The Young Team Page 9

  The First Day of Marching Season

  We’re in Agnes Stevenson’s bit, Danny’s gran. We’ve always mucked aboot roon here. When we wur wee boys she used tae gee us a fiver each fur dain hur garden. No that we wur landscapers, but she wisnae expectin a Ground Force style transformation. Aw we hud tae dae wis turn the soil in the flower beds, cut the wee square ae grass, pull oot the weeds n put weed killer between the eld broken slabs. As a younger woman, Agnes hud took great pride in hur wee garden. She hus a rockery roon the front n flowerbeds round the back wae the biggest bits ae rhubarb yi ever seen. The red n green stalks wur as big as yir arm. Yi hud tae wash them before yi ate them but, cos cats wee oot the back. She hud wee yoghurt tubs full ae beer buried intae the soil around it tae kill the slugs. She used tae gee us a can ae McEwan’s lager tae go n fill them. Me n Danny always took a wee swig n pretended tae like it. The real task wis emptyin the eld tubs, full ae stale beer n dead slugs. No exactly a fuckin Pina Colada. We spent long summer afternoons dain the garden n gittin a cheeky fiver fur our troubles.

  Danny’s granda’s eld tools ir still in a wee shed at the back ae the garden next tae a green hoose. He hud died before Danny wis born n the shed wis left as a shrine tae his memory. There wis an array ae tools fur us tae look at. When his gran wis fitter she wid come n show us things he made wae wood n his accoutrements, aw the files, chisels, planes, drills, saws n whittling knives. She used tae love watchin us figure oot wit things wur fur n there wis always an odd bit ae timber she let us play on tae test oot our new skills. Yi hud tae sweep up afterwards, cos that’s wit good workmen do.

  Time moved on. Agnes hud grown eld n hur garden hus begun tae take the look ae a jungle. We still promised tae go n dae it but it never happened. When we wur wee guys, me n Danny wid both fit on the top step while she watched oot the back door wae a wee Canada Dry ginger ale n whisky. We wid stay roon tae the light sky turned royal blue then navy. Yi wid see the twinklin lights in the distance, further than yir wee mind could comprehend. The few streets n woods we wur allowed tae run aboot in wis the end ae our world then. ‘Where is that?’ we used tae ask.

  Agnes wid sip hur drink n smoke hur Superking menthol cigarette n say, ‘That, boys, is our wee paradise, far away fae the big bad city where A grew up.’ Our eyes wid widen in wonder at the sight before us. The infinite sea ae orange n red wis like another sunset. In actuality it wisnae paradise, but the streetlights ae Condorrat n Cumbernauld.

  ‘Yees want a wee poke ae chips, boys?’

  ‘Naw, yir awright, Gran. A’m a bit skint but, ma maw didnae gee me ma pocket money!’ Danny says, hintin fur a fiver.

  ‘Yees sure? Wit aboot you, Alan?’

  ‘Naw yir fine thanks, Agnes. A’ve just hud ma lunch in ma maw’s.’

  We don’t like tae see Agnes runnin after us any more. She isnae fit tae but still wants tae keep tradition n look after us.

  ‘Awright then, wid yi like a cuppa tea n a Caramel Wafer then? Or a Blue Riband?’

  ‘Naw, no thanks!’

  ‘Awright then. So wit huv yees been dain then? A’ve no seen yees roon fur a while.’

  ‘Aye, we’ve just been busy wae our exams n that, Gran.’

  ‘Yees dain well at the school? Yi stickin in, Alan?’

  ‘No bad, Agnes. No too bad.’

  ‘Aye, Gran, we both git As in wan ae them!’

  Our exams ir marked wae a numerical system. But it sounds better that way.

  ‘Aw that’s good, son. Gittin good marks it the school is important. Pay attention tae yir lessons, boys. It’s important yees git good marks at the school.’

  ‘Aye, A know, Gran. Me n Azzy are best in our classes. Tap ae the class!’

  His gran isnae daft but n she hudnae came fae Clydebank on a fuckin banana boat. ‘Yi think A wis born yesterday? Just pay attention now, or you’ll end up in the remedial class wae the dunces! N you’ll git sent doon the pits!’

  ‘A don’t think there’s mines anymore, Gran!’

  ‘Aye well, still.’

  A make maself comfy on the eld couch. It takes me back tae ma childhood being here. Nuhin much hus changed. There’s still the eld shelves wae wee whimsies but wae an extra layer ae dust n the eld patterned carpet. There’s a bronze plate ornament hangin on the wall n pictures ae Danny as a wee wean n his cousins n his da anaw. Danny’s granda n other men A didnae know in army khaki suits n hats.

  We’re aw disturbed fae our chat. The noise floats through the single glazed windaes. Agnes cannae hear it yit but me n Danny kin just make it oot. It’s the big drum beats yi hear first, a bass drum that yi carry in front ae yi on shoulder straps. There’s nae foot pedal, just two sticks tae rattle the thing wae. Next is the rattle n purr ae the snare side-drum lettin aff a double-stroke roll. Finally, there’s the unmistakable shrill ae the Fife flute playin the eld melodies. They wur only allowed tae march between April n August. Durin marchin season there’s plenty though, the Juveniles, memorial parades n the big walk in July. Danny rolls his eyes n sighs. A cannae help smile a wee bit.

  Agnes sees us listenin n both our expressions. ‘Wit is it, boys?’

  ‘It’s they band bastards!’ Danny says, ragin.

  ‘Now dinny yi swear in here, son! That’s foul language!’

  ‘Sorry, Gran. They just piss us aff but! Proddys always rubbin it in yir face!’

  ‘Aye like yooz don’t anaw!’

  ‘No aboot here, mate! When huv you ever seen a Hibs walk?’

  We stayed in a majority Protestant town n the only places yi really seen a Republican walk passin by wis particularly Catholic areas, like doon Langloan in Coatbridge n up n doon the Gallowgate in Glasgow.

  ‘Mate, yees rub it in our faces constantly, n then git ragin when we complain aboot it!’

  ‘Danny, aw yees ever dae is complain!’

  ‘Aye right, eld Brother Alan. Son ae William n aw that! Eh, Gran?’

  ‘It’s true, Danny! Even fitbaw. Yees think the ref is a mason n aw that! Always cheated, never defeated!’

  ‘Don’t argue, boys! Ma family had two choices, stay in Ireland and starve in the famine or come tae Scotland and survive. Barely a choice ataw. Anyway, never matter! Dae yees want a poke ae chips?’

  ‘A’ll stick them on, Gran,’ Danny says wae a wink as he heads through tae the kitchenette. He tries tae slap me on the way past but A manage tae gee him a discreet baw-twang fur his troubles. Orange bastard! he’s mutterin intae the deep-fat fryer.

  The Easter Holidayz

  We’ve awready been aff fur our Easter holidays fur a week. We finished at half two last Friday. Ma maw’s still been workin aw week so A’ve lay in bed, smoked a bit ae dope n git a bottle two nights through the week anaw. Part fae that, it’s been fuckin borin. A’m lookin oot the windae at the sunny day n it’s inspirin me. There’s nae adventures tae huv aboot here. Yi wander aboot the streets endlessly kickin the dust fur hours, dreamin pointlessly aboot plans n shit we’re gonnae dae. The boredom is chronic. Campin, but naebody hus a tent. Go tae the go-karts, but we cannae git a run. Go tae the pictures like we used tae wae the lads, but it wis gay noo without burds. Cunts talked aboot paintballing but it never happened. Yir maw n that ir sick ae geein yi money, so yi huv fuck aw but a mere few quid fur a ten-deck n a bottle. Then, we’ll tick a bit ae dope n buy some Highland skins wae our last quid n bounce up the Mansion tae sit n smoke it. That’s yir North Lanarkshire adventure.

  Holidays wur different when yi wur wee. We wid go up tae St Andrews wae ma maw n gran n granda. They wur long gone noo but A’ve git certain images aboot the place stuck forever in ma heed. The livin room n patterned sofa cushions ae a static caravan n a wee hotdog oot the shop at the East Sands. The eld ruin ae the cathedral in the end ae North Street, the thick harr n the smell ae seaweed n fresh salt. Lobster pots n St Leonards girls’ school, which is hauntit, apparently. The only groans n grunts we ever heard wur the big poshy burds playin rugby oot the back. The wee park at the East Sands hud the wee black motorbike
n the red elephant. Then at night when it got cold, yi walked roon the harbour n across the wee bridge tae the wee cafe fur chips. It hud the wee RNLI charity box wae the movin boat. Before yi went home, yi wur allowed tae go tae the toy shop at the West Gate n buy a cap gun. The nice eld man wid show yi them oot the packet n they smelled like Bonfire Night. A used tae run aboot wae the wee polystyrene planes that yi hud tae poke the wings through the flimsy fuselage n attach a wee plastic propeller. These often crashed over the cliffs and ended up in the North Sea. If that happened, ma maw wid go n buy me another wan cos she loved me n wanted me tae be happy. That happiness belonged tae a different wee boy n those good times hud rolled on by.

  A finish ma joint n ping it intae ma neighbour’s garden. The phone goes n A’m still dreamin as A answer. It’s Danny. ‘Awright, son,’ he croaks.

  ‘You sound fucked, mate. Yi on-it last night, ya cunt?’

  ‘Aye, man. Amanda came doon n we drank a litre ae vodka. You gawn tae Gunny’s empty?’

  ‘Aye fuck! Any shaggin last night?’

  ‘Rambo git a knife, son?’

  ‘Ir the burds comin tae Gunny’s?’

  ‘Azzy, furget Monica, mate! Git intae Patricia! She’s fuckin gorjis n A dunno how but she’s keen on yi – it’s obvious. Monica’s a stuck up wee cow! How long you been tryin tae batter intae her noo?’

  ‘Monica’s a decent lassie, man. Everycunt tries tae go wae Patricia. She’s high maintenance material! Know wit A mean?!’

  ‘Gonnae start callin you big Azzy the virgin!’

  ‘Aye witever, mate! You stick tae sleepin in between Amanda’s wee chicken legs like a good wee fuckin dug!’

  ‘Mate, A’m ir a dug! Always chasin pussies!’

  ‘Naw, yir always chewin somecunt’s bone, ya cunt!’

  ‘Listen, Alan! You git wan ae them pumped the night! Or yir fuckin gay!’

  ‘Aye, aye, we’ll see. You away back tae playin dolls wae Barbie. A wis more intae Action Man!’

  ‘Listen, mate. You, Action Man and King Billy aw took it up the shiter! So shut it!’

  ‘Right, A’ll see yi later, Don Juan!’

  A go roon fur Danny n Amanda vanishes oot the door n starts the walk ae shame up the road. Danny rolls his eyes soon as hur back is turned. She’s more Medusa than Barbie the day. A nod hello n she glares n disappears. ‘Yass! Thank fuck she’s away, man! Wee heed nip!’

  We’re walkin doon towards the shop fur our bottles when A hear a wolf whistle behind us. It’s Gemma Carmichael n Big Rose. A wave n the two ae them walk doon tae meet us. Big Rose is the mental burd oot aw the lassies. Hur name suggests the flowerin heed but she’s more like the jaggy stem. A squad ae lassies came up lookin fur hur, eager tae find oot if she wis as mental as legend hud it. She bounced oot in a tracky n rag-dolled the lot ae them aboot by the hair. A huvnae heard ae anycunt goin wae hur – no that curiosity ever tempted us, cos she wid probably ride yi intae battle. Big Rose is the tap woman awright, nae joke. Goliath ae the fuckin burds.

  Rose makes like she’s gonnae punch us. A assume the defensive boxer’s position. ‘Azzy! Ya wee dick! You’ll git punched aboot!’ she shouts.

  ‘Hiya, Gemma,’ Danny says, smiling.

  Danny’s always tryin tae hit hur wae the patter. Gemma is wan ae the elder burds, a wee stunnin ginger. Cunts always chase her. She wid chat away tae me but cos A never tried tae go wae hur. That’s the secret tae the elder burds. Just be cool n they’ll chat back n batter intae you, if they’re interested at aw. Gemma is an absolute stunner but. She hangs aboot wae elder cunts n only appears wae the troops sometimes.

  ‘Awright, lads. Wit yees up to?’ Gemma says.

  ‘Gawn tae a party if yi want tae come? Just waitin fur drink.’

  ‘Why no? A’ll git yees it, A kin git served now!’

  ‘Yass, you’re a fuckin darlin, Gemma!’

  After a minute, Gemma appears wae the bags n seems tae be strugglin wae the weight ae Big Rose’s fat cargo. We’ve git a bottle each n a few tins, Gemma hus a bottle ae pink MD n a couple ae Bacardi Breezers fur a tasty number after. ‘Is Monica n Patricia goin?’ Gemma asks.

  ‘Aye everywan’s awready there,’ Danny replies.

  ‘So who yi kissin the night then, Azzy?’ Gemma asks, winkin.

  A fancied hur anaw. She wid look at yi like she knows everyhin yir thinkin then wink, tae tell yi tae keep dreamin. A hope Monica’s gonnae be there. A wis still textin her constant but nuhin’s happened yit. Cunts pure chasin wee lassies n aw that. Nae use ataw. The elder burds ir where it’s at.

  ‘Gemma, you kin take ma arm the night!’ Danny says.

  ‘Eh, naw! A’m just aff the phone wae Amanda, ya dick!’

  ‘YA WEE FLY MAN!’ Big Rose shouts n punches him in the arm.

  We reach Wee Gunny’s street n kin see his hoose. The tunes ir awready bangin oot the windaes. We reach the door n bounce straight in. There’s a pile ae trainers at the door like an assault course tae dodge on the way in. The tune blastin oot the speakers is Jurgen Vries, ‘The Theme’. Troops ir everywhere n the place is awready a fuckin mess. There’s cans n bottles n glasses aw over. There’s four ashtrays, a paper fur rollin joints on, greff on the floor n spilled wine n bodies tramplin it aw in tae the carpet. There’s two three seaters on each side ae the livin room n the remnants ae an eld coffee table covered in aw this shite. Wee Toffey is in the corner playin wae an eld stereo. The thing is blarin it oot n the sub below is dancin its ain wee rhythm. The tune skips, Benny Benassi, ‘Satisfaction’. Big Rose is pushin me fae the back. ‘Cammon tae fuck, Azzy!’ Wee Toffey jumps over the coffee table n grabs us. We aw start goin crazy, ravin like mad. A crack ma bottle n take a healthy tan ae it. Cunts ir bouncin aff the walls gawn nuts. A shake Wee Gunny’s hand n gee him a drink ae ma bottle as he walks by, steamin awready. The tune changes again, Plummet, ‘Damaged’.

  A’m only in half an hour when Monica catches ma eye n glances towards the door fae across the room, subtle n feminine, blink n yi wid miss it. Toffey notices but n he’s noddin n givin me the thumbs up n winkin. A laugh n start headin fur the door discreetly. A grab ma bag wae ma bottle n cans on the way oot.

  It’s still warm outside n A’m buzzin cos A’m walkin wae hur. Monica’s wee paw slips intae mine n she’s git a wee serious look on hur face. It’s makin ma mind race wae possibilities n A’m smokin double drags. Noo n again she’ll catch ma eye n gee me the look n yi know witever happens yir fucked, cos you’ve fell fur an elder lassie who cannae promise yi anyhin more than the moment. Pals, school troops, other burds n the young team wid aw huv suhin tae say, aw damagin wit yees huv the-gither. Then yi huv tae contend wae elder guys who’ve git motors n money n aw the shite that comes along growin up. A’m still YTP, tracksuit n bottle ae wine doft, livin life on the edge. Maybe that’s part ae the appeal, even fur a lassie like hur. We’re on borrowed time always, wae every second stolen and destined fur inevitable n painful failure but every moment ae it pure electricity.

  Helicopter Sunday

  22 May 2005. The title race fur the Scottish Premier League has culminated in one last day ae football action. Celtic ir two points clear ae Rangers at the top ae the table. The title decider hus come tae the final games ae the season. Celtic play Motherwell at Fir Park and Rangers play Hibernian at Easter Road in Edinburgh. If Celtic win the day then they take the title. Fur Rangers tae take the title clean, we need a win and Celtic huv tae draw or lose. The trophy is transported tae the winnin team in a helicopter. Mid-game, the chopper wid hover halfway wae it’s precious cargo – the Scottish Premier League trophy – then depart tae the winnin side fur the medal presentation n the liftin ae the cup.

  We’re in the Orange Hall n everywan is here, young n eld. Eld grannies up on their feet wae the tough worky cunts that populate the club. We’re aw wan the day, united in our common loyalty tae the red, white n blue n the Queen’s eleven. There’s pints flowin n a fuckin din floatin oot every door n windae ae the Orange Hall, pure fuckin sash bash. Y
ir surrounded by tradition in here. The mirrored mural pictures ae our flute band and their comrades fae Northern Ireland hang on the walls. The Union flag flyin ootside as a reminder ae the place’s loyal leaning. The Red Hand of Ulster, King William III of Orange, the Union flag, the British crown, the YCV, the UVF n 1690. These ir our symbols. It’s family n tradition n fitbaw n flows through the veins ae our community, part ae yir very fabric. At moments like this, yir united and divided at the same time. Yi felt part ae our blue brotherhood, but yir split fae the other half ae our community. The Irish Tricolour, green, white n gold, the hardships ae famine n British rule, hunger-strikers, FREE DERRY, Sinn Fein, the INLA n the IRA. Those ir their symbols. We love tae hate each other and on days when victory is yours, it’s fuckin phenomenal. The Old Firm – the clash ae the famous Glasgow Rangers and our arch enemies n otherwise friends n neighbours at Celtic Football Club.

  Rangers ir up one–nil against Hibs at Easter Road and the score is the same fur Celtic in Motherwell. If it stays like this, then Celtic take the championship. Yi kin feel the charge in the very air, thick wae loyalty and nervousness at being defeated by them. The commentators huv the same excitement in their voices. There’s a commotion in the away stand n a mighty roar sounds fae the Rangers support at Easter Road. The coaches n Big Eck McLeish ir lookin aboot. Everyone is on their feet in the club in anticipation. Another box comes up in the screen and the sound switches tae the Celtic game.

  SCOTT McDONALD!

  HE’S SCORED! McDONALD FOR MOTHERWELL!

  ONE ALL AT FIR PARK!

  THE CELTIC PLAYERS CANNOT BELIEVE IT!

  IF THIS STANDS, RANGERS WILL TAKE THE TITLE!

  THE HELICOPTER IS CHANGING DIRECTION!

  We’re aw fuckin dain the bouncy in the club n watchin Rangers kick it aboot at Easter Road. We’re tryin tae hold up the ball n take our time in the corners – urging those sticky seconds tae tick away but they’re treacle when yir winnin, minutes turn tae hours, days and fuckin aeons. They’re tryin tae break Motherwell doon, but they’re playin oot their socks fur Big Terry Butcher, a former Rangers man. He’s git the Motherwell team well fuckin fired up.