Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [70]
— Aye, she’s the billy ay the washhoose, that yin, Ma commented, but adding wistfully, — ah kin feel fir her though. Her laddie gaun tae jail. She looked at me, shaking her head. — For aw the hassle, ye wouldnae be withoot them. How’s your wee yin, Frank? She turned to Begbie.
I cringed to think about how easily people like ma Ma were taken in by punters like Franco.
— Barry, Mrs Renton. Gittin some some fuckin size.
— Call us Cathy. Ah’ll Mrs Renton yis! Yis make us feel ancient!
— Ye are, ah commented. She ignored us completely, and naebody else laughed, no even Billy. Indeed, Begbie and Sick Boy looked at us like disapproving uncles do tae a cheeky brat whae it isnae their place tae chastise. Ah’m now relegated tae the same status as Begbie’s bairn.
— Wee laddie, is it Frank? Ma asks her fellow parent.
— Aye, too right. Ah sais tae Ju, ah sais, if it’s a lassie it’s gaun right back.
Ah could just see ‘Ju’ now, wi that grey, porridge-coloured skin, greasy hair and thin body with the sagging flesh still hanging off it, her face frozen neutral, deathly; unable tae smile or frown. The valium taking the edge off her nerves as the bairn lets rip with another volley of shudder-inducing screams. She’ll love that child, as much as Franco’ll be indifferent tae the perr wee cunt. It’ll be a smothering, indulgent, unquestioning, forgiving love, which will ensure that the kid turns oot tae be jist like its daddy. That kid’s name wis doon fir H.M. Prison Saughton when it was still in June’s womb, as sure as the foetus of a rich bastard is Eton-bound. While this process is going on, daddy Franco will be whair he is now: the boozer.
— Ah’ll be an auld grandma masel soon! God, ye widnae believe it. Ma Ma looked at Billy with awe and pride. He simpered proudly. Since he’d got his lemon, Sharon, up the stick, he was my Ma and faither’s golden boy. Forgotten is the fact thit that cunt’s brought the labdicks tae the hoose mair times thin ah hud ivir done; at least ah hud the decency no tae shite oan ma ain doorstep. This now means fuck all. Just because he’s signed up fir the fuckin army again, six bastard years this time, and bairned some slag. Ma Ma n faither ought tae be askin the cunt what the fuck he’s daein wi his life. But naw. It’s aw proud smiles.
— If it’s a lassie Billy, git her tae take it back, Begbie repeated, slurring this time. The bevvy wis getting to him. Another cunt whae’s been oan the pish since fuck knows when.
— That’s the spirit Franco, Sick Boy slapped Begbie on the back, tryin tae encourage the radge, tae gie him mair rope so that he’ll come oot with another crass Begbie classic or two. We collect aw his stupidest, most sexist and violent quotes tae use whin impersonating him whin he’s no aroond. We kin make oorsels almost ill wi convulsive laughter. The game hus an edge: thinking aboot how he’d respond if he found oot. Sick Boy hus even started makin faces behind his back. One day, either one ay us or the baith ay us’ll go too far, and be marked by fist, bottle or subjected tae ‘the discipline ay the basebaw bat’. (One ay Begbie’s choice quotes.)
We taxied doon tae Leith. Begbie hud began grumbling aboot ‘toon prices’ and hud started tae pursue a totally irrational advocacy ay Leith as an entertainment centre. Billy agreed, wantin tae get closer tae hame, reasoning that his pregnant burd wid be mair easily appeased if the placatory phone call came fi a local pub.
Sick Boy would huv heartily denounced Leith, hud ah no done so first. The cunt therefore took great delight in phoning the taxi. We goat intae a pub at the Fit ay the Walk, one thit ah’ve nivir liked, but one thit we always seemed tae git stuck in. Fat Malcolm, behind the bar, goat us a double voddy oan the house.
— Heard ye goat a result. Well done that man.
Ah shrugged. A couple ay auldish guys wir treatin Begbie like he wis a Hollywood star; listening indulgently tae one ay his stories