The Burn

Street-sweeper

The sky was at the blueyblack pre-heavygrey stage of the morning and the gaffer was somewhere around. This is one bastard that was always around; he was always hiding. But he was somewhere close right now and Peter could sense his presence and he paused. It wasnt a footstep but he turned to see over his shoulder anyway, walked a few more paces then quickly sidled into a shop doorway, holding the brush vertical, making sure the top of his book wasnt showing out his pocket. This was no longer fun. At one time in his life it mightve been but no now, fuck, it was just bloody silly. And it wisni funny. It just wisni fucking funny at all. These things were beginning to happen to him more and more and he was still having to cope. What else was there. In this life you get presented with your choices and that’s that, if you canni choose the right ones you choose the wrong ones and you get fucked some of the time; most of the time some people would say. He closed his eyes, rubbed at his brow, smoothing the hair of his eyebrows. What was he to do now, he couldni make it back to the place he was supposed to be at, no without being spotted. Aw god. But it gave him a nice sense of liberty as well, it was an elation, quite fucking heady. Although he would have to move, he would — how long can you stay in a doorway! Hey, there was a big cat watching him, it was crouched in beside a motor-car wheel. Ha, christ. Peter chuckled. He was seen by a cat your honour. There he was in a doorway, having skived off because he had heard about a forced entry to a newsagent shop and thought there mightve been some goods lying available to pilfer.

Objection!

Overruled.

Ah but he was sick of getting watched. He was. He was fucking sick of it. The council have a store of detectives. They get sent out spying on the employees, the workers lad the workers, they get sent out spying on them. Surely not. The witness has already shown this clearly to be the case your Honour. Has he indeed. Aye, fuck, he has, on fucking numerous occasions, that’s how come he got the boys out on strike last March.

Ah.

Naw but he’s fucking sick of it, he really is. High time he was an adult. Here he is forty-seven years of age and he’s a boy, a wee lad — in fact, he is all set to start wearing short trousers and ankle-socks and a pair of fast-running sandshoes (plimsolls for the non-Scottish reader). What was he to do but that is the problem, that is the thing you get faced with all the bloody time, wasnt it just bloody enervating. But you’ve got your brush you’ve got your brush and he stepped out and was moving, dragging his feet on fast, dragging because his left leg was a nuisance, due to a fucking disability that made him limp — well it didni make him limp, he decided to limp, it was his decision, he could have found some new manner of leg-motoring which would have allowed him not to limp, by some sort of circumlocutory means he could have performed a three-way shuffle to offset or otherwise bypass the limp and thus be of normal perambulatory gait. This was these fucking books he read. Peter was a fucking avid reader and he had got stuck in the early Victorian era, even earlier, bastards like Goldsmith for some reason, that’s what he read. Charles fucking Lamb, that’s who he read; all these tory essayists of the pre-chartist days, that other bastard that didni like Keats. Why did he read such shite. Who knows, they fucking wreaked havoc with the syntax, never mind the fucking so-called sinecure of a job, the street cleaning. Order Order. Sorry Mister Speaker. But for christ sake, for christ sake.

Yet you had to laugh at his spirit I mean god almighty he was a spirited chappie, he was, he really and truly was. But he had to go fast. There was danger ahead. No time for quiet grins. Alright he was good, he was still doing the business at forty-seven, but no self-congratulatory posturing if you please, even though he might still be doing it, even though he was still going strong at the extraordinarily advanced age of thrice fifteen-and-two-thirds your honour, in the face of extraordinarily calamitous potentialities to wit said so-called sinecure. Mister Speaker Mister Speaker, this side of the House would request that you advise us as to the appertaining set of circumstances of the aforementioned place and primary purpose of said chappie’s sinecure so-called. Uproar. A Springburn street. Put on the Member for Glasgow North. The Member for Glasgow North has fuckt off for a glass of claret. Well return him post-haste.

But the goodwife. Has the goodwife a word to say. Yes, indeed. The goodwife would bat him one on the gub. She thought all this was dead and buried. She thought the sinecure was not deserving of the ‘so-called’ prefixed reference one iota, i.e. sinecure qua sinecure in the good lady’s opinion.

She wouldni think it was possible but, it’s true, she thought it was all over as far as the problematics were concerned. Pussycats pussycats, I tought I saw. But there you are, getting to the doddering stage, being spotted by a crouching cat, so much for his ability to cope, to withstand the helter skelter, the pell mell, the guys in the darkblue and the bulky shoulders. Bejasus he was getting fucking drunk on the possibility of freedom, a genuine liberty, one that would be his prior to deceasement. What he fancied was a wee periscope from the coffin, so he could just lie there watching the occasional passersby, the occasional birdie or fieldmouse:

he was into another doorway and standing with his back pressed into the wall, eyes shut tight, but lips parted, getting breath, listening with the utmost concentration. Nothing. Nothing o christ why was he an atheist this of all times he felt like screaming a howsyrfather yr paternoster a quick hail mary yr king billy for christ sake what was it was it a fucking footfall he felt like bellowing, bellowing the fucking place down, it would show them it would show them it would display it, it would display how he was and how he could bellow his laughter in the face of the fucking hidebound universe of them, fucking moribund bastirts — was it the gaffer? He pulled the brush in, held it like an upright musket of the old imperialist guard, India or Africa yr Lordship.

Carol thought it was all dead and buried. She did, she truly truly did. His eyes were shut and his lips now closed, the nostrils serving the air channels or pipes, listening with the utmost concatenation of the earular orifices. Not to scream. Not to make a sound. Another minute and he would go, he would move, move off, into the greying dawn.

He was safe now for another few minutes. It was over, a respite o lord how brief is this tiny candle flicker. Peasie Peasie Peasie. For this was his nickname, the handle awarded him by the mates, the companeros, the compatriots, the comrades: Peasie.

It didni even matter the profit but this was the fucking thing! Maybe he got there and the newsagent turned out to be a grocer for god sake how many cartons of biscuits can you plank out in some backcourt! Fucking radio rental yr Lordship. Mind you the profit was of nay account, nane at all. Neither the benefits thereon. If there were benefits he didni ken what they were. He shook his head. Aright, aright me boy, me lad. There was a poor fucker lying on the grun ahead. There was. Peter approached cautiously. It was a bad sign. It was. If the security forces martialled, and they would, then they would be onto him in a matter of hours, a couple of hours, maybe even one; he would need a tale to tell. Diarrhoea. Diarrhoea, that saviour of the working classes. He had to go to the loo and spend some several minutes, maybe thirty, unable to leave in case the belly ructured yet again. But the body was a bad sign. Poor bastard.

Peter knelt by the guy. He was still alive, his forehead warm and the tick at the temple, a faint pulsing. But should he drag him into a close-mouth No, of course not, plus best to leave him or else

but the guy was on his back and that was not good. Peter laid down his brush and did the life-saving twist, he placed the man’s right arm over his left side, then raised and placed his right leg also over his left side, then gently pulled the left leg out a little, again gently, shifting the guy’s head, onto the side: and now the guy would breathe properly without the risk of choking on his tongyou. And he would have to leave it at that. It wisni cold so he wouldni die of frostbite. Leave it. You’ll be alright son, he whispered and for some reason felt like kissing him on the forehead, a gesture of universal love for the suffering. We can endure, we can endure. Maybe it was a returning prophet to earth, and this was the way he had landed, on the crown of his skull and done a flaky. He laid his hand on the guy’s shoulder. Ah you’ll be right as rain, he said, and he got up to go. He would be though, he would be fine, you could tell, you could tell just by looking; and Peter was well-versed in that. Yet fuck sake if he hadni of known how to properly move the guy’s body then he might have died, he couldve choked to death. My god but life is so fragile; truly, it is.

And he was seen. The pair of eyes watching. The gaffer was across the street. The game’s a bogie. He looked to be smiling. He hated Peter so that would be the case quite clearly.

Come ower here!

Peter had walked a couple paces by then and he stopped, he looked across the road. Guiseppe Robertson was the gaffer’s name. Part of his hatred for Peter was straightforward, contained in the relative weak notion of ‘age’; the pair of them were of similar years and months down even to weeks perforce days and hours — all of that sort of shite before you get to the politics. Fucking bastirt. Peter stared back at him. Yeh man hey, Robertson was grinning, he was fucking grinning. Ace in the hole and three of them showing. Well well well.

Come ower here! he shouted again.

He wasnt kidding. Yeh. Peter licked his lips. He glanced sideways, the body there and still prone; Robertson seemed not to have noticed it yet. He glanced back at him and discovered his feet moving, dragging him across the road. Who was moving his fucking feet. He wasnt, it had to be someone in the prime position.

The gaffer was staring at him.

I’m sorry, said Peter.

It doesni matter about fucking sorry man you shouldni have left the job.

I had to go a place.

You had to go a place. . mmhh; is that what you want on record?

Aye.

The gaffer grinned: You’ve been fun out and that’s that.

As long as you put it on record.

Ah Peter Peter, so that’s you at last, fucking out the door. It’s taken a while, but we knew we’d get ye.

You did.

We did, aye, true, true true true, aye, we knew you’d err. So, you better collect the tab frae the office this afternoon.

Peter gazed at him, he smiled. Collect my tab?

Yes, you’re finished, all fucking washed up, a jellyfish on the beach, you’re done, you’re in the process of evaporating. The gaffer chuckled. Your services, for what they’re worth, are no longer in demand by the fathers of the city.

That’s excellent news. I can retire and grow exotic plants out my window boxes.

You can do whatever the fuck you like son.

Ah, the son, I see. But Guiseppe you’re forgetting, as a free man, an ordinary civilian, I can kick fuck out you and it’ll no be a dismissable offence against company property.

Jovial, very jovial. And obviously if that’s your wish then I’m the man, I’m game, know what I mean, game, anywhere you like Peter it’s nomination time.

The two of them stared at each other. Here we have a straightforward hierarchy. Joe Robertson the gaffer and Peter the sweeper.

Fuck you and your services, muttered Peter and thereby lost the war. This was the job gone. Or was it, maybe it was just a battle: Look, said Peter, I’ve no even been the place yet I was just bloody going, I’ve no even got there.

You were just bloody going!

Aye.

You’ve been off the job an hour.

An hour? Who fucking telt ye that?

Never you mind.

There’s a guy lying ower there man he’s out the game.

So what?

I just bloody saved his life!

Robertson grinned and shook his head: Is that a fact!

That means I’ve just to leave him there?

Your job’s taking care of the streets, he’s on the fucking pavement.

Mmhh, I see.

It was on the streets, past tense.

Aw for fuck sake man look I’m sorry! And that was as far as he was going with this charade, no more, no more.

It doesni fucking matter about sorry, it’s too late.

It’ll no happen again yr honour. . Peter attempted a smile, a moment later he watched the gaffer leave, his bowly swagger, taking a smoke from his pocket and lighting it as he went. Death. The latest legislation. Death. Death death death. Death. Capital d e a

He continued to watch the gaffer until he turned the corner of Moir Street.

Well there were other kinds of work. They were needing sellers of a variety of stuff at primary-school gates. That was a wheeze. Why didnt he get in on that. My god, it was the coming thing. Then with a bit of luck he could branch out on his own and from there who knows, the whole of the world was available. Peter cracked himself on the back of the skull with such venomous force Aouch that he nearly knocked it off Aouch he staggered a pace, dropped his brush and clutched his head. O for fuck sake christ almighty but it was sore. He recovered, stopped to retrieve the brush.

It was bloody sore but christ that was stupid, bloody stupid thing to do, fucking eedjit — next thing he would be cutting bits out his body with a sharp pointed knife, self-mutiliation, that other saviour of the working classes. O christ but the head was still nipping! My god, different if it knocked some sense into the brains but did it did it fuck.

Who had shopped him? Somebody must have. Guiseppe wouldni have been so cocky otherwise. One of the team had sold him out for a pocket of shekels; that’s the fucking system boy no more street-sweeping for you. Yes boy hey, he could do anything he liked. Peter smiled and shook his head. He glanced upwards at the heavy grey clouds. He felt like putting on a shirt and tie and the good suit, and get Carol, and off they would go to a nightclub, out wining and dining the morning away. He liked nightshift. Nightshift! It was a beautiful experience. My god Robertson I’d love to fucking do you in boy that’s what I would fucking like. But he had no money and he was eighteen years short of the pension. And he was not to lose control. That was all he needed. The whole of life was out to get you. There’s a sentence. But it’s true, true, the whole of life. Who had shopped him but for fuck sake what dirty bastirt had done the dirty, stuck the evil eye on him, told fucking Robertson the likely route. Och, dear. I had a dream, I had a dream, and in this dream a man was free and could walk tall, he could walk tall, discard the brush and hold up the head, straightened shoulders and self-respect:

the guy was still lying there.

Ohhh. A whisky would be nice, a wee dram. Peter carried a hipflask on occasion but not tonight, he didnt have it tonight. Ohhh. He paused, he stared over the road, seeing the guy in that selfsame position. Perhaps he was dead, perhaps he had died during the tiff with the gaffer. Poor bastard, what was his story, we’ve all got them, we’ve all got them.

Morning has bro-ken.