The Diary I Didn't Keep

3

Good morning, Everyone!

Instalment number 3 sees Tommy and his thumb setting off into the world. This was sixties Britain, brimming with peace and love. Back then, we took the future for granted.

It may come as a surprise to learn that until now I have never tried to write a novel in this way, i.e. beginning on page one and continuing through to the end. Stranger still, I am finding this a most confusing method! So please bear with me. For example, the name Tommy popped into my head. In my normal method of writing (a chaos of non-sequiturs that gradually resolves into a narrative with its own rhythm, flow and final sequence) the name would have popped itself back out again a few days later, and then been changed a dozen times until the character's real name revealed itself to me. But, Tommy he is, and Tommy he must remain!

That said, let us now see how Tommy fares on his first day in the big world.

THE DIARY I DIDN'T KEEP 3

The less of a toerag I look, the more chance of a lift. I scrub and polish every inch of me that'll be on display. Quick thumbs-up in the mirror and I hurry downstairs.

One last hug. Mum’s sandwiches into the rucksack.

‘I’m sorry, Mum, I’m so sorry that –’

‘Like I said, Tommy, I understand. Really.’ She’s trying not to cry.

Another last hug.

‘Good luck, and write us. Soon. Here…’ She pushes a five-pound note into my hand. ‘For emergencies.’

Next thing, I’m halfway along the street.

Only 20 miles to Gretna, an hour easy. Not yet seven o’clock. I’m well on schedule.

Mum's fiver and my newspaper money will last a couple of weeks, longer even. Andy and me’ll be settled by then. London's huge. Plenty jobs, plenty places to stay, plenty everything. Including girls. Population's more than the whole of Scotland. Its hugeness pulls in everyone and everything.

Andy’s a dreamer, though. Might’ve changed his mind, if so I’ll –

Lorry, coming up behind. I about-turn, out with the thumb and up with my cardboard sign: LONDON. The driver meets my eye. Contact made, I’m flashing him my full-on encouragement look.

An apologetic shrug as he makes the turning-left sign, then heads down to the station.

Gone quarter past when – a lift. A Chipples van. Guy’s much older than me. Sideburns, cowboy boots and dandruff. Elvis on a bad day, and talking Chipples non-stop. 'Nature's given us the potato, but we've improved it.'

Still driving, he reaches a hand behind him, scrabbling to open one of the cardboard boxes.

Soon we're zigzagging both sides of the dotted line. Twice up on the verge, almost into the ditch.

Fuck the Chipples, I’m meeting Andy and –

He brakes to a stop. Gives me a serious look. ‘I promised you some Chipples, my young friend.’ His quiff nods in the air as he reaches into the back, scattering dandruff like for an early Christmas. ‘Now, try this.’

Fuck’s sake. Andy. Gretna...

‘On you go. Treat yourself.’

Fuck. ‘Really delicious.’ And let’s fucking move. Please, please.

Another nod, another snowfall. ‘You can keep the packet.’ Engine’s switched back on.

Sneak-look at my watch. Fuck’s sake, I’ll never make it.

More Chipples talk then –

‘Nice to have met you. I turn off here.’

Here? Fucking Carrutherstown? Middle of nowhere. I’m out the van. Shortest lift ever.

Coming up to twenty-to and I’m not even halfway to Gretna.

Quick lift to Annan, then a Clydesdale of a clapped-out Ford Popular that plods us the rest of the way, dropping me at the roundabout. I’m half an hour late. No sign of Andy. He’s been and gone? He’ll turn up any moment? He’s not coming at all?

I give him another ten. Finish the Chipples.

Andy’s never been to London. Me neither, not really. Two nights at the Richmond Jazz and Blues Festival is the nearest I've come. Hitched down, saw The Who, The Moody Blues, Manfred Mann, dossed in the park, woke shivering from top to toe and hitched straight up again. Which won’t happen this time, at least. Nowhere to go back to.

Twenty to nine, and still no Andy. So that’s that, with fucking bells on.

A Merc's approaching. Black, smooth and self-important.  I'm giving it a half-hearted thumb when it brakes right in front of me. A lift from a Merc? But… what about Andy?  Fuck. Do I take it? Do I take it?

Passenger window’s sliding down.

'Get in the back.' It's Andy.

And the day begins once more. Right on!

It's getting dark when a Pickfords removal lorry drops us outside Ealing Common tube station.

‘Tube’s on the Piccadilly and District lines. Wherever you’re going – no problem,’ says the driver as we climb down from his cab.

‘We’re in London!’ Andy’s gazing all round him. The busy street: buses, cars, taxis, loads of people, bright lights and noise, noise, noise. ‘This near the centre? Feels like we went past houses and built-up stuff for hours.’

‘It’s a big city.’

‘Where’s best to go?’

‘Maybe ask at the tube station?’

‘Ask what?’

Good question.

‘We’ll see if they know somewhere near to stay the night. But not yet. I’m starving.’

Like I’ve rubbed a magic lamp, there’s a sudden zzzsst of electricity, and a red and green neon sign flashes on across the street: The Star of Bengal.

No Indian restaurants in Dumfries. Pubs, chippies, cafés, a Wimpy and hotels nobody I know eats in. I peer in the window – white tablecloths, dim lighting, half the tables taken. A menu's stuck to the inside of the glass. Cheapest meal is two and ninepence. We agree it’s our first night, so in we go.

Table to the left has been taken by a crowd of skinheads. Older than us, a good few pints further on and making more noise than the rest of the restaurant put together. Their table’s littered with empty dishes and pint glasses. Not an inch of tablecloth in sight. Table to the right is empty. Before I can stop him, Andy’s slung his rucksack onto a spare seat and sat down.

‘Not here,’ I hiss.

‘What’s the problem?’ He picks up the menu.

I know these guys. Friday and Saturday nights the Dumfries pubs are full of them, every pore oozing testosterone.

‘Let’s move.’

‘We’ve only just sat down.’ Andy’s glancing through the menu. ‘Come on, relax. Been a long day.’

To show the whole restaurant that he can stand and shout at the same time, one of the skinheads, Yeti-sized version, is on his feet, waving his empty glass. ‘Six pints I said, and keep them coming!’

The shaved heads must have been a job-lot at birth. Same with the tight T-shirts and the tatts growing up the sides of their necks.

‘Move it, Mustapha!’ yells the Yeti.

The other tables fall silent, like at a theatre when the curtain goes up.

Glasses rattling loudly on his tray, a young waiter nears their table. He’s dark-skinned, not much older than us, and wearing a white jacket.

The fresh pints claimed, the waiter and his tray of empties start towards us.

‘Menu!’ the Yeti shouts after him. ‘We want dessert!’

The waiter reaches our table.

‘Menu, I said!’

Andy’s noticed nothing, of course. Never does. Still making up his mind what to have, for fuck’s sake.

Need to speed things up. ‘Two chicken curries and rice, please.’ Then it’s eyes down to study the tablecloth, the silver-plated cutlery, the folded napkins and water glasses, the sprig of plastic flower in its miniature vase.

‘But I want to ask him –’ begins Andy in Wonderland.

‘Hey, you! The two Jocks. Your menu. Give it to Mustapha.’

Not stopping to write down our order, the waiter can’t get off-stage quick enough and hurries to the back of the restaurant.

‘He’s fucking legged it! Hey, Haggis-head!’

What the –? He’s speaking to me?

‘Your menu. Bring it here.’

Fuck. We might as well have stayed in Dumfries. Could be any Saturday night in the Anaconda Bar and they’re getting tanked up to do battle with the foreigners from Lockerbie or Penpunt. Territorial, brutal and stupid – a battle about local honour. But six of them, and built like shit-house doors? He can have our menu, gift-wrapped. We’ve already ordered, anyway.

‘Back in a mo.’ I snatch the menu out of Andy’s hand and am pushing back my chair when –

When suddenly I get it. The sub-plot of the play we’ve been dragged into: the skinheads and their loaded table, their endless beer; their shouting at the waiter and now at us. Local honour? Not these guys and not here. The skinheads have one aim only: to start a fight with someone and get thrown out without having to pay for their meal.

And the fuckers have just roped me in to help them. Well, fuck that, and fuck them! I’m across to their table in no time.