Barra’s Angel

‘Aye,’ Barra answered. ‘Watch.’

Chalmers was impressed. ‘No’ bad. No’ bad at all, son.’

Barra grinned. ‘Doubt if you’ll beat it,’ he challenged.

‘Huh, make way for the maestro,’ Chalmers said, pushing Barra aside, and making his point with great effect.

‘I bet I could beat you,’ Barra said, ‘if I was taller.’

‘Height’s got nothing to do with it.’

‘Aye, Da, it has. It’s scientifically …’

The two argued and spat all the way to the Whig.

‘Where’s yir mam?’ Maisie enquired, setting a knickerbocker glory in front of Barra, and having to squeeze her girth between his table and the wall to do so. The bar was full, but then it didn’t take more than a dozen faces to give that impression. She was wearing another of her flowing kaftans, this one adorned with waves of cerise on a sea of inky blue.

‘She didn’t want to come,’ Barra replied. ‘Sorry, Maisie, but I don’t know if Da would be wanting to pay for this,’ he added, staring at the tall glass with longing.

‘It’s on me,’ Maisie said. ‘It’s over from the afternoon teas, all two o’ them. Imagine asking for scones when you could have the likes o’ that? Besides, you’ll be the only one here worth blethering to in another hour or so. Bon appetit!’

What should have been a delicate wave of her hand developed into a tortuous effort to extricate herself from behind Barra’s chair.

‘Where y’buying yir frocks?’ enquired Eddie Bain, seated at the opposite table. His head lolled in circles as he tried to make sense of Maisie’s kaftan. Already three sheets to the wind, he appeared mesmerised by the pattern and was close to becoming violently ill.

Pulling herself free, Maisie sailed towards the bar.

‘Abdul’s,’ she called over her shoulder.

Eddie scratched his head, trying to focus. ‘The Paki in Craigourie? I thought his name was … something else.’

‘No, darling,’ Maisie trilled, pushing a glass up to the optics. ‘Abdul, the tentmaker – in Jellalabad.’ With that she guffawed with laughter, and the men at the bar, most of whom had no idea what she was talking about, joined in. Maisie’s laughter was like that.

‘A double Grouse, sir,’ she said, placing the glass in front of Chalmers. ‘Chaser?’

‘Ta, Maisie,’ Chalmers answered. ‘McEwan’s.’

‘Mais naturellement,’ she answered, pulling the pint as she spoke. ‘Douglas?’

‘In a minute,’ he said, motioning to the tumbler in front of him. As happened most evenings, Doug Findlay had relinquished his duties to sit on the other side of the bar, drinking quietly and enjoying the craic with the customers. Though nine years younger than Maisie, the balding pate and thinning body deceived the most astute of their clientele, and it was a widely held belief that he was at least as old as, if not older than, his doting partner.

Maisie, aware that Doug was drinking himself into an early grave, did nothing to encourage his abstinence. He had come to her drunk, and she intended to keep him drunk. For Maisie was certain, beyond the most reasonable of doubts, that the harsh light of sobriety would illuminate each and every one of her failings. Only then would Doug realise that she was so much less then he deserved.