oot n that. So ah should be chuffed, but ah cannae stoap thinkin ay perr Kravy, the laddie thit came back tae Fife tae look eftir ehs ma n ended up decapitated. Nine years in Spain, tearin like a hoor through Europe, then back in Fife fir yin week, takin a nice and easy bend (wi me oan the back) n the bike jist leaves the fuckin road n that’s it; baw oan the slates, game a bogey.
The road must huv been fucked; surely groonds fir a claim ay compo against ma injuries, afore ye even accoont fir the emotional damage incurred through the loss ay ma best buddy. Perr Kravy. Ah’m sittin here wi it aw; the posh bird by ma side, place in the table fitba semis, the money in the poakit, the pint ay black gold in front ay ays, n they two jealous auld celibates the Neebour Watson n the Duke ay Musselbury standin miserably up at yon bar, forced tae contemplate ma success. But in ma ooir ay triumph, thir’s nae satisfaction.
Aw ah kin dae is talk aboot the perr laddie. — The Kravy fellay’s words wir prophetic, ah tells Jenni. — Once eh says tae ays, ‘If ye want tae live a long life keep away fae the blaw n dae plenty trevlin. Otherwise it’s far too short.’
— I’d say ironic rather than prophetic, wee Jenni speculates, — with his own life being so short and…
— Naw bit, hear ays oot, ah insist. — Aw they years thit eh trevild roond Europe oan thon bike wir marked by the concept ay difference. By new experience, the assimilation ay different sights, smells, sounds. Aw that ingestion ay new lingo, new culture. Burn the different neural canals. That disnae happen if ye git stuck own the blaw in an auld cunt’s toon like the Beath. Ye cash in the ‘Egyptian’ n live fir the weekend, n very soon aw the weekends ur just the same. Eh’s awready hud a longer life thin me if ah lived tae be two hundred! Smokin dope n steyin in the same place compresses time. Trevil, n meetin new people, eywis expands it. Ah widnae say it’s physics but it’s true aw the same. Dae you want tae stey here aw yir puff?