~ Inidran ~
He steps out into the Saturday morning sunshine, his wee face determined. He is on a mission. Clutched in his right hand is a pile of coins his Dad has just given him; pennies and ha’pennies mostly, some coated in Verdigris and so bearing the stigma of Forth Bridge money, but in amongst the coppers are a couple of thruppenny bits and a single shiny sixpence.
“Twenty Woodbine for Derry, please,” he says to himself, rehearsing.
Then off he races along Rosebery Avenue, round Lawson Crescent, down Queen Margaret Drive and across Station Road to the lane that leads to the Back Braes. There’s a house on the lane that always fascinates him. The glass panel above its front door shouts out the house’s name in big capital letters: INIDRAN. But he has been inside that house with his Dad, collecting bets from the old man who lives there, and he knows that if you look up at the glass panel from the gloom of the hallway it reads NARDINI. Which is the name of the old man: Mr Nardini, who owns the chip shop and café on the High Street.
He always thinks that’s very clever. But he’s too distracted by the house name as he runs past that he misses his footing on the rocky ground and pitches forward, automatically sticking out his hands to break his fall and thereby letting go of all the coins. Apart from scraped palms, he’s unhurt. He picks himself up and sets about looking for the coins. They’re scattered over a wide area. Although he manages to retrieve most of them, he begins to blub when he can’t find one of the thruppenny bits or the precious sixpence. He knows how important the cigarettes are. His Dad will make them last as long as he can. He’ll keep the dowts in his baccy tin, and later in the week when he’s hard up he’ll collect the tobacco from the dowts and make very thin roll-ups – Saughton Specials, his Dad calls them.
He’s panicking now and can hardly see through his tears. But suddenly he has a plan. Wiping the tears away and clutching the remaining coins even tighter than before, he continues on his journey down the Back Braes to the High Street and the newsagents that’s run by two nice women. One of the women comes to the counter to serve him.
“Twenty Woodbine for Derry, please,” he says to her.
She smiles at him, selects a packet from the shelf behind her and places it on the counter. He holds out his palm. She takes the money from him and begins to count it. The coins are hot.
“I dropped some of it comin’ doon the road.” He blurts it out, sniffling. “Could you put what’s missin’ in Derry’s book?”
She smiles at him again. She can see that he’s upset.
“Sure,” she nods, but she doesn’t go near the book after he’s gone.
“Twenty Woodbine for Derry, please,” he says to himself, rehearsing.
Then off he races along Rosebery Avenue, round Lawson Crescent, down Queen Margaret Drive and across Station Road to the lane that leads to the Back Braes. There’s a house on the lane that always fascinates him. The glass panel above its front door shouts out the house’s name in big capital letters: INIDRAN. But he has been inside that house with his Dad, collecting bets from the old man who lives there, and he knows that if you look up at the glass panel from the gloom of the hallway it reads NARDINI. Which is the name of the old man: Mr Nardini, who owns the chip shop and café on the High Street.
He always thinks that’s very clever. But he’s too distracted by the house name as he runs past that he misses his footing on the rocky ground and pitches forward, automatically sticking out his hands to break his fall and thereby letting go of all the coins. Apart from scraped palms, he’s unhurt. He picks himself up and sets about looking for the coins. They’re scattered over a wide area. Although he manages to retrieve most of them, he begins to blub when he can’t find one of the thruppenny bits or the precious sixpence. He knows how important the cigarettes are. His Dad will make them last as long as he can. He’ll keep the dowts in his baccy tin, and later in the week when he’s hard up he’ll collect the tobacco from the dowts and make very thin roll-ups – Saughton Specials, his Dad calls them.
He’s panicking now and can hardly see through his tears. But suddenly he has a plan. Wiping the tears away and clutching the remaining coins even tighter than before, he continues on his journey down the Back Braes to the High Street and the newsagents that’s run by two nice women. One of the women comes to the counter to serve him.
“Twenty Woodbine for Derry, please,” he says to her.
She smiles at him, selects a packet from the shelf behind her and places it on the counter. He holds out his palm. She takes the money from him and begins to count it. The coins are hot.
“I dropped some of it comin’ doon the road.” He blurts it out, sniffling. “Could you put what’s missin’ in Derry’s book?”
She smiles at him again. She can see that he’s upset.
“Sure,” she nods, but she doesn’t go near the book after he’s gone.