The Aul’ Man

"Kilmarnock are playing the Sons next month. Are you going Dad?"

"I was planning to, and coming to visit you all afterwards," said Cormack to his son. "It’s really handy. It’s just up the road from here. I can watch the game and still come to see you all."

"I’d like to come with you. You and me have never been to a football match before."

"I’d like that," said Cormac, pleased.

Five weeks later Cormac got on the Glasgow train at Kilwinning station. Jimmy Thomson and his son Alec were in the same compartment.

"Hello Jimmy. Hello there Alec. Going up to Dumbarton?"

"Aye. We thought we’d have a men’s day out. You?" Jimmy knew of Cormac’s ‘football’ excursions.

"Eh. Aye. I’m going up to Boghead Park as well."

Jimmy looked at him questioningly. Cormac nodded affirmatively.

Damnation, thought Cormac. Now what am I going to do? How do I get away from them politely? I can’t have them meeting Phillip.

The three men made their way to Dumbarton. Cormac had arranged to meet Phillip at entrance ‘D," to the south enclosure. As they approached the turnstile, Phillip saw Cormac and waved. He came over to join his father.

Jimmy immediately saw the resemblance and drew the correct conclusion.

"If you’ve got other company, me and Alec’ll leave you to it." Jimmy made to draw Alec away to another part of the ground.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"I’ve come to see the game, you daft pratt. Why else would I be at a football ground? What are you doing here?"

Phillip laughed. He turned to Cormac. "Dad, this is Alec Thomson, one of my pals at the university. Alec, this is my dad."

Alec looked at his father questioningly.

Cormac took the bull by the horns. "Jimmy, this is my son Phillip."

Without hesitation, Jimmy shook Phillip’s proffered hand. "Pleased to meet you Phillip. I’m Alec’s father."

Realisation dawned on Phillip. He looked at Cormac in horror.

"It’s all right son. Jimmy knows all about you and your mother. And he’s not from Kerlaw. There’s no great harm done."

Alec looked on, not understanding.

"I’ll explain later Alec," said Jimmy. "It’s a long story. It’s a wee bit private. So you’re going to have to keep it to yourself."

"My dad’s not married to my mother Alec. I’m a bastard, and I’m proud of it." He took Cormac in a gentle neck-lock. "Isn’t that right Dad."

Cormac’s cap fell off. He laughed as he picked it up.

"The older you get, the less sense you get."

"It’s what they teach us at university, isn’t it Alec."

"Come on. Let’s get into the ground before we miss the kick-off."

Kilmarnock got dumped out of the Scottish Cup, two nothing. The company retired to the pub to drown their sorrows.

They got mildly drunk before father and son reported back to Helensbugh in high spirits to be met with Maisie’s disapproval.

"Ach woman. I’ve had a grand day out with my son. Now don’t spoil it."

The same scene was replayed in Kerlaw later. There, Cormac’s reply was different, though the disapproval was the same.

*****

"Right my lass. In you go. There’s my girl.."

Thomas removed the collar from Kerry Gold, his greyhound, and put her into the kennel in the garden behind number 37. She was brindle with a white breast, and a white left ear making her look lopsided. They had left the house at half past seven. It was now nine o’clock at the start of September, and the light was just starting to fade.

It was their evening routine; out along the road to Winton, to the gates of the shipyard and back along the beach to Kerlaw. It was a good eight miles. Thomas set a fast pace and the dog was set free on the way back to chase the seagulls on the beach. This was the daily training for the dog, which was a promising racer at the local track in Kerlaw.

Thomas’ life revolved around Kerry Gold. In the morning, up at six, with a half hour brisk walk. Then a light feed of special mix of dried vegetables, bran and light cereal at about quarter to seven. Then Thomas had his own breakfast and went to work to be at the county-yard at half past seven. Home at half past five to give her a dinner of lean beef-heart or white fish on alternate days, mixed with the same special mix from breakfast. All was carefully weighed and prepared. The dog was given an hour for the meal to settle, then the evening walk; a gentle pace at first, gearing up to an almost-trot by the time they got to the shipyard gates.

There were race meetings on Wednesday evenings and Saturday afternoons at the Granville stadium at the edge of the town. Kerry Gold was not yet two years old, and had already achieved a second place and three thirds. Thomas had been offered twenty-five pounds for her. He was sure she was a future Scottish champion.

They were getting ready for the second race on Wednesday evening.

"Kerry Gold two to one, favourite;

Everton Mint, four to one;

Ruby Port, Oliver Twist and Sugar Daddy; seven to one;

Winton Star, ten to one."

The bookie chanted his singsong odds.

Thomas backed Kerry Gold for ten shillings each-way. The last week in training, she’d been in top form, and he was hopeful of his first win. It was the first time she’d been the favourite. The prize for the winner was one pound.

The hare came round the bend from behind, into the straight, and shot past the starting line, opening the traps. The dogs leapt out after their noisy, mechanical prey. Kerry Gold had drawn the favourable inside lane, and Thomas was sure this was his night.

"Come on Kerry. Go, go, go." Thomas shouted encouragement. The dog got away to a good start, with a full length-and-a-half- advantage at the first bend.

"Go Kerry. Go lass. Go, go, go."

At the end of the back straight Ruby Port was level and at the finish it was Everton Mint, first, Ruby Port, second and Winton Star third. Thomas’ dog was a poor fifth.

The bookies were furious and a stewards’ enquiry was called. Thomas had to show his betting ticket. All the bookies were polled to check that Thomas had no other bets with any-one else. Every-one was mollified to see that he had backed only his own dog. The stewards felt the dog’s belly.

"The dog’s been fed just before the race. You can feel it, no bother. It’s stomach’s full. You’re lucky young Sleanagh. If you’d had a bet on another dog tonight, we’d have black-balled you sine die. As it is, you’d better not pull a trick like this again. You’re getting the benefit of the doubt tonight, but you’ll not get it again. You’ve been warned. And you’ll be getting a formal warning in writing from the stewards."

"I swear to God, I didn’t feed her up. For God’s sake, I put a weeks wages on her. I wouldn’t have done that if I’d fed her up."

"You’d better hope that we don’t find some pal of yours that’s backed another dog for you."

The following Saturday, Kerry Gold was a ten to one outsider, and finished last. Thomas had not placed any bets. The stewards examined the dog again.

"She’s been fed again."

"Don’t be daft," said Thomas. "I’ve been watching her like a bloody hawk. Nobody’s been near her. I didn’t even bet on her. I didn’t bet on anything today. I was that feart of her winning at ten to one. Somebody else is trying to screw me."

"Who then?"

"How the hell do I know. But who-ever it is, it’s not me. If I find him I’ll break his damned neck."

No-one was convinced. Thomas went home with his dog, an angry man.

*****

"Right lads, there’s nothing else to be done today. Away home. Take the last hour off."

The steam-roller had broken a piston-rod. Dick Archibald, the foreman, was furious, but there was nothing to be done. It would be out of action till the following afternoon at the earliest.

"We’ll not be getting paid, I suppose." Rory McKillop wanted to know.

"Of course you’ll not be getting paid. Youse haven’t worked. What d’you think this is?"

They climbed onto the lorry.

Thomas walked up the Hillhead brae to number 37. He let himself in at quarter past five. Dropping his satchel in the passage, he walked through to the garden to see the dog. Going down the stairs, he saw Maggie at the kennel.

"Hello there Maggie. What’re you up to? You know Kerry’s not a pet to be patted and spoiled. You’ve all got Nell and the cats for that."

He saw the dish beside the kennel.

"What’s that? What the hell have you been giving the bloody dog?"

He lifted the dish and saw the leftovers from the family meal the previous evening.

"You daft bitch. Have you been feeding Kerry?"

"The poor beast is as skinny as a rake. It doesn’t get half enough to eat. It’s pure cruelty what you do to it. It needs a decent meal. It’s wasting away in front of our eyes. It’s cruel."

"You stupid woman. Greyhounds are bred to be lean. Kerry gets fed the best of grub. It’s as healthy and fit as any dog you can think of. I nearly got damn-well lynched by the bookies last week because it was too fat. They thought I was cheating on the betting. I nearly got chucked out of the club. Don’t you ever give that dog anything to eat again."

He took the feeding bowl and emptied it into the dustbin.

"If I catch you feeding Kerry again, I’ll put you over my knee and spank you. You stupid bloody woman."

"Don’t you talk to me like that. Mind your language. I will not be sworn at."

"You won’t be sworn at. If you don’t want to be sworn at, don’t interfere in things that don’t concern you. Now you stay away from Kerry. I mean it. If I catch you feeding her again, I’ll do more than swear at you. You’ll go over my knee."

"I’d like to see you try."

"Maggie, don’t try my patience. You’ve caused me enough trouble at the track. Now get to hell and leave Kerry alone."

"Stop that swearing. It’s a sin."

"Bugger your sins. Stay away from that dog. I mean it."

Maggie slapped him on the face.

"Don’t ever talk to me like that again. You can use that type of language at your work, but I’ll not stand for it."

Thomas looked down at her from his five foot eleven. He took her by the arm. He sat down on the roof of Kerry’s kennel. Pulling her to him, he bent her over his knee, raised her skirt and gave her three sharp smacks on her backside.

He said softly. "Margaret Sleanagh, if I catch you feeding my dog again, you will go over my knee again. The next time, it will be more than three whacks, and it will be on your bare arse, for I will take your knickers down. Do you understand me?"

"Let me go, you brute." She struggled.

"Do you understand me?"

"Let me go."

He smacked her again. "Do you understand me?"

"I’ll tell my daddy about this. Let me go."

He smacked her again. "Do you understand me?"

She struggled and fought him.

"Maggie. Do I need to take your knickers down? Do you understand me?"

"Let me go, you brute."

He stuck his fingers into the top of her knickers. "Maggie?"

"Don’t you dare."

He pulled the top of her knickers away from her waist

"Thomas!"

"Do you understand me?"

There was a sullen silence for a few moments. He held her knickers away from her waist.

"Well?"

"Yes."

The elastic snapped back. He let her go. She stood up, tears of rage in her eyes.

"You’ll be sorry."

"We’ll probably both be sorry Maggie. Just remember, this was your doing. If you had not interfered with Kerry, this would never have happened.

"I hate you. I’ll never speak to you again."

*****

"Mammy, don’t fuss. I’ll be back tonight, and I’m only going to Glasgow."

"Have you got your train-fare? Have you got your lunch-money? Here’s your briefcase." Beth was inordinately proud of Cath’s real leather briefcase.

"Oh Mammy, now don’t start the waterworks. Oh for goodness sake."

"Cath, I’m that proud that you’re going to the University. Your daddy and me are just ordinary folk, and to think that two of our children are at University." Beth reached for her handkerchief.

"Right, I’m away. Otherwise I’ll miss the train. I’ll see you tonight."

Beth closed the door, wiped her eyes and put the kettle on.

Beth was worried. She poured two cups of tea. She took one up to the attic where Thomas was still in bed. A gale was blowing outside.

"How’s your headache son?"

"It’s killing me mother. It’s really bad. I’ve never had anything like this before. And my neck’s awful stiff and sore."

"Will I get Doctor McGrath?"

"No. I’ll be all right. Is there any more aspirin?"

"I don’t think you should take any more. Too much aspirin’s not good for you. You’ve had about ten already. I’m going to get the doctor."

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Aye. Now don’t fuss. I’m all right."

She put her hand on his brow.

"You’re awful hot. You’re burning. Drink that tea."

"I don’t want anything. It’ll just make me sick. I’ve been sick twice already. Now away you go downstairs and pull the curtains and put the light out. It’s hurting my eyes."

At dinner-time, he was talking to himself.

"Mother, I’m away to get the doctor. He’s really not well." John put on his coat and left the house.

Within half an hour, John was back with Doctor McGrath

"How long has he been like this?"

"He woke up this morning with a real bad headache Doctor, and didn’t go to his work. He’s never missed a day in his life; not even when he was at school." Beth described the symptoms.

"I’m going to get him into the hospital. I’m pretty sure he’s got meningitis."

Beth’s heart stopped. "Oh dear God. Please God, not that."

"I think so. If he’s just come down with it this morning, we’ve probably caught him in time. Now don’t worry. I’ll see he’s taken good care of."

Beth went with him in the ambulance to Kilmarnock Infirmary. He was unconscious when they got there.

Beth stayed by his side. Neither nurses, ward-sisters, doctors nor the matron herself, all quoting hospital regulations, could shift her. She stayed there for three nights and four days.

Maggie joined her on the Thursday afternoon.

"Mammy, he can’t die. We haven’t said a word to each other in weeks. He can’t go without making things up with me. I’ll never forgive myself if we don’t make it up.

Thomas died at a few minutes past seven o’clock that evening. Beth was holding his hand. He was unaware of her. He had never regained consciousness. Maggie had gone home.

Beth left the ward and went home to make arrangements for the funeral.

Four days later, Beth stood at the door of the church as they carried him out to the hearse.

Goodbye son. Mary, mother of God, keep him in your heart and take care of my wee boy.

The men accompanied him to the cemetery. The women returned to the house to prepare tea and sandwiches.

"Come on Cath. Come into the room and sit down." Beth, dry-eyed, fed Cath handkerchiefs.

"Mammy, what am I going to do without him? He was my pal. Oh, Mammy, I’m going to miss him. Why did it have to be him? It’s not fair."

"I know lassie, but it’s God’s will and we just have to accept it.

Cormac sold Kerry Gold for ten pounds. Then he broke up the kennel and burned it.

The money went to the St, Vincent de Paul Society.

*****

"Well, that’s it. They’ve come out. They downed tools at half past two this afternoon."

"The daft fools. The Company will never give in to them. Sir Angus will just close the place down and wait them out. Can they not see that there’s no market for cotton just now? It’ll suit Sir Angus just fine not to have to pay them. They’ve been selling at a loss for months. I swear to God, a blind man could see that they were provoking a strike for this very reason. You’d think the damned Union was in league with the bosses. They play into their hands every bloody time. And who pays for it all at the end of the day? Right; us, the poor damned workers." Paddy paced up and down the shop.

"For God’s sake Paddy, sit down. You’re wearing the linoleum out."

"Damn your flaming linoleum. Look John, I don’t think you’ve thought about this properly yet. If they have no money, we’ll get none. We depend on them."

"I know. I’ve seen this coming too. I’ve been ordering cheaper brands for a couple of weeks now. Had you not noticed?"

"Aye, I did. I was going to ask you why you were doing that."

John rubbed the side of his nose with a finger.

"Got to keep ahead of the game, eh?"

"Dammit, I don’t know how you do it. Who’s been whispering in your ear now?"

"Ask no questions and you’ll be told no lies."

"Right. I’ve got to get back to Kerlaw. Are you coming up to number 37 tonight?"

"Aye. I’ll see you there."

*****

"Mr. Sleanagh, can I talk to you for a wee minute?"

"Sure, Mrs. Flemming, what can I do for you?"

"I can’t pay the full bill this week. My man’s in the mill. You know they’re on strike and he’s had no pay for a month now. Can I pay you five shillings now, and the rest next week?"

Isa Flemming was the first Protestant to ask Paddy for extra credit. It was normal to run up a bill during the week and clear it on Saturday when the wage-packet came in. All the regulars did it. Several Catholic families, having been refused credit elsewhere, came to Sleanagh’s where ‘blood was thicker than water.’ Paddy had allowed some families whom he knew, to run up a small bill.

"Now for God’s sake, don’t tell anybody I’ve let you have this. I can’t do this for everybody," he warned them all.

Later in the afternoon, John dropped in for his usual visit.

"Takings are well down last week. They’re dropping every week. If it keeps going like this, I’ll be going out of business. It’s been five weeks now, and there’s no sign of a settlement."

"All the shops are the same I suppose," said Paddy.

"Well, they are and they aren’t."

"Oh, how’s that then?" Paddy saw the storm brewing.

"Takings are down in all three shops, but in two of them the shelves are still pretty well full. How come I still need to fill up the stocks in Seabank, while the takings are down? You’ve been giving them tick you daft bastard. Haven’t you?"

Paddy nodded. John thumped the counter.

"We talked about this and we all agreed that, on no account, would we give any of them tick. Dammit Patrick, we’ll never see that money again."

"I can’t stand here and watch them starve. Look at the poor buggers. You can see the flesh dropping off them; especially the weans. I see them coming in here that were big healthy children charging into the shop and me having to tell them to be careful and not knock things down. Now they come trudging in with their wee clapped-in cheeks and no energy, saying their Mammy sent them down for a loaf and a pint of milk please, and can you put it on the slate. If you can refuse them, I cannot."

"That’s all very well. But at the end of the day, it’s going to be your weans that have the wee clapped-in cheeks and no energy. What’ll we do when the shops are bankrupt and the mill’s open again? When they’ve got a wage coming in again, d’you think they’re going to give you a loaf and a pint of milk please? Not bloody likely. Now, it’s got to stop."

"Look at it this way. I’m not the business-man like you. I’m just a grocer. I sell groceries; food. Remember when we were only a Catholic business. You were quite happy to stay that way. There’s enough trade from our own kind, D’you remember saying that? Do you remember the row we had when Mr Laird, the Aul’-man’s boss started coming to me? He’s totally anti-bigotry. That’s why he started coming to us; to show an example to the rest of them. ‘We don’t need them,’ you said. Well, look at the turnover now. It’s nearly twice it was before.

Let me put a thought in your mind. Here we are. It’s six months hence. The strike’s over. Sleanagh’s has given tick to half the families in the three towns. The Co-op, Bains, Archie Cameron, MacPhersons, all the rest of them have refused them. Where do you think they’re going to come to when they’ve got a wage coming in again? They’re going to come to the folk that helped them when they were in the grubber. And that’ll be us. Remember what the Aul’-man always says, ‘they’re just ordinary folk like us.’ Well, we’d be loyal to anybody that stood by us when we were in the shit, and so will they. I was right then, and I’m right now." Paddy’s eyes flashed with conviction.

"You have more faith in them than I have. I don’t believe it for a minute. When they get back on their feet, they’ll drop us in the shit and laugh at us, especially the prods. It’s human nature." John was unmoved.

"You’re a cynical bastard, John Sleanagh. You have absolutely no faith in human nature. Well, I have. I’m going to go on giving them tick. You can take it out of my share of the profits. But I’ll tell you this. If we survive, and our business grows because we helped them with tick, you’ll bloody well let me keep the extra profit we make later. I’m that much of a business-man that I believe in my fellow man."

"Have you been helping the Protestants?"

"They’re no different to anybody else. Nearly half my business is Protestants. Sure, I’ve been giving my regulars tick; Catholic or Protestant. And I’ll tell you this. The non-regulars that are coming to me for tick are mostly Protestants. Their own folk are hard as nails. That’s why they’re coming to me. John, I’m convinced that we can come out of this, better than we went into it.

And ... we’ll have helped the working families to overcome the power of the rotten capitalists. I’ve never been a political person, but this strike has opened my eyes. What they’re doing to the man-in-the-street is terrible. I never thought about it before. I never saw it before. I was never looking for it. We were always fairly well-off. The Aul’-man had a good job with a good wage. Then you started the shops and we’ve been doing all right. I never gave it a thought, that there are lots of folk who are having it hard. Now I see what the bosses are doing for their own benefit, it makes me angry. I’m not going to stop giving tick. I’m sorry, but there you are. I think it’s socially responsible, and by pure coincidence, it’s good business too. The two together doesn’t have to be impossible."

"Jesus. A Sleanagh with a social conscience. What’ll we get next? It’s a thought though. It’s a big risk. If it were to work like you say, we could do quite well out of it. If it doesn’t, as my instincts tell me it won’t, we could lose the lot."

"John, that’s the difference between you and me. It’s your business. If it goes bust, I’ll go and work for MacPherson or Bain, or I’ll go and dig holes in the road. You’re not the type to work for somebody else. We’ve got a problem. It’s your business. I work for you. I get a share of the profits, but I’m just an employee. It’s your decision to make. If you say ‘no credit,’ then I’ve got a decision to make. I believe in my fellow-man and his integrity. I believe that when the strike ends, we’ll have a big increase in the number of customers. I believe that the business will expand because we showed ourselves to be socially-involved. I’ll tell you this. I believe that the working-class appreciates them that’s prepared to support them when they need it, and we’ll be the better off for it. You’re looking for the high-class trade, with their gin and tonics. I’ve never said this to you, but I’ve always thought that the ‘pile it high and sell it cheap,’ philosophy was more profitable."

"No more tick. That’s an order."

Paddy began to sense that John was not as hard-nosed as he was trying to make out.

"You’ve been giving tick as well."

"Not a penny," said John too convincingly.

"What then? You’ve been helping them somehow."

"All right then, I’ve given the Vincent de Paul people some stuff."

"How much?"

"Two hundred and fifty quid’s worth."

"Christ that’s twice what I’ve given."

"I gave it to a single, trustworthy organisation. I’m guaranteed to get it back, strike or no strike."

"And the Protestants. Are you refusing them?"

John looked sheepish. "I went to talk to Jack Scott, the Grand Master in Kerlaw. I gave him the same deal as the Vincent de Paul."

"Have another cup of tea."

"No. I’m away up the road." John left, got into the car and drove off.

*****

chapter twenty-one    top