Love Over Scotland - Alexander Hanchett Smith [150]
The taxi driver knew immediately. “That’ll be Lard O’Connor’s place, then?” he asked.
Stuart was somewhat taken aback by this, and resorted to his civil service language in reply. “That would appear to be the case,” he said. “Assuming that this Lard O’Connor to whom you refer is . . .”
“Listen, Jim,” said the taxi driver. “There’s only one Lard O’Connor, see? And that’s this Lard O’Connor. He’s your man. You owe him money, then?”
“Of course not,” said Stuart tetchily.
“There’s lots of folks do,” said the driver. “Lard’s very easy on the loans. But not so easy if you don’t pay him back like.”
“You could say the same thing for the banks,” said Stuart.
“Aye,” said the taxi driver, “but they don’t have enforcers.”
“Yes they do,” chipped in Matthew. “They call them solicitors.”
314 Grey over Riddrie
“You trying to be funny, son?” asked the taxi driver. “Because I’m no laughing.”
They travelled in silence for a while. Then the taxi driver, appearing to relent slightly on his shortness with Matthew, asked:
“So if you don’t owe Lard money, then do you mind my asking why you’re going to see him? It’s just that you don’t look like the typical boys that go to see Lard. No offence, but you’re not
. . . Know what I mean?”
“We want Lard’s help,” said Stuart, “on a private matter.”
The driver glanced in his mirror. “I hope you two can look after yoursels. That’s all I’m going to say.”
The rest of the journey was completed in silence, and they soon drew up in front of Lard’s front door. Of course they had no idea as to whether he was going to be in, and the whole trip could well have been in vain, but they saw, with relief, that there were lights on.
“He’s in,” said Stuart. “Look, his lights are on.”
“That means nothing,” said the taxi driver. “If you’re Lard O’Connor you never pit your lights oot. There’s too many people want to pit them oot for you. So you never pit them oot. Know what I mean?”
Matthew paid the taxi driver and they walked up Lard’s short front path to knock on the door. At first there was no reply, and so they knocked again. A third knock brought sounds of activity within and the door, still restrained by a heavy security chain, was inched open.
“Well!” exclaimed a voice from the other side of the door.
“If it isn’t my friend Stewie and . . . and who’re you?”
“This is a friend of mine,” said Stuart. “You haven’t met him, Lard, but he’s OK.” Stuart was not sure that this was the right thing to say, but he had heard people say it in several films, and so he decided that he should say it too.
It appeared to work. There was a metallic sound in the hall on the other side, and then the door was opened entirely. Lard stood there, a great Munro of a man, wearing a collarless shirt, a pair of shapeless black trousers and scuffed leather slippers. In spite of his efforts not to stare, Matthew could not help but gaze Grey over Riddrie 315
in wonderment at the substantial Glaswegian, his stomach hanging over the leather belt that struggled to hold up his trousers.
“Now then, Stewie,” said Lard, as he led them through to the sitting room at the back of the house. “How’s my friend, wee Bertie? He’s a great wee fellow that one, sure he is. Wasted over in Edinburgh. You should send him over here to get a good education. Hutchie’s, or somewhere like that. I could have a word with them and make sure they found a place for him.”
“That’s very kind of you, Lard,” said Stuart. “But he’s very happy where he is.”
“Pity,” said Lard. “The problem with Edinburgh is attitude, know what I mean? All those airs and graces like. You don’t want wee Bertie growing up to be like you fellows, Stewie, do you?”
“Hah!” said Stuart. “That’s very funny, Lard!”
Lard turned round. “It wisnae meant to be funny, Stewie.”
“Well, maybe not,” said Stuart. “But the whole point of our visit, Lard, is to ask your help. To ask for a favour.”
“Aye, that’s what everybody