Dutchie
A hard frost settled on Sauchiehall Street as Dutchie shivered in his
hoody. The best spots for begging a few quid were jealously guarded by those who
wouldn’t hesitate to use violence to keep them, so he was forced further down
towards the Glasgow Film Theatre. He sat on a cold, hard step and held his
paper cup in front of him, his breath visible on the cold December air. The
winter weather meant the centre of town wasn’t as busy and some nights pickings
could be slim. He glanced above the smart buildings at a clear, cold sky. A
voice made him refocus on the street. Two young men stood regarding him; one
grinned, ‘here mate, ye want twenty quid?’ Dutchie had seen and heard it all
during his two years on the streets but played along, lest they cut up rough. ‘Aye,
mate. That’d be grand.’ The punch line duly arrived, ‘well get a job then ya
lazy, junky bastard.’ As they departed laughing at their witticism, Dutchie
shook his head. ‘Pricks.’
Two hours of sitting in the cold earned him the princely sum of £9.45.
Five pounds of that had come from a kind faced woman who had simply said, ‘God
bless,’ as she dropped a fiver into his used Costa Coffee cup. Just as he was
thinking of heading towards the hostel by the Clyde, a man regarded him. ‘Hughie?
Hughie Mulholland?’ Dutchie looked up at the smartly dressed man, unconsciously
straightening out his rather worn hoody. ‘Aye, mate. Ah know you?’ He always
felt self-conscious when someone he knew in his old life recognised him. His thin
frame, lank, greasy hair and crumpled clothes spoke more eloquently than he
ever could about how far he had fallen in life. ‘Davie Beatie, we went to St
Mungo’s together?’ Dutchie stood rather awkwardly, ‘Aye, Davie! We played in
the school team? You scored that goal that goal against John Street that
started a riot.’ The man smiled, ‘Jesus, I’d forgotten about that. The school
mini bus had the windows smashed.’ Dutchie smiled a gap-toothed smile, ‘thought
we’d get lynched that day, mate!’
They regarded each other for a long moment, wondering what to say. Dutchie
spoke first. ‘So, whit ur ye doing these days, Davie?’ His former school mate regarded him, ‘I work
in the Royal Bank. Doing ok.’ He almost asked Dutchie what he was doing but
thought better of it and said instead, ‘Listen mate, I’m heading China Buffet
King for a bit of grub. Fancy a bite? Be better than the school meals at the
Mungo.’ It was a small lie, but told for a good reason. Dutchie grinned, ‘that’s
nice ay ye mate. I could dae wi a bit of scran.’ They walked back up
Sauchiehall Street together towards the cheap and cheerful eatery which boasted
you could eat your full for ten pounds. The man behind the counter eyed Dutchie
up and down as he entered but said nothing. They sat in a quiet corner, Davie
removing his overcoat. ‘What do you fancy? I’m thinking something hot as I’m
bloody freezing.’ Dutchie followed him to the counter, ‘anything hot for me.’
They sat with their food, Davie noticing that Dutchie had piled his plate high.
‘Getting your money’s worth. Good for you,’ he smiled.
As they started to eat, Davie tactfully asked Dutchie about his life since
school. He listened in silence, letting his old school mate do the talking. ‘I
started in Asda, Davie. Never much intae school as ye know. Done a bit of
warehouse work. Fork lift driving and the like. I got oan ok for a few years. I
was living wi ma burd in Dennistoun but then three year back, the landlord said
he was selling up and wanted us oot. I was getting daft wi the bevvy and the ‘Bob
Hope’ then tae. I suppose Caitlin just
had enough and I cannae blame her. I was a complete prick then. Went back tae
her maws. I lost my hoose, my burd and my joab, all in wan week. Ended up in
the hostels and that just led tae mer stupid behaviour.’ Davie Baird nodded, ‘that’s
tough, pal. You’ve had a lot to deal with.’ Dutchie replied without looking up
from his plate, ‘Aye, suppose so, but I made a lot of wrong choices tae. There’s
nae hiding fae that.’
They sat eating and talking for a couple of happy hours. They soke of
happier days at school when all things seemed possible for them. Davie recalled
the time when Dutchie had thrown an egg at a number 62 bus and it had entered a
narrow gap in the driver’s window and hit him clean in the face. Dutchie
laughed loudly, ‘fuckin Lee Harvey Oswald couldnae have got that shot better.’ Davie
laughed too, ‘then the time you set of a fire extinguisher in the hall during
Mass. Old Burnett, the Heady, was doing his nut!’ As the plates were cleared
away and they drank some warm tea, Dutchie looked at Davie, his face looking
less troubled. ‘Thanks for this, Davie. Nice tae feel human again.’ Davie
smiled, ‘It’s been good chatting over old times.
As they stepped into the frigid air of a winter’s night, Davie shook
Dutchie’s hand. ‘I meant to say, I’ll be volunteering at a Christmas lunch next
week. All are welcome. Good chat, warm food and a few laughs. You up for it?’
Dutchie shrugged, ‘I’ll ask ma P.A tae check ma diary, might find and hour tae
join ye.’ Davie laughed, ‘No need to
write the address, it’s in a place you’ve been to a good few times before.’
Dutchie looked at him, a little mystified. ‘Aye, but ye better write it doon
anyway.’ Davie handed him the paper and two twenty-pound notes. ‘Promise me you’ll
come.’ Dutchie nodded, ‘I’ll be there, pal. Trust me on that.’ They parted with
another handshake and Dutchie watched Davie turn up Rose Street and vanish from
sight. He looked at the piece of paper in his hand and then the two twenties.
He had a full belly and a few quid. Maybe tonight he’d settle for a warm bed
and nothing else.
Davie Beatie walked among the tables making sure the guests had enough to
eat and drink. The Foundation Celtic Christmas dinner was one of the highlights
of his year. Meeting Hughie Mulholland had reminded him of his east end roots
and the fact that not everyone had had the chances he had in life. He hoped Hughie would come along today. He gazed at
the faces of the men and women around him chatting animatedly to each other.
They were happy, freed from the stresses of poverty and loneliness, at least
for a few hours anyway. His old friend Dermot approached him, ‘in some ways I
hate that we have to do this in a country as rich as this one, but in another
way it’s great that we do. That they know some folk still care.’ Davie smiled, ‘I
hear you, brother. What’s that old saying of yours?’ Dermot smiled, ‘the
difference between justice and charity is that justice demands social change,
whilst charity responds to needs caused by injustice.’ Davie nodded, ‘you got
that right. You’re still a socialist at heart, eh?’ Dermot shrugged, ‘maybe, but
it’s more than that. It’s about being a decent human being.’
Outside the warm building, a figure was making his way up the towards the
stadium. Dutchie Mulholland stopped at the bronze statue of a man sitting in a
chair. It had been years since he’d been near the stadium, but it still held a
place in his memory. He gazed into the kindly face of the statue, before
touching the plinth with his hand and moving off. He’d stayed clean since he’d
met Davie Baird and was ready to try again.
The good Brother would have approved. Everyone had a shot at redemption.
Dutchie knew he had to give it another go. ‘Wan step at a time, Brother,’ he
mumbled before continuing with a grin, ‘hope the turkey is still hoat.’
The statue seemed to smile a little.
