~ Close Encounters ~
I couldn’t remember the last time I had set foot in the Legion. I left the Ferry to go and live in Edinburgh soon after I turned twenty, so I must have been a teenager at the time. Which would make it well over fifteen years ago.
Nor could I remember why I had gone there. A wedding reception, maybe. Or a birthday celebration. Something like that, probably.
Whatever the reason back then, I was in the place again, following the Wee Hippy as we walked along the corridor that led to the main hall. We went past the doors to the toilets and then past the reception counter, behind which some old man usually sat, making sure that members signed themselves and their guests in, but which was deserted tonight.
As I looked around, what I did remember from my last visit was the décor, which didn’t seem to have changed in all that time. The walls and ceiling were the same white Anaglypta, stained yellow by decades of cigarette smoke, and the white gloss woodwork was still chipped badly. The noise that filled the corridor was different, though: the almost deafening throb of rock music bouncing off the walls. Rounding the corner and entering the big hall, I could see that the clientele was also different – very different. Instead of elderly couples waltzing sedately to the sound of an accordion band, the floor was crowded by noisy young folk gyrating to Bowie belting out Let’s Dance. The Friday Night Disco at the Legion was in full swing.
Leaving me to gawk at this unexpected but welcome scene, the Wee Hippy went off to the bar to get the pints in. Half-an-hour earlier in the pub down the road, I had been reluctant at first to go to the Legion when the Wee Hippy suggested it.
“Do they still play God Save the Queen at the end o’ the night?” I had asked, frowning. “And expect folk tae stand up when it’s played?”
“Aye, they still play it,” the Wee Hippy replied. “But they only dae that instead o’ them goin’ aboot shoutin’ ‘Time, gentlemen, please’. And by that time awbody’s too pished tae be standin’ fur the Queen or any other cunt.
“Anyways,” he had continued, “the place’ll be hoachin’ wi’ fanny.” That didn’t really persuade me. “And it has a late licence till one o’clock.” That did.
So there I was, standing just inside the hall, enjoying the music, watching the dancers and waiting for the Wee Hippy to return, when I noticed a figure cutting through the dance floor and making a beeline for me. The figure was that of a skinny guy. He was wearing a suit, shirt and tie, all matching, all a pale grey colour. And his jacket had tulip lapels.
“Christ, he’s dressed for a Seventies disco,” I remarked to myself. “More than ten years out of date. Aye, only in the Ferry!”
“Dan McKay! Danny Boy!” the guy shouted as he came closer. “Huvnae seen you fur years! How the fuck are ye daein’, ma man!”
Next thing, he had wrapped his arms around me, as if he was greeting a long-lost friend or relative.
I didn’t recognise him at first. The hair long and blond and hanging limp. The face drawn, its pallor matching the colour of his disco gear. The eyes a faded blue and dull; those of a heavy drinker. He was probably about the same age as me, but he looked much older; he looked like he had lived a harder life.
He was at least half a foot taller than me, which meant that his mouth was not only level with my eyes, but also within an inch of them as a result of the bear hug he was giving me. And it was when he opened his mouth and showed his teeth that I knew who he was. Well, not his teeth exactly, but the big gap where some of his front teeth used to be.
“Davy Brown!” I exclaimed. “Broonie!”
The last time I had been so up close and personal with Broonie was more than twenty years ago. Vivid images of that encounter suddenly returned to me.
I’m fourteen, wee and skinny, and in my second year at St Mary’s in Bathgate. I’m doing my after-school paper round, delivering the Edinburgh Evening News to folk in and around my street. I’m almost at the end of the round, with only a few doors to go before my own house. I’ve just posted the paper through the Dodgsons’ letter-box and I’m walking back down their front path. But there are three laddies waiting for me at the open gate. They all go to the Proddie school in the Ferry. The two older and bigger ones are my nemeses. They’ve trapped me like this twice before.
I was only twelve the first time the bullies caught me. One Saturday, I had gone on my own to the matinee at the Regal. I was coming down the marble steps, leaving to go home, when they pounced on me and dragged me outside.
“Where d’ye think you’re gawn, ya wee Pape bastard?” one of them asked.
“I’ll tell ye where,” laughed the other. “Aff the end o’ the harbour. That’s what we dae wi’ Papes in the Ferry.”
They made to haul me down to the harbour, but I managed to squirm away from them. Then I flew up the steps to Brewery Close and ran like a hare all the way up the Back Braes, never stopping till I got home.
The second time was about a year later. I was in the woods up near my house when they ambushed me. They threatened to tie “the wee Pape bastard” to a tree and leave me there. But big Jock Clyde, my friend, turned up on his racer and the bullies melted away, like the cowards they were.
Now here they are again, blocking my way. But this time one of them has brought along his wee brother, Broonie, who is a year younger than me. The pair of them are pushing Broonie to the front, egging him on.
“Tell the Fenian cunt,” they’re saying. “Aye, tell him.”
Broonie seems reluctant at first, but finally he squares up to me and declares, “This paper roond should be mine by rights. That fat poof Robertson doon at the paper shoap shouldnae be handin’ oot joabs tae Papes like you.”
Not saying anything, I wait to see what happens next. Broonie’s wee speech seems to have emboldened him. He steps closer, fists balled, ready to fight. Then he makes a fatal error. Afraid that I might lash out first, he pins my arms to my side in a bear hug. I’m no fighter, but I’m a learner. Day in, day out at Bathgate, there are fights in the playground. Big guys, tough guys, hard guys fighting. I watch and I learn. I learn the art of street fighting. But most of all I learn the art of head-butting; its power, its devastating results. It’s time to employ that learning. Just as I have observed, I pull my head back as far as I can and then release it like a spring, planting it with a loud smack on Broonie’s mouth. I feel his front teeth giving. I see a gaping hole and blood spurting from it. Broonie automatically releases me from his hold. His scream follows. But by that time I’ve slipped away from my persecutors and I’m halfway home, running like the wind, the canvas bag over my shoulder containing the few remaining newspapers flapping behind me.
So twenty years later Broonie had me in a bear hug again. But, mystifyingly, it was a friendly hug on that occasion. While I was still struggling to find the right words to say to him, Broonie let go of me and stepped back. That was when I saw, or rather stared at, the stump where his right hand should have been.
Broonie recognised the stare. “Och, that,” he laughed, waving the stump in front of me, “that wis jist a wee accident at the Bond years ago.”
Before I had the chance to say I was sorry about the accident, I was suddenly gripped in another bear hug. And not by a friendly hugger like Broonie. My assailant was also a tall, skinny guy; unkempt, unshaven and clearly very drunk.
“I dinnae ken who the fuck ye are, pal,” he growled into my face, “but ye cannae jist walk in here withoot bein’ signed in by a member. Too many cunts daein’ that. So c’moan, oot ye go.”
It was fast occurring to me that the guy’s front teeth were likely to meet the same fate as Broonie’s when the Wee Hippy returned, holding a pint of lager in each hand.
“Get tae fuck, Chicky!” the Wee Hippy shouted at him. “He’s wi’ me. And it’s nane o’ your business whae comes in here anyways. You’re no’ even oan the fuckin’ Committee.”
Chicky gave me one last growl, released me from his grip and moved off. Broonie had also moved off by then. I could make out the back of his grey suit as he returned across the dance floor.
“Here,” the Wee Hippy said, offering me one of the pints. Bewildered and speechless, I took the pint from him and almost downed it in a oner. I really needed that drink.
Nor could I remember why I had gone there. A wedding reception, maybe. Or a birthday celebration. Something like that, probably.
Whatever the reason back then, I was in the place again, following the Wee Hippy as we walked along the corridor that led to the main hall. We went past the doors to the toilets and then past the reception counter, behind which some old man usually sat, making sure that members signed themselves and their guests in, but which was deserted tonight.
As I looked around, what I did remember from my last visit was the décor, which didn’t seem to have changed in all that time. The walls and ceiling were the same white Anaglypta, stained yellow by decades of cigarette smoke, and the white gloss woodwork was still chipped badly. The noise that filled the corridor was different, though: the almost deafening throb of rock music bouncing off the walls. Rounding the corner and entering the big hall, I could see that the clientele was also different – very different. Instead of elderly couples waltzing sedately to the sound of an accordion band, the floor was crowded by noisy young folk gyrating to Bowie belting out Let’s Dance. The Friday Night Disco at the Legion was in full swing.
Leaving me to gawk at this unexpected but welcome scene, the Wee Hippy went off to the bar to get the pints in. Half-an-hour earlier in the pub down the road, I had been reluctant at first to go to the Legion when the Wee Hippy suggested it.
“Do they still play God Save the Queen at the end o’ the night?” I had asked, frowning. “And expect folk tae stand up when it’s played?”
“Aye, they still play it,” the Wee Hippy replied. “But they only dae that instead o’ them goin’ aboot shoutin’ ‘Time, gentlemen, please’. And by that time awbody’s too pished tae be standin’ fur the Queen or any other cunt.
“Anyways,” he had continued, “the place’ll be hoachin’ wi’ fanny.” That didn’t really persuade me. “And it has a late licence till one o’clock.” That did.
So there I was, standing just inside the hall, enjoying the music, watching the dancers and waiting for the Wee Hippy to return, when I noticed a figure cutting through the dance floor and making a beeline for me. The figure was that of a skinny guy. He was wearing a suit, shirt and tie, all matching, all a pale grey colour. And his jacket had tulip lapels.
“Christ, he’s dressed for a Seventies disco,” I remarked to myself. “More than ten years out of date. Aye, only in the Ferry!”
“Dan McKay! Danny Boy!” the guy shouted as he came closer. “Huvnae seen you fur years! How the fuck are ye daein’, ma man!”
Next thing, he had wrapped his arms around me, as if he was greeting a long-lost friend or relative.
I didn’t recognise him at first. The hair long and blond and hanging limp. The face drawn, its pallor matching the colour of his disco gear. The eyes a faded blue and dull; those of a heavy drinker. He was probably about the same age as me, but he looked much older; he looked like he had lived a harder life.
He was at least half a foot taller than me, which meant that his mouth was not only level with my eyes, but also within an inch of them as a result of the bear hug he was giving me. And it was when he opened his mouth and showed his teeth that I knew who he was. Well, not his teeth exactly, but the big gap where some of his front teeth used to be.
“Davy Brown!” I exclaimed. “Broonie!”
The last time I had been so up close and personal with Broonie was more than twenty years ago. Vivid images of that encounter suddenly returned to me.
I’m fourteen, wee and skinny, and in my second year at St Mary’s in Bathgate. I’m doing my after-school paper round, delivering the Edinburgh Evening News to folk in and around my street. I’m almost at the end of the round, with only a few doors to go before my own house. I’ve just posted the paper through the Dodgsons’ letter-box and I’m walking back down their front path. But there are three laddies waiting for me at the open gate. They all go to the Proddie school in the Ferry. The two older and bigger ones are my nemeses. They’ve trapped me like this twice before.
I was only twelve the first time the bullies caught me. One Saturday, I had gone on my own to the matinee at the Regal. I was coming down the marble steps, leaving to go home, when they pounced on me and dragged me outside.
“Where d’ye think you’re gawn, ya wee Pape bastard?” one of them asked.
“I’ll tell ye where,” laughed the other. “Aff the end o’ the harbour. That’s what we dae wi’ Papes in the Ferry.”
They made to haul me down to the harbour, but I managed to squirm away from them. Then I flew up the steps to Brewery Close and ran like a hare all the way up the Back Braes, never stopping till I got home.
The second time was about a year later. I was in the woods up near my house when they ambushed me. They threatened to tie “the wee Pape bastard” to a tree and leave me there. But big Jock Clyde, my friend, turned up on his racer and the bullies melted away, like the cowards they were.
Now here they are again, blocking my way. But this time one of them has brought along his wee brother, Broonie, who is a year younger than me. The pair of them are pushing Broonie to the front, egging him on.
“Tell the Fenian cunt,” they’re saying. “Aye, tell him.”
Broonie seems reluctant at first, but finally he squares up to me and declares, “This paper roond should be mine by rights. That fat poof Robertson doon at the paper shoap shouldnae be handin’ oot joabs tae Papes like you.”
Not saying anything, I wait to see what happens next. Broonie’s wee speech seems to have emboldened him. He steps closer, fists balled, ready to fight. Then he makes a fatal error. Afraid that I might lash out first, he pins my arms to my side in a bear hug. I’m no fighter, but I’m a learner. Day in, day out at Bathgate, there are fights in the playground. Big guys, tough guys, hard guys fighting. I watch and I learn. I learn the art of street fighting. But most of all I learn the art of head-butting; its power, its devastating results. It’s time to employ that learning. Just as I have observed, I pull my head back as far as I can and then release it like a spring, planting it with a loud smack on Broonie’s mouth. I feel his front teeth giving. I see a gaping hole and blood spurting from it. Broonie automatically releases me from his hold. His scream follows. But by that time I’ve slipped away from my persecutors and I’m halfway home, running like the wind, the canvas bag over my shoulder containing the few remaining newspapers flapping behind me.
So twenty years later Broonie had me in a bear hug again. But, mystifyingly, it was a friendly hug on that occasion. While I was still struggling to find the right words to say to him, Broonie let go of me and stepped back. That was when I saw, or rather stared at, the stump where his right hand should have been.
Broonie recognised the stare. “Och, that,” he laughed, waving the stump in front of me, “that wis jist a wee accident at the Bond years ago.”
Before I had the chance to say I was sorry about the accident, I was suddenly gripped in another bear hug. And not by a friendly hugger like Broonie. My assailant was also a tall, skinny guy; unkempt, unshaven and clearly very drunk.
“I dinnae ken who the fuck ye are, pal,” he growled into my face, “but ye cannae jist walk in here withoot bein’ signed in by a member. Too many cunts daein’ that. So c’moan, oot ye go.”
It was fast occurring to me that the guy’s front teeth were likely to meet the same fate as Broonie’s when the Wee Hippy returned, holding a pint of lager in each hand.
“Get tae fuck, Chicky!” the Wee Hippy shouted at him. “He’s wi’ me. And it’s nane o’ your business whae comes in here anyways. You’re no’ even oan the fuckin’ Committee.”
Chicky gave me one last growl, released me from his grip and moved off. Broonie had also moved off by then. I could make out the back of his grey suit as he returned across the dance floor.
“Here,” the Wee Hippy said, offering me one of the pints. Bewildered and speechless, I took the pint from him and almost downed it in a oner. I really needed that drink.