Away, ya chancer!

Bob Simmons is an advice worker in Craiglaw, Edinburgh.

“That’s your ten o’clock, Bob”

Denise, the volunteer receptionist, does the universal ‘supping glass’ genuflection to indicate that his ten o’clock, Tam Sullivan, might be ‘hauf-pished’.

Tam Sullivan is a wee squat fella: ‘Clyde-built’ you might say excepting that he very much hailed from the east coast. East coast/west coast still sublimated relations in lowland Scotland.

‘East is least, west is best’ as they said in Glasgow. ‘Fuck you, ken?’ was the retort from Edinburgh.

Tam had been a footballer of some note, a nippy wee winger in days long before his current shambling alcoholic persona. “Ah played fur Hong Kong Rangers, but I’m no’ a hun, I’m a tim” he’d proclaim before asking Bob to phone the Social Fund for a further loan on his behalf.

Craiglaw is a predominantly Catholic area and has a large traveller community. This is reflected in the names on the client list – McCallum, Doherty, O’Connell. In the central belt of Scotland, the poorest communities tended to be the Catholic ones like Coatbridge and Niddrie and the more prosperous, like Harthill and Uddingston, being Protestant which was evident by the number of unionist flags on show in such areas on bedroom windows and waving atop flagpoles like so many territorial markers.

Unionists hated the notion of Scottish independence, but mainly they hated the fact that it was the poor Catholic schemes that voted for it in 2014 and came scarily close to securing it. Scotland’s future decided by Irish Catholics? If you listened closely you could actually hear John Knox spinning in his tomb.

“What can I do for you, Tam?”

The waft of stale beer emanating from the wee man as he slumped down in the chair offered to him told Bob that Denise hadn’t been far off the mark. Several hairs of several dogs had been consumed even this early in the morning.

“Ach I’ve been away a few months up in Arbroath and when ahv come back the council have taken ma flat back and selt aw ma stuff in an auction”

This was not an unknown occurrence among the travelling community. They’d disappear for months on end off up to the Highlands or wherever where others of their kith and kin were gathered. They wouldn’t bother informing the council, no rent would be paid and the place would belying empty. The council by their own rules would evict then store the tenants possessions for a month before selling them off. All above board and nothing much folk like Bob or anyone else could do about it.

“Aye, well you know the score about that, Tam”

The wee man looked crest-fallen.

“Just got a new three-piece suite and a stereo anaw wi’ that money ye goat me fae the council fund, but it’s no’ that that’s pissin me aff. It’s ma Grandfather Clock!”

This last statement stopped Bob in his tracks. It was if something really quite incongruous and surreal had entered the conversation. Like Salvador Dali had begun collaborating with an amateur water-colourist painting some ducks in a pond.

“Did you say Grandfather Clock?”

“Aye, brand new tae. Always wanted one. Was wondering if there was anything you could do about it? Maybe they’ve known no’ to sell it?”

Bob had not often pondered the meaning or etymology of the word ‘flabbergasted’. It seemed an odd word when you looked at it close up. What exactly was a ‘flabber’ and how indeed was it ‘gasted’?

“So Tam, you’ve lost your flat and all your possessions; your fridge, your cooker, your carpets and, as you say, your new suite and stereo?”

“And ma wide-screen. Don’t forget that”

“And your wide-screen. But, you’re maist concerned about your Grandfather Clock?”

The man Sullivan looked at Bob warily. Was there some piss-taking going on here? Was the adviser chappie getting wide?

“Aye, that’s right” he offered cagily.

Bob could imagine the phone call he was about to make.

“Oh thank God you’ve phoned. Of course, we’ve kept Mr Sullivan's clock. We’ve kept it safe with all the rest!”