Hymn From A Village

Hymn From A Village

Too Much Too Young

Hoodwinked

The Blue Danube Waltz

Fisher Of Men

No Pain, No Gain

Taking A Line For A Walk

All Washed Up

Beat On The Brat

Sing A Song Of Sixpence

Sea Minor

You Dirty Rat

A Whole Lotta Rosie

Sisterhood

Snow-angel

Drinking Wine (Spo-dee-oh-dee)

Dirty Old Town

Digging

An Arm And A Leg

Merry Christmas (I Don't Want To Fight Tonight)

One Hundred And Ten Per Cent

Sleeps With The Fishes

Stones In Me Pockets

Sugar And Spice

Super Trooper

Acknowledgements

Hymn From A Village

stories by Nigel Bird

T
hey lowered Mum’s coffin into the hole.

I should have been next to Dad, but he couldn’t cope with that. Instead I loitered at the back and took in the view.

The two chimneys of the power-station pointed like guns at the sky as if ready to defend us from invaders. Don’t know why I thought of them that way. Any aliens arriving into our solar system had to be intelligent life, right? No way they’d come anywhere near Tranent.

On the Forth a container ship headed out to sea. Looked like it was floating on air the way the grey of the sky merged with the smudged hues of the water.

A kid with his hair gelled in spikes turned and looked at me. I sent him a wink. I guess his mother saw it, too - she pulled him close and bent down to say something in his ear. Didn’t think he’d be looking round again.

The priest spoke quickly, wind rippling through his robes and removing any heat from the sun’s shine. Soon as he was done, he was off.

Dad threw his handful of soil and dropped his head. Those broad shoulders of his bobbed up and down, probably trying to work out what they were doing in a suit. Margaret from next door put her arm around him, silly cow.

It was my job to hug him even if we hadn’t so much as shaken hands since the jury found me guilty.

Margaret seemed to have the required magic. He pulled himself together and left. The crowd followed.

I hung back. “Goodbye Mum,” I said to the box. “I’m sorry.”

Took my time getting home. Smoked a couple of cigarettes and psyched myself up for the party.

On the road outside, someone had been busy with a can of paint. ‘Scum lives here’ it said, with an arrow pointing right to our gate. I’d only been back a night and they were onto me.

My therapist had been right about it being a mistake to return.

I fell to my knees and started scratching at the ground with my nails. Felt a couple of them break but carried on until the fury disappeared. The paint was still there when I was done and so was half of the skin from my fingers.

“Bastards,” I shouted at the floor.

Saw the curtains twitch across the street, then caught sight of the old lady. Raised two fingers to her and went inside.

Half the Coalgate were there for the do.

We’d made everything in the morning and put out a frozen Black Forest Gateau. By the time I arrived, the whole lot had gone.

Still had enough booze to keep the party going, though. Dad had made sure of that soon as I told him I was paying

Sipped a can of ale, swallowed my medication and leant back against the banisters. Felt them give.

I scanned the room looking for a friendly face. Wasn’t easy the way they seemed to have their backs to me. They were big backs too, like fat had become the new thin.

In walked Tony McCaig. They used to call us ‘Laurel and Hardy’ on account of us spending our spare time together when we were at school and him being round.

“How’s it going?” I asked when he looked over.

“Doing away,” he said and walked right past me into the living room.

“Tony?”

He looked round. Shook his head and mouthed “Piss off” to me through a snarl.

I threw my can. Missed Tony and hit the Celtic poster instead.

Dad waved me over.

“Johnny,” he said, “You know it’s awkward. Do you think you could...” Felt sorry for him, I did. His eyes were yellow and wet.

“What he means is could you push off?” Margaret slurred. “Get out of here and let us good-folk have a party in peace.”

Good-folk and Tranent? Like oil and water.

I didn’t bother to argue. Dad looked at the floor. Could tell it’s what he wanted.

I left the building, tears stinging in my eyes.

The scheme was a tip. The kind of place the police don’t turn up to unless they’ve got two cars available.

You could tell who’d bought their houses and who still let from the council by their gardens. Every other building looked like a natural disaster – stained render, piles of rubbish, boarded windows, graffiti and knee high weeds. God wouldn’t piss on the place if it were on fire and it had been on fire often enough by the looks of the black scars on some of the walls.

I cut into the alley. Condoms and dog-shit just the way I remembered.

Soon as I saw the High Street, my instinct was to run, to get back to my car and drive back to England. Maybe I would have, too, if I hadn’t seen the arcade.

‘Smiley’s’ it was called. In my day it had been ‘Anne’s Amusements’.

I crossed the road and went in.

My heart raced when I saw the flashing lights and the puggy machines. Christ, it was heaven.

A couple of young girls were over in the race cars. Looked like they needed the exercise too. The sound of machine-gun fire came from over at the shooting games where a couple of lads juddered behind their weapons. An old dear in her slippers was feeding two puggies at once.

I watched them all for a while. Soaked up some of the vibe.

Wandered over to my old favourite. Same place it had always been.

The turf was as green as I remembered and the jockeys looked ready to race.

Chose 1 and 6 just like always.

Soon as I put my coins in, the whole thing lit up. A bugle sounded and everything waited in case anyone else wanted a bet.

At the sound of the bell, off they went.

6 got away like shit off a shovel. Led the field all the way to the three quarter mark then stopped as if it had been shot.

1 was hanging in the rear. 3 and 4 in the middle sprinted home with 4 winning by a nose.

Didn’t mind losing, though. It was just good to know that not everything in the world had changed.

Before I could try again, a voice piped up from one of the money fountains.

“Can you watch my space?” the lad said, his basin cut sorely in need of straightening. Kid hadn’t been there when I walked in, I could have sworn.

It was a 2p machine he was at, the kind I was weaned on. Promise the world, they do. Feed in your change and watch it fall. Always amazed me how many coins could balance on the edge without dropping. One time I tipped the whole thing up. An alarm went off and the thing started flashing and screaming. Got me banned for a week, that did.

“Eh?” I said like I hadn’t heard.

“Just dropped a key-ring and it’s not come out. Can you watch my space?”

I looked straight at him. Something stirred down below. First time in years I’d felt the twitch.

“Here, hold this,” he said, passing me his purse and going over to the desk.

My jaws clamped and I had to wipe the sweat from my face.

I watched him explain to the bloke and point over. Had me worried until the bloke put his newspaper down and picked up a huge bunch of keys.

He opened machine and I stood behind them both.

The kid was cute. His hair might have needed a trim, but it was clean and soft. I wanted to reach out and touch, but I kept my hands behind my back, squeezing the purse tight.

“No key-ring there, lad,” the bloke said, his arm inside up to his elbow like he was helping the thing give birth.

“It went down, didn’t it Mister.” The boy looked at me, his eyes flecked like circles of brown sugar.

“Aye,” I said. “A minute ago.”

The kid smiled. I could have kissed him there and then.

“I’ll get another, hang on,” the guy said and left us alone again.

“You a puff?” the boy asked when we were alone.

“Yes,” I said, then thought better of it. “No,” I tried, but it didn’t seem any better. “I’m homo-sexual.”

“So am I. My teacher told us.” I could have wet myself. Managed to cough away the laughter.

“What’s your name?” I tried to think about what my therapist would have said. Picked one of his wisdoms from the pack. Problem was all his techniques were set to stop me picking up little boys. We never talked about what to do when it was the other way around.

“Sean,” he said. “Sean McArthur.”

I’d known a couple of McArthurs way back when. Mean bunch. Hard as the coal faces their dad mined.

“Come to my house,” Sean said. “There’s a couple of cans in the fridge. To say thanks, like.” When he said that I got suspicious. Looked round for wires or police or cameras. Didn’t spot anything. “It’s over the pet shop,” he told me. I could see it from where I stood. “There’s nobody in.”

My heart felt like it had grown too big for my chest, as if my insides were getting squashed together and spinning in a washing machine.

The bloke behind the desk threw a key-ring over. Sean caught one-handed.

“We’ve got a pool table,” Sean said.

“I like a game of pool,” I told him and followed him out onto the street.

We went round the back of the pet shop and climbed the steps.

I got to follow him. Feasted on his slender hips and tiny buttocks.

At the top he put in the key and opened the door. I took the chance to reach out and touch his cheek. It was soft as a rose.

“Come on,” he said through a grin.

My body was shaking as I entered. Could feel the insides of my thighs trembling and Roger downstairs was getting bigger and bigger. The sooner I got Roger out to play the better.

The smell of cats brought me round like smelling salts. I kicked the litter tray, spilling a turd and a handful of the litter onto the floor.

“Sorry,” I said. I could hear the panic in my voice. I shouldn’t have been there. Needed to get out. But Roger was calling at me and I was all confused.

I fell to my knees and started scooping. Good thing for me the turd was hard and dry.

“Don’t be daft,” Sean said. “Let me get those beers.”

I needn’t have bothered cleaning up the mess. Whole place was a dump. The entrance was the cat’s scratching post. On the wall behind the phone, loads of names and numbers had been written on the wall. Reminded me of the cells I’d lived in not so long before.

Sean returned with a couple of cans. Passed one over to me then pulled a ring on his.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Old enough,” he said and took a long gulp.

I followed suit. Downed the thing in one. Tried to get myself a sense of perspective. Decided I should leave before things got out of hand.

“Want that game of pool, then?” I should have said no, course I should. Nodded my head instead.

I followed him to another door. It was becoming something of a habit.

“Here,” he said, opening it up and letting me walk in ahead of him.

“Aye-aye. If it isn’t Johnny fucking Sullivan.” I didn’t recognise the voice, but knew the mouth it came from.

“Bill McArthur.” I tried to play it casual like we’d seen each other a couple of weeks ago or something.

He stepped out in front of me like a bouncer at a club.

“Cat drag you in?” Robbie McArthur was behind the door. He wore a vest top so I could see his hairy shoulders. Picked up a cricket bat and held it over his gut.

“No, I...” and I didn’t bother to say anything else. It was like I was Bob Hoskins at the end of ‘The Long Good Friday’.

“You did good Sean.” Robbie offered over the bat to the boy. “Want first pop?”

“Reckon,” he said, and I tried to get the Hoskins’ smile on my face.

The kid looked like he could hardly lift the thing.

Sure could swing it though.

J
ohn Campion was always going to do well for himself. Everyone knew it.

Day he packed up and left for college we didn’t reckon on seeing him ever again, not if them tutors could get him to tell stories the way he did down at the tavern. Like he’d swallowed the blarney stone and digested the whole darned thing. Couldn’t burp without embellishing facts and when he puked he threw up a thesaurus.