~ Rules of Engagement ~
I had just finished my tea when Jock Clyde turned up at the house asking for me.
“Ah need your help, Dan,” he said as soon as I went outside to see him. “Ah’ve challenged that wee scunner Joey Bryant tae a fight. And Ah’d like you tae act as ma second – ken, like in the films when there’s a duel – tae haud ma jaiket, ensure fair play, ’hings like that.”
“Aye, awright,” I replied.
I couldn’t refuse a friend, especially not one who had come to my rescue only a week before when a bunch of bullies from the Proddie school ambushed me in the woods and threatened to tie “the wee Pape bastard” to a tree and leave me there. And especially not a friend whom I looked up to – literally, as well as figuratively. You see, Jock was about a foot taller than me and a year older. He fancied my big sister, Marie, which was why he hung about our house and why, I suppose, we became friends. He was a gangly, good-looking, confident sort of guy, who was liked by everyone in the house – everyone, that is, except Marie.
“So, where’s the fight gonnae be?” I asked.
“Burgess Park. Six o’clock. Are you comin’?”
As we walked in the direction of the park, Jock told me what had happened.
“It wis on the bus comin’ hame fae Bo’ness. Joey Bryant said somethin’ aboot Marie. An insult. Ah couldnae let him get away wi’ that. It’s a matter o’ honour.”
Jock, Joey and Marie all went to the secondary school in Bo’ness. Because I was a bit brainier, having passed the qualie, I went to the Academy in Bathgate instead. So I hadn’t been a witness to the “insult”. I was going to explain to Jock that Marie probably didn’t hear it either, and wouldn’t have cared even if she did, but I decided not to.
About halfway there, Jock reached into the side-pocket of his jerkin and produced a small skean dhu, which he had sneaked out of his house. He stooped down and slid the knife, still in its sheath, into his right sock.
“Just in case Joey gets up tae any tricks,” he said. “You ken what he’s like.”
I knew Joey well from our time at primary school. He was loud, cheeky and always getting into trouble. But I liked him and he had never caused me any harm. I wondered what he had said about Marie that got Jock so riled.
When we reached the edge of the park, I could see that Jock was walking more stiffly and that his face had gone pale. There were two or three impromptu football games going on, so the place was fairly busy. While we stood there waiting for Joey and his second to appear, I could swear Jock was shaking.
After about ten minutes, we spotted Joey entering the park from the opposite end and making his way towards us. He was alone, which I quite admired.
“You oan yer ain?” Jock asked when Joey came within hearing distance.
Joey shrugged his shoulders and spat on the grass. “C’moan then,” he said. “Ah’ve goat ‘hings tae dae. Let’s get oan wi’ it.”
“No’ here,” Jock stated. “Too many people. Ower there.”
Joey shrugged again.
Led by Jock, the three of us left the park, crossed the road and climbed over the wire fence that enclosed the narrow field running alongside the back of the Admiralty houses. When he was well into the field, Jock stopped and said, “Here.”
“Dan’ll haud both oor jaikets,” he added, “an’ see that everythin’s fair.”
In moments, two almost identical black jerkins were slung over my extended arm. I felt like the umpire at a cricket match.
“Before we start, we need tae set doon the rules o’ the fight,” declared Jock. “The first rule is nae knives.”
I don’t know why Jock had second thoughts about the skean dhu, but he proceeded to pull it from his sock and hand it to me. Then he waited for Joey to do the same. Joey shrugged a third time before fishing around in one of his trouser pockets and producing a tiny, rusty penknife, which he also handed to me. I thought the knife was probably so blunt you’d be lucky if you could burst a balloon with it.
Satisfied, Jock continued. “The rest o’ the rules are nae bitin’, nae kickin’ and nae pullin’ hair.”
“Aye, okay,” Joey said, shrugging once again. I reckoned that if this was a shrugging match Joey would win hands down.
The rules agreed, Jock and Joey set about it, circling each other in the long grass. Joey was about the same height as me, so Jock towered over him. Jock adopted the standard boxer’s pose, head hunched down, fists up high to protect the head and elbows close together to protect the solar plexus. Joey didn’t bother with any of that palaver; his arms hung limply at his sides, Cassius Clay-style.
The circling seemed to go on forever, with neither party throwing a punch. But suddenly Joey did what I had seen him do countless times before at football games. The perennial poacher leapt in the air and jerked his head down as if to knock a high ball into the goalmouth. Only this time there was no ball to connect with. Just Jock’s nose, which Joey’s head hit with a sickening smack.
“Fuck!” Jock screamed, falling to his knees and cupping his hands over his nose in an attempt to stem the flow of blood.
Joey looked at me and winked.
“It wisnae against the rules,” he said.
I handed back his jerkin and his rusty penknife. Then he sauntered off with the jerkin slung over his shoulder.
“Ah need your help, Dan,” he said as soon as I went outside to see him. “Ah’ve challenged that wee scunner Joey Bryant tae a fight. And Ah’d like you tae act as ma second – ken, like in the films when there’s a duel – tae haud ma jaiket, ensure fair play, ’hings like that.”
“Aye, awright,” I replied.
I couldn’t refuse a friend, especially not one who had come to my rescue only a week before when a bunch of bullies from the Proddie school ambushed me in the woods and threatened to tie “the wee Pape bastard” to a tree and leave me there. And especially not a friend whom I looked up to – literally, as well as figuratively. You see, Jock was about a foot taller than me and a year older. He fancied my big sister, Marie, which was why he hung about our house and why, I suppose, we became friends. He was a gangly, good-looking, confident sort of guy, who was liked by everyone in the house – everyone, that is, except Marie.
“So, where’s the fight gonnae be?” I asked.
“Burgess Park. Six o’clock. Are you comin’?”
As we walked in the direction of the park, Jock told me what had happened.
“It wis on the bus comin’ hame fae Bo’ness. Joey Bryant said somethin’ aboot Marie. An insult. Ah couldnae let him get away wi’ that. It’s a matter o’ honour.”
Jock, Joey and Marie all went to the secondary school in Bo’ness. Because I was a bit brainier, having passed the qualie, I went to the Academy in Bathgate instead. So I hadn’t been a witness to the “insult”. I was going to explain to Jock that Marie probably didn’t hear it either, and wouldn’t have cared even if she did, but I decided not to.
About halfway there, Jock reached into the side-pocket of his jerkin and produced a small skean dhu, which he had sneaked out of his house. He stooped down and slid the knife, still in its sheath, into his right sock.
“Just in case Joey gets up tae any tricks,” he said. “You ken what he’s like.”
I knew Joey well from our time at primary school. He was loud, cheeky and always getting into trouble. But I liked him and he had never caused me any harm. I wondered what he had said about Marie that got Jock so riled.
When we reached the edge of the park, I could see that Jock was walking more stiffly and that his face had gone pale. There were two or three impromptu football games going on, so the place was fairly busy. While we stood there waiting for Joey and his second to appear, I could swear Jock was shaking.
After about ten minutes, we spotted Joey entering the park from the opposite end and making his way towards us. He was alone, which I quite admired.
“You oan yer ain?” Jock asked when Joey came within hearing distance.
Joey shrugged his shoulders and spat on the grass. “C’moan then,” he said. “Ah’ve goat ‘hings tae dae. Let’s get oan wi’ it.”
“No’ here,” Jock stated. “Too many people. Ower there.”
Joey shrugged again.
Led by Jock, the three of us left the park, crossed the road and climbed over the wire fence that enclosed the narrow field running alongside the back of the Admiralty houses. When he was well into the field, Jock stopped and said, “Here.”
“Dan’ll haud both oor jaikets,” he added, “an’ see that everythin’s fair.”
In moments, two almost identical black jerkins were slung over my extended arm. I felt like the umpire at a cricket match.
“Before we start, we need tae set doon the rules o’ the fight,” declared Jock. “The first rule is nae knives.”
I don’t know why Jock had second thoughts about the skean dhu, but he proceeded to pull it from his sock and hand it to me. Then he waited for Joey to do the same. Joey shrugged a third time before fishing around in one of his trouser pockets and producing a tiny, rusty penknife, which he also handed to me. I thought the knife was probably so blunt you’d be lucky if you could burst a balloon with it.
Satisfied, Jock continued. “The rest o’ the rules are nae bitin’, nae kickin’ and nae pullin’ hair.”
“Aye, okay,” Joey said, shrugging once again. I reckoned that if this was a shrugging match Joey would win hands down.
The rules agreed, Jock and Joey set about it, circling each other in the long grass. Joey was about the same height as me, so Jock towered over him. Jock adopted the standard boxer’s pose, head hunched down, fists up high to protect the head and elbows close together to protect the solar plexus. Joey didn’t bother with any of that palaver; his arms hung limply at his sides, Cassius Clay-style.
The circling seemed to go on forever, with neither party throwing a punch. But suddenly Joey did what I had seen him do countless times before at football games. The perennial poacher leapt in the air and jerked his head down as if to knock a high ball into the goalmouth. Only this time there was no ball to connect with. Just Jock’s nose, which Joey’s head hit with a sickening smack.
“Fuck!” Jock screamed, falling to his knees and cupping his hands over his nose in an attempt to stem the flow of blood.
Joey looked at me and winked.
“It wisnae against the rules,” he said.
I handed back his jerkin and his rusty penknife. Then he sauntered off with the jerkin slung over his shoulder.