‘We’ve got a vicious gang across the road and they go setting fire to cars. One of them, the leader, is meant to be on a curfew. But he’s been out one night recently and bitten someone’s ear off. Down by the Burn. And just next to me there’s an ex-soldier who keeps threatening to beat people up.’
‘So what can we get you?’
The waitress was stooped right over their table, nose pressed almost against her notebook, squinting with her pencil at the ready.
‘Tea for three,’ Liz replied. ‘So it’s still the same old place then?’
Fran and Jane exchanged a glance. ‘Same as what?’
Liz grinned. Her cigarette smoke was vanishing up the nose of the waitress as she scribbled. ‘I mean, nothing’s changed since the seventies, when I last lived on a council estate.’
‘Where was that?’ Fran asked.
‘Oh, in this town, still. In the Blackhouses. It’s even rougher there.’
‘You’ve been right around the block then,’ Jane said.
‘Aye,’ Liz snorted. ‘You’re not kidding there.’
They stayed at their table longer than they had planned to. Even some of the pensioners left before them. To string the time out they ordered cups of tea by turns, like teenagers skiving off school.
Fran told Liz about her kids’ new gerbils killing the budgie. ‘The poor thing must have been attracted to all the sand in the tank. It flew in and got the shock of its life. All these things popped out and jumped on it. It was pitiful to see. It sat on the perch three days with no feathers. Then it fell off, dead.’
‘We had the drama of the budgie going on for days,’ Jane said. ‘Every time I went round I got a newsflash on its health. But they used to let it fly around where it liked. It was bound to happen.’
‘Only because Frank sawed off the bottom of its cage when he was pissed.’
‘I hate birds flying round the house. It’s like that film. Sets me right on edge. If they’re not crapping on you they’re pecking your eyes out. But anyway, it’s tea round Fran’s kitchen every afternoon. I go round at about one. You’ll have to come too, Liz.’
Fran grimaced and looked round at Jane. She felt like saying to her, Thanks a bloody bundle. Why don’t you tell her to stay till teatime like you do, too, Jane? But she didn’t say anything.
‘I probably won’t get the chance,’ Liz said quickly, noting the look on Fran’s face. There was an awkward pause.
Then Jane told them about her mother’s engagement.
‘Screwing what off?’ Liz cackled. Her laughter was surprising, raising heads all round the cafe.
‘His leg. He’s got a wooden leg.’
Fran at last took a cigarette. ‘Only one. I can’t afford to get started again. Jane’s mam goes out picking up men in nightclubs.’
‘She’s not that bad. And it’s usually the Navy Club. They’ve usually got something missing or wrong with them. She reckons that’s what it’s like when you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel.’
‘She’s off her head.’ Fran laughed. Her own head was swimming after a couple of drags. ‘Tell her what she gave you last Christmas.’
‘Last year it was a watering can. And the year before that, one pink glove.’
Liz was stifling her cackles. ‘One? What for?’
‘I don’t know. She said she’d “used” the other one. She drinks. Last year me and Peter went round for Christmas dinner and she never turned up till four in the afternoon, rolling in pissed with this bloke from the pub. She’d forgotten all about dinner and she gave me this watering-can thing.’ Fran squinted across the room through plumes of smoke. She seized Jane’s forearm as it went reaching for her purse. ‘What is it?’
Fran kept very still. ‘Over there. Isn’t that your bus driver?’ Jane looked over her shoulder, trying to look cool. There, at a corner table, out of place in his blue uniform, was her friendly driver.
‘I never knew he came here for his break.’
Fran told Liz, ‘Jane’s got a thing about men in uniform.’
‘Not bloody soldiers.’
The driver was looking their way just the same. Jane stared with the frankness she felt their connection allowed. He was as tempting in this private moment as he was in a public one.
‘He’s very nice,’ Liz said. ‘But I bet he’s about five foot one when he stands up. They always are.’ She sighed.
‘Who cares about height?’ Jane remembered what her mother had said about stumps and lying down.
‘Listen to her!’ Fran laughed.
‘Are you up to something you shouldn’t be with him, then?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’ Jane smiled. ‘But he’s always nice to me.’
Liz called for the bill. ‘Go over and talk to him.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Go on!’ Fran urged. ‘The only other time you’ll see him is on a bus. Take your chances.’
‘I’ll ask him for some change,’ Jane decided. ‘He’s bound to have plenty on him. He always does on the bus.’
She stood up and began to weave her hesitant way towards him. Fran and Liz automatically glanced down, so they could listen and not be seen observing. The waitress came over and insisted on standing in the way and talking.
‘Hi-ya again.’
Jane felt foolish, hands resting on the chair opposite him. The bus driver looked surprised to be interrupted here. His face came out of the Daily Mirror, still burned red, with eyes deep as black coffee. He smiled, apparently recognising her at once.
‘I was going to ask you for some change. For a tip.’
Any strategy she had had in mind flew straight out the window. Jane’s courage had failed. She wanted to get away as soon as possible.
He fiddled for change. Then he spoke. ‘I saw you earlier on.’
Her heart slipped a bit and she said, ‘Oh.’
‘I didn’t like to come over because you had company.’
‘That’s all right. They wouldn’t have minded. We weren’t doing anything special.’
A nag of conscience for this. Because they were doing something special. Quiche in here was her one treat of the week. He couldn’t
