A Dog’s Life

By Helen Taylor

‘What’ll it be, Jimmy?’
‘The usual, please young lady.’
Stacey poured the whisky.  ‘I’ll bring it over, young man,’ she said with a wink.
Jimmy was pretty sure she hadn’t noticed. He stooped over his Zimmer frame and took a couple of hesitant steps. His left foot flopped down hard on the linoleum floor. The lino was the colour of diarrhoea, with melted yellow pockmarks where cigarettes had been stubbed out in the days before the smoking ban.
‘Aw right Jimmy?’ The question came from behind him.
‘Nae bad, Mikey, and yersel?’ he replied without looking up.
‘Aye, pretty good,’ Mikey said.
Jimmy headed for the corner booth at the end of the bar. Once there, he rested the walking frame against the edge of the table, and struggled out of his overcoat.  He slid himself along the seat, noticing for the first time how worn the crimson velour looked, and waited for Stacey to bring his drink over. She wasn’t long behind him.
‘There you go, Jimmy,’ she said, placing the glass in front of him.
‘Thanks, hen.’
He spotted Mikey standing at the bar looking in his direction, and raised his whisky glass towards him with an attempt at a smile. Mikey was frowning, his thick dark eyebrows knitted together.
The door of the pub swung open, letting in a blast of cold afternoon air. Jock and Baz entered. They were both dressed in dark suits. Baz had left his jacket undone to allow for his belly that poured over the waistband of his trousers. Jock’s suit wilted on his tiny frame.
‘It’s your turn, you tight bastard,’ Jock said.
‘Who are you calling tight, you stingy get?’ Baz retorted.
‘Gonna shut the door lads, it’s Baltic out there,’ Mikey said. The lank curtains were flailing above Jimmy’s head.
‘Aye, sorry pal. I’ll hae a pint, doll and a hauf an a hauf for the fat bastard. He’s payin, by the way.’ Jock’s words were muffled by the cigarette he had placed between his lips.
‘No smoking inside, boys, you know the rules,’ Stacey said. Jock took the cigarette out his mouth and tapped the filter end on the bar. Jimmy was desperate for a smoke himself.
‘Changed days,’ he said. The pub smelt of stale sweat these days, instead of smoke.
‘Aye, that’s for sure,’ Jock replied. ‘How ya doin big man, by the way?’
‘Oh, ya ken. Nae bad,’ Jimmy said. ‘What have you folks been up tae?’
Baz leaned against the brass rail of the bar. ‘Funeral,’ he stated.
‘Is that it, you rude fucker? Is that all you’re gonna say to the man?’ Jock was disgusted by his brother-in-law. ‘Auntie Joan, ninety six. Thought she was going to keep going to a hunnerd.’
‘The big C,’ Baz explained.
‘I thought you boys were lookin smarter than usual.’ Ninety six, thought Jimmy. Christ I hope I don’t make it to ninety six. Seventy two was bad enough, especially after a stroke and with the arthritis. He looked down at his wrinkled hands. Their skin was as papery as onion peelings and they were mottled with liver spots. His smoking fingers were tattooed with nicotine stains and his knuckles stood out like stones. He remembered when he’d had worker’s hands, broad and square, with palms scarred with calluses. Now even his finger nails were thin and brittle.
‘Ay, courtesy of Oxfam,’ Baz said, feeling the lapels of his jacket. ‘I tell you what, you get all kinds of good stuff in there, by the way. See these boots, four quid. Nae bad eh?’
Jimmy looked at the pointed cowboy boots and nodded without saying anything.
‘We went to the wrong fuckin funeral though,’ Jock sniggered. ‘We were sat in the cremmy waiting for the action, thinkin that we didnae recognise any of the folk there when I spotted cousin Billy hangin about outside.’
‘We’d only got there too early,’ Baz interrupted. ‘Couldnae make our escape because we were trapped in the pew by some fat minger.’
‘Still it was an entertaining gig. Poor bugger had got run over by a milk float,’ Jock laughed. ‘How unfortunate is that?’
‘Fuckin funny though,’ Baz said. ‘And the grieving widow was as fit as, by the way. Wouldn’t have minded giving her the old shoulder to cry on, as they say.’
Jimmy just nodded.
‘You ok big man?’ Jock asked. ‘You’re awfie quiet the day.’
The older man drained his glass. ‘Aye, fine. Fine.’
Stacey came over with another whisky. ‘From Mikey,’ she said. ‘Don’t know what’s got into him.’
Jimmy raised his glass towards Mikey for the second time. ‘Cheers,’ he said, forcing a smile. His hand was trembling worse than usual. Mikey tapped his fingers off his forehead in acknowledgment.
‘So, the wrong funeral eh?’ Jimmy started, hoping that his voice wouldn’t crack. ‘Bet Arlene had something to say about that.’ Arlene was Baz’s wife and Jock’s sister. He’d always thought she’d been a great-looking lass when she was young: slim with dark, celtic hair and pale blue eyes. Now she was bone-skinny and fierce looking, and her hair was scarred with grey at the roots.
‘Aye, you should hae heard her go on. She reckoned we were pissed but we wernae,’ Baz said.
When Betty had been sick, it was Arlene that had driven her to the hospital appointments in her faded-red Renault 5 with no wing mirrors and a passenger door that didn’t shut properly. Betty had refused to let him come along, and he reckoned it was out of spite. But all that was a long time ago. Jimmy had been a widower for fifteen years.
‘Making up for it now though lads?’ he said, trying an empty laugh.
‘Aye, too right,’ Baz replied downing his whisky chaser.
Betty had had cancer of her colon. The disease had gnawed away at her insides and her personality. She’d had three operations; the last one was a colostomy. He knew all the medical words but it didn’t make it any more dignified. In those final months Betty wouldn’t let him sleep in the same bed as her. After thirty four years. Thirty four years of dull dissatisfaction, right enough. He knew she had been mortified by her colostomy bag. A better man would have told her he didn’t care, but honestly, he had been repulsed.
‘.....did ya ken that, Jimmy?’ Jock said.
‘Eh, sorry, what was that, Jock?’ he asked.
‘I was just sayin that in Germany when you get cremated they suck out all the metal bits wi a magnet, and then the rest is used for compost. It’s eco friendly and aw that.’
‘What, fae tatties and that?’ Baz asked.
‘Aye, and whatever else they grow in Germany.’
‘So you could be eating a tattie that was grown using a deid person?’ Baz’s normally puce face was turning pale. Jock nodded, laughing. ‘Fuck me, I’m no eatin anything that comes fae there then,’ Baz continued.
They’d cremated Betty. He hadn’t considered using her as compost. Her ashes were sitting in the wardrobe, so it was still a possibility though his gardening days were long past. He spoke to her, sometimes, when he was getting dressed in the morning, telling her how well he and Winnie were doing without her unrelenting nagging. Not this morning though.
‘What metal bits?’ he asked.
‘I da ken. Teeth I suppose,’ Jock replied.
‘Ah, but gold isnae magnetic,’ Baz said, triumphantly.
Mikey sniggered into his drink. Jimmy noticed he was drinking a pint of diluting orange, a sure sign that he’d taken after his father. Jimmy had worked with Sandy down at the shipyards. They had both been turners but Sandy had lost his job because of the drink. He knew he should respect the dead, but the man had been a waste of space.
‘Not ahbody has gold teeth like you, you twat,’ said Jock.
‘What then?’
‘Fillings, you fuckwit.’
‘Gonna not call me a fuckwit,’ Baz whinged.
‘Gonna stop being a fuckwit, then,’ Jock replied.
He should be grateful really; fifteen was old for a dog. He’d got Winnie off Sandy not long after Betty died. Sandy had won her in a darts match, off a bloke in the pub, but he couldn’t keep her because there was no room in the overcrowded flat for a dog, even a wee Jack Russell like Win. The family had lived in the high flats up by Ballornock Hill, the ones that had been demolished the year before.
There had been about ten children in the family - God knows if they were all Sandy’s- but Jimmy only knew Mikey. He was the eldest of the kids and he’d been a bright lad at school, good at maths. There was even talk one time of him going to the university but Sandy reckoned university was for queers. Every now and then Jimmy saw a flash of that bright young boy in the sullen punter that came in the Black Bell every day. But not often. Time was cruel to everyone.
He looked at his watch. It was four o’clock. There was time for one more before he headed back for his dinner.
‘One more for the road please, Stacey,’ he said. She was wiping glasses from the dish washer with a towel that had seen better days. As she stretched up to place the glass on the shelf above her head, her tight striped top inched up over her tanned belly.  Jimmy watched as Baz got an eyeful. He thought about saying something, but stopped himself. He wasn’t in the mood for any more banter.
‘Mikey?’ he asked, thinking he should buy the lad a drink in return.
‘Na, you’re all right big man. I’ll get my own in,’ Mikey said.
‘I’ll hae his then,’ Baz jumped in.
‘No you fuckin will not,’ his brother-in-law said, shoving him by the shoulder. ‘Show some fuckin respect for once in your life. Jimmy, what can I say?’
‘Fuck off apologising for me,’ Baz whined. ‘Sorry Jimmy, I was out of order.’
‘That’s mair like it,’ said Jock, patting Baz as if he was dusting dandruff off his shoulder.
‘Apology accepted.’ Jimmy was tired.
Stacey came over with his drink.
‘You don’t seem yourself today, Jimmy. Is everything ok?’
‘Aye, it’s just the winter weather and the auld arthritis,’ he replied.
‘So long as that’s all it is,’ Stacey said.
Jimmy gulped down his drink, and struggled to his feet. Mikey made his way over to Jimmy’s booth and helped him on with his overcoat. A furred up dog chew fell from the pocket. The two men looked at it lying on the linoleum floor. Without saying anything, Mikey lifted the Zimmer and set it square, ready for the older man.
‘That you off, big man?’ asked Jock.
‘Aye,’ Jimmy replied, still looking at the dog chew.
Mikey coughed, and ran both hands through his thick curly hair. He bent down and picked up the chew and handed it to Jimmy. Jimmy shoved it into the depths of his coat pocket.
‘Erm...will I help you across the road?’ Jimmy’s flat was directly across the street. Mikey had never offered before.
‘Na, you’re alright. I can manage,’ Jimmy said.
‘OK, well then… er...see you tomorrow.’
‘Aye,’ said Jimmy, and left the pub alone.