Hughie

 Hughie 

Glasgow 1972 

Peter Hughes looked out the window and sighed at the cold mist shrouding Glasgow. ‘Where am I getting my uncle Hughie, maw?’ His mother handed him a carrier bag filled with things to take up to his father in the hospital. ‘He said he’ll get ye in the College Bar, the wan opposite High Street Station.’ Peter shrugged, ‘dis he need tae bevvy before visiting folk in the hospital?’ She raised her eyebrows as if to say ‘he needs tae bevvy every day- regardless.’  He headed for the front door as his mother said her farewells. ’Tell yer da I’ll be up the morra.’ Peter nodded and set off to find his uncle Hughie. 

Since he was a boy, Peter had found his uncle Hughie to be both funny and a bit scary. The man had no filters at all and swore like a trooper in any company. His voice was deep and gravelly, the effect of 40 years of smoking and drinking. He drank like a fish and was agitated each day until he took that first drink. Now Peter was an adult, he had spent more time in Hughie’s company at family events and at the football. He recalled a family Christening when Hughie, a few drinks in before it had even started, had said to the Priest, ‘freeze the baws aff a brass monkey in here, father, ye no get they radiators oan?’ The priest, who knew him well, smiled, ‘ah now Hugh, we offer our sufferings up to God.’ Hughie had shrugged, ‘need tae crack the ice in yon font afore ye dunk the wean in or ye’ll knock him oot.’ The priest had laughed quietly and continued the service. 

Peter pushed open the door of the College Bar and was met by a fog of cigarette smoke. The small bar was busy and he spotted his uncle playing dominoes at a table in the corner. He walked towards him, ‘alright uncle Hughie, visiting is at two.’ His red-faced uncle regarded him, ‘need tae finish this game. Sit oan yer arse the noo.’ Peter sat by his uncle and watched the dominoes being placed until the game was over. ‘That’s three each, first tae five wins,‘ his uncle said to no one in particular. One of the men at the table left and returned with four whiskies. ‘A whisky a game, son,’ he said to Peter. ‘Will we deal ye in?’ 

As Hughie collected the dominoes for the next game, an old man in a flat cap, who wore a pair of NHS black glasses with one leg held on with white tape, laughed, ‘here, Hughie, tell the boy aboot yer anti-biotics.’ Peter’s uncle shrugged, ‘you tell him, I’m busy here.’ The old man laid a hand on Peter’s arm and began. ‘Ye know he had that ear infection last week. Fuckin agony he telt me. Anyhoos, he headed doon tae see Doctor Black, first time he’s seen a doctor in years. The big guy geez him the wance o’er and says, ’ye huv a bad infection. Ye need antibiotics. He scribbles out the prescription and the bold Hughie heads aff tae the chemist.’ Peter listened as the man went on, wondering where this was going, ‘comes intae the pub with the capsules and sits doon. We’re aw watching as he takes wan oot the bottle. Know whit he did wi it?’ Before Peter could respond, the man answered his own question, ‘he unscrewed the capsule and poured the powder intae his fuckin ear!’ The company broke into wild laughter as Peter sat there stunned that his uncle didn’t know how to take medicine properly. As he looked around the laughing faces, most missing their teeth, he felt as if he had stepped off the High Street into an alternative reality. 

His uncle laughed with all the rest, ‘Am fuktifano wit tae dae wi pills. Never go near they quacks.’ He dealt the dominoes out as the laughter continued, and Peter found that he had seven of them sitting in front of him. ‘Two a side,’ his uncle grinned, ‘we lose we buy they two ugly mugs a goldie, they lose they buy us wan.’  ‘We need tae get tae the hospital soon, Hughie,’ Peter implored but to no avail as the dominoes were placed and the banter began. ‘Whose winning this game the morra?’ one of the old men asked. Hughie was in like a shot, ‘if Jinky is fit Selik will murder them. Yon Grieg is as slow as a week in the jail.’ Another man, standing behind Hughie chipped in, ‘Colin Stein will dae the business. Guy’s oan fire this year.’ Hughie was having none of it, ‘that daft cunt couldnae hit a coo’s arse wi a banjo. Dixie, Jinky and Harry Hood will run Rangers ragged the morra.’  

Peter listened as the rough chat continued. Surprisingly, the older men seemed devoid of any real aggression as they argued the merits of players and formations. The time slipped past and he and his uncle were on a winning streak at dominoes which he hoped Celtic could match in the football. Seven games in a row were won and seven glasses of whisky consumed. The afternoon visit to see his father in the hospital slipped back to being an evening visit. At last, he talked his uncle into leaving the pub and they both headed up the High Street looking the worse for wear. 

Ward 16 was full of visitors and chatter as they entered. Hughie wandered up to the end of the Ward where his brother lay, his leg suspended in a complex looking pulley system after a bad break. ‘Awright, Joe, ye look like yer trying tae put up a fuckin tent there.’ Joe Hughes smiled, ‘how ye doing, Hughie. Still daen yer bit for the Scotch whisky industry, I see.’  Hughie grinned and sat unsteadily on a plastic chair by the side of the bed. ‘Aye, ye can blame yer boy for that. I wanted tae come up in the efternoon but he was on a roll at the old dominoes.’ Joe Hughes glanced at his son, whose face told a different story. Before he could speak, Hughie stood and spoke to a passing nurse, ‘here doll, where’s the lavvy. Im needin’ a Lillian Gish.’  She looked at him distastefully, ‘the visitors toilet is landing outside the ward.  

As Hughie wandered off, Peter sat and spoke quietly to his father. ‘Uncle Hughie’s had a skin full but I’ll make sure he gets up the road ok.’ Joe Hughes nodded, ‘try and keep him sober at the match the morra, you know how he gets when we play that mob.’ Peter nodded, recalling his uncle almost being arrested at Ibrox back in the summer after Celtic had beaten Rangers. ‘I’ll get him early and try and keep him oot of the pub.’ Before they could continue, raucous laughter from the end of the ward told them Hughie was returning from the toilet.  

He staggered up to the bed, ‘I see big Geezer fae Govan is in the end bed up there.’ He pointed towards the opposite end of the ward. ‘Who’s Geezer?’ Peter asked. His uncle looked at him with an unsteady gaze, ‘Geezer, the big currant bun wi mer chins than the Hong Kong phone book.’ Peter laughed at his uncle’s turn of phrase, still none the wiser. Joe Hughes cut in, ‘listen Hughie, I don’t want you jailed the morra so screw the nut wi the Don Revie.’ Hughie yawned, ‘aye, need tae stay sober tae see the Celts smash that mob. After the gem though, I’m for Blarney Stone, meeting a few pals for a swally.’ Peter shrugged, ‘I’ll be roon tae get ye early, big crowd the mora so we need tae get in before it gets mobbed.’ He glanced at his uncle sitting in the plastic chair and saw that he had actually fallen asleep in mid conversation. His father in the bed shook his head, ‘fucks sake.’ 

The 70,000 crowd were deathly silent as they remembered the tragedy which had occurred at the fixture a year before. Peter glanced at his uncle who stood beside him on the packed terrace of the Celtic end. His face was sad, mournful even. As the referee blew his whistle, a great roar went up from the assembled masses, he looked at Peter, ‘ye know, son, I had a good pal who died last year. Funny, funny guy.’ As the game kicked off and they focused on the pitch, Hughie seemed to snap out of his morose mood. He took a nip from a half bottle of whisky he kept in his inside pocket. ‘Come on Celtic, intae this mob!’ Peter smiled. He was some man oor Hughie.